Late in the Day

by Mary Calmes

  “I did.”

  “How pretty?”

  “Very.”

  “Blond?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you see dimples?”

  “I could, yes.”

  What the hell was Efrem Lahm doing on Nahant? And how? No records placed me there, and my dummy corporation purchased the house—no way could someone follow that back to me. It was impossible, even with the top security clearance I used to have. So if Efrem really was there, I had two questions: how and why? But more than that, after our last exchange, why would he even bother making the trip? We both knew he had an agenda. He wanted to know my secrets, and it wasn’t going to happen. I would never let him make a fool out of me again. Once was more than enough… if he truly had. To say I doubted my own conclusions was an understatement, but to say I was questioning the conclusion I came to in the first place—I was not. It came down a simple question: Could I trust Efrem Lahm?

  The answer was a resounding no.

  Could I say conclusively that he was after answers about who I was and not where I’d been? No, I could not. The problem was that it was possible—and just as likely as the opposite scenario. But what was the point of even figuring it out? The time for Efrem and me had long since passed. It was better to let the very idea of a happily-ever-after go before I made myself crazy with possibilities.

  What it all boiled down to was that it was impossible for either of us to trust the other. I couldn’t possibly hope to know what his true intentions were, and mine were just as blurry to him. There was really no way to be a hundred percent sure of where we each stood, and because of who we were and what we did for a living, uncertainty could get us killed. I wasn’t about to risk not only myself but everyone who depended on me, and so had settled it all in my head logically and cast out all thought of Efrem… until I thought about him again.

  “Darius, you look like you’re in pain,” Sousanna remarked. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Do you want to talk about him?”

  “Who?” I asked, turning to her.

  “The man with the dimples.”

  “Not at the moment, no.”

  “Maybe later? We could have tea,” she said, slipping her arm into the curve of mine.

  “I hate tea,” I grumbled, appreciating her trying to comfort me.

  “Oh, you do not,” she said, laughing softly and patting my arm.

  We walked on, parting before we reached our respective houses, not quite to the end of Ocean Street, before the park, but close.

  “So I was right. I am the talk of Dunkin’ Donuts,” she called over to me before she disappeared inside her house.

  “You’re not supposed to be proud of that,” I called back before I recognized a dangerous man on the beach side of the street, leaning on the hood of his car, managing to look both bored and irritated at the same time.

  It was fast, the punch of adrenaline, the one that had kept me alive for years, my senses faster than others because I’d been taught not to filter. It wasn’t, Oh, something’s wrong, out of sequence, out of place, it was simply danger, and then the gun was being unloaded. So instead of my brain figuring out friend or foe, I went immediately on the offensive.

  But then I stopped and really looked at him and took a breath. Yet another reason I was glad to retire, my reflexes were quickly deteriorating under a sea of friendship.

  Normally, just because I was who I was—even though the man wasn’t looking at me with deadly intent—I still would have lowered the zipper on my shearling-lined brown leather jacket and reached inside for my gun. But I didn’t because really, I knew him, and if he was going to go against Ceaton’s orders for some reason and kill me, he could have done it already.

  “Hey,” I called over instead of the million other things I could have done just a half a year ago.

  Marko Borodin gave me a head tip but made no other move.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, not nervous—it would take a lot more than Borodin to do that—but cautious. I’d checked him out, as I had all the men on Ceaton’s team, and while the others had only ever worked for Grigor Jankovic, Borodin was ex-Spetsnaz, Russian Special Forces and had been with the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation before leaving his homeland. After that, once he was stateside, I’d found no record of him at all. He’d come in on a tourist visa that expired and no one ever followed up even though no records showed him ever leaving the country. Three years later, he’d become a naturalized citizen. It was amazing to me that, with his record, Borodin had been able to get first a green card and then actual citizen status, but with enough money changing hands, I knew anything was possible. What was more interesting to me was that he suddenly turned up in Las Vegas, working for a man named Bohdan. I had no idea how a highly decorated major in the Russian Army ended up working for a Serbian mob boss, but I hadn’t looked any further into it. I trusted Ceaton, and if he vouched for Borodin, I had nothing to say.

  Still, it was disconcerting to see him without his boss, but I could certainly handle him if something was awry.

  “Your neighbor, she has contract out on her,” he explained with a yawn. “I told… Farmer, Farney, Farrington—”

  “Farley,” I volunteered, knowing who he meant.

  “Da,” he agreed, giving me a slight grin. “I told him, I would not interfere with his work, but I must protect my interests.”

  “Meaning me.”

  He nodded.

  “I appreciate that.”

  “But then Ceaton reminds me, your neighbors on both sides are off-limits.”

  “Yes.”

  “So Farley is in trunk, and I am waiting to speak to you.”

  He’d been in no hurry, content to let Farley get frostbite. “Nice of you,” I sighed, trotting across the street to him. Together, we walked around the back of the Mercedes sedan, and Marko popped the trunk for me.

  Lying on his side with his wrists and ankles and mouth duct-taped was twenty-six-year-old Castor Farley, a new up-and-coming contract killer out of Long Beach who was making a name for himself by killing wives, husbands, mistresses, and boytoys of rich men. People let him get close—too close, obviously—because he looked like a chilled-out surfer until the moment he pulled out his gun and shot them in the head.

