The Messenger (Professionals Book 3)

by Jessica Gadziala

  I thanked God that Ron had the good sense to have the main road paved even before all the houses were done.

  There were so many units.

  The ones without walls were written off immediately.

  If, by chance, the local cops did patrol this area, he needed to make sure he wouldn't be seen.

  So the mostly or fully finished units were the only options.

  It could have been any of them.

  It would have been smart to be any others.

  With no trail leading back.

  Not even a fake trail.

  But I knew.

  I knew which one it was.

  I knew it was the one he had wanted to shack up in after leaving Jules penniless.

  I knew it was that one because he would want her to pay there, for taking that away from him.

  Stealing his little vacation after his hard work.

  I didn't pull up.

  I parked a while away, hidden behind one of the partially built houses. I took off on foot, heart hammering as I closed in on the house. His house. Technically, her house. Since it was her money that was paying for it

  Honestly, if he hadn't banked on me, his plan was pretty solid. He could kill her and bury her in the basements of one of the half-finished houses. By the time anyone found her body - if ever - he would have been long gone, likely conning some other woman out of her money.

  He knew what he was doing.

  He had likely done this before.

  Taken a life.

  He was being too calm, too collected about it.

  Most new killers were impulsive, planned the clean-up after the deed was done.

  I came up on the back of the house, seeing a hurricane light on in what was the kitchen, the subway tile looking even more stark thanks to the bright LED bulb.

  I saw no one at first from my spot perched right below the window. But shifting to the other side, I finally saw him.

  Not-Gary.

  Standing beside the island, digging through a black duffel bag, naked down to the waist of his board shorts. His hair looked damp as well.

  I stifled a surge of panic that maybe I was too late, maybe he had killed her and showered already.

  It would do no good to jump to conclusions.

  I moved away from the window, feeling a pit in my stomach at losing sight of him for the couple seconds it took me to get to the steps leading up to the door at the side of the kitchen.

  I slowed there, going up careful not to make a sound, wondering a bit fleetingly if he had been careless enough to leave the door unlocked. If he thought he was safe out here in this vacant neighborhood, he might have. For the sake of convenience.

  Hell, as if to prove my point, there was a wheelbarrow with the name of the contractors hired to build the houses propped up beside the stairs. This house was done except for a few finishing decor touches. There was no reason for there to be a wheelbarrow there anymore.

  If he was carrying a body out, he wouldn't want to fiddle with a lock.

  That worked in my favor.

  By the time he heard the door opening, I would be through it, and halfway across the room toward him.

  So long as he didn't have a gun that could stop me first, I had no doubt that I could take him.

  From that angle, I could see him from the side, watching as he started pulling items out of his bag, placing them on the island.

  And it was right then I knew without a shadow of a doubt.

  This man was a killer.

  An experienced killer.

  Because he was pulling out very specific items.

  Gloves. The long kind that would go up to the elbows. Like butchers wore.

  A long-sleeve shirt.

  Long pants.

  Cheap sneakers.

  A hat.

  The outfit he would kill her in, then burn or bury, get rid of somehow, someway. Items he likely got at a big box store with cash. Impossible to trace even if they were somehow found.

  They would ensure that none of him would transfer onto her.

  My skin went cold at what came out next.

  A simple, but thick, plastic bag.

  See, the way someone killed someone said a lot about them

  Guns, they were impersonal. That was why pros used them. It was a quick, efficient way to take a life that involved as much - or as little - contact between you and your victim as you wanted.

  Knives could be personal or not. Pros used them sometimes too. They were quiet. The death could be quick if you knew where to sink the blade in. They could also be weapons of passion. In cases of overkill, it was always a knife.

  But a bag, that took someone with ice in their veins.

  It took a long time to suffocate someone.

  Movies made it look fast.

  A plot device because the reality was grim and uncomfortable.

  It took a good six to ten minutes to suffocate someone to death.

  The movies showed the first forty-five seconds of it. While the blood started to flood with carbon dioxide, forcing it to panic, thrash, fight.

  But in the movies, that was where it all ended.

  In reality, it took about two minutes for the body to slip into unconsciousness, but the body could still thrash. And then from there, you had to stand there holding the bag for another four to six minutes.

  You would literally be standing there holding a bag over someone's head for ten minutes.

  Ten minutes.

  Thinking the whole time because this was not a crime of passion, an impulsive, angry decision. He'd just be standing there, taking Jules' life while he, what, thought about what he was going to have to drink afterward?

  He was going to calmly, coldly, determinedly steal Jules' life from her.

  Steal her from me.

  Not on my fucking watch.

  Before I could think more on it, my hand went to the knob, turning it without even thinking to, and charging inside.

  Not-Gary's head snapped in my direction. But even as the surprise registered, I was plowing into him, body wedged low, shoulder taking him in the gut, knocking him back onto his back on the unyielding tile floor.

  From there, there were no thoughts.

  Just actions.

  Blows.

  Taking some.

  Giving more.

  Until I became aware of the open bleeding of my knuckles, the pain in my fingers, the fact that I was just bashing in a face attached to an unconscious body.

