Game of Vengeance

by Amanda K. Byrne

  I manage to stay upright by imagining a steel rod where my spine is. Is she feeling anything like I am? Like someone’s taking a spoon to my insides and scraping it out, bit by bit? Having to deal with the fear of the unknown at the same time? She’ll be out of my reach. There’s nothing to prevent Isaiah from sending men to Colorado to track them down, other than it expends unnecessary energy.

  “Cass?”

  I blink and meet Charlie’s eyes. “You both need to leave the city tonight.” I give him the same speech, minus the painful hesitations I gave Denise. I like Charlie. He’s got a calm, practical side that keeps Denise from flipping out too badly, and I’m counting on that side to get them through this.

  His face pales, lips going white as he flattens them. His hold on Denise tightens, and she turns her face into his neck. To his credit, though, his question is thoughtful and logical. “How do you know these men won’t follow us?”

  A question like that deserves honesty. “I don’t. I can tell you Isaiah’s attention is already divided, so the amount of effort it would take, plus man power, wouldn’t make it worth his while. With you and Denise gone, he’ll turn his attention to my parents most likely.” He won’t get through Turner, though he’ll sure as hell try.

  And Dad will love watching him fail.

  Charlie nods, then whispers something to Denise. They get to their feet and leave the room, disappearing down the hallway. Instead of following them, I take out my phone to call Nick. The lump in my throat is back. My voice will shake. It’ll crack, and everything will come tumbling down.

  Isaiah could follow them to Colorado. Chances are he won’t, but there’s a chance. Not a guarantee. I need as close to a guarantee as I can get.

  Nick answers on the third ring. “Well?”

  I pinch my stomach to distract myself. “Charlie’s talking to her. I think they’ll go.”

  “Car will be there in an hour.” He hangs up, and I slip the phone into my pocket.

  Denise walks out of the bedroom a moment later, her eyes still haunted and frightened. “I think you should come with us, but Charlie says no.”

  She would be worried about me. I smile. “Charlie’s right, Neese. Me going with you will ensure someone will come after you. The safest place for me is with Nick. I know you don’t agree,” I continue, holding up a hand to cut off her protests. “It is, though. Nick will do whatever he has to do to ensure my safety.”

  She screws up her mouth and narrows her eyes, her expression all doubt and no confidence. I suppose it’s too much to ask that she trust Nick, and if I take a minute to look at it from her side, she has no reason to. Since I’ve met him, it’s been nothing but gun fights, car chases, explosions, and blood, some of it mine. She doesn’t see the lazy evenings on the couch or the teasing I endure from him and Constantine while I make us dinner. She doesn’t hear the murmured conversations we have in the dark, cozy and safe under the blankets. Nick’s love looks nothing like Charlie’s.

  But it’s the love I want.

  “Come on,” she says at last. “Charlie says Boulder just got snow. He keeps trying to get me to pack fleece.”

  “There’s a reason for that, California girl.” I follow her into their bedroom. The bed’s made and while there’s clothes strewn all over it, that’s the only place they are. I hold back a grin. Definitely it.

  The next hour flies past as Denise packs for cold weather, giving Charlie the death stare whenever he tries to get her to pack the fleece still sitting at the end of the bed. He finally rounds the bed and holds her close, cupping the back of her head as he tells her she will freeze because she’s a pansy about cold weather, and he means that in the most loving way possible.

  She flips him off and stuffs the fleece into her suitcase.

  I’m standing at the window watching the street for the car Nick’s sending while Denise hurries around the apartment snatching up various power cords and chargers. The knock at the door cuts through her nervous chatter, and the three of us stare at the door. Charlie’s building has a secure entry. You have to be buzzed in, and the buzzer hadn’t gone off.

  I wave at Charlie and Denise and point to the kitchen, the room partially blocked off from the living room. They hurry out of the room, and I peer through the peephole. The tension drains from my body as quickly as it came on, and I flip the locks.

  It takes all of my willpower not to fling myself at Nick. If I do, I’ll never let go. “Hey.” The greeting comes out flat, and he lifts a brow, reaching for me. I back away. “Don’t,” I whisper. A little longer until Denise and Charlie are gone, and I can relax. Fall apart, even. Not until then.

