It won’t open. No catch as it engages, nothing. With the car off, the windows won’t roll down. Climbing between the seats is out; there’s no backseat to speak of. There’s nothing lying on the floor I can use to knock him out. “Did you turn the child safety locks on?” I try popping open the glove compartment, but it’s locked as well.
He grabs for the cuffs at the same moment I do, the chain rattling as it’s pulled free of the handle. I manage to wrap my fingers around one of the cuffs and yank. The problem with this maneuver is Nick’s got the other end, and he yanks harder, dragging me across the center console.
With a quick twist of his wrist, he gets the cuffs in his hands and slaps them back on. “You aren’t gonna behave, are you?”
There’s enough play in the chain I could wind this around his neck. If only the angle were better. “Nope.” And I lunge forward to try, anyway.
Once again, he out-moves me, and the scuffle ends with the chain wound around the door handle and the cuffs still tight on my wrists. I jerk on them in frustration.
“Stop being a brat,” he says, the violence in his eyes belying his mild tone. This time when he scrutinizes me, it’s like I’m trapped behind glass at the zoo. “You’re a hit man, and you know nothing about the criminal underworld. How is that possible?”
“It’s the way I was trained.” I squirm around in the seat. The car’s suddenly confining, the metal frame compacting and compressing, squishing down. My palms itch and my legs twitch. “The less you know, the easier it is to compartmentalize.” Lock it away, or it’ll eat you alive. I only inherited a fraction of Turner’s coldness. It enabled me to train, to complete the jobs I took. In the end, my conscience wouldn’t shut up. It kept telling me this wasn’t who I was.
It’s why everything fell apart.
Fatigue crawls in and wraps itself around me. “Just…go.” I wave a hand at the empty lot. “If you want your answers, we’ll need to catch him before he leaves work.” I go back to staring out the window, at the broken pavement, the crumbled buildings, the fence someone knocked down. Such an apt and pathetic metaphor. Come off hiatus to find I’m as wiped out and torn up as I was a year ago.
Something buzzes, and I glance over to see him pulling out his phone. “Kosta,” he barks. His scowl deepens as he listens to the voice on the other end. “Send Isaiah.” The longer he listens, the colder he gets. When he hangs up less than a minute later, his expression has smoothed out, bearing no hint of the anger lying beneath. “Slight detour.”
I know that face. That’s the face Turner has on all the time. That’s my face on a job. My heart rate kicks up. I’m trapped in a car with a killer.
He spins the car in a slow half circle and pulls out of the lot. Another twenty minutes of driving takes us to a non-descript, one-story building. Surprisingly, he uncuffs me, then pushes me ahead of him through the front door.
The guy behind the front desk leaps to his feet and stammers out a greeting, one Nick ignores in favor of clasping my elbow and propelling me down a brightly-lit hallway. The door at the end is shut, and he pushes it open. Seated behind a monstrosity of a desk is a pudgy guy with a comb over. His eyes widen. “Mister Kosta. I-I-I wasn’t aware you’d be picking up the deposit in person.”
Nick locks the door and releases my elbow. “I was in the neighborhood.”
Gone is the seductive, sinful voice. In its place is a tongue as quick as a blade, cold and steely and designed to remind you who, exactly, you were fucking with. The man behind the desk nods so hard I swear I hear something snap, and he starts digging through desk drawers. “I have it right here. It’ll just take me a minute to—”
“Step away from your desk so I can inspect it myself? Excellent idea. Then we can discuss the rumor passed on this morning that the deposit was short for the past three weeks.”
The sickly stench of piss fills the room, and I wrinkle my nose and turn away. Impressive, though, that Nick scares someone badly enough to wet himself.
I find a chair and settle in to wait. I’ve never watched someone intimidate another person into giving answers. Unfortunately, it’s not as interesting as I hoped. Nick asks a question, the man gives a stuttering, fumbling response, Nick asks the same question, and the man gives a shorter, higher pitched response. After a while, the repetition gets boring, and I pull out my phone to check my e-mail.
