“Okay.” I temper my little flare of panic and take a bite of the little round dessert. I’m greeted with a textured explosion of sugar and pecan. “Holy shit, they are sweet.” And unlike anything I’ve ever tasted.
She laughs and pops one in her mouth. “Good though, right?”
We stop at a few more stands before heading to the bar. We’re nearly to the door when my skin prickles. I stop a few feet from the entrance and scan the crowd behind us. All walks of life fill the street, but no one is catching my eye as out of place. I exhale a sigh, trying to shake the odd feeling that’s crept over me.
“You okay?” Skye asks.
I glance around again and shake my head slightly. “I’m fine. I think I’m just jumpy from not getting great sleep last night. Let’s go in.”
I’m relieved to spot Zeda at the back of the bar, precisely where Skye figured she would be. Tristan told me to be on guard, but I’m obviously letting my nerves and fatigue get the best of me.
She’s already ordered some small bites and has a colorful cocktail in front of her. I check the time on my phone. We have some time to kill for Tristan to do what he needs, so when Skye asks me if I want a drink, I agree.
While Skye’s at the bar, Zeda’s gaze locks with mine. We share a quiet understanding.
“What do you think of all this stuff with Jay?” I ask.
She glances to Skye briefly and back to me. “I’m not sure. But I think we’re close to finding out.”
I think she’s probably right. Tristan’s thorough, and if there’s dirt to be found on Martine, he’s the one to unearth it.
“Are you from here?” I ask, figuring we should change the subject before our friend returns, lest she suspect anything about Tristan’s time at the house.
Zeda nods. “Ninth Ward.”
“Do you miss it?”
She laughs, and I think it’s the first time I’ve seen her smile. She’s strikingly beautiful, but she’s so serious much of the time that I haven’t been able to get a read on her. I get the feeling friendships don’t come easy for her. Apparently Tristan has made more progress than I have.
“No,” she says. “It’s still a mess down there. Every boarded-up house is a reminder of what happened.” She swirls her drink quietly. “Sometimes we lose things…things we’ll never recover. All you can do is move on. Try not to look back too much.”
“I know how you feel,” I say softly.
She narrows her gaze. “Do you?”
I hold her stare, meeting her challenge with all the empathy I possess. “I do.” I know the pain in my heart may not be the same as hers. I don’t know what horrors she’s endured. I only know my own. No doubt about it, though, we’ve both seen things we wish we hadn’t.
Her expression relaxes a fraction before Skye returns with drinks and the brand of energy we probably all need.
“Cheers, ladies!”
I can’t help but laugh. “What on earth would we be toasting to?”
She cocks her head and quirks her lips into a coy smile. “How about to homecoming? Forget all this crap with Jay. I’m just glad you’re back home.”
I return a half smile and raise my glass. Because my hopes for making New Orleans our home are riding a dangerous edge now. Anything could tip the scales and drive us out.
“To homecoming,” I say, pretending it’s not an empty celebration.
We kill a couple more rounds, until Zeda is smiling more and the problems we left at Halo seem far away. A male server comes by with another round…one we didn’t order.
“These are on the house, ladies.”
Skye jerks back. “Oh?”
The odd prickling I felt earlier returns and has my heart beating a little faster. Or is it the drinks?
He sets the round of cocktails in front of us and briefly points back to the crowded bar. “You’ve got an admirer at the bar. His treat. Enjoy.” He gives us a cute salute and retreats.
Then I spot a man whose focus is trained directly on me. His eyes are serious, then crinkle at the edges when he smiles. He looks to be at least ten years our senior, his thick, muscled arms covered in tattoos.
“That must be him,” Skye says.
“Not bad.” Zeda trades her empty drink for the fresh one.
Skye crinkles her nose and turns away from him. “No thanks.”
I laugh. “I’m going to hit the ladies’ room. I’ll be right back.”
I push up and find the restrooms in the back. When I’m finished freshening up, I bring up Tristan’s number to see if the coast is clear for us to return, but the reception inside is poor, so I step out the back entrance. Before I can connect the call, I hear a man’s voice.