  He studies my face, and for the first time in weeks, I drop my gaze to his chest, unwilling to meet his eyes. As he walks past me, he picks up my hand and presses a kiss to the palm. “Denise? Charlie? Car’s waiting.”

  Denise sticks her head out of the kitchen, eyes wide. “Um. Hi.”

  I don’t bother shutting the door; Nick’s already picking up their bags. The four of us march out of the apartment, down the stairs, and through the rear entrance to the alley. A boring blue sedan’s parked in the middle of the narrow street, and Nick pops the trunk. He and Charlie place the bags inside while Denise and I stare at our feet, hands in our pockets.

  She’s coming back. When this is over, she’ll be back. They both will. They have to. There’s a whole semester to get through before graduation.

  In danger of never coming out of the cold, empty space inside me, I grab Denise and wrap my arms around her. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so, so sorry.” The lump’s like a jagged rock, scraping at my throat.

  She whispers something at me, but I can’t hear her. A long, long moment later, she’s climbing into the backseat of the car and I’ve banded my arms around my stomach to hold in the shakes. I won’t be going with them to the airport, even though she begged. It’s safer I don’t know where they are.

  I hurry to Nick’s car parked a few blocks away and get in. Streets blur together as I struggle to keep the tears inside. My phone rings. I ignore it. Blocks and blocks and blocks, dotted with palm trees and parked cars, office buildings and tiny houses crammed together. The hazy sun sinks lower in the sky, shafts of sunlight piercing the windshield to blind me. I find a parking spot, get out, and start walking.

  It hasn’t changed. There’s a comfort in that, knowing this slice of Santa Monica Beach is the same. Seagulls wheel overhead, screeching for the trash that beach goers leave behind. The wind blowing up from the ocean is cool, and I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt. I settle into the sand and watch the waves roll in, breaking over one another. My phone rings again. I silence it.

  Letting Denise walk away without knowing when I’ll see her again is more than I can handle, and I was lying to myself earlier, thinking it’d be all right to fall apart after she was gone. The only way to see this through and put aside my emotions is to forget I have them. When footsteps crunch softly over the sand, I fight the need to turn toward the sound.

  “Smart choice, getting your best friend out of the city.”

  I keep my eyes on the water. “I thought so.” I’m relaxed. Loose. He’s to my left; most people would run to the right. He wouldn’t expect me to run toward him. “I guess you’ll have to find someone else to taunt me with.”

  Isaiah drops onto the sand beside me, close enough we can hear each other, far enough apart I’d have to lean over to touch him. “You’ve just proven how important she is to you. But you’re right. Not worth pursuing. Too much to be done here.”

  “Good to know.” Don’t engage. Don’t engage. If I sit here long enough, maybe he’ll tell me what he wants.

  The sun becomes a brilliant orange strip of light, the edge of the ocean glowing. Sometimes I think you can really fall off the end of the world, topple right into the glittering pool of sun on the water. A seagull flaps around on the wet sand, hopping along, wings fluttering as it dodges the water.


  “Why do you come here?”

  He doesn’t deserve the answer. Not the one I gave Nick. “It’s peaceful. Hasn’t been a lot of peace lately.”

  “There hasn’t,” he agrees. “Most people would pick a less crowded place.”

  I shrug, glancing at him through the encroaching dusk. “Seems stupid to drive for hours to find an empty beach when this one’s big enough for everyone.”

  The last of the glow fades, leaving behind deepening shadows. I stretch my legs out in front of me, the strap of my ankle holster rubbing against my skin. I sharpened the blades this morning. People are starting to desert the beach. A while longer, and it’ll be empty enough I can make my move.

  “I’ve underestimated you.”

  I allow myself a smile. “Don’t worry. You’re in good company.”

  He ignores the jab and continues like I didn’t even speak. “You’re losing Dom a lot of money. Surprised he hasn’t cut you loose.”

  This is interesting. I assumed everyone in the family had guessed by now how much I mean to Nick. Constantine certainly gave me that impression. “Does Nick often choose money and the family over his women?”

  Isaiah doesn’t respond. I don’t need him to. If he believes Nick’s simply waiting for this all to go away, that’s his business.

