Into the Shadows

by Carolyn Crane

  “I need to see Benny,” she said. “I need to hold him.”

  “It’s too hot,” Richard said. “Things went too wrong.”

  She was silent. She knew she shouldn’t do this—make Richard be the parent of the operation. She pulled out her phone and hit voice mail to see who’d left the message.

  A whisper. “Nadia.” Thorne. She pressed the phone flush to her ear. “If you don’t hear from me, you need to assume this house isn’t clear, okay? And you stick close by Richard.”

  She furrowed her brow.

  “Who is it?” Richard asked.

  “Shhh,” she said as Thorne went on to say her name a few more times. Nadia. Nadia. Then he hung up.

  “What?” Richard asked.

  “It’s Thorne,” she said, feeling funny from the way he’d said her name.

  “How does he have your number? What did he want?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He wants us to be careful at the house if we don’t hear from him.”

  “What? He wants us to wait for an all-clear?” Richard asked.

  “I guess.”

  “Did something go down?”

  “He sounded weird.” She played it again, just to hear the whispered familiarity of her name on his lips. She repeated his message to Richard. “After that, it sounds like there was something else, and then he got distracted and hung up.”

  Richard nodded. “Let’s get your arm patched up,” he said. “We’ll go to Grand Street and put ourselves back together. Get next steps.” Grand Street was the junky office they rented, the staging place for the raids. It was also where they kept the CD Thorne wanted so badly.

  “Like what next steps?” she said.

  “Prepare the CD so Thorne can find it. It’ll get him out of our hair.”

  “Good,” she said, wondering if Richard sensed the lie, if he knew that part of her liked Thorne there.

  “The second he gets the disk, he and his guys will leave the house alone. Things can get back to normal. Everything’ll be easier.”

  “You don’t have to sell it to me.”

  Richard gave her a look. Don’t I?

  “You think I don’t want him gone? Let’s do it. Plant it so I can find it.” She put up quote fingers. “Find it in some bonehead Party Princess place. He’ll believe it.” She pulled the leather jacket around her tighter.

  “After my guy works on it changing the dates so it seems like it hasn’t been touched for two years. If we gave the CD to Thorne as is, we might as well just give him business cards that say co-op pirates.”

  She sniffed.

  “We could get an eye patch logo,” Richard tried.

  She wasn’t in the mood to joke. “I’ll go back and figure out where he’s searched.”

  “Let me do it,” Richard said.

  “You? Because you get him to open up so well?”

  “You’re playing with fire,” Richard said. “The second he figures out about Benny—”

  “He won’t.”

  Richard looked over at her.

  “He won’t figure it out. And we still have a connection.” She spoke coldly and calmly, but that was the true risk of seeing him. She could still feel how they’d been together, like a tactile memory, living on her skin.

  Hell, he was still on her skin from two years ago. She could still feel the way the air would shoot out of her lungs when he’d throw her up against a wall, her not being able to breathe—and sort of liking it. The way his lips felt, crushing hers. The way he’d push her head down onto his cock, making her take him deeper, tangling his wild, bad, beautiful hand in her hair.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jerrod stood over Thorne’s motionless form, aiming at his temple. The place was dark thanks to Thorne cutting the power and lowering those metal window shields, but the guys had flashlights. And yeah, it was shit seeing out of gas-mask eyes, but he didn’t need precision at point-blank range.

  Thorne had almost gotten out of this one. The gas mask lay inches from his scarred fingers. If he’d managed to get it on, they’d be toast.

  Jerrod kicked it away.

  The other men of Hangman understood Thorne’s capabilities as a brother-in-arms and fighter at their side. Jerrod understood him as a rival. You get a different take on a hawk’s impressive talons when you could imagine them piercing your skin.

  He waited for the rest of his guys—the ones Thorne hadn’t knocked out, anyway—to join him. It had been a good plan. Pin him down and gas him.

  “Cut the gas,” Jerrod rattled through the mask.

  One of the men shut off the canister. Thorne would have to be at least semi-conscious for this, much as Jerrod preferred to gun him down while he lay unconscious. Then again, if Thorne made a move at him, it would be an even cleaner kill.