“Hey.”
I look up. It’s the man from the bar. Except up close, he’s enormous. Over six feet tall, with bulging muscles that are testing the integrity of his white T-shirt. He’s wearing green camouflage cargo pants and black boots. A quick circuit back to his face, and I recognize his military hairstyle too—a look I’m plenty familiar with having grown up near DC.
“Hi,” I say, tucking my phone away.
“Did you like the drink?”
I laugh nervously. “I think I’ve hit my limit, actually. But thanks.”
“What’s your name?”
My lips part, but I can’t quite manage a response. If he’s some random guy, it shouldn’t matter if I answer with Isabel or any other from the fake IDs I’ve accumulated. I just need to let him down gently and get back to the girls.
But the way he’s boring into me with his stare makes me think it doesn’t matter what I say.
He smiles and tilts his head. “Isabel?”
The whoosh of blood thrumming through my veins suddenly fills my ears. My throat threatens to close, and I take a stumbling step back.
He shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”
“Listen, I’ve got to get back to my friends.”
His expression flattens. “Nah. I want to introduce you to mine first.”
He consumes the space between us with one huge step. The hum of the air conditioners blowing out the back of the restaurant and his giant hand muffles the scream that tries to tear free. Except he’s not just covering my mouth. I can’t breathe through my nose when it’s crushed under his palm. I tear my fingernails into his T-shirt and any skin I can reach, but he doesn’t seem to care. I kick and try to aim for his groin, but he blocks me, flattening me painfully against the wall. I’m helpless against his massive strength. The more I fight him off, the more futile it seems. Tears form in my eyes when I slowly realize no one’s going to rescue me. Then the edges of my vision start to go black until the hate in his eyes is the last thing I see.
TRISTAN
I put the chip in my pocket and head downstairs to poke around Martine’s office one last time. The gate buzzer sounds, echoing harshly through the entryway. I pause a second before going to the box and pressing the speaker button.
“Who is it?”
There’s a pause and some static before a voice comes through.
“I’m looking for a friend. I was hoping you could help me out.” The man’s British accent is unmistakable.
Fuck me. If it’s Townsend, things have gone from concerning to far worse. Because if he’s shown up to collect Jay, I’ve got nothing to give him. And if he knows where we are, I have to wonder who else does.
I don’t bother answering or checking through the front windows to make sure it’s him. I head right to the bedroom and grab my bag and Isabel’s backpack that I know holds her most important things. The rest can be replaced.
The intercom makes some static again. “Red, if it’s you, I just want to talk to her, all right? I know she’s here.”
It’s Townsend, all right. If he weren’t a trained killer, I might buy the concern in his tone. Chances are high he’s itching for a chance to put a bullet in my brain, though.
I go down the hallway to the back door, pausing to check the courtyard through the win
dow. I don’t see anyone but have my gun drawn just in case. If he’s as close as Jay seems to think they are, it’s likely he would have come alone. If he’s working with the Company, there’s not a chance. I open the door slowly and take another scan to ensure the coast is clear before I step out.
A barely audible whir ends with a painful stab just below my collarbone. I curse and slip back into the house, putting the door between me and whoever took a shot at me. Except this doesn’t feel right. I bring my hand to the pain, expecting gushing blood and loose flesh, the typical remnants of a bullet wound.
Except it’s not a bullet. Not the kind I’m overly familiar with, anyway. I withdraw the dart, its sharp metal tip tinged red. Its contents are empty, already in my bloodstream. Whatever was in it is either meant to kill me or put me to sleep. And I can’t do a fucking thing about it now.
Think think think.
I don’t have much time. The buzzer goes off again. Townsend. He’s not alone. I have no idea how many there are. Maybe more than I can likely fight off this way. Takes a lot to get my adrenaline going, but a gunshot will usually do it. But my next steps seem too slow. I blink a few times. The hallway is already starting to blur. I fumble for my phone and bring up Isabel’s number. I try to tap on the keys to tell her to stay away, but they’re mixed up. I can’t even tell if they’re letters or numbers.
