by J. Kenner
He had to become a hunter.
He had to finish what he thought he’d already accomplished. Because so long as the Raven was still alive, Quincy would always be a little bit dead inside.
He turned and looked at her again, knowing that he had to apologize, to explain. And damned if she didn’t slap his face.
“Stop it. Just stop it.”
The words burst out of her, harsh and angry. But she didn’t cry. She stared him down, her face strong and fierce. “I know you’re freaked. I know you’re in shock. But you need to focus, Quincy. Because I’m not the problem. In fact, right now, I’m the solution to your problem.”
He frowned at her, completely confused. “What are you talking about?”
“If this guy really is still alive—if he’s the one who kidnapped the princess—then he’s looking for Emma and Ariana right now. So are we. You want to destroy this guy, then we have to set a trap.”
The churning in his gut started to calm, and he looked at her, deathly still. “Go on.”
“We get them first. We get to Emma and the princess, and then we let him know we have them. A trap.”
“He’ll never fall for it. He’ll know we don’t have them, and—”
“No.” She shook her head, cutting him off. “No, you’re not listening. We get them. Really get them.”
He started pacing, feeling more like himself as he worked this problem. “Eliza, you’re missing the bigger picture. We don’t have them. And we don’t know how to get them.”
“Yeah,” she said with a very smug smile. “I do.”
He gaped at her, certain he’d misunderstood. “What are you talking about, love? We’ve been looking for them for days. Now you know where they are?”
“No, but I know how to find out. It’s so obvious I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.”
As far as he was concerned, it wasn’t obvious at all, and he told her so.
“It’s in the first message she left us. Or that she left Marissa. Remember? Tell my friend who talks to the animals not to drive angry, but to circle the wagons. I assumed that the angry just meant that we didn’t have to drive fast. That we weren’t in a hurry.”
“Go on.”
“I was wrong. Angry Words.”
He just shook his head.
“It’s one of those phone games. It’s a game you play on your phone against other people. It’s like Scrabble, but you get extra points if you use curse words. So, you know, angry words.”
“I know you’re going somewhere with this, but I’m still not seeing it.” He was, however, feeling more centered. Calmer. And even though he didn’t see how it was going to play out, he could see the beginnings of a path. More than that, his promise to her was starting to seem less foolish. We can try. Maybe they could.
Maybe they’d even succeed.
She smiled at him, and that seed of optimism bloomed even more. “Come here,” she said, pulling out her phone. “I’ll show you.”
He watched as she opened the app, then logged out. “I don’t know Marissa’s username, and in case he’s got Emma’s phone, I don’t want to use my regular account. So I’m going to create a new name and then send her a friend request. Hopefully she’ll realize it’s me.”
“What are you going to use?”
She grinned at him. “Mister Wellington.”
It took him a second, but then he remembered the bear she’d had as a child. She created the profile, found Emma’s username, and sent the request. They waited, but nothing happened.
“If she’s not online, it could take a while.” She frowned. “It’s not that late, though. I can’t imagine she’s asleep. She never—”
Ping!
She met his eyes, and he felt his heart pound in his chest. On screen, there was a picture of linked hands and the words, “Friends Forever.”
“Now I can message her.”
“And he won’t know?”
“He’d have to be logged in as her, have the app open, and be looking at notifications. Even so, I want to be vague.”
She typed, We’ve got an Angry Words club going. Better chance of winning when u play in a group. Join us? Just need ur location. Playing in person is more fun.
She showed him the screen. “You think?”
“Give it a try.”
He watched as she pressed her lips together, then pressed the button to send the message. They waited. And waited.
And waited.
“She thinks it’s a trap,” he said.
“Maybe. I need to send her something so that she—”
Ping!
They both stared down at the message: RL. Have a glass on me.
Frustration burned through him. “What? Is that her way of telling us to fuck off?” But then he saw that Eliza was grinning.
“Come on,” she said. “I know exactly where she is.”
Exactly turned out to be not exactly true.
“She doesn’t know the address,” he told Ryan as they raced from Los Angeles to Redlands, a small town about an hour outside the city at the base of the San Bernardino Mountains. “But she’s dead right about the plan.” She was in the passenger seat, and he smiled at her, then reached over to squeeze her hand.
“I was only eight,” she clarified. “We lived there for about two weeks when we were on the move. But it was an abandoned winery. And there aren’t that many in Redlands. It’s not really wine country.”
“So Emma and the princess are holed up in this winery,” Ryan clarified. “We’re going to locate and extricate, get them safely back to HQ, and set a trap for the Raven.”
“That about sums it up,” Quincy said.
“We’re doing research now, trying to locate abandoned vineyards. Each team will take a different location. Denise and Liam, Prince Michel and his team. I’ll come out to be on site and I’ll arrange for extra manpower from the Stark International security force. Keep communications open. And if you see any sign of the Raven or anything suspicious, radio in.”
“Roger that.”
He ended the call then turned to Eliza. “Anything?”
She was on her phone, poking around on a tourist site. “There’s a pretty famous abandoned vineyard, but Emma wouldn’t go there. It would be off the grid. Probably not even on the web, or very difficult to find if it is.