  Not wanting to take any chances, I dug through his bag, finding rope, taking a moment to truss him up like a pig, finding - predictably at this point - duct tape in the bag as well, putting some over his mouth.

  I would worry about him later.

  I had to worry about Jules now.

  Grabbing the hurricane lantern, I moved through the house, checking the rooms one by one, finding nothing but a mess in the first-floor bathroom, the tubing pulled out of the wall, water pooled on the floor.

  I almost missed it in my rush to locate her.

  But as I turned to head out the door, the light caught the red.

  Blood.

  Jules' blood.

  My stomach tensed as I tore through the upstairs, panic welling up more and more by the minute.

  Nothing.

  There was nothing upstairs.

  Nothing downstairs.

  I stopped mid-stride as I went to double-check the main floor rooms again.

  The basement.

  She had to be in the basement.

  I opened closet doors, looking for the stairs, finding nothing.

  Until I was back in the kitchen, pulling open what appeared to be a pantry. Oddly, the floor leading to it was a thick sheet of wood. With a pull handle.

  Curious, I reached to pull it up, finding there was a lever attached to the wall to pin the door up so you could descend.

  To the basement.

  There was a cautious surge of relief in seeing it, but the bigger part of me knew not to get
too excited, knew there could be bad news below. Or no news at all.

  My footsteps sounded thundering as I rushed down, lantern lifted, swinging it around into the dark space, not able to breathe at all.

  Then I heard a scraping. Like something scratching against the cinderblock walls.

  My arm swung out, thrusting the lantern in that direction, feeling my heartbeat skitter into overdrive as I saw a shadow. And then a figure.

  Jules.

  In my mind, I said it out loud.

  But I guess I didn't.

  And I guess the lantern cast me in shadow.

  Because as I got close, I felt something swing and land across my center, knocking my breath right out of me.

  "Jules."

  That time I did say it aloud, hearing a gasp of inward breath followed by a weak voice. "Kai?"

  I lowered the lantern as I closed the last step, going downward into a squat.

  "It's me, honey," I confirmed, taking my first real, deep breath before using the lantern to check her out.

  Her nose had a bit of dried blood under it. Not enough to worry it was broken. There were shadows under her eyes that would easily turn to black eyes in just an hour or so. Her eyes were small and pained, likely from the blow from behind, the one that had knocked her out.

  She was drenched, her hair wet, her dress plastered to her.

  And, what was likely bothering her most of all, she was filthy.

  The dirt floor and her wetness had made a mess of every inch of skin. There were swirls in it where she had seemed to try to wipe it off. To no avail.

  When my gaze when back to her face, I saw her eyes fill. Her lip quiver.

  I put the lantern down beside her, reaching into my pocket, dialing without thinking.

  "Kai!" Bellamy's voice called, laughing, happy, carefree. As it usually was. Until it wasn't. When people like me called with words like the ones I was about to say. "How the hell are you?"

  "I need you," I told him, voice grave as I felt. Making the decision I was making. It wasn't something to take lightly.

  "Shh," he said to whomever he was with, likely a harem of women, as per usual. Just another day in his life.

  "I told you... I'm not working for Quin."

  "Not for Quin. For me."

  "For you?" he asked, voice going more serious. "Are you sure? Have you thought about this?"

  "Someone kidnapped and beat Jules after pretending to be her boyfriend and fiancé , then stealing all her money, and leaving her on their wedding day."

  "Your Jules, huh?" he asked, knowing the rumors, because no one could seem to shut up about them.

  "Yeah," I agreed.

  "Alright. Where?"

  "Are you in the country?"

  "In the city," he affirmed, making me relax slightly. It was a crapshoot with him. He could be in New York... or he could be in Amsterdam. You never knew from one day to the next.

  "I need you in Connecticut. I left a present on the floor in an abandoned building. You only have until sunup. Maybe take him to visit Ranger."

  "Got it. It's done. Consider it handled."

  "Thank you."

  "Don't mention it."

  With that, he hung up, all the fun and light out of his voice, slipping into work mode.

  "I hit you." Jules' voice sounded slight, airless.

  "I'm fine. Those are some good reflexes, honey," I declared, trying to give her a smile. "Your head hurt?"

  "I hit a wall. And um... something hit my head."

  "Yeah, I saw that part. Cameras," I specified. "You ready to get out of here? Get some migraine medicine in you?"

  "Gary..."

  "Don't worry about Gary. Can you walk?"

  "Yeah," she agreed, reaching outward, going to grab my hand, only to yank back on a hiss.

  "What, honey?" I asked, reaching out for her wrist, trying to turn her hand to look at her palm.

  "Splinters," she told me, taking a deep breath. "From..."

  "Pounding on the door," I finished for her. "You little fighter, you. Okay, here," I offered, releasing her wrist to turn slightly, putting an arm around her waist, pulling until she got onto her feet, then grabbing the lantern, and helping her toward the stairs.

  She said nothing as we went out the front door, me steering her that way because I didn't want her to see her ex trussed up on the kitchen floor, because - maybe - I didn't want her to look at me differently because of it.