I retreat farther into the house. My eyes drift closed for a second. I stumble forward but manage to keep my hand around the gun. They’ll be coming. I just need to keep my eyes open long enough to get a shot off.
Isabel.
I won’t let them get to her. The thought of her brings me the surge I need to get to the sitting room. I park on a chair in the corner with a clear view of anyone who’ll be coming for me. But by the time I hear doors opening and steps, my vision’s unreliable.
Something dark passes in front of me, a blur toward the front door. I tighten my grip on the gun, barely. Muscles are weak. Brain’s not firing orders the way it should. Stay awake…
“Find her.” Townsend’s voice, angry and accented.
The rush of boots up the stairs and above me.
Isabel.
I remind myself that she’s gone. Safe. I have time before she comes back. Time to fix this.
I blink when a man is suddenly standing right in front of me. Two of them. I blink again to be sure. Yes, it’s two. I remember the gun. Stare down at it and my unmoving hand, a delayed conversation between my sluggish brain and the instincts that normally come so easily. Shoot them. Shoot to kill.
I lift it, but it’s ripped out of my grasp before my finger can move the trigger.
“Don’t think you’ll be needing that, Red,” he says with a nasty grimace.
“Townsend.”
“How’d you guess?”
“Jay,” I murmur.
His shadow, the man behind him with long black hair and black clothes, moves too quickly for me to process. Rope around my arms, binding me to the arms of the chair. Legs too. I can’t muster any panic, only lazy acceptance.
I meet Townsend’s impatient stare when he pulls up a chair and sits down in front of me.
“What about Jay?”
“She mentioned you.” I shake my head, but it only makes everything swim. “The fuck did you give me?”
“Heavy tranquilizer. Figured it was best to leave nothing to chance.”
“Not really fair.”
He smiles. “Nah, but I don’t play fair, mate. Those rules are made for other people. Now that you’re comfortable, let’s get to the talking part before you pass out on me.” He looks at my gun, rolls it around in his grasp almost admiringly, and then raises his eyes back to me. “Where’s Jay?”
Through the fog, I recognize that I don’t know isn’t an acceptable answer, and one that’s likely to get me shot in the leg. I’d likely do the same if our roles were reversed.
“Someone took her,” I say, somehow coherent enough to not drop names unnecessarily. He doesn’t need to know about Martine. Not yet.
He lifts an eyebrow. “She was here though?”
I nod. “Left in the middle of the night. I looked everywhere.”
He shares a look with his dark-haired friend, who corroborates my account. “All the rooms are clear. No sign of her.”
Townsend frowns and looks back to me. “You brought her here?”
I nod again. “To keep her safe.”
He grimaces slightly. “See, I don’t know if that’s really true, because she turned on her tracker. And our agreement was that she’d only ever do that if she was in danger. Real fuckin’ danger that only someone like me could get her out of. So now I’m here, and she’s fuckin’ gone.” He tenses his jaw, the muscles there bulging noticeably. “Is she dead?”
I shake my head wordlessly. Martine won’t hurt her. Not until she gets what she wants, anyway.
He stands abruptly and kicks the chair so it slides back a foot. Points the gun at me.
I close my eyes, feeling the fatigue take a firm hold. Need to stay awake. Need to get to Isabel. But before I can open them, something hard and cold crashes down on me, turning everything black.
CHAPTER THREE
Isabel
Mold permeates the air so strongly I can feel it poisoning my lungs. All I can see are two walls. Some boarded-up windows. The blackened floorboards I’m lying on and the rickety wooden chair in the corner where the man who smothered me sits. His attention is fixed on his phone, which he’s holding sideways, both thumbs in action against the screen’s surface.
