The Vigilantes Collection

by Lake, Keri

  Parking myself at the bottom of the staircase and setting my laptop across my lap, I proceeded to hack into the hospital’s security camera program, based on some instruction Alec had given me. I’d already cased the place once and knew a camera sat at each landing, at which a door led to a new level. I glanced up at the camera mounted in the corner of the staircase, directed at the door one floor up. With a few keystrokes, it shifted upward and to the left, while on the screen, it appeared as if the viewer would only catch the outward swing of the door.

  Peeling back my leather glove, I checked the time. Ten to eight. The mysterious distraction was set for eight fifteen, which meant I had only minutes to locate Aubree and secure my opportunity.

  I’d watched them long enough to know I’d never have the golden opportunity of taking them out in some shitty area of Detroit, where no one would find them. Culling drove through the streets like the goddamn president of the country and only ever brought his wife along if there were cameras and big crowds. Aubree rarely left the mansion, and when she did, she was always accompanied by an entourage of bodyguards and police. A masquerade ball was the perfect opportunity.

  Straightening my shirt along the way, I rounded the flight of stairs before casually slipping through the door of the first floor that opened up to an elaborate lobby. The building had a modern appeal, and I found it hard to believe that it once looked like the shithole connected at the other side of the tunnel.

  Straight ahead stood a glass cylinder, inside of which were rocks and trees, with a small stream that circled the room and ended in a fountain smack in the center. The sign on the front said Reflection Pond. A second sign below it gave yoga hours. Adjacent to that was another glass enclosure, with walls that protruded at angles, and track lighting above the artwork on display within, perfectly centered on each small stretch of wall. Hanging precariously from cables connected to the high ceilings all throughout, odd twists of bronze offered a slight industrial look.

  Conversation filled the room that looked less like a hospital and more like an art gallery. The room was easily separated into invited guests and wait staff, based on the tux’s and uniforms, though all of them wore elaborate masks on their faces, mostly concealing their identities. Women wore long gowns, and for a moment, I felt as if I’d crashed the movie set for Eyes Wide Shut, as risqué as some of the dresses were. A brush of my hands told me my Glock was ready at my hip in case shit went bad, as, from the table beside me, I donned a mask from the many set out in perfect rows.

  “You with housekeeping?”

  I turned only slightly to keep most of my face concealed and noticed blue slacks and tired, but shiny dress shoes. A clusterfuck of keys hung from his belt loop. Security. “Yeah.”

  “Got a problem in the men’s bathroom. Need you to check it out, pronto.” He cleared his throat in a way that reluctantly confessed he’d probably created the mess.

  “I’m on it.”

  He paused for a moment then added, “Don’t be too long. We’ve got important guests,” before walking through a set of double doors.

  Another glance at my watch showed twenty minutes until show time. Inside my pocket, I clutched the small vial containing the GHB. The drugs would need a good twenty minutes to kick in to the point of blackout.

  Popping the top on the secreted vial, I scanned the crowd until my gaze landed on a tall brunette, standing beside Michael Culling in a clingy black number that had me momentarily stupefied. Yeah, Alec was right. Aubree Culling was beautiful with her long, chestnut-colored hair, skin so flawless it was painful to look at, and big, round golden eyes that seemed to sparkle under the orange-colored lights.

  Claire Davenport, a young anchorwoman for Channel Six News, had the two of them cornered, with her cameraman close behind.

  Sticking to the edges, staying inside the shadows, I rounded the room, making my way closer to where she stood. If I fucked it up, the plan was over. Done. Everything we’d plotted, out the window. I adjusted the mask on my face, making sure I’d covered most of my features.

  On a pedestal table, a tray held one lone champagne glass, almost calling out to me. It seemed to call out to Aubree Culling, as well, with the way she tipped her head, eyeing it from beside Michael. Nabbing a rag I’d stuffed in my back pocket, I moved in, busying myself as I lifted the glass, wiped down the table, and emptied the vial into the champagne.

  A bump to my arm tensed my muscles, as one of the servers lifted the tray from the table, and my stomach knotted as I watched him walk off. Fuck. I should’ve offered her the drink myself! My gaze trailed after the server, who’d only gotten two steps, before Aubree stepped away and grabbed the proffered champagne flute.