  As soon as he saw me, his turquoise eyes got huge, and he started shaking.

  “Just wait,” I told him, lifting my hand.

  His eyes darted to Marko, who was screwing a suppressor onto his gun, which didn’t help his panic in any way.

  “What is that?” I asked, distracted, because it was a nice-looking pistol.

  He palmed it, letting me have a look. “Is Heckler and Koch 23.”

  I took it from him, testing the weight, did a clearance check, and lifted it, aimed, and then passed it back. “It’s nice.”

  He shrugged. “I am trying out new things.”

  I smiled at him and then looked back down at Farley, who looked like he was about ready to pass out. “I live next door,” I told him.

  The shaking got worse then.

  Marko turned his head to look at me. “All this talking is too much. I found place by docks that turns him into fish food for small fee. I will go now,” he finished, reaching up to close the trunk.

  I lifted my hand, and his frustrated sigh was actually funny. “You in a hurry?” I asked.

  “You and Ceaton, always so much talking,” he said, his voice full of disgust. “Better to just use gun.”

  This was why Ceaton was in charge. I turned back to the man in the trunk. “Listen,” I said to Farley. “Stay out of Boston, all right?”

  He nodded vigorously.

  “Who put out the contract?” I asked. “The husband?”

  Second nod.

  “Put the word out: she’s off-limits as a favor to me.”

  He said something into the tape.

  I tipped my head at Marko, and he removed it fast.
It hurt like hell—I knew from experience—Farley’s wide, supple mouth was now covered in angry red welts.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I will stay out of Boston. You don’t have to tell me twice.”

  I grunted.

  “Please,” he begged. “I swear to you.”

  “People will say you are going soft,” Marko assured me. “Let me take care of this.”

  “Harris!” Farley gasped.

  I shook my head at Marko. “We’ll give him one chance.”

  He yawned. “Is your business, not mine, but so we are clear, if I see him again, I can kill him, da? We are agreed?”

  “Yes.”

  He grunted before pulling a butterfly knife from inside his coat and cutting the tape off Farley’s wrists and ankles. “Get out of my car.”

  Farley scrambled fast.

  “Thank you,” I said to Marko.

  “Nye zaboyteya,” he mumbled, moving toward the driver’s side door.

  “Hey.”

  He turned back to look at me.

  “Somebody here in Nahant will make people into fish food?” That surprised me more than anything else, even the contract on my friend.

  “In Boston,” he clarified. “I would never dispose of body this close to your home.”

  “That’s very considerate, thank you.”

  “Freeze!”

  We all turned to find my ex—the guy who could make my stomach flip just by being near me—braced for battle in the middle of the street, holding a gun on all three of us.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, angrier than I thought I’d be. He had no right to be in my new life when he was squarely part of the old. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t want him there reminding me of things I couldn’t have.

  His head lifted slowly. “Are you all right?” he asked Farley.

  “Yeah, man, I’m fine. Who the fuck are you?” Farley groused.

  Efrem lowered his arm, holding the gun at his side. “You’re pissed at me? I’m saving your life!”

  “Nah, man, Harris saved my life,” Farley retorted. “And I don’t wanna get caught in the middle when Ivan Drago here shoots your ass.”

  “Ivan Drago,” Marko growled drolly. “I have never heard this before.”

  “It’s a film reference from—”

  “Run now,” I suggested to Farley since, clearly, he’d missed class the day they taught sarcasm.

  Farley was not stupid. He turned and bolted.

  “Darius!”

  We all turned again, this time toward Sousanna’s front door, which was just across her manicured front lawn.

  “What do you want?” I barked, not wanting her to get hurt but more than that, not wanting her to see Efrem since he wasn’t going to be staying.

  “To make sure you’re all right!” she shouted back. “But now I don’t care!”

  I grinned at her, and she smiled back before pointing at Efrem.

  “That’s the pretty one, by the way.”

  “I figured,” I told her and then pointed at Marko. “This is another associate of mine, Marko Borodin. You’ll see him around with Ceaton.”

  “Oh, lovely,” she said, beaming now. Clearly she liked the looks of the much deadlier and ten times more terrifying Russian over Ceaton Mercer. “Would any of you like some tea?”

  “No—”

  “Da,” Marko called out quickly and started toward her house.

  I stared after him a moment, stunned, and when I switched and gave her my attention, I noted how excited she seemed, bouncing on her toes, holding the door, her attention fully focused on Marko and none on me or Efrem.

  She shook his hand when he reached the porch and then slipped her arm through the crook of his before they went inside.

  Everyone in my life was insane.

  “The hell is that?” I muttered a second before Efrem stepped into my line of vision.

  “What in the world is—”

  I gestured at the house, lost in the idea that my sweet next-door neighbor was having tea with a man who could kill her and stuff her down her garbage disposal without even a rise in his blood pressure. And if not for me, they would have never been in each another’s orbit. The responsibility was staggering, and nobody but me knew that. To them, it was tea. “Ceaton’s scary, but Marko isn’t? Seriously? Is she deluded?” I asked Efrem.