Panic surges as I become more awake. I try to even out my breathing, which is nearly impossible with the rag in my mouth. My brain tries to identify the taste. Like the gamey scent of a person mixed with something…chemical. Altogether it’s unpleasant enough that I’m struggling not to gag even though it’s nearly impossible to draw air in through the cloth that’s tethered to my face.
Something about my awakening must draw the man’s attention, because he looks up from his phone and comes toward me. His boots fall heavily on the floor, reminding me of his massive size and weight. He yanks on my arm, drawing me into an upright seated position. I use my heels to push myself away from him, but he yanks me harder.
“Stop it!” he barks.
I begin to tremble but for the moment am frozen into temporary submission. How am I supposed to not cower near this man who could break me in a heartbeat? The panic I endured when he blocked my air until I passed out resumes full force. Except now I have even fewer options. Wherever I am is far from public. Far from friends and help.
Tears sting my eyes. This is bad. I’ve finally gotten myself into a mess I can’t get out of. I know it…
The man lowers to his haunches. Night has fallen, but even in the semi-darkness of the room, I notice details I missed before. His slick jaw and what must be hundreds of tiny dashes inked on his forearms. He seems to notice my appraisal and grins.
“You like ’em?”
Our eyes meet. That small connection has my heart threatening to fly out of my chest. He looks down, sweeping his giant palm from his forearm to his bicep, pushing the hem of his sleeve up to reveal even more lines. Desperate to avoid his eyes, I focus on something else. His clean, trimmed nails. His polished boots. Despite the filthy room we’re both occupying, the only thing that isn’t regulation on him are the tattoos he’s petting.
“They call me Bones. And this is my little graveyard, see?” His tone is casual, almost proud. “I get to scratch you into my skin here when we’re done, Isabel. You want to pick out your spot? It’s getting crowded, but we’ll find you a place, I promise.”
I don’t know why I do it. I look up at him again. Gauge the soullessness of his eyes. The glimmer of zealous malice I’ve never witnessed in another person before now. Vince Boswell has nothing on this man. And what I see scares me more than the physical body before me—a force I have no hope of conquering. He’s not just trying to scare me. He’s completely serious. H
e’s going to kill me.
When he starts laughing, I lose control and begin to heave. The taste and smell and fear are too much. Can’t breathe. His laughing ceases, and his smile turns into an ugly grimace.
“Goddamnit.”
I heave harder, unable to hold back. Please, I try to say through the impossible muzzle he’s put on me. Finally he rushes to untie it and tears the cloth away just in time for my sickness to spill onto the floor. I empty my stomach and feel no relief. Tears roll down my cheeks as I suck in shaky breaths.
Bones jumps to his feet, cussing as he does. “Look at that fucking mess! Look at it!” He points to it angrily like somehow I’m not totally aware of what I’ve done.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Shut up!”
I close my eyes, pushing more tears free. This is hell, and he’s the devil. He marches away, and I hear a door slam closed after him. Then a car door. His return is marked by the unapologetic sound of his boots up the stairs and through the door. He drops a roll of paper towels, a black plastic bag, and a bottle of cleaning solution onto the floor beside me. I nearly launch myself forward into the puddle of vomit when he comes behind me and unties the binds around my wrists.
“Clean it up,” he shouts. “Right now.”
I reach for the paper towels with trembling hands. “I’m sorry,” I say again, because it’s all I can think to say.
Then he’s on his knee, grabbing my hair hard and tilting my face up to see his. “I said shut up, and I meant it. If I hear you breathe another word, I’m stuffing that rag down your throat, and next time I’ll let you drown on your vomit. Do we understand each other?”
My only answer this time is a few ragged breaths. My tears seem to have locked themselves in the corners of my eyes, where they won’t offend him. He releases me without another word, and I don’t waste a second before I start cleaning up. In the effort, I recognize that the floors are coated with a thick layer of dirt and mold that comes up with every swipe. I don’t dwell on it, though. I stuff the towels into the bag, twist it up tightly, and rest back on my heels once I’m done. I don’t want to, but I risk a look up at him, hoping for approval.
The Red Ledger, Book 5 Page 2