  “Are you familiar with how parley works?”

  I squint against a gust of wind, daring to close my eyes to keep the sand out. “I know it’s not something that’s been used since the nineteenth century.”

  “It still is. We just use other words to express the same idea.”

  “Interesting.” Get to the point.

  He sighs, the sound swept away by the crashing of the water. “I didn’t expect to like you, Cass. Like you or respect you. My men respect you. You’ve proven to be clever and smart.”

  “Oh, stop, Isaiah. You’ll give me a big head.”

  “A parley. To negotiate terms. I’m offering you the chance to choose who dies.” The sand crunches as he leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “Make it easier on us all,” he murmurs. “Do this for Dom.”

  It would take a second to loosen the blade strapped to the inside of my forearm. It’s a second too long. “You think the solution to this problem is for me to decide which of my loved ones gets to die?”

  He stands and brushes the sand from his jeans. “Think about it.” Then he walks away, leaving me with a knife in my hand and no one to plunge it into.

  Chapter 21

  This will never feel right. Guns are not my thing. The way the grip presses into my palm, the reverberations racing up my arm, the noise. I brace my hand and squeeze the trigger, the hole in the target obscured in the bright light.

  I lay the gun on the ledge in front of me and hit the button to bring the target forward. I squint at the pockmarked sheet. Pretty much what I expected. My shots are scattered around the chest and shoulders, and I missed. A few hit the upper stomach area. If Nick’s going for distance, this is the wrong gun for it.

  I clip up a fresh target and send it back, replace my glasses, and adjust the oversize ear protectors. Sweat dribbles down my neck. The target practice is Nick’s idea. Since he insisted on a new gun, it’s a smart one and has the added bonus of providing me with a ready-made distraction.

  The thing about paper targets is they’re poor approximations of the warm bodies you’re going to be aiming for. Bodies on the other end of a gun don’t tend to stand still and wait for you to line up properly and shoot. But he’s right on one count—don’t bring a knife to a gunfight.

  My modus operandi insists I don’t engage in the fight to begin with. The report of the gun kicks up my arm, my shoulder aching from overuse. A blister’s popping up on my palm from the constant rubbing.

  Nick doesn’t understand my reluctance. “Guns are impersonal,” he said. Efficient and more accurate than a blade or trusting that the potassium chloride will be enough.

  I empty the clip into the target and bring it forward, then strip off my gear. Guns aren’t impersonal. They’re loud, for one. It’s too easy for something to go wrong. And most of the time, you’ll be facing your target. You’ll get to see the surprise, anger, defeat, sadness on his face as he realizes it’s all over. Life as he knows it is done.

  Knives force you to be accurate. You have to disconnect. It shoves you into a slim space so confining that if you don’t move with frightening precision, you will screw yourself over and likely end up dead yourself.

  No, Nick doesn’t understand. He may never understand. That’s fine with me. I still have hope that once this is done, I can back out of the life. Take on some new role at Nick’s side where my hands aren’t covered in blood.

  I can be a teacher and share a bed with a mafia king, right?

  The indoor range is only half full, every other lane empty as I walk past. Gunshots crack and echo in the cavernous space, and I quicken my step, eager to get out. I’ve spent too long familiarizing myself with this new weapon. I need a shower, food, and quite possibly a nap.

  Nick’s leaning against the hood of the car as I make my way out of the building into the parking lot. I lift a hand to shield my eyes against the hazy winter sun. It feels good on my skin. The last few days have been cooler than usual.

  He straightens once I’m within earshot. “Well?”

  “Still don’t like them. It’s a decent fit, though. Gave me a blister.” I hold up my hand.

  He frowns. “We’ll try something else.” He pops the trunk and takes the case from me, stows it inside, and shuts the lid.

  “Please don’t. This one is fine. Guns are not my thing. They will never be my first choice. As long as it’s not obscenely bulky and I can hold my hand steady while firing, I consider that a win. I don’t think we’ll be able to use them as much as you want,” I say softly. “We want quiet, and gunfire will only draw attention to us.”