  Shit, that was close.

  As she tipped the glass to her lips, those golden eyes, peering through the holes in the mask, connected with mine, and for a moment, a curl of heat swept through my body.

  A stab of pain hit my skull and twitched my right eye in a seizure of tiny contractions. At a blip of Lena’s face passing through my mind, the fury snaked back into my veins, and I snapped from whatever inexplicable enthrallment had enraptured me seconds before.

  Lowering the glass, Aubree kept her gaze locked on mine. As if time had slowed to a stop, we stood across from each other, eyeing each other through the masks that hid our faces.

  She chugged the champagne, set down the flute, and stepped toward me.

  A little early, but my muscles coiled, prepared to strike if I had to, to do something fucking stupid in the middle of the event, like run off with the mayor’s wife in plain sight.

  Her determined walk clipped to a screeching halt when another tuxedo intercepted, lifting her hand to his lips for a kiss. Recoiling with a frown, her gaze flitted from me to the new guy, back and forth, as though there was some urgency. As if I might disappear.

  I did. Though, peering from a darkened hallway that led to what I presumed were closed patient rooms, I kept her in my sights.

  Culling approached her from behind, and unless my eyes mistook it, she bristled at the touch of his hand to her shoulder. He offered a smile to the man who’d kissed her hand. A few seconds passed before Culling shuffled Aubree toward a second dark hallway on the other side of the elevators.

  Curious, I followed at a distance and ducked out into the adjacent ladies room, keeping the door cracked.

  Caught by the throat, she flinched as Culling slammed her up against the wall and leaned in toward her ear. I couldn’t tell what he said to her, but the pursing of her lips, almost to a snarl, told me it wasn’t a bunch of sweet nothings. He dragged his hand all over her face, smearing the lipstick across her lips, as if he was angry, and I had to believe it was the kiss to her hand that must’ve set him off. His hand slid up the long slit of her gown, between her thighs in jolting movements, and I heard him growl, “Mine.”

  He motioned to her face, waved a dismissal, and walked away, leaving her as disheveled as he’d made her.

  A sharp spasm struck my skull, and I screwed my eyes shut, mentally counting down the seconds it took to go away. Shifting my jaw back and forth worked out the lingering ache, until the blur to my vision shrank to clarity again.

  I glanced down at my watch. Five minutes to show time, and fifteen since she’d chugged the champagne.

  Michael returned to the other guests, while Aubree covered her face, ambling toward the ladies room.

  The ladies room where I’d hidden.

  Perfect. Almost too perfect.

  Like a predator, I slid backward, closing myself inside the first of two stalls, and waited.

  The restroom door flung open, and a distraught-looking Aubree, with her running mascara down wet, glistening cheeks, stormed toward the mirrors.

  “Motherfucker,” she whispered, peeling off her gloves and tossing them onto the counter. She dampened a wad of paper towel under the faucet, and used it to wipe away the smear of red and the smudged mascara from her face before reapplying her lipstick. “Don’t let him se
e tears.” Her words came off like a mantra running through her head.

  At a knock to the door, Aubree startled. My own attention darted to entrance, waiting for a complication to come walking in.

  Instead, a woman’s voice called out from the other side.

  “Mrs. Culling, your husband asked that I let you know, the president of the hospital is about to award the physician of the year. He’d like you at his side during the ceremony.”

  Two minutes.

  “Thank you! I’ll be right out.” She leaned toward the sink, her eyes seeming to meet those in her reflection. “Please, God. Let me succeed this time. You can do this, Aubree. Time to …” She stumbled back, catching herself on the edge of the sink. “Ditch this fucker.”

  One minute.

  With brisk steps, she tiptoed toward the restroom door, opened it a small crack, and peered through. The way she wound the chain of her purse in one hand, the bracing stance of her body, she looked as though preparing for a mad dash, like the chick was about to bolt. She scarcely had time to move, though, before she took her second stumble in a matter of seconds, and I pushed out to her and tucked my arms beneath Aubree’s, knocking her purse to her elbow.