“Time to go.” Nick startles me out of my phone-induced stupor, and I lurch out of the chair as he pulls me to my feet, propelling me toward the door. I limp along, trying to match his long-legged stride, and I can’t. My ankle still hurts too much.
“Nick, slow down. Please.” I tug at his hold. He glances at me, and I point at my foot. “Bum ankle, remember?”
He nods once and slows, his fingers flexing and softening on my arm. “You think your contact will still be there?”
“Should be.”
He helps me into the car, though he leaves the handcuffs off. How nice of him.
Somewhere around the tenth minute of silence, my anger returns. I just had a graphic display of what he was capable of, despite the lack of violence. His hands are probably bloodier than mine, and he’s sitting there being all judgey.
He unlocks the doors, and I climb out, almost moaning with relief. I stretch my arms over my head, arching my back, the crack of each vertebrae a little shock of pain down my spine. Feeling looser, I limp onto the sidewalk in front of the low-slung building. Doesn’t look like they’ve given the sign its annual paint job yet. Bird crap dripped all over the M in MassTech Solutions. It must be driving Turner nuts. “Come on. Might as well get it over with.”
He trails behind me a few steps as I head for the side door. Inside, it’s cool and dim, the air slightly stale. I wave at a few people as we walk down the hall, fighting to push the guilt and sadness into its tiny box. Once I tell Turner it’s over, I’ll never see them again. I’ve known some of them since I was little and would go from desk to desk, begging for candy. Anxiety’s a knot in my chest, waiting to expand and choke the life out of me. The last year hasn’t been a good one for my relationship with Turner. I never outright told him my decision to quit, and I can’t bring myself to actually do it, so it’s festered. We argue about it periodically, and it makes everything more strained.
If he knew I accepted Nick’s job because of the last fight we had, he’d be extremely pissed off. The minute you’re emotionally motivated, the job goes sideways.
Never allow your heart to rule where you mind should, Cass. That’s the moment you make your first mistake, and that’s the mistake that will get you caught.
Turner’s where I thought he’d be, tinkering with something in the sterile room in the back of the building. The room has its own airlock to prevent any outside particles from traveling in, and anyone who goes in has to don a white suit and mask. The machinery inside is all top of the line. They repair and clean some of the country’s most sophisticated technology in this room.
He’s bent over a table, the top of his head obscured by a white hood. We walk into the airlock, but rather than pulling on a suit, I step over to the intercom system. I hesitate with my finger over the button, watching him. An interruption could mean damaging an important scrap of equipment. Best to wait until he lifts his head.
There’s also the benefit of delaying the inevitable. Once Turner meets Nick and finds out what’s going on, there’s no going back. I’ll have to admit I don’t have what it takes to continue the family legacy, not anymore, and possibly never did.
“That him?” Nick’s murmured question makes me jump, his mouth close enough it wouldn’t take much to have his lips brush the curve of my ear. Warmth pools in my belly, temporarily blanketing the nerves. What would happen if I leaned into his chest? Rested my head on his shoulder?
Stupid question. He’d smirk and nudge me away.
Turner puts aside the tool he’s using, and I push the button on the intercom. “Hey. Got a minute?”
/> My skin pricks and breaks out in goose bumps, my mouth dry as he nods and makes his way over to the airlock. The door unseals, and he steps through. He removes his mask and pushes the hood from his head. His blond hair, so much like mine, is mussed and needs a trim, his grey eyes flat as he regards me. “Cass. This is unexpected.”
I swallow and dig down for the strength I’ll need to get through this. “Turner, this is Dominic Kosta. He’s got some questions I can’t answer.” A drop of sweat beads and slips down my spine. “Nick, this is my dad, Caleb Turner.”
Chapter 5
I always thought the cliché “you could have heard a pin drop” was overused. No more. It’s so quiet I’m scared to breathe because it’ll be too loud. Nick and Turner regard each other steadily, neither moving, their faces perfect blanks.
Nick breaks first, which is strange. Usually the weaker person is the one who acquiesces, and he has so much more power than my dad does. But he holds out his hand, and after another beat, Turner shakes it.
