by April Lust
The others murmured and nodded their heads in agreement.
“Because Santos is using this business to launder his money.” I wasn’t one hundred percent positive, but it sounded true and reasonable. Maybe there were other nefarious reasons, but it didn’t matter. Whatever he was doing, he was doing something illegal with the company and not just by using cheap materials, though that was what I intended to nail him on. “Which maybe would work out just perfectly for him if he weren’t also trying to skim money off of this company along the way. And if that skimming of money resulted in the deaths of several people—which it did—then he would be directly responsible for those deaths. Meaning a manslaughter charge.”
It took a moment for all of that information to sink in, but when it did, I saw Wildcard grin. “So we nail him to the wall with this and threaten to expose him unless he lets Zelda go,” he pieced together.
I nodded once, though I didn’t think it would go that smoothly. I didn’t mention it to them, but I had the distinct impression that even if I had real leverage against Santos—which I still had to find in less than twenty-four hours—he wouldn’t make this exchange easily. I’d have to be smarter than Santos if I wanted this to fly, and though I hated him, I acknowledged that that wasn’t going to be an easy task.
“So what the fuck are we waiting for?” demanded Schumacher, who was all about doing things here and now.
I shook my head. “That’s where the problem comes in. I’ve got a witness, but witnesses die. Witnesses aren’t much good outside of court. If I threaten Santos with Calvin’s statement, it won’t do a damn bit of good. It’ll just get Calvin killed.”
Bones was nodding. “So we need to find some empirical evidence to show Santos. Something to throw at him that he can’t so easily dismiss.”
I told them my plan, which was much hastier than I would have preferred, but if I had time I would just sit on what I knew until I could take him to court and have him thrown into prison—just like he’d done to me. Unfortunately, my timeline got sped up without warning. Now that Zelda was thrown into the mix, there was little choice. If I wanted to save her, I was going to have to find something. Now.
***
The main office for Vanguard Construction Industries was just outside of town. The building was relatively plain and cheap-looking, though there were still a few roaming guards, which made me think there was a little more going on than what met the eye. Normally, businesses—at least the corporate portions of them—were located a little closer to downtown, usually in the business district. It made sense; you wanted to be where people could find you. The fact that VCI was out of the way like this told me that they didn’t really want someone snooping.
Which sounded like Santos had something to hide.
I’d split my guys up, sending them around the entire perimeter to make sure it was just the one guard. The Bobby Boys went around back and Schumacher checked the parking lot and some of the side angles we couldn’t make out from our vantage point close to the front. I’d considered going in through the back—that seemed like a more accessible place than waltzing in through the front door—but ultimately reconsidered when it became clear that the back was more fortified. Almost as though they expected someone to break in and that someone would think going through the front was too ballsy.
Thus why we were watching the front guard.
“They’ve got cameras,” said Wildcard, who was crouched down low in the shadows beside me. We didn’t want to be seen at all, but we definitely didn’t want to be seen before we’d even gotten to the building. “Which means we’re screwed if they catch out faces. Can’t use stolen shit in court, you know.”
I nodded. I’d thought of that. If we got the cops called on us or if the security guard or the cameras managed to get a good look at any of us, then the whole thing was a waste of time. We needed something we could hold Santos to and inadmissible evidence didn’t really cut it.
I needed to threaten him, to bury him. I needed something we could use.
“Don’t worry about that,” I told him tightly. “Keep your mask on until we can get to the cameras. And don’t take off your damn gloves.”
Wildcard nodded, itching at his hands. He wasn’t good at sitting still and right now it took everything he had not to jump up and do something, even if it was only pacing. It was the knowledge that we were in a very precarious position that kept him still. That and a gentle reminder that was my hand on his arm every so often.
My cell phone vibrated and I slid it out of my pocket. I had the screen dimmed as low as it would go, but it still seemed much too bright in our cloak and dagger darkness. I was probably only paranoid, but I couldn’t help but feel like the guard and the cameras and the whole damn city could see the little light from my phone as I checked my text message.
It was from Bobby, Jr.
All clear. One in the back, out cold.
And that was our cue. So long as no new guard was going to sneak up on us, we could head in. We’d have to take care of the guard on our end, but that went without saying. And Wildcard wasn’t all that upset at the idea of punching a cop in the face, even if it was only a security guard.
Glancing over at Wildcard, I gave him a nod. “Let’s go.”
I led the way towards the front entrance, trying to stay in the shadows as much as possible. Wildcard followed dutifully behind me. We were both wearing ski masks and had donned dark colored long-sleeved shirts so that we wouldn’t have the markings of a Berserker and so that we as individuals couldn’t be recognized. I knew I had more than a couple of identifying tattoos and it would make me pretty easy to spot.