  "Alright. I couldn't stop the security guard from calling the police, so we are going to have to deal with that," I told her as we got to the car. "No, don't stiffen up. Let's keep it simple, yeah? You were hit over the head. You woke up in a in the woods. Got splinters from pushing yourself up. Got dirty from the forest floor. You don't know how you got wet."

  "You want me to lie to the police?"

  "You need to lie to the police," I clarified, turning over the engine, pulling back out with my lights off. "We can't have the truth getting out."

  "Right," she agreed, taking a breath, holding it, then letting it out like a sigh.

  "Can you do this? Do you want to go to another hotel for the night? Deal with it tomorrow?"

  "I want it over with," she told me immediately. "I just... I want to go home," she added, voice uneven.

  "Okay. We will deal with this now then."

  "How did you find me? In the story for the police?"

  "You were walking along the highway trying to get help."

  "Right," she agreed, nodding, taking another deep breath.

  "It will just be a couple minutes. If they push too much, get hysterical. Cry. Say you want to shower. Say you can't talk about it anymore. They will let it drop."

  "Okay," she said, nodding, not sounding too confident. But I knew Jules. She would rally. She would hold it together enough not to fall apart.

  Then I would be there for her when she lost what was left of that control.

  There was - as expected - a cop car parked out front, engine cut, the officer inside talking to people at the front desk.

  "Take a deep breath," I reminded her as I pulled to a stop, jumping out to open the door for her.

  For the next hour, she was questioned, re-questioned, made to go over the story half a dozen times to well-meaning and invasive cops who tried time and again to get her to go to the hospital, to get a rape kit since she was unconscious for a period of time, not knowing what happened to her.

  I was pulled a few feet away, questioned, re-questioned, and deemed useless. By design.

  The detective talking to me was just thanking me for my time when I heard it.

  Sniffles.

  I whipped around, finding Jules hunched forward, the backs of her hands to her face instead of her injured palms, body quaking.

  "I can't do this anymore," she cried, and it seemed that only I could tell it was fake as I rushed over to her, putting an arm around her waist, pulling her toward me.

  "Do you guys have enough? She needs to rest," I told them."

  "Yeah," the main detective agreed, nodding. "I think we have enough to go on. Here's my card. Please have her call us if she remembers anything else."

  A few minutes later, the cops were gone, and I was leading Jules to the elevator.

  "I hope he pays for this," the security guard called as we moved inside.

  "He will," I promised as the doors closed. "Okay," I told her as we got in the room, feeling her take a relieved breath. "I know you want to get clean, but we need to deal with these hands. And maybe the back of your head, okay?"

  She swallowed hard at that. "Okay."

  "I just need to see what I can find to try to get..."

  "There are tweezers in my purse," she declared. "And a small first aid kit."

  "Okay. Go on and rinse with some warm water and soap. I will be right in."

  "Give me something, Jules," I demanded fifteen minutes later, angling her hand around at the light to make sure I got all the gnarly, thick splinters.

  "Something wha
t?" she asked, voice hollow.

  "I don't know, honey. Just something. You're full on automaton right now."

  "I'm so dirty," she declared, voice desperate, but also a bit self-deprecating, enough so to make me let out a chuckle.

  "Well, that is one thing we can fix," I told her, standing to turn on the shower. "Clean up. But don't scrub your head. The cuts won't need stitches, but you won't want to be rubbing your fingers in open wounds."

  "I have nothing to wear," she told me as I moved around, getting towels and washcloths.

  "I will grab you a shirt. I have a few packed. Are you hungry? Want me to try to order up? Or in if the kitchen is closed?"

  "You know what I want?" she asked as I came back in the room, finding tufts of steam heavy in the air already.

  "No, what?"

  "Hot chocolate," she declared with a wobbly sort of smile, one I never would have imagined she could have, but did.

  I smiled back, feeling my heart - already full of her - overflow a bit. "I can handle that."

  "Hey, Kai," she called, making me turn back to find she had already freed her zipper most of the way down her back, her pale pink underwear slightly visible. How she managed to get that damn thing down was beyond me.

  "Yeah?"

  "Thank you for coming for me."

  "I will always come for you, Jules," I told her, voice heavy, watching as something came over her eyes, something I didn't know well enough to recognize, but it made something heavy settle on my chest. But heavy in a good way, if that was possible. "Always," I affirmed, closing the door behind me as I went out, fetching her hot chocolate, finding her just turning off the water when I got back.

  It was several long minutes later before she emerged. Wearing my white tee, her red hair dropping little watermarks on the shoulders.

  Seeing her in my shirt was like a punch to the gut, everything within me screaming how right it was.

  But one look at her face, the pain in her eyes, the bruises under her eyes, the gauze wrapped around her hands, reminded me that this was not under the circumstances that anyone could call right.

  "Come on. Got your hot chocolate with a Excedrin Migraine chaser," I told her, waving to her side of the bed.

  I watched as she moved there numbly, took the pills with her hot chocolate, then climbed under the covers, sitting upright against the headboard.

  "Hey Kai?"

  "Yeah?" I asked, watching her profile until she turned to face me.