Turner doesn’t waste time with niceties, either. He turns to me, annoyance glinting in his eyes. “Explain.”
Nick opens his mouth, and Turner holds up a hand to stop him. “I want to hear from my daughter what’s she’s doing with one of the most notorious men in LA’s criminal world.”
I straighten my shoulders, reach in, and pull out the detachment he prizes, then wrap it around me like a cloak. “I was contacted less than a week ago for a job. Compressed timeline, no schedule, recon limited to what I could find a few hours before the hit. I was sent a picture, a date, a time, and a location. I decided to take it. I arrived ahead of schedule, took a look around, and realized it wouldn’t work. Too many possibilities for things to go wrong. No place to hide, and no guarantee he’d actually be alone. As I was leaving, I spotted him and an SUV tailing him. Something about it didn’t jibe, so I went with my instinct. I was right. The men in the SUV followed us into the restaurant and opened fire on the other diners, chased us through the kitchen and into the alley. I helped him get away, and he showed up at my apartment three days later, demanding I help him, even after I told him I wouldn’t be able to.”
Turner’s face is just as impassive at the end as it was at the beginning. “She’s correct,” he says, glancing at Nick. “She knows nothing about the networks and gangs and other organizations in the greater Los Angeles area. You still don’t follow the news?” he asks me.
I shake my head.
“Good girl.”
The praise does nothing for me. No blast of warmth, no bubble, no fizzy, happy feeling.
Turner’s gaze flits over my face. “Do you still have the e-mail?”
“Yeah. I had to contact them again to send the deposit back.”
It’s on the tip of his tongue to lecture me. I recognize his tells, the way the skin around his eyes tightens, the slight flaring of his nostrils. I could have found a way to complete the hit, if not that night, then when Nick broke into my apartment. Or today. I’ve had enough training drilled into me I should have been able to improvise.
But I’m not Turner. And we’re past the point where I have to keep trying to be what he wants.
He gestures to the door, and we follow him to the cramped, tiny room he calls an office. “I’d like to see the e-mail string.”
Using Turner’s computer instead of my phone, I bring it up and get out of the way. Turner brushes by to sit at his desk. I doubt he’ll find anything of use. It’s bare bones, less than what I usually get.
He studies it with the same intensity he shows all his work, legal or otherwise. Then he makes me go over the evening again before asking Nick for his version of events.
Nick leans against the wall and slips his hands into his pockets. There’s a casual grace to him, all sleek movement waiting to uncoil. “I had a meeting with a contact on a new line of product through Sinaloa. We used all our standard vetting procedures, and I set up the meet myself. Chose the day and time after the contact picked the location. Did a run through the neighborhood, found the alley, plotted an escape route. I’d noticed the SUV and figured if things went sideways, I’d use the back entrance. When Cass came up and offered to help, I thought I might be able to make it to the alley without being shot at.”
So he did have a plan. I’d thrown myself into the middle of a firefight for no reason.
“Cass was able to point us to a route I’d missed. Not all of the spaces between the buildings are very visible, especially in that alley. If she hadn’t come along, I might not have found the one we ended up in.”
I don’t know if I’m pleased or embarrassed. Saving lives isn’t my thing, and I didn’t actually do a very good job of it. But it seems to be annoying the crap out of Turner, so I go with pleased.
Dad clicks a few keys, and the e-mail disappears. “I don’t see what information I could provide you. Cassidy was contracted for the hit. While the timeline does raise some questions, it’s not entirely outside the parameters of what she’ll accept. Your likeliest suspects are members of your own organization or a rival intent on taking over a portion of your business.”
“Are you aware of anyone who would be willing to make a hit look like a gang shooting rather than a targeted hit?” Nick asks.
For the first time since he’s come out of the repair room, Turner’s face shows something other than its cold neutrality. One corner of his mouth tips up. “We generally work alone.” The smile is there and gone in a blink. “Some of the newer ones might, especially if they aren’t picky.”
“Would you be willing to give me some names?”