“And you don’t have a clue.”
“Even if I did, the town’s changed. More houses, fewer orange groves. Nothing stays the same except—oh. There was a graveyard. I played in it. Graveyards stay. And if you walked in through the gate, you were facing the mountains. Which doesn’t narrow it down a lot, but—”
“—every little bit helps. See what you can find.”
She poked around on her phone some more, then squealed in victory. “Take the next exit, like you’re going to Lake Arrowhead. Then you’re going to turn left after a few blocks.”
While he followed her directions, she called it in, giving Ryan the location of the vineyard they’d be checking so that the other teams wouldn’t overlap.
It took another ten minutes of cruising residential streets and weaving down a few dirt roads, but they finally found the graveyard. The vineyard itself had been developed, turned into small, box-like houses. But the sales office still stood, broken and dilapidated, on a large plot of undeveloped land.
The property was gated, but someone had cut through the chain. Emma, most likely, and they pushed open the gate, then drove through slowly.
“Familiar?” He turned to look at Eliza, who was gazing out the window as if she were lost in time.
“Yeah.” He could hear the awe in her voice. “It’s all coming back. There are huge wine cellars under the house. Like a rabbit warren. I used to explore, and Emma would get so nervous because she couldn’t find me. I got locked in one of the cellars once. They have these iron doors—I guess so that the owners could store the high end wines there—and I pulled it shut. It locked automatically. Emma never did find a key.”
“Turns out you could get out, but not in. There was a hidden latch camouflaged in the stone. I found it accidentally. That was the only time Emma ever spanked me. She was so furious.”
“More like frantic, I bet.”
“True.”
After a few more minutes, they found the stone patio that marked where the cellars used to be. “There was a building here before,” she said, toeing the ground as they walked around. “It looks like it burned.”
“Here’s the entrance.” He’d found a set of stairs that seemingly led straight into the earth. That, however, was an optical illusion, and once they actually started down, the path turned into a concrete tunnel that led the way into a series of concrete and stone storage rooms. A rabbit warren, just as she’d described.
“She must be down here,” Eliza said, her mouth curving into a frown. “Should we split up?”
“Absolutely not.” He was already worried about having dragged her into the crossfire, but under the circumstances he hadn’t had much choice. But if anything happened to her…
She paused, reaching out to grab his arm. “Did you hear that?”
He cocked his head. “What?”
“Behind us. I thought I heard—”
But he didn’t hear what she thought, because instead he heard a throaty female voice saying, “Eliza?”
“Emma!” She ran forward, Quincy at her heels, then launched herself into one of the small cellars. He was a few steps behind, saw her disappear from his sight, and felt his heart skip a beat.
He caught up to her, then relaxed. She was safe in the cave-like room, her arms wrapped around a woman who looked like a slightly older version of Eliza with red hair instead of Eliza’s muted chestnut.
They were clutching each other as a petite blonde teenager sat on a wine barrel, her eyes wide and a small smile on her pretty face. A few other barrels were scattered throughout the room, along with a pile of empty wine bottles on the far side of the cellar.
After a moment, Eliza turned to him, her face streaked with tears. “We found them,” she said, and he couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes,” he said, “we did.”
“I’m Emma,” the redhead said, extending her hand.
“I figured. I’m Quince.” She had a firm handshake and a bright smile.
“Yeah, I figured that out, too.” Her clothes were dusty and lived in, her face drawn with exhaustion. Even so, she was lovely. And her bright smile erased some of his worries.
She crossed to the girl and took her hand. “This is Princess Ariana.”
Quince bowed. “It is a pleasure, your majesty.”
The girl smiled brightly, then looked to Eliza, who curtsied. “You’re a difficult young woman to find.”
“Your sister has been taking good care of me.” She spoke with heavily accented English and great composure. “But I would like to see my father now.”
“Do you know who did this to you?”
She started to answer, then sat up straight, her eyes going wide.
Quincy turned to see Prince Michel hurrying into the room. “Ariana! Thank God you are safe. Dear girl, your father and I have been so worried.”
He took a step into the room, and as he did, the little girl opened her mouth and screamed.
But Quince didn’t know if she was afraid of her uncle or the man behind him.
The all-too-familiar man who’d just fired the Glock, straight into the back of the Eustancian prince’s head.
23
I hear someone screaming and realize it’s me.
The world is exploding around me, nothing making sense at all. Except it is. It’s like one of those moments in the movies where everything slows down and you can catch all the details. Or like the way survivors describe car wrecks. Everything’s crystal clear, but you’re not able to stop any of it.
This is exactly like a car wreck. And as it all happens, every tiny detail makes sense. A horrible, awful kind of sense that, maybe, we should have seen coming.
The guy with the gun now pointed at Quincy is the Raven—that’s easy enough to figure out since I’d been looking at his picture only hours ago.
And the Raven is one of the men who tortured Quincy. A man Quincy thought he’d killed but who had, somehow, survived.
“I suggest you remove your weapon, Mr. Radcliffe. Because if you don’t, I’ll put a bullet through your pretty little girlfriend’s brain.”
