Combative Trilogy

by McLean, Jay

  Chapter 9

  The last time I held a gun to a girl’s head, it was Bailey’s. It didn’t feel anything like it does now. With her, there was a hesitation. A moment of weakness that would later create a lifetime of it. This girl, though, the one currently on her knees in front of me, her palms pressed together at her chest begging for her life? This girl, I want to ruin.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Tiny growls, his eyes moving from the girl to the full length of my pistol. I’d attached the silencer before we got out of the car. I was ready. Determined.

  The girl doesn’t answer; she just continues with her high-pitched whine.

  I unlock the safety.

  “You better start talkin’,” Tiny states. “Clearly, my friend here is in no mood for this shit.”

  Bailey didn’t cry. She held her head high, waiting for the moment. Until she sang that song. That’s when I broke.

  This girl won’t break me.

  She didn’t even hesitate to open the door when we casually knocked. The second we forced our way in and revealed our weapons, she got on her knees, her hands up in surrender.

  “Who the fuck are you?!” Tiny shouts now, his patience waning.

  I lost mine the moment I realized Tiny had fucked up.

  Maybe I should kill him, too.

  “I don’t know anything,” the girl finally says, her words a shudder with her cries. “Please, just put the gun away, and I’ll explain everything!”

  My jaw works; so does my mind. I finally find my voice. “Where is she?” Deep down, I already know the answer. She’s in an apartment opposite Parker’s living with some guy who wears a suit. She’s safe. For now.

  “I don’t know where your girl is.” She wipes at her tear-soaked cheeks, her breaths evening. “I was brought here a couple of years ago and told to collect those packages on the doorstep. That’s it. That’s all I know.”

  “Who brought you here?”

  “The people I worked for.”

  I’m reaching my goddamn limit. “Who the fuck do you work for?”

  “I don’t know their names,” she whimpers, her gaze lowering. “Please just put the gun away.”

  I tap the pistol against her temple. Not hard, just enough to bring her eyes back to mine. “What did you do for them?”

  Her lips press tight, her nostrils flaring with her sharp exhale.

  She kind of looks like Bailey.

  Like a messed-up version of her if she’d let her shitty fucking life consume her.

  There’s a tugging in my chest, but I push it away.

  Too weak.

  Too soft.

  Too fucking vulnerable.

  I stretch the tightened muscles in my neck. “I need names.”

  “I don’t know,” she grinds out. “They never told me, never let it slip.”

  “So what?” Tiny cuts in. “They just asked you to uproot your life and move in here, and you said yes?”

  The girl’s throat moves with her swallow. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” I snap.

  Her eyes lock on mine.

  “I was taken.”

  My phone rings, and I curse under my breath. Without lowering the pistol, I answer the call, bring the phone to my ear. “What’s up?”

  “Nate?” Ashton’s voice is quiet. Too quiet. “There’s a man at the salon looking for you.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  “Jesus Christ, Ashton, I don’t have time for this shit.”

  She’s silent a beat, and that silence tells me everything. I’ve hurt her. The way I was with her this morning, and now…

  She’s the weak one. The most vulnerable person I know. But her life, her past, made her that way. I look back at the girl in front of me, and that tugging in my chest triples in pain. I lower the gun.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Ashton, but the girl hears it too. Feels it as well. “I’m just in the middle of something important.”

  “I understand,” Ashton replies. She doesn’t. She has no idea what’s happening right now. Or how my world has tilted off its axis since I sat in Benny’s office with the crooked cop.

  “Nate?”

  “Yeah?” I breathe out.

  “He says he won’t leave until he speaks to you.”

  I grasp at my hair and squeeze my eyes shut. “Tell him I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  Tiny’s eyes narrow on mine. He jerks his head in a “what’s up” motion.

  It takes a moment for Ashton to answer. “I can’t… I don’t want to tell him that.”

  I try to curb my frustration. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m scared,” she all but whispers, and I can hear the fear in her voice.

  “Ashton, you don’t need—”

  “He’s from the FBI.”

  Chapter 10

  I told Tiny to stay with the girl and not let her out of his sight—again—and, with the promise of keeping him in the loop, I took the car. The drive home seemed to go by fast, almost too fast, especially in comparison to the drive there.

  Through the salon windows, I search for Ashton and spot her almost immediately. She’s sitting in a small chair beside the counter, a spot usually reserved for one of her apprentices. Ashton works hard, is never not on her feet. She likes to keep busy, so her mind does the same. But right now—going by the way she’s staring off in the distance, a tissue in one hand, her phone in the other, her mind is lost. And then I notice him. The Suit. The same guy who’d been with Bailey outside her apartment.

  An unfamiliar emotion hits me in the chest, like a kick in the gut. Envy.

  Ashton’s gaze lifts when the salon doors slide open. It’s only now I see her eyes—red and raw, and it’s clear she’s been crying. Rage replaces the envy, and I go to her, pull her to her feet and wrap her in my arms. Ignoring the sounds and movements of the busy salon, I whisper in her ear, “What did he say to you?”