Turner drums his fingers on the desktop. “No,” he says finally. “I may not approve of their methods, but neither will I roll over on them.” He stands.
My part here is done. Good. All that’s left is several hours’ worth of reaming by Turner, and it’ll all be over with. “I’ll get my bag out of Nick’s trunk. Can I catch a ride to the house with you?”
“You will stay with Dominic and help him figure out who wants him dead.”
Did that—did my dad just throw me to the wolves? “Dad—”
He cuts me off with a frown. “You’ve involved yourself in a potential turf war. However cautious you may have been, you made a mistake. I will not have you bringing that danger near your mother.”
“But—”
“No.”
The finality of the word snaps the last strings tying me to him. I am done. I’m not playing his game any longer. “I’m out.” No need to elaborate. Turner will understand. His head bobs in a curt nod, but I’m not finished. “I’ll tell Mom I won’t be home for Thanksgiving.” Or Christmas. Or any other family holiday.
I spin on my heel and stalk out of the room, down the hall, and out into the bright sunshine.
He didn’t used to be this way. He didn’t used to insist I call him Turner. Up until I was six or seven, he was a normal dad, or as normal as a man like him can get. He came to my T-ball games and read me bedtime stories, drove me to swimming lessons, and taught me how to ride a two-wheeler. But as I grew older, the distance between us stretched. He wanted a child he could train, same as his father had trained him, and his father before him. And like the desperate fool I am, I tried to be what he wanted. It was the only way I could think to get my dad back.
I don’t need to pay a shrink to tell me I have daddy issues.
He adores my mother, though. He’s also right. If I’m in any danger at all, I can’t risk having it get back to Mom. She’s under enough stress already with Turner and I fighting, and this final break will only make it worse.
I wander out to Nick’s car and lean on the trunk, slipping my phone from my back pocket to call Mom. She doesn’t answer. I leave her a message that I’d like to get together for lunch tomorrow if she can and end the call.
Nick walks up and settles himself on the other corner of the trunk, arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t know who’s more fucked up, you or him.”<
br />
The comment blows fresh air over the embers of my anger. “Hypocrite much? I bet you’ve got more deaths on your head than I do.” I straighten and thump a hand onto the trunk. “If you could open the trunk for me, I’ll get my bag.” There’s a bus stop not too far from here. I’ll find a no-tell somewhere and hide out for a few days. I should have brought my textbooks. Then I won’t fall behind.
He stands so fast the back end of the car whines as it springs up. “Get in the car.”
“I’m not going to help you.”
“Cass, get in the car.”
Something in his voice sparks my attention, and I scramble into the passenger seat, gripping the door handle as he shoves the car into gear. Tires squeal as we roar out of the parking lot. “What’s going on?”
My seatbelt snaps taut as we take a corner too fast. “We’ve been found,” he says grimly.
A bullet bounces off the rear window with a thud, and I sink down in my seat, hand still closed tight around the handle. “Bullet-proof glass?” Please let it be bullet-proof glass.
He whips the car around a corner, tearing through an alley. Another thud, followed by two more, and we zip around another corner, drawing horns and shouts. My heart is somewhere in the vicinity of my mouth with my stomach not far behind. Sweat slicks the door handle, and I tighten my hold, my fingers aching.
“Know how to shoot a gun?” He wrenches the wheel to the left, and the velocity throws me against the side of the car.
“I am not sticking my head out the window. I’m not sticking any body part out the window.” Yes, I know how to shoot a gun. Hello? Trained killer?
He leans over, eyes still on the road, and fiddles with the latch on the glove compartment. After a second and a few more swerves, it pops open. A 9mm pistol slides out and lands on the floor between my feet. A couple of spare magazines tumble out after. I reach down and pick up the gun, testing the weight. “Loaded?”
We bounce over a speed bump, and I look up. We’re in a parking garage, tires screaming over the polished concrete. He pulls the car in a one-eighty spin and races up the ramp to the next level, screeching to a halt in the far corner. “Out. Behind the car.” He grabs a spare magazine and shoves open the door.
Game of Shadows Page 4