My mouth goes dry; I’m certain he means it. And while I wish I was brave enough to tell Quincy not to comply, I’m not. I stay silent. I don’t want to die. Not right then; not like that.
Quincy’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and it’s obvious he has no shoulder harness. But he does have a small gun in a holster inside the waistband of his jeans. Slowly, he takes it out, then squats to put it on the ground.
“Kick it over here.”
He kicks it, but the gun slides right past the Raven, coming to a stop only when it hits the far wall.
“Overshot,” Quincy says. “Sorry about that.”
The Raven takes a menacing step toward him, and Quincy glances down at the prince’s body. “Why?”
The Raven shrugs. “He was losing his nerve.” His words are slow and thick in my head, as if they were carved in syrup. “His own idea to punish his bastard of a brother, and he starts to get sloppy. He would have given himself away eventually. I did him a favor.”
He’s looking at Ariana as he speaks, and I think that I may be the only one in the room who sees Quincy leap. I want to scream at him to stop, because the Raven still has a gun, but the words stick in my throat. I’m too afraid that the Raven will react to my scream, and if he fires it will be because of my warning.
And then Quincy tackles him, and the gun goes flying.
Immediately, Emma bursts into action. She grabs Ariana’s wrist and yanks her off the barrel, then sprints for the door. The Raven manages to get free of Quincy and dives for the gun, and I realize that it’s right by my foot. I kick it, hard, and it slides across the floor.
For a moment, I cheer my victory. But that’s premature, because the Raven launched himself at it, and just as Emma reaches the door, he reaches the gun. He fires, and Emma goes down, and I scream.
It’s her thigh, and I see the pain on her face as she hobbles toward the door, she and Ariana locked together as they try to move toward freedom.
The Raven lifts the gun to fire again, but Quincy lands a solid kick, knocking the gun out of his hand and sending it sliding across the floor and into a drain, dropping so far down it seems to take forever to hit the ground.
Quincy attacks, but the Raven counters and they both tumble, giving Emma and Ariana time to get out of the room.
“Go!” Quincy calls. “Shut the door!”
Emma stumbles, sickeningly pale. But her gaze finds me. The Raven is on top of Quincy, pushing himself up to his knees. There’s clearly no way I can beat the Raven to the door, and so I tell her to shut the door and call for help. She stumbles again, and Ariana grabs her, then kicks the door firmly closed.
The bottom of the door is solid, and that means I can no longer see them. All I can do is pray that Ariana gets Emma outside and that there’s a medic to treat her.
In the meantime, I have to fight.
For a moment, everything seems to freeze. Then the world snaps back into real time and I go from feeling like an observer to being very much in the middle of all of this. And completely terrified.
Except it turns out that my terror isn’t complete after all. Because there’s still room for more, something I find out when Quincy catches my eye. He starts to stand and the Raven lashes out with a hard, fast kick, connecting with Quincy’s head and sending him tumbling back to the ground. I wait for him to get up, but he doesn’t move.
That’s it. He’s unconscious—and, honestly, I’m terrified that he’s dead, but I can’t dwell on that question because the Raven is now coming toward me. Walking slowly an
d with menace. I’ve worked on plenty of action movies and this isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen. Trained spies who are the good guys don’t get taken out with one blow. Evil bad guys do not get to win.
But apparently life doesn’t imitate art, and I’m left to wonder how—if the Raven managed to knock out Quincy—I’m going to have any chance at all.
I’ve got only one option—get the hell out. And if I’m going to get to the hidden latch, I have to cross almost the entire cellar without the Raven grabbing me. Even then it’s not ideal, because either the Raven will manage to escape with me, or else I’ll end up locking him in with Quincy. But if I’m free I can help. Inside, I’m just a victim that Quincy will try to protect. Assuming he ever wakes up.
Please, please wake up.
I glance around, plotting the best course. I decide to race to the side and grab a wine bottle to use as a weapon, then make a run for the hidden latch. He’ll know where it is, of course, but I don’t see a way around that. And I need to get out. I need to check on Emma. I need to get help for Quincy. And if I stay in here, I know damn well I’ll end up dead. Or worse.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I bolt toward the cluster of wine bottles. I smash one, turning the raw end into a weapon. I don’t know why I expected that to slow him down. He charges me anyway, and I hurl my broken bottle, hitting him but not slowing him at all.
I reach for more, practically losing my mind as I throw bottle after bottle at him. He dodges them, and they shatter on the floor. He barely slows, and when I finally have had enough and make a break for the door, he dives for me, grabs me around the waist, and sends us both tumbling to the ground.
I thrust my hands out automatically to break my fall, and then scream in pain as I land on dozens of shards of glass that cut deep welts into my hands.
“Bitch,” he says, and before I can even react, his arm is around my neck and I’m struggling to breath as he drags me across the room. I kick, but each kick is weaker than the next one, and soon the world turns grayer and grayer until it’s nothing more than a deep curtain of black, and my last, lingering thought is that I haven’t said goodbye to Emma or Quince.
