“It’s time for you to leave, Paul. Now.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, coming closer. “I told you, I’m going to make this right with my uncle and then it’ll be like it was before. Better than before.”
“No, Paul—”
“Don’t say no! Just listen…” The distance disappears — five, four, three, two, one foot remaining — and then he’s right there, reaching for me. Reaching for me like he has so many times before, every time I mouthed off or questioned his authority or challenged him on something. Every time I tried to push back against his controlling behavior and condescension.
I know I should be running, screaming, doing something other than merely standing here like a statue. But I’m strangely paralyzed as I watch him closing in. The rage on his face is as familiar as the feel of the back of his hand and I brace for it, already anticipating the sting of his fingers closing around my throat…
It never comes.
There’s a sickening thud as Paul falls to the ground, clutching his nose — which is gushing blood in a bright torrent. It happens so fast, I barely see the fist that flies seemingly out of nowhere and clips him squarely in the face. One minute he’s standing there, the next he’s on the ground moaning.
My wide eyes lift to Conor, who’s looming in front of me like a human shield. The knuckles of his right hand are red, even in the darkness. The expression on his face can only be described as wrath.
Pure, undiluted wrath.
“Paul, I presume,” he snarls, staring down at the pathetic heap that is my husband. “Please. Don’t get up on my account.”
Chapter Eight
NECESSARY ROUGHNESS
I think it’s safe to say I’m in deep shit.
Conor’s arms are crossed over his chest and he’s fixed me with such an intense look, I’m about to pee my pants. Which is awkward since I’m not wearing any pants — I’m still in my lacey little negligee, flashing entirely too much thigh and leaving very little to the imagination when it comes to the chest region.
Hello, ladies.
Thankfully, Conor seems too pissed to notice I’m practically naked. He’s glaring at me like I’ve just spoiled the final season of Game of Thrones for him.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Hunt?”
“Like… overall? Or are you just referring to tonight’s mishap?”
He is not amused by my cutesy answer. “When were you planning to tell me your husband was in the house?”
My teeth sink into my lip. “Um… right now?”
“Uh huh. Not, say, ten minutes ago when I heard the sound of voices and came upstairs to investigate, finding the door to the attic open wide and your ex spewing a whole lot of bullshit about winning you back?”
I gulp.
He was listening to all that?
“Tell me the truth — and keep in mind I’ll know if you lie to me.” His tone is severe, his jaw clenched tight. “Did you know he was staying here?”
“No!” I exclaim, offended he’d even ask that question. “Of course I didn’t know. Do you honestly think, after everything he’s done to me, I’d protect him? Give me a little credit, Gallagher.”
“I just find it hard to believe you didn’t notice him periodically coming or going, these past few weeks. On multiple occasions, he was living fifteen feet above your damn head.”
“Um, excuse me, but aren’t you the one highly trained in surveillance?” I counter. “Because last I checked, you didn’t seem to pick up on his presence either during your many, many hours spent watching this street.”
A muscle in his eye twitches and I know I’ve scored a point.
“Believe me, Paul is the last person on the planet I’d ever want in my house. Just the thought of him being here while I was sleeping…” I shiver. “It’s going to give me nightmares for months.”
“And yet, when he snuck down from the attic and woke you up tonight… you somehow thought it was a good idea to confront him on your own, despite me being a single goddamn shout away?” His tone is sharp enough to flay me where I stand.
I shift from one bare foot to the other, digging my toes into the carpet. “He caught me off guard, okay? And then…”
Conor’s brows lift.
“I thought he might be more receptive talking to me than he would be if you charged in here and pummeled him,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “Wasn’t the whole point of me staying here to draw him out? To find out what he took from Petrov that’s worth getting us all killed over?”
Conor grunts in lieu of a response.
Score two for the girl in the peach lace nightie.
My eyes drift through the entryway of my walk-in closet, where we’ve been talking in hushed whispers for the past few minutes, across the bedroom to the armchair in the corner. Paul is slumped over, wrists restrained behind his back, still whimpering like a baby. The handcuffs, courtesy of Conor, prevent him from wiping his broken nose. Two bloody trails streak down his chin and drip onto his white shirt.
He looks like a Halloween horror experiment gone wrong.
Wincing, I glance back at Conor. “Frankly, given the fact that your greeting consisted of an incapacitating blow to the face, I can’t say I’m all that sorry I waited to call you in here. He hasn’t said a word since you arrived.”
“He was about to put his hands on you.” Conor’s voice has gone scary again. “The fucker is lucky I left him with the ability to use his limbs.”
I gulp. It’s no idle threat — I have no doubt Conor would take true pleasure in beating Paul to a bloody pulp. “Be that as it may, I don’t think you can actually throttle the truth out of someone, Gallagher.”
“Might be fun to try,” he mutters darkly.
“And here I thought FBI agents were supposed to be beacons of fidelity, bravery, and integrity.” My lips twist. “Or is that slogan similar to the Pirate’s Code — more of a loose guideline than a hard and fast set of rules?”