  From the corner of my eye, I notice Suit stand up.

  “Nothing.” She pulls back to look in my eyes. “What’s going on, Nate? What does he want?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her honestly, settling my hand on her face. I run my thumbs across her cheeks and wipe the fresh tears away. “Whatever it is, it won’t involve you. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Big blue eyes blink up at me. “I don’t know what I’ll do if anything happens to you—”

  “Nothing will happen.”

  “I can’t go back there.”

  An unsteady breath leaves me. “I’ll never let that happen.” I press my lips to her forehead. “Lo prometto.” I promise.

  “Nathaniel,” the Suit says, stepping up to us.

  I keep my anger in check and square my shoulders before turning to him. Then I take a step forward, and then another, forcing him to move back—away from Ashton—until the backs of his knees hit one of the chairs in the waiting area. I tower over him. “You don’t get to come into my friend’s place of business and threaten her or make her feel uncomfortable.” My fists ball at my sides. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  The fucker smirks, and it takes everything in me not to wipe out his entire face with my fist. Or blow his fucking head off right here and now.

  For Ashton.

  For Bailey.

  Fuck.

  “I came to see you,” he says, straightening to full height that has his dark gray eyes still inches below mine.

  Being this close to him, I realize he’s old enough to be Bailey’s dad. If he’s manipulated her somehow, I’ll kill him twice. “So you’ve said. What do you want?”

  He runs his hands down his clothes, adjusting his suit. “I want you to come for a ride.”

  I scoff. “No.”

  His smile reaches his eyes, and I hate everything about him. “I think I might have something you want…”

  Bailey.

  I stay quiet.

  “Or I could have about twenty agents from the wh
ite-collar crime unit go through the finances of this place. Shut it down. Leave your friend here high and dry for a few days, maybe even a few years.” His grin widens. “But, according to our records…” he says, looking over my shoulder at Ashton, “she’s a lot more than your friend, isn’t she?”

  My eyes drift shut.

  “I’ll do you a favor,” he adds, grasping my shoulder tight. “I won’t make a scene.” I force myself to look right at him—into those eyes that had studied me when I stood in the elevator, too busy looking at the ghost of my past to care about his existence. “A black SUV will come by in about ten minutes. Get in it. I’ll be waiting.” And with that, he raises a hand, his stupid smile meant for Ashton. “Thanks for your time, sweetheart.”

  It took me all of the ten minutes to calm Ashton down and convince her that everything was fine, that nothing was going to happen to me, and that I’d be back… for her. The moment I get into the black SUV and the door closes behind me, the guy flashes me his badge. I glance at his name—Lester Perceval—then back at him. Name like that, no wonder he’s power-tripping. Probably spent his entire life getting the shit beat out of him, not much different than good ol’ Detective Jackson Davis.

  “Thought you might need some proof,” he states, shoving his ID back in his pocket and adjusting his jacket.

  I keep the smart-ass comment about his name to myself. “Suit like that, I had no doubt you were some form of law enforcement.”

  He quirks an eyebrow.

  I shrug. “What do you want with me?”

  He sighs, getting more comfortable in his seat. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

  “You’re a mind reader now?”

  He shakes his head, a heavy breath deflating his chest. “Let’s talk in my office.” He offers me his hand, palm up. I keep my eyes on him. “I need your phone, Nathaniel.”

  “It’s Nate,” I spit, annoyed at the too-many syllables leaving his mouth. “And no fuckin’ way am I handing over my phone.”

  “I don’t want to go through it,” he replies. “I need you to switch it off.”

  I glare at the back of the front seat where the driver stares ahead, not once making a move to even look back at me through the rear-view. “Why?”

  “I assume your guy, Tiny, has tracking on your phone?”

  “So what if he does?” I ask, slowly turning to him. “You don’t want him to know where you’re taking me to what? To kill me?”

  Lester Perceval has the audacity to laugh. “I don’t want to kill you,” he says. “As much as it pains me to say, I need you alive.”

  “Bullshit,” I scoff.

  “Nate,” he says, his tone as hard as his stare. “I couldn’t give a shit about your little street thugs running drugs or you laundering money through that little salon or gym of yours. And I definitely couldn’t give two fucks about your illegal MMA fights. I’m the motherfucking FBI. What we’re doing here—it’s bigger than you. And the way you’re looking at me, I suspect you have no idea just how big it is.”

  Chapter 11

  The agent’s office is a small room behind a solid door with boxes upon boxes of files scattered throughout. Unlike Parker’s apartment, there are a few details of his personal life around. The guy doesn’t have a ring on his finger, but going by the crayon drawings on the wall, he has at least one kid or maybe a niece or nephew he’s fond of. The idea of Bailey having a kid with this guy causes bile to rise to my throat.

  Him?

  Of all the guys in the world, she chooses him.

  Maybe because he’s safe… like I was supposed to be.

  Perceval sits on a cheap chair behind his desk, watching me. “You like it?” he asks, pointing to the drawing pinned to the wall.

  I shrug. “It’s probably not a good idea to be bringing guys like me here.”