I sidled up to the corner and pressed myself tightly against the wall. I glanced around the corner to make sure that the guard wasn’t looking, then I motioned with my hand for Wildcard to follow. We made a break for it. I ran flat out for the guard, knowing that even if this man didn’t see us, the cameras would. Which was why as I punched the man hard in the jaw, hard enough to knock him out cold, Wildcard went for the camera. He didn’t bother destroying it—the footage would probably be saved digitally at this point already so it wouldn’t do any good—but instead used a can of black spray paint to coat the lens. When that was accomplished, the two of us headed inside. I’d grabbed the guard’s keys and we got in without a hitch.
The door opened to a long hallway with more cameras. Wildcard took care of those, too, though we didn’t take off our masks. As we continued, I searched for the right door. It was an office that would hopefully have the information, but it looked like the whole building was nothing but offices. I began to randomly open doors, looking for the right one.
Thankfully, most of the rooms were empty. They were set up like bare shells, open and available for immediate use—they had desks and chairs, but that was it—but otherwise unoccupied. That made it easier when I finally found an office that did have things in it. Like a picture set on the desk, framed in some gaudy gold color. A desk lamp, a name plate. And a filing cabinet.
I motioned for Wildcard to follow me, then pointed at the filing cabinet. Wildcard nodded, then I tossed him my phone. We didn’t know if the cameras could pick up sound or not, probably not, so we weren’t taking any chances that somehow, someone might recognize our voices. That meant we communicated mostly through hand signals and nods. When Wildcard caught my phone he knew that I wanted him to keep an eye out for text messages from the Bobby Boys or from Schumacher. They were lookouts now that we were inside and would be the ones to let us know if we had troubles outside.
With Wildcard watching the door and my phone, the camera out of commission, and no other obstacles in sight, I went for the filing cabinet.
It was locked, so I spared a few minutes to search for a key. When I couldn’t find it, I pried the door open. Inside were files named by project. Orphanage. Library. Concert Hall. All of them seemed like they were generous donations to the general public, but I knew better. This was all a front.
I k
ept searching through the files. They probably all had some kind of evidence against Santos that I could use, but I was looking specifically for the charity project, the one that had already collapsed. I had a witness who would talk about the shoddy building materials and I thought I had a shot of talking to the other people involved in the accident to sue or testify if I presented some of the evidence I found.
Except I had to find evidence first. Calvin would go a long way for my case, but eyewitnesses were unreliable at best and any good lawyer—which Santos would have—would start there and tear the case down as he went.
But documents? Those went a long way.
I continued to sift through the files. I was lost in them, determined to find something, anything, that would save Zelda and get rid of Santos once and for all, but I was floundering. I had nothing.
After a moment, I felt Wildcard’s hand on my shoulder. He motioned for his wrist as though pointing to a watch and then thumbed the door. It was time to go, he was telling me, and I knew he was right. The guards wouldn’t stay unconscious and someone was likely to notice that the cameras were blacked out. The cops—real cops this time—would be here soon and it was important that we weren’t.
I nodded once, but continued through the files. I had to keep looking.
And there it was. Project Charity. It was marked in red and there was red tape sealing it up. I didn’t have time to look through it, so I just shoved it under my shirt and turned to Wildcard. I grabbed a few other folders just so no one would know what I was after specifically, then followed Wildcard out the door and back down the hall.
As soon as we got outside, I heard the distant sound of sirens blaring—and getting closer. But that was fine. We were already out.
Yanking off my mask, I called to Wildcard, “Tell the others. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
After all, we had a meeting with Santos in just half an hour.
Chapter Fifteen
Zelda
I paced because there was nothing else I could do. The room was large and had a huge bed in it, just like the other one I’d been in the previous night. But this wasn’t Santos’s main bedroom, rather a guest bed or something like that. Probably for when his guys did something stupid and were on the run. Or maybe for whores or something equally unpleasant. Whatever the case, it didn’t matter. I was a prisoner and it didn’t matter where I was locked up, that didn’t change.
Santos had ushered me in here at gunpoint. He’d locked the door and the windows—which had bars on them, too—leaving me with no way out unless Santos decided to let me go.
Which I highly doubted.
He was angrier than I’d ever seen him, and then he was calm. Calm was actually worse than anger. Yes, it had hurt when he hit me and the bruises were still achy and would probably hurt for days after all of this was over, but they didn’t scare me the same way a calm Santos did. It meant he was shoving down violence, plotting and planning, coming up with the worst possible thing he could do to you.
I wasn’t sure what that was just yet, but I knew it wouldn’t be good. And I didn’t know if I would survive it.
Maybe I would have been able to come to terms with that. Death was one of those things that was awful and terrifying, but it came to us all eventually. So maybe I could suck it up and just accept that I was at the very end of my rope and that was that. I didn’t really think I’d be able to calmly walk to my death, but maybe. Maybe I could be brave like that.