  Efrem looked over his shoulder at her home and then back at me as a car pulled up in front of my house. “I have no idea what you’re—could you please just focus on—”

  “Now what are you doing here?” I asked out loud as Lee got out of a sleek sports car. “I just saw you,” I complained.

  The day I was having, Jesus Christ. It was too many things all at once, past and present, crashing down on me, and I was feeling ungrounded.

  “Yes, I know,” he said, smirking at me as he crossed the street without checking for traffic, the swagger on full display.

  I gestured at the car. “What is that?”

  He rolled his eyes. “That is a Maserati GranTurismo MC Centennial Coupe.”

  “You rented that?”

  Instant scowl. “Why would I rent that?” he asked disdainfully.

  “That’s my question.”

  His top lip curled up in distaste. “I bought it,” he said dryly.

  “So that’s yours.”

  He grunted.

  “Then why is it here? You don’t live here, you live in Seoul and Manhattan and—”

  “I know where I live,” he assured me.

  “What’s the car doing here?”

  “I need it to drive around in. I can’t just fly a plane to get around in the city.”

  A thought hit me. “Tell me you’re not loading and unloading that car onto the plane.”

  He waggled his eyebrows.

  “When did I say you could do that?” I yelled at him. There was no doubt in my mind that the people who had asked me to assume the role of the vault were already sorry they’d picked me. The people I’d chosen—this one in particular—was far too high-maintenance and more importantly, high profile. “We’re supposed to fly under the radar!”

  He drew so much attention to himself, and I realized that what I was feeling was worry.

  “Goddammit!” I was becoming ridiculously sentimental, and that had never happened before I’d become the vault, before Ceaton, before… before me wanting a change. And now I was also going to fuss over Lee like a big brother. Just thinking about it was horrifying.

  “Aish,” he muttered, making a face, waving his hand dismissively like I was just too annoying to deal with. “Just go inside and pack, or we can buy you new clothes when we get there, which I would prefer.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” I didn’t even sound upset, I sounded pained, because I couldn’t just shoot him anymore—he was part of my team, and I cared about him just like I did Ceaton and Trevan and Rahm Daoud and Christopher Mancuso and Duncan Stiel and… fuck, where did it end? When did becoming the vault become me protecting people? I didn’t want to be counted on or trusted or… it was spiraling out of control.

  “What?” Lee asked irritably.

  “Why do I have to buy clothes?”

  He indicated me with another flourish of his hand. “You dress terribly.”

  “Says the man wearing… what are you wearing?”

  “An overcoat and a suit and a turtleneck,” he told me, speaking slowly, the condescension crystal clear in his voice.

  But when he said it, it sounded like nothing, like he wasn’t wearing three shades of blue with skinny pants and leather loafers. He should have been on the cover of a fashion magazine. Normal people didn’t dress like that.

  “I look fine, thank you.” I grumbled at him.

  His grunt was not convincing.

  “Why are you here?” I almost whined.

  “You need to come to Dubai with me.”

  Efrem moved to stand at my shoulder, and I felt his hand slip to the middle of my back. It was instinctive
, possessive, and while I felt the throb of excitement make my stomach flutter, I reminded myself that he was not for me and leaned away from him.

  He took a step closer, crowding me, shifting, pressing into my space, and this time I took several steps away.

  “What are you doing?” he asked sharply.

  “I think the more important question is what are you doing?” I volleyed, rounding on Efrem, standing beside Lee.

  He gestured at me. “I want to talk to you.”

  “We have nothing to talk about. You should go home.”

  “Nothing to talk about? Are you insane?”

  “I get the feeling I might be interrupting something,” Lee said, turning his head to look at me.

  “You’re not. He was just leaving.”

  “The hell I am,” Efrem insisted, rounding on Lee. “And why the hell are you going to Dubai, and who are you to Darius?”

  “Who?” Lee asked him, squinting.

  He pointed at me.

  “Harris, you mean?”

  “Darius Hawthorne,” Efrem explained.

  Lee pivoted to me. “How many names do you have?”

  “Three, but Darius is the real one.”

  “Interesting. Did you use Harris for your business because it’s the one you used before?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “That makes sense. What do you want me to use?”

  God. “Darius,” I sighed, tired already and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet.

  His smile was sinister and smug at the same time. “Does Homeland here know all about you? Yes or no?”

  “No,” I told him.

  “Does he know what you do?”

  “No, but he’d like to,” I said, my eyes flicking to Efrem. “That’s why he’s here.”

  “That’s a lie,” Efrem said flatly. “I don’t care at all what you do. I just want to know where you’ve been so I can figure out my next step.”

  “You have no next step.”

  “Oh, I think I do.”

  Lee faced Efrem. “So, you want to do what, find out all his secrets? Penetrate his defenses?”

  “It’s not like that at all.”

  “But he won’t tell you, will he? He’s like a grape on a plate that you’re trying to stab with a fork, but no matter how hard you try to pin him down, spear him, he keeps bouncing and rolling away.” Lee tsked. “Perhaps you should try another tactic.”