  Guys backed away, insectlike in the beaked masks, as Thorne stirred.

  Only Jerrod stayed. He wouldn’t be backing away.

  Thorne could get out of a lot of things, but not this.

  Jerrod had felt safe in elevating Thorne because of what a terrible politician Thorne was. A lone hunter by nature, Thorne was distrustful of other men. He had no allies, no friends. Thorne mistook the men’s awe for dislike and their reverence for hatred. He’d come up streetwise, feral, and comfortable with people running from him. Totally unfit to lead, and therefore little threat.

  But lately, it had come to Jerrod that with just a bit of a shift, he could lead. Thorne was elemental, like the wind or something, a force of nature, which made the men trust him on a gut level, even if Thorne didn’t trust them back.

  Jerrod had felt comfortable in his control of Thorne, too, but lately he wasn’t entirely sure of that part, either. There had been a few too many incidents where Thorne had been sent to kill somebody and the bodies had never been identified—they were burnt beyond recognition or missing—swept away by a tide or at the foot of some ravine…according to Thorne. Sure, it happened like that sometimes, but when he looked back, he couldn’t help but notice that kills without bodies happened a lot more with Thorne than anybody.

  Was the man even following orders?

  Miguel cast his gaze up to Jerrod, watching.

  “Hey.” Jerrod kicked Thorne. “Wake up, you fucking traitor!”

  Thorne rolled. Men stepped back.

  Hangman had lost two leaders in quick succession, both after Thorne came on board—one in a shootout and one to a swift attack of meningitis. Jerrod had investigated both deaths intensely. Men had seen the bullet strike the first Hangman Two—Hangman Two Roger—and they’d sworn Thorne had been behind them, that the cops had done the shooting. And Jerrod had done the ballistics to rule out Thorne’s gun, he’d been told the angle was wrong. But he had this feeling….

  Could Thorne have shot a different gun, and it had ricocheted to hit the man? Thorne was a master pool player with a sense of physics that was almost scary. He could also fight in a way that didn’t look like normal fighting. Could he hit somebody on his own team by ricochet? And the meningitis. Yes, that Hangman Two—Hangman Two Tannenberg—had been sixty-seven and not in great health. But Jerrod couldn’t get over the idea that Thorne had infected him. The doctor Jerrod had hired to do the autopsy couldn’t find evidence, and Jerrod knew it seemed crazy, but he couldn’t shake the notion. There was something more to Thorne, that’s all Jerrod knew.

  No way was the man an agent—not with his problems with trust and authority. But Jerrod knew when a man had secrets. He himself had plenty.

  As a fighter, Thorne didn’t telegraph. You never saw that fist or that foot coming; it would simply materialize at the strike point. Jerrod had this feeling that he’d look up one day and see the fist or the foot. And it would be too late.

  He’d decided weeks ago to get rid of Thorne, but it had to be done carefully. He couldn’t kill his Number Two without cause.

  The faint strains of R&B sounded from Hangman Four’s phone. His text tone. He pulled it from his pocket. “Boss.” His phone l
it his gas mask green.

  “Save it,” Jerrod said. Thorne was stirring, watching the phone.

  “But—”

  “You want to be next?” Jerrod shifted his Glock up to Four and back down again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Four pass the phone to Miguel.

  Something was up. Thorne wasn’t entirely conscious, but it was good enough. “You’ve fucked this gang, Thorne. Traitors die.”

  He squeezed the trigger, but not before a heavy hand pressed down his aim. Miguel.

  The shot hit the floor.

  Jerrod glared.

  “Baypointe’s been hit.” Miguel showed him Four’s phone. “Three hours ago. Can’t be Thorne. It’s not Thorne!”

  Jerrod stared. It would have been a clean kill. He’d made it look like Thorne was using bills he could only have gotten from a raid. He’d called in two favors, dammit. No one would have known Jerrod had engineered it.

  “Frame job,” Seven said. You could hear the shock in his voice. “Somebody was trying to frame Thorne!”

  Jerrod spoke through clenched teeth. “This good intel? What you got there?”

  “I’ll confirm.” Four was on the line, calling.