  A slight bit of tension stiffened her muscles when her head fell back, her eyes studying my face. Her brows drew together in a frown. “Who’re … what’re you …” Her drunken slur had the questions trailing off, until her movements softened and she stilled.

  Hoisting her up into my arms, I stood at the door, ready. Waiting.

  What sounded like an explosion rattled the walls, and suddenly the whole gathering seemed to gasp, before bodies broke into motion. Running. Screaming.

  A perfect moment of chaos.

  Now.

  I slipped out of the bathroom, keeping to the wall, watching in awe as an SUV sat plowed through the art gallery with curls of smoke rising from the hood. Broken glass lay shattered all around it. The art that’d stood lined a moment ago lay in a heap of splintered canvases. The bronze artwork hanging above oscillated back and forth, until it broke free of the cable and fell, stabbing through the hood of the vehicle.

  Another wave of gasps and screaming followed. Code triage was called over the PA system.

  Kicking through the door to the staircase, I backed up with Aubree and hoisted her over my shoulder. As the door closed, I caught sight of Michael spinning round, mouth parted in what I imagined was confusion and distress as his wide eyes swung toward the restroom. His head whipped back and forth between the there and the crowd, before he finally lurched toward the last place his wife had been seen.

  I’d remember that image, savor it in the dark moments alone when I could imagine the events that would surely follow—the panic, desolation, never knowing what happened or who’d taken her.

  I moved quickly down the staircase. A loud crack jolted my muscles, and at the echo of voices and the clang of keys, I hugged the wall, keeping away from the banister.

  Security rushed through the first floor door, as I cut through the basement door. I carried Aubree’s limp body until I reached the cage and slipped through, nabbing my duffle up from the floor. Fuck, between the two of them, my muscles burned. I tossed the bag inside the hole, dragged Aubree through the arc I’d cut in the door, and lifted her over my shoulder, before jogging through the long, dark tunnel, bag in hand.

  No one followed. No one seemed to know that I’d just kidnapped the mayor’s wife.

  It was almost too fucking easy.

  * * *

  Back at the mansion, I carried Aubree’s passed out body hoisted over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Gripping tight to the back of her thighs through her black dress, I climbed the staircase, her hands beating against my ass with each step.

  To the left of the staircase, I kicked open the door to her room—one I’d chosen directly across the hall from my bedroom. Dark drapes decorated the one lone window, obscuring the security bars there, just like the ones I’d placed over all the windows throughout the mansion, and her bed had already been set up, equipped with leather restraints and a headboard that I’d tethered to the wall.

  I deposited her limp body onto the bed and worked quickly to fasten her arms and legs, before securing a gag over her mouth, lifting her head as I tied it beneath.

  For fun, I tugged the black ski mask over my face—the same one Alec wore in his infamous Achilleus X videos—and stepped back.

  A quiet moan hit the air, and I backed away farther as she shifted on the bed, her dress hiking up to her thigh. As though suddenly aware, she gave one sharp tug of the binds, and her eyes flipped open. Wide.

  Panicked whimpers laced a sharp exhale, and, lifting her head off the bed, she gave another pathetic tug.

  I wanted to laugh. So helpless.

  “Oh, Gah, I fil see.” Her voice carried a slur behind the gag.

  An awaiting bucket sat beside the bed, and I yanked the gag and lifted it in time to catch her vomit as she strained her head to the side. I’d anticipated it with the mixing of alcohol. Last thing I needed was to have the shit stinkin’ up the place.

  She caught her breath, her gaze searching the room. “W-where’m I? Are you … are you Achilleus X?”

  I stared down at Aubree Culling’s crinkled brows and mask of confusion. “Achilleus X wouldn’t spare a minute on you.”

  What must’ve been an attempt at shaking her head looked like a bowling ball trying to stay propped on a piece of string. “’Cept tha ...” Her eyes made a slow trail back to mine. “What d’you wan’? Money? I gah money. J’tell h’much.”

  “You think I’d kidnap you for something as insignificant as money?”

  Another abrupt roll of her head looked like the heavy bastard might roll right onto the floor. “Did … di summin hire you?”

  “Like who?”