The problem was I didn’t think it would be just my death.
I had overheard a little of Santos’s conversation with Nester. I was sure that was deliberate on his part, or maybe he just didn’t care enough to think about me overhearing. There was every possibility that Santos had already written me off as dead anyway so why worry about a dead person overhearing anything that might later be incriminating? Either way, I had listened in, unable to ignore it. Because I had heard Nester’s voice and it gave me a treacherous spark of hope. Because I wanted to believe he would come for me.
After everything that we had been through together, there was a good chance that he wouldn’t come. That he wouldn’t care that Santos had me in his dangerous hands and would do any manner of terrible things to me because I had betrayed him. Just like I’d betrayed Nester.
Except I hadn’t betrayed Nester, not the way he thought, and now I was in over my head. Would Nester come for me? Maybe. Maybe he would simply because he was a good guy, but he’d been in prison for five years and I was starting to think it had changed him.
I was hoping it hadn’t, but I just couldn’t be sure. So much had happened in that time.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted Nester to come for me. Of course I wanted to be rescued and fall back into Nester’s arms like some sort of swooning princess from a fairytale with a dragon and a knight in shining armor. But that wasn’t very realistic no matter what the circumstances were. Beyond that, it was stupid.
What if Nester came? I couldn’t honestly believe that he would make their exchange across the board. Santos was too angry with me to just give me over to Nester. The only hope I had that he might was because if Nester really did sign that piece of paper, that false confession, then Nester would go to prison. And not just for a little five-year stint like he did last time. This would be for years, maybe even life. I didn’t know how bad the drug ring operations had gotten, and with Nester’s history of being in prison, and so recently, well, I could see them sticking him with every minute of time they could.
If things really did go like that, I could see Santos letting me live if only to see that the love of my life was behind bars and unlikely to ever be a free man again, much less come to me. That sounded like an awful, lonely existence, and it was the exact sort of “fair is fair, eye for an eye” thinking that Santos would do.
I didn’t like that, but at least we would both be alive. And I told myself that I could try to get Nester out. Maybe testify or go against Santos.
And as soon as I had that thought, I knew for certain that I wouldn’t walk out of this alive. Santos couldn’t afford to let me go, because surely he had had the same thoughts as me. If he let me go and Nester went to prison, of course I would fight against Santos. And that could get him into the kind of legal trouble that he couldn’t afford.
No, even if Nester signed the paper, even if he came to save me, I was dead. My only hope was that it would be quick.
I shuddered against that cold, dark thought, wishing more than anything that it wasn’t the truth. But I felt it in my bones that there was no alternative. Santos would kill me, both out of vindictiveness and necessity, and Nester would spend the rest of his life in prison. How had we gotten to this point?
I could still remember the first time I’d found myself wrapped up in Nester’s arms in a passionate embrace. So sweet, tentative, because he always seemed sure that he would lose me at any moment, but beneath that sweetness was more raw energy and passion than I had ever seen in anyone.
More than I thought I could handle—more than I could let myself walk away from.
He paused to kiss me, a soft, sweet kiss. It was a reminder that this was my choice—as he told me again and again, every single day we were together and even on the times we weren’t—and that he wouldn’t push me any farther than I was willing to go.
Except I was willing today. Willing to go to places I hadn’t ventured in a long time, not since my first time with a boy who couldn’t have cared less about me or my pleasure or my heart.
Nester wasn’t like that. I’d been scared to fall for him, terrified that it would end in catastrophe and I would lose not only the romantic connection that was impossible to ignore, but also the friendship that I’d come to rely on.
But he was too much to resist and I didn’t want to anymore.
His home was just shy of a shack, settled not far from the swamp lands where alligators, snakes, and god knew what else liked to lay in wait for some poor unsuspecting victim. A quick, stupid meal. But the
y were out of my head as his lips pressed against mine, lighter than I knew they wanted to be, but he wouldn’t push. Nester was scared to lose me, I knew, so he wouldn’t push.
“Sorry about the place,” he breathed, sounding genuine. Nester didn’t usually care what other people thought of his living conditions, of his clothing, of his bike, but he seemed to care what I thought and it warmed me.
A tingle raced through me and I shook my head. “Don’t apologize for it. I like it.”
He gave me a skeptical look, but didn’t question me when I pushed at his shoulder to get him to go inside. I caught half a grin as he turned to open up the door and lead me inside. His hand found mine and it was just as warm, sweaty even, as mine was.
The heat was almost blistering, coupled with the heady humidity to make it the kind of day that clung to your skin and shoulders like a wool jacket. Muggy, unbearable, but I didn’t pay it any attention. Not now. Even when we went inside and all the windows were open, because there was no air conditioning hooked up right now and the place sucked at holding in cool air anyway, losing half of it to the cracks and crevices that threatened to crumple the little place at any moment.