  “Like you?”

  I run my thumb across my bottom lip and look closer at the drawing. It’s a dog—or maybe a cat—holding an umbrella. I hide my frown behind my hand. “The bad guys.”

  He leans back in his chair. “You’re not a bad guy, though, are you, Nate?”

  “You don’t know me,” I murmur.

  “You’re right,” he agrees. “I don’t know you. And I’m hoping that’s not going to be an issue for us.”

  “What do you want?” I snap, my lack of patience forcing me to tap at my pocket.

  “I have your phone,” he reminds me.

  I nod, even though I wasn’t looking for my phone. I was searching for my pills.

  For the second time in as many weeks, the man in front of me pulls out a mugshot and places it on the desk between us. “Who is she to you?”

  Instinctively, my fingers curl around the bottle in my pocket while I stare down at the picture—a Jane Doe according to the name on the placard. Brown eyes stare back at me, cold and empty, void of any emotion. Her hair’s down, ratted in knots, and her skin is ashen, her cheeks hollow. It’s clear—from this picture alone—that she’d lost a hell of a lot of weight since she’d been with me, and the thought of her not eating, not taking her meds, creates an ache in my gut. I note the date as approximately a year ago, and a part of me is grateful she’s doing better now… at least I think so. I make sure my expression gives nothing away when I look up at Perceval. “Who is she to you?”

  Ignoring my question, he says, “I saw you at the apartment. I saw the way you looked at her—”

  “I didn’t look at her like anything,” I cut in.

  “You sure about that?”

  “Shouldn’t you be more concerned about what I was doing there?”

  He sits forward now, his forearms on the desk. “I assumed you were there for Parker.”

  My breath halts.

  “But that’s irrelevant right now. I need to know about her.”

  I shake my head. “You’re the one walking her into an apartment. You tell me.”

  “Are you the one who gave her the bracelet?”

  We’re going in circles. “What do you want?”

  “I just told you.”

  “You said this was big... is it about—” I stop myself there, right before I say her name aloud. He might not know it. She might not have offered it. I look back at the photograph: Jane Doe.

  “She’s here, you know.”

  I blink, hold my breath.

  Perceval taps a few buttons on the phone in front of him, and when it connects, he says three simple words that destroy me: “Bring her in.”

  The door clicks before I can react, and then my gaze locks on the set of eyes that have haunted me for years.

  I’ve thought about this moment, dreamt about it more than I can count.

  And I’ve counted…

  A lot.

  2,582.

  That’s the number of tiles on the bathroom wall she was so obsessed with.

  323.

  That’s the number of fall leaves hanging from the ceiling.

  1,430.

  The number of days we’ve been apart.

  It’s also the same number of times I’ve whispered ti amo into the darkened corners of my bedroom when my regret became too much to handle. When the memories of her consumed every beat of my heart, every cell flowing through my veins. When I’d imagined her next to me, whispering my name, telling me she loved me as her fingers stroked through my hair, easing the stress of my life and lighting the darkened pain of my past. I knew it then—in those minuscule moments we shared—my heart, my soul, my everything belonged to her.

  Per sempre. Forever.

  “There’s that look again…” Perceval sings, breaking into my thoughts.

  “What look?” I choke out, unable to pull my stare away from Bailey.

  “That same look I saw outside her apartment… You’re looking at her as if you’d give her your last dying breath.” He pauses a beat, and when he speaks again, his voice is deeper, more intimidating. “So I’m going to ask you one more time, Nate. Who is she to you?”

  Bailey speaks
for the first time—her voice, her words—a fucking dagger right through the spot that beats only for her. “I’m no one. Especially to him.”

  Chapter 12

  I make it three steps out of the office when I hear the first crash, followed by the yelling and screaming. “Fuck,” Agent Brent Neilson spits. “Stay here.”

  He’s quick to barge through the door, and from where I stay rooted, I see Nate fisting Agent Perceval’s collar as he holds him down on his desk, one hand raised. He’s yelling, words too fast and too loud for me to understand. I press my back to the wall and my palms to my ears, blocking out the sounds. My eyes shut tight, and I try to level my breathing. Try to steady my pulse. But it doesn’t work. Can’t. I’m brought back to that moment. A different basement. Nate’s not there, even though I’d waited for him. Days passed, turned to weeks, months, years. He never showed. They came for me, dozens of them, all in black, with guns pointed, flashlights so bright they made it hard to see. Then came the yelling, the orders.

  “Put your hands up!”

  “Hands where I can see them!”

  “On your stomach!”

  “Face down on the ground!”

  My ears rang with the loudness of their demands, and it was all too much… so many voices, so much movement at once, and I couldn’t get my bearings, and so I got to my knees and muffled their actions by covering my ears and closing my eyes.

  I would not cry.

  I would not show my weakness.

  Through all the different commands, I heard his voice—Brent’s. ”Jesus Christ,” he said, his voice defined amongst all the chaos. “What the fuck is this place?”

  There were drugs on every surface of that concrete cell.

  Pills.

  Coke.

  Meth.

  Weed.