  She exhaled a sharp breath. “Oh, God, h’knows.” Writhing on the bed hiked her dress higher up her thigh. “Lemme go. Never hear fr’me ‘gain. Pr’mis.” Huge, dilated pupils made her eyes look black, almost evil, and her lids fluttered shut with every uncontrollable roll of her head against the pillow.

  I didn’t answer her. She wouldn’t remember anything I’d said, anyway. Besides, I wasn’t there to put her at ease and fill her in. Instead, I remained in the shadows, quietly staring, waiting for realization to settle over her and the waves of panic that were sure to follow.

  Her chest rose and fell more rapidly, as her eyes wandered, from one side of the room to the other, then shuttered, her brows winging up like she fought to keep them open. A minute later, she lost the battle, her body falling flaccid and her mouth agape.

  My gaze slid back to where the slit of her dress showed her splayed thigh, tan, tone and smooth, its sleek surface reflecting the dim light of the room.

  Lena curls into a ball on the floor, her smooth legs coated in blood, burns and bruises. My hand hovers over the tender skin where they sliced her with a knife, and tears well in my eyes. She flinches at my touch, not bothering to look up at me, and I know why. She feels ruined. They ruined my girl. My beautiful Lena. Beaten and scarred.

  Fury simmered through my veins, heating my blood. I rubbed my temples, numbing the sudden ache there, and paced like an animal in a cage, ready to tear into prey. Noticing Aubree’s thigh brought an uncontrollable desire to bruise it, to dig my fingers into her flawless flesh and leave a mark of pain, just like they’d done to my wife. I wanted to put my gun to Aubree’s temple and pull the trigger, take what was taken from me. An eye for an eye. Alec’s words battled the images inside my head. Don’t do it. Don’t fuck this up.

  I left the room before I could act on my urges and headed downstairs.

  From the kitchen table, I swiped the bourbon and tipped it back, waiting for the cool to soothe the scorch in my throat. Before I knew it, half the bottle was gone. Slipping off the gloves, I ran my hands under the water and let the cold stream coat the heat that burned below my skin. The house originally hadn’t come equipped with water,
electricity, gas. I’d had to hook that up myself, tapping into electrical lines, gas lines, the water main. Damn near killed myself in the process.

  I rubbed a hand down my face and pounded the heel of my hand against my head. Fucking headaches.

  Having Aubree in the next room would take some hard hitting liquor—the kind that could drown out images of her thigh peeking out of the dress and all the things I wanted to do out of rage. I didn’t know how long Alec wanted me to keep her. Had no idea why he’d added the kidnap onto what I’d considered a perfectly constructed plan that we’d gone over for months. What bad could come of killing her? Why did he need her? He’d told me to hang on to her during negotiations, but negotiations weren’t part of the plan. I was to systematically kill each of the men who’d murdered my family, while Alec kept them on their toes, leaking information, keeping them occupied, off the trail. Culling wouldn’t give a shit about a few missing thugs, if it meant his whole fucking operation was about to be exposed. In the end, Culling would get snuffed. No negotiations.

  I didn’t like that Alec had modified what we’d agreed on. The plan had changed and I had no choice but to go along. When I’d told him I’d do whatever he wanted, in exchange for the identities of the men who stole my life, I couldn’t have guessed he’d task me with babysitting the only woman on the planet I could’ve happily stuffed with a bullet.

  Thickness in the air tightened my chest and a familiar urge pulled inside my gut.

  I needed to down some liquor and set fire to it.

  8

  Nick

  Lion’s Den had two things going for it—half-naked women everywhere and the kind of hard liquor that could get a bastard shitfaced fast. It was also the only club in Detroit that served alcohol where the girls stripped nude. Illegal anywhere else, but hell if anyone bothered to report it.

  I plopped down onto the barstool, gaze glued to the cop sitting beside Rev, the owner of the bar and somewhat of a neighborhood guard dog. Though he was no stranger to hustling deals himself, he kept an eye out for trouble. Rev didn’t show much love for the Detroit Police—in fact, I’d heard stories about him beating the shit out of officers who’d attempted to raid the homes in his neighborhood.