He doesn’t even crack a smile. He just shakes his head and sighs, as though I’m testing his patience again. “You trying to be cute doesn’t change the fact that you should’ve called for me right away, Hunt. What if I hadn’t woken up? What if I hadn’t gotten to you in time?”
My lips flatten into a frown. I glance down at my feet, studying the pink polish on my toes so I don’t have to meet his gaze. The fact of the matter is, I’ve been mulling over that same question for the past few minutes… and I’m not sure I like the answer. Because if Conor hadn’t showed up when he did…
Paul’s angry face flashes in my mind and I shiver.
“Hey.”
My eyes flicker up at the sound of Conor’s voice. He looks conflicted, almost wary, as he reaches out and sets one large, callused hand on my shoulder. I suck in a breath at the contact.
Oh boy.
His light squeeze is meant to be comforting… but the feeling of his touch on my bare skin does nothing to settle my nerves. If anything, it sends them fluttering into hyperdrive. Every cell in my body is suddenly on fire as I stare up into his indigo eyes.
“Look, Hunt… I know you think I’m this monumental asshole who’s barged into your life, who’s bossing you around nonstop, disrupting everything in your orderly little world…” Conor’s voice is grave. “But the bottom line is, I can’t protect you if you don’t trust me. You have to start trusting me.”
“I know. I… I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need an apology. I need a promise that you’re going to stop thinking you have to handle this situation entirely on your own. That might be how things went in the past… but this time, things are different.”
“How?” I whisper.
“Because this time you aren’t standing on your own. This time, you have me.” His fingers flex against my skin, squeezing tighter. It takes all my resolve not to go weak at the knees. “I’m in this with you, every step of the way… Got it?”
“Got it.” I pull in a shaky breath. “I promise next time
, I’ll call for backup.”
“There better not be a next time.” He shoots Paul a deadly look.
“What’s going to happen to him now?”
“I already radioed the surveillance team parked outside. Two of my men are on their way in. They’ll take him into custody and bring him back to a holding cell at headquarters, until we have a chance to question him about his involvement in all of this. At the very least, he should be able to give us some new intel on Petrov before he’s arraigned for fraud, money laundering, and embezzlement.”
As if on cue, a few seconds later two federal agents in tactical gear step into the bedroom. Conor and I walk out of the closet to greet them.
“Van’s waiting in the driveway,” the first agent says while his partner hauls Paul to his feet. “We’re good to go.”
“Did you radio in to let Sykes know you’re inbound?” Conor asks.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Tell her I’ll be in touch soon.”
We make our way down the staircase single-file. The silence is thick, punctuated only by Paul’s small moans of pain as the agents drag him into the foyer. He keeps his head down and there’s a defeated slump to his shoulders — the fight has definitely gone out of him. He’s resigned to his fate.
Conor and I trail behind as the agents prod Paul toward the front door. I feel strangely unsettled, watching him go. Like it or not, he was a big part of my life for a long time. It’s strange to see the man I married being led away in handcuffs. Stranger still to think about him going to trial, or wearing an orange jumpsuit, or being locked up behind bars.
What’s this? Sympathy for the devil? That’s weak, Shelby. Even for you.
The unforgiving voice whispers from a dark place inside me — a place that’s undeniably glad Paul is about to be out of my life. For good, this time. It’s the same place that holds all my darkest fears and insecurities. A lockbox of my deepest shame, embedded in my psyche.
But you’ve always been weak, haven’t you? So weak, you didn’t even fight back when he hurt you. A pathetic little girl, trapped in her own delusions of perfection.
I try to shut the voice out, but it mocks me all the way to the door.
Look how that turned out.
Look at your perfect life, now.
Heart pounding hard, I blink back hot tears. Conor’s looking at me strangely, but I avoid his eyes. I’m not about to explain my own humiliation — not to him. And certainly not now, in front of two federal agents and my no-good, dirty-rotten, lying, cheating, bastard of a husband.
We reach the front door. The agents are pushing Paul outside when he suddenly seems to snap out of his stupor. Struggling against their hold, his head whips around to find me.
“Shelby!” His wild eyes lock on mine as the agents attempt to subdue him. “Shelbs, listen — if I don’t make it out of this…” He groans as they yank his arms back roughly, nearly pulling the joints from their sockets. “You have to run. They won’t stop looking for it. No matter what. It’s too valuable.”
It?
“What?” My brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”
“If I’m locked up, they’ll come after you again, Shelby!” he calls back to me as he’s shoved roughly through the door, onto the porch. He’s straining to maintain eye contact, now. His tone turns desperate. “Alexei wants it too badly to let it go. Even if you try to give it back, he’ll probably have you killed as retribution for hiding it from him.”
Killed?!
Retribution?!
I’ve gone white as a sheet. My words come out shaking. “Paul, I don’t understand. You’re not making any sense!”
“Your only chance is to run. You hear me? You have to take it and run.”
“It? What do you mean, it?”
“Nécessaire, Shelby! Nécessaire!”
I tilt my head to the side, more than a little baffled by his sudden switch to appeals in French. Last I checked, Paul doesn’t speak any other languages besides English and the small smattering of Russian he picked up from his parents.