  The waiting is driving us both crazy, but we’re still gathering information. “Add anyone to the list today?” I ask, dropping into the passenger seat. Nick and Constantine have been meeting with Andreas and Anton to go over the men who’ve been placed under Isaiah’s command. They’ve pulled phone records and made discreet inquiries among the rest of the rank and file of the organization. It’s tedious work, but doing it now will make it easier to pull off our plan.

  He closes my door, walks around the hood of the car, and slides in behind the wheel before answering. “No. I think we’re hitting the edge of Isaiah’s inner circle. Peter’s working on pulling schedules. Should be able to start surveillance soon.”

  “Goody.”

  The car rumbles to life, and he pulls out of the parking lot. I squirm a little in my seat, my shirt sticking to me in places. We’ve got at least a forty-five minute drive to get back to the city.

  Ten minutes later we haven’t hit the freeway. “Um, I’m pretty sure we’re going the wrong way.”

  Nick grunts in response and continues heading west. The unfamiliar terrain zips past, all palm trees and brown and green rolling hills, scrubby grass and asphalt. I spot a sign for the Pac Coast Highway. I didn’t realize how close to the ocean we were. The gun range Nick took me to isn’t one I’ve used before. “I’ve told you I’m not a fan of surprises, right?”

  He picks up my hand and presses a kiss to the palm, the car slowing to a stop. The ocean spreads out in front of us, peeking through the traffic of the highway. “I think you’ll like this one.”

  I free my hand from his. “As long as you remember I have a knife and know how to use it, sure.”

  I catch his grimace, and he pulls onto the highway, so I settle back in the seat, trying to ignore my sweaty, sticky clothes. The sun’s sinking lower in the sky, painting it in garish, vibrant reds and purples. Normally I’d insist Nick pull over somewhere so I could watch. Some people prefer sunrise. It’s a new day, another chance at life.

  For me, each sunset means I’ve survived another day.

 
; The only thing I want today is a hot shower and some El Dorado, and the bastard’s taking me farther away from both. I try one more time. “Nick, please. Whatever you’ve got planned, I’m not in the mood for it.”

  “Take a look at it first. You don’t like it, we can go back to Con’s.” He turns off the highway and starts driving up the rolling hillside into Malibu. A few minutes later he’s pulling into a lot in front of a squat, stucco building, the red-tiled roof shadowed by the setting sun. A discreet sign gives me the name of the place: Oceanview Inn and Spa.

  The Oceanview Inn and Spa.

  Denise and I tried to get up here for her twenty-first birthday last year. All we wanted were a couple of facials, maybe a pedicure. A fantasy for a few hours. We knew it was popular and appointments were hard to get, but we figured two months out would be enough notice.

  Nope. They were booked out for four. Then they got featured in InStyle, and we said buh-bye to the idea of getting pampered at one of Southern California’s most famous spas.

  “If you tell me I’m getting so much as a pedicure here, I’m going to call you a liar.” I stare out the window at the place. It’s not much to look at from the front. Beige exterior, an arched, covered walkway leading to a shadowed front door. I know it extends down the cliffside. Every room has a view of the ocean.

  Nick gets out of the car, comes around, opens my door, and tugs me to my feet. “Okay. You’re not getting a pedicure.” I glare at him as he grins. “You’re getting a massage.” He shuts the door and starts walking toward the entrance. I trip over my feet and stumble after him, willing my brain to catch up. We’re here. At the Oceanside. There are bad men trying to kill us, and Nick’s apparently decided I need to relax. “Our room should be ready. You probably want a shower first. You’ll have to hurry, though.”

  He spins around and clasps my waist, cutting off my protests with his mouth. “Happy birthday, love,” he murmurs against my lips.

  I melt. There’s no other way to describe what those words do to me, melt my insides along with my brain, the warmth of his mouth turning everything gooey. All day I pushed myself from one training exercise to the next—a trail run along Topanga Canyon with Con and Nick, a modified Wushu routine, sharpening and cleaning my knives, inventorying the rest of my supplies. I put off calling my mother because I didn’t want to be reminded how different today was from my past birthdays. There’ll be no celebration with my parents and Denise and Charlie today. No dinner at El Dorado, no bad bar karaoke with Scott. Caught up in the swirling mess my life had become, I figured I’d let today pass like any other day. I’d just be officially one year older.