  Of course the intel would be good. So another co-op had been raided.

  “Jesus,” Jerrod said. As if it were a close call. He shoved his Glock into his holster and pulled off his mask.

  Hangman Four monitored Jerrod’s face, picking up on his anger. The man didn’t have to know Jerrod’s anger was all for himself.

  He should’ve taken the shot sooner, dammit.

  Thorne blinked; his face was lit on just one side by a stray flashlight beam, which added drama and intensity to his keen eyes and high cheekbones; that scar of his practically glowed.

  “I don’t like being fooled with,” Jerrod growled. “That shit does not stand—this investigation is mine.” He reached a hand down to Thorne, who was rousing fast now that the gas was off, and pulled him up; he half carried him to the couch.

  “Whoever did this…” Seven pointed at Thorne. “They can’t kill you, man, so they want us to do it. That’s what this is.” Seven turned to Jerrod, searching for signs of agreement.

  Jerrod nodded, wishing the lights could get turned back on, not liking the flash and dark of flashlight beams now. This was a nightmare enough already; the men would rally around Thorne now. “Hey. Number Two.” Jerrod slapped Thorne’s cheeks and stood back a bit, hands raised to show they were empty. “You’ve been framed, my friend,” he said. “But we’re on it, man. Somebody is fucking going down.”

  Thorne cast his gaze around the room, quietly observant from under dark lashes.

  “Someone tried to frame you, dude,” Seven said, not satisfied with Thorne’s lack of surprise. “The co-op fucking pirates. You spent bills from a raid.”

  Thorne narrowed his eyes. “I did?”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it,” Jerrod said. “Gotta be the co-op pirates framing you, but they hit last night—while you were here. They fucked up this time.”

  Thorne took a few moments to process this. “Which co-op?”

  Four walked up. “Baypointe. They took everything they could, including the workers.” He turned to Jerrod. “Took out three guards and two cops—friends of the Quartet. Fucking bloodbath down near La Belle creek.”

  “And we cleared our bills and merch from that co-op,” Jerrod said. “It’s going to get out that we’ve pulled our shit from there, and that’s going to make us look guiltier than ever. Are we the only gang that didn’t get screwed in this?”

  Four shrugged.

  Probably. Much easier to move cash and iPhones than drugs, guns, and sweatshop conscripts. “Somebody is royally fucking with Hangman. Any video?”

  “Pirates took it,” Four said. “One or two of theirs got hit, though. Slaters are running DNA.”

  Thorne was on his feet, pacing, eager, perhaps, to work the last of the drug from his bloodstream. Over to the window and back he padded, like an animal in a cage, discharging energy, maybe. Did he get that he’d almost died?

  “We gotta find these fuckers,” Jerrod growled. “That intel that’s supposedly here. Where are you with that, Thorne?”

  “Nowhere,” Thorne said. He sucked in a breath and rolled his neck, coming back to himself. “But I still believe it’s here, and that it can give us X-ray eyes into everything. We’ll run names and financials, and figure out who is connected to who across silos. That’ll give us our pirates.”

  More of the men had gathered, including Hack and Skooge and some of the others Thorne had knocked out and tied up.

  Skooge was wearing a Lakers jersey, just like Miguel. Miguel never noticed how Skooge emulated him. Jerrod didn’t care either way about that—all of Hangman could get behind Miguel, and Miguel would never challenge him. He owned Miguel, lock stock, and barrel. He’d elevate him to Hangman Two once Thorne was dead.

  Thorne went back and forth again. “They think Hangman’s their bitch? That they can get away with that?” Without warning, Thorne did a spin kick, putting a hole in the wall. Thorne was an economical fighter who used small, tight movements—sometimes it wasn’t even clear he’d moved, except the other guy would be down. But this kick was big, emotional. This wasn’t even fighting.

  Jerrod could feel the room rise. The men loved it when Thorne psychoed out. Did Thorne know it? Was the kick deliberate?

  Thorne gazed over at Jerrod. Jerrod could feel the wild charge, ions after a rain.

  Deliberate, then.