Or maybe that’s just another lie he told you. For all you know, he’s a freaking expert linguist.
“Paul—”
“YOU’RE NOT SAFE AS LONG AS YOU HAVE IT!” His voice has gone ragged, piercing the dark night air. “I’M SORRY, SHELBS! I’M SO SOR—”
“That’s enough!” One of the agents throws out an elbow, catching Paul across the nose. I flinch when I hear his howl of pain. He crumples to the porch, bleeding anew.
“Let’s go,” the agent barks. “Get up! On your feet, right now!”
When Paul makes no effort to rise, they haul him into a vertical position, then strong-arm his limp form down the front porch steps. Shock and horror simmering inside me, all I can do is watch as they drag him across the grass toward the waiting van. He’s still mumbling incoherently, but I can’t make out all his words from this distance. Merely snippets.
Run!
Take it and run!
I’m sorry, Shelby!
Nécessaire!
Nécessaire!
Half of me wants to block my ears, to shut him out before any more of his poisonous lies have a chance to take root in my mind.
This is just some last-ditch effort to sway you to his side, I tell myself. Probably so you won’t testify against him in federal court.
Yet, as I watch him being led across the lawn, I’m uncomfortably conflicted.
He doesn’t seem like he’s lying or playing any sort of trick. He seems…
Scared.
Genuinely scared.
Not for his own fate — for mine.
A chill moves down my spine as I play back his words. He’s given me more questions than answers, during his brief reappearance in my life.
What is this mysterious ‘it’ he keeps referring to?
Why does he think I, of all people, have it?
And, while I understand he thinks it’s ‘necessary’ that I run for my life… what the fuck is with the French?
I stand beside Conor on the porch, leaning heavily against the wood railing as the agents lead Paul slowly toward the waiting van. Hearing my deep sigh, he glances over at me, brows raised.
“That was… interesting.”
“I was going to say unhinged, but sure.” I shrug. “Interesting works.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll get him in an interrogation room, calm him down, and sort out the truth. Sykes can be very… persuasive… when she wants something.”
My brows lift and, before I can shut down the thought, I find myself wondering about Conor’s relationship with the pretty blonde agent.
Has she used her powers of persuasion on him in a non-professional capacity?
I don’t have a chance to wonder for more than a second. The inappropriate notion flies out of my mind entirely when an unfamiliar whizzing sound splits the midnight sky.
Before I’ve managed to so much as turn my head to look, I’m tackled to the porch. The wind is snatched from my lungs as Conor’s body comes down hard on top of mine. He’s crushing my ribs — I can hardly draw a breath — but I don’t care about that in the slightest, because my mind has finally processed what that strange whirring is, peppering the air with increasing frequency.
Shots.
From a silencer.
On a gun.
A freaking gun.
A gun someone is firing at us.
My blood runs cold as I hear the sharp metallic zing of bullets striking the van, lodging in the aluminum door panels. We’re painfully exposed out here on the porch. Even with Conor lying on top of me, sheltering my body with his own, I don’t feel remotely safe. He shifts, reaching down to extract the gun from the holster strapped to his thigh.
“Don’t move,” he barks, rolling off me into a crouch and taking shelter behind a narrow balustrade column. “Stay low.”
I nod, but he’s no longer looking at me. His eyes are scanning the dark street, searching for the source of the gunfire
. Through the narrow railings, I squint to make out the black van in the driveway. It looks like a slice of Swiss cheese, it’s so full of holes. Both FBI agents are crouched behind the hood, returning fire. If Paul is with them, I don’t see him anywhere.
Plink!
Plink!
Plink!
More shots, firing faster with each passing moment. I gasp and duck my head when a bullet lodges itself in the gabled porch roof ten feet overhead, sending down a shower of sawdust. Another strikes the ornate lamp fixture mounted beside my front door, shattering it into unrecognizable shards that spill across the stoop.
I fear the next round might hit something far less replaceable.
Namely, one of us.
“We have to move,” Conor says, grabbing me by the hand and dragging me along behind him. I’m on my hands and knees, half-crawling, half-crouching as we make our way along the front section of the porch, then take a sharp left around the side of the house. Momentarily safe, we press our backs tight to the shingled wall and haul in deep gulps of air.
We’re out of direct range.
For now.
I can’t say the same for Paul or the other agents, though. My quiet neighborhood has turned into a war zone. The night sky is still a flurry of flying bullets — and there’s no doubt in my mind about who’s pulling the triggers.
The Evanoffs.
They’re here.
To kill us.
I’m breathing hard and my pulse is roaring so loud between my ears, it’s downing out everything else. Conor repeats my name three times before he manages to break through the thick fog of panic.
“Hunt! Hunt, look at me.”
My eyes, wide with fear, slide to his.
“Listen. The other agents are pinned down behind the van. I have to lay down covering fire so they can get out of there. You understand?”
Don’t leave me! I want to scream as terror spikes in a deadly fever pitch. Don’t you dare leave me alone!
I bite my lip to contain the selfish words and nod, not trusting myself to speak.
So Wrong It's Right Page 10