  Jerrod smiled through the chill in his heart. He needed to kill Thorne fast. “Listen up. This operation goes on turbocharge. I’ll give you eight more guys to help you search, Thorne. Your pick.”

  Thorne picked his eight and gathered them around the coffee table, catching them up on the search. He believed the CD was inside a wall or floor or ceiling. Somewhere not so obvious. The guys started talking about sledgehammers, but Thorne, interestingly, didn’t want the place destroyed. “I want an orderly search, not property damage.” He sent two guys out for drills and cable wire endoscopes.

  Jerrod took his flashlight to the corner liquor cabinet. “I’ll start searching here,” he said, pulling out a bottle of old scotch. It was barely five in the morning. Still night. And he could use a drink. He grabbed a crystal glass from the bar above and fixed a drink for Miguel, too. Miguel was always ready to drink.

  Skooge sidled up. If Miguel was drinking, Skooge wanted to drink. It baffled Jerrod. Of all the people in Hangman, Skooge had picked Miguel to emulate. Was Skooge too young and stupid to see that Miguel wasn’t his own person?

  Thorne had his nose in a panel on the wall. He punched a few buttons, and the power came back on. The metal shutters over the windows rose into pockets.

  Somebody lit a cigar. Somebody else put on Hypnodeath, the signature Hangman music, the shit they always played when they took over a place. The original Hangman One had been a child of the 1990s and had genuinely liked Finnish noise bands, but now they put it on because it was the Hangman war drum, a Pavlovian bell of death. It really wasn’t music to them anymore, more a way of pissing in a place.

  Thorne looked unhappy about the music, and Jerrod got the sense, suddenly, that Thorne didn’t like them making themselves at home like this.

  The daughters still lived in this place. Was that why Thorne didn’t want them taking it down to the studs? Interesting. He’d never met the daughters. Once Victor’s empire had been split up, nobody really bothered about the daughters.

  How well did Thorne know them?

  Jerrod drained his scotch, enjoying the burn, and then he threw the glass at the fireplace—all whatever-hundred-dollars-worth of crystal. Even its shattering sounded musical and expensive.

  Thorne watched without expression. But Thorne had a tell—when he didn’t like something, he went blank. It had taken Jerrod months to recognize it. Leave it to Thorne to have a tell that was a nontell.

  Jerrod slid his eyes to Miguel.
“Victor thinks his hiding place can stand against Hangman?”

  “Fuck no.” Miguel threw back his drink and hurled his glass across the room.

  Skooge followed suit, though he didn’t finish his drink, so the booze sprayed across the room.

  Crash, crash.

  Thorne bent to draw up a search plan, but he had the blank look. Jerrod scanned the room, and his eye caught something: A picture, facedown on the mantel.

  He walked over and pulled it off. Two women and a baby.

  He turned, photo in hand. “These Victor Volkov’s bitches?”

  “Yup,” Thorne said simply.

  There it was. The tell. And he’d thought Thorne free of connections all this time. Had he been wrong about that? “You know them?”

  “In the day,” Thorne said. Clipped answers.

  “Where are they now?”

  “Took off.” He went back to his search plan.

  Jerrod let Thorne feel him watching.

  He knew suddenly that if he had the frame checked for prints, he’d find Thorne’s. Thorne would have been the one to turn the photo on its face. Protecting the women and that kid. There were some downfalls to being so elemental; there were certain things you couldn’t hide when you needed to.

  Thorne cared about the daughters.

  Did he feel sorry for trashing their home? For Hangman breaking shit, or was it something more? Had he been involved with one of them?

  “I’d do ‘em,” Jerrod said.

  Thorne lifted his eyes, a mask of calm, dark analysis. Oh, yes, yes, yes, one of these bitches. You didn’t get to Hangman One without being able to smell weakness on a man.

  Things started adding up. Like the way Thorne ignored the whores and Hangman groupies. Thorne was a man of physical intensity, the kind of man who’d enjoy fucking, but he was also single-minded as a monk—once Thorne got hooked on a notion, he ran true. He’d run true like that with a woman.

  And hell, Thorne had spent a good deal of time at this place coming up. He’d had enough access to position himself as the best man to split the spoils. Had he enjoyed access to one of those daughters?