I avoided his gaze. “I’m not very interesting.”
“Bullshit.” My eyes flew to him. He glowered at me, every muscle in his body alert. “Don’t make me search. You know I won’t play fair. Not after the last few months.”
I swallowed nervously and shuffled on the couch, plucking at the blanket with sweaty palms. “Seriously, Luc, I’m boring.”
“I don’t work with people I don’t trust. My gut, the last few months, the last year? I trust you. Everything says you’re a good person.” He ran a hand through his thick hair, causing the unruly ends to stick up, and shook his head. “But my info says you’ve got shit to hide. Just tell me what it is.”
Little bubbles of anger and resentment burst. I looked him dead in the eye, my voice tight. “You got this from what exactly? My small folder?”
“Jesus, Emmie. Stop fucking with me. I got this from the way you dress, the way you drive a piece-of-shit disposable car, the apartment that’s a throwaway. Fuck. The last three months I’ve been here” −he waved a hand around gesturing to the apartment, then stabbed a finger down at the couch− “I’ve practically been living in your apartment and have you taken a chance? No.”
“If you didn’t want to be here–”
“This is not about me!”
“Then why do you care about the way I dress?!”
He rolled his eyes and gestured to me. “Jesus. You wear camouflage. You’re hot. You flaunt that shit? No. You hide. And that isn’t right.”
“Fuck you, Lucien. I didn’t ask for this.”
“I do not have time for this shit. You wanna tell me what’s going on, or am I going to have to lay it out?”
I huffed out an angry breath. “I don’t even understand what is going on right now! Why are you doing this? Bring up all this shit?”
He looked me dead in the eye. “Because I want you to be happy. That night…”
We were both silent remembering the shooting. He reached across the couch, tucking a chunk of hair behind my ear, eyes serious.
“I need to know if you’ve got problems. Tell me what’s causing you to live like this.”
Shit.
I changed the subject, desperate to distract him from the real issue. “What’s wrong with the way I live?”
“Keys.” He looked at me. It’s The Look. The one which said, Seriously? I gotta point this out to you? My fear ticked over into anger as I jerked towards him, a finger in his face.
“I’m serious. What’s wrong with the way I live? I like my apartment, I like my car, I even like my motherfucking clothes you piece of–”
He cut me off. “Exactly. You like. You don’t love.” He leaned forward, cupping one hand around my ankle. “That’s your problem, Emmie, everything you have is disposable. How old is this couch? I know what you earn, you should be living large, being happy. Instead you work, you crash here, you sometimes go out, and this…” He retrieved another file from his bag.
“What’s this?” I took it resting it on my lap.
“You tell me. The mailroom picked it up.” His eyes were hard.
I opened the folder, slowly flicking through. Bile burned the back of my throat.
Photos and notes. All of me.
The photos showed me laughing, talking, eating, driving. Behind the pictures were notes. Scarily detailed notes. Scarily graphic notes. Scrawled in the big, bold handwriting I sometimes wondered if I’d ever forget.
My throat and chest constricted. I began hyperventilating.
Run.
“When did these start?” I whispered, my body shaking.
“Emmie–”
Run.
I threw the papers down, scattering them across the floor, shattering the peace and safety of my apartment. I reached over to grab Luc’s shirt, hands fisting the material.
“WHEN DID THESE START?”
“Fuck. Emmie–”
“WHEN!”
His hands wrapped around my wrists, trying to hold me still. “Calm down–”
“WHEN!?” I pushed my fists against his chest, attempting to force him to speak.
Run.
“About a week ago.”
RUN!
“You know everything is screened.” His eyes swept my face as he attempted to read my emotions. “We thought maybe a stalker, but I’m guessing you know who this–”
Overwhelming nausea had me surging to my feet, stumbling for the bathroom. I vomited, violent retching followed. A warm hand brushed my hair back as tears streamed down my face.
“Emmie…”
I closed my eyes and slumped back, immediately pulling myself away from his touch.
He crouched beside me.
“Tell me.”
I shook my head, curling into myself. “I have to leave.”
“Why?”
“He’ll find me.”
“Who?”
“My husband.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Emmie
The Past
I slowly slid from beneath the covers of the bed, painfully careful not to disturb the sleeping occupant.
I turned, tripping on the ripped wedding dress bundled on the floor. I landed on my hands with a soft thump. My head twisted frantically back towards the bed, my heart pounded loudly in my ears as I bit my tongue. He grunted then, rolled over, away from me, still asleep.
Thank God.
My cheek ached. My shoulder throbbed. The area between my thighs felt raw, aching painfully every time I moved. My hand hit something wet. My underwear. He’d shoved it in my mouth to muffle my screams.
I snatched them in a fist, gingerly pushing up from the rough carpet. Silently, painfully, I slipped from the room.
It was after 2:00 a.m.; everyone in the house was tucked away, sleeping peacefully.
I moved to the third bedroom, leaving the door partially open. Nothing had been unpacked. The sum total of my possessions was a small duffel bag of clothes. I pulled on a shirt and jeans, covering the bruises that dotted my skin, wishing I could so easily hide the memories of the last few hours, wishing I had time to wash away the sweat and blood. Quietly, I cracked open the old window, inching it up slowly to avoid the frame scraping. I dropped the bags outside, climbing down behind them. I clutched the duffle handles tightly in my hand. Keeping low, I ran through the silent commune, heading towards the entrance of the property. I’d stashed a bicycle down the end of the property’s long driveway. It would be a twenty-kilometre ride to town, but I was confident I could make it before anyone awoke.
You don’t have any other options.
I’d fleeced the old rusted bike from town. It had panniers on either side of the seat and a lopsided basket at the front. I dropped the bag, falling to my knees to dig under the bikes’ front tire. A few inches down I hit the plastic zip-lock bag. A thousand dollars in crisp, rolled notes and a fake license were stored safely inside. It was enough to buy the shitty car I’d lined up and fuel it to Perth.
I hope.
I’d emptied my clothes into the panniers when the snap of a stick caught my attention, freezing me in place.
“What are you doing?”
I whirled, picking out the familiar shape of my brother against the dark brush.
“Abel?” Dread settled in my stomach, my shoulder drooped as he stepped closer.
Caught.
“Why are you here, sis? Did he bring you here?” His gaze dropped to my bag. “You’re running.”
A denial burned the tip of my tongue. Despair crept in, the bike was right here, the cash clutched in my hand.
“Yes.” I closed my eyes, the tears burning.
So close…
“Good.”
My head jerked up at his vicious whisper. “Good?”
“He’s a rapist. A goddamned rapist. I’m gonna kill him.”
“Abel, you–”
“Hush. You need to go.” He lent over, helping me pack the remaining items in the pannier. “Don’t come back. You run, you hide. The
y’ll try to find you. Don’t use your real name. You got that sorted?”
I nodded.
“Good. They’ll be looking. More so after tonight. All of them will. Don’t get comfortable, don’t trust anyone.” His eyes bore into mine. “I’ll try and find you.”
“Come with me.”
“I can’t.” He shook his head. “I need to protect the others.”
“They’re not like us, Abel.” I spoke truth. Our siblings saw no issue with the way we lived.
“I know. But I have to try.”
A sob broke free. Abel hesitated, his hand coming out, hovering for a moment before he snatched at my arm, crushing me to his chest. He smelt of soap, sweat, and grease. His proximity, his smell, his feel drove home my decision. I was leaving my only family, my only friend. My heart clenched, panic crushing me.
“Maybe I should–”
“No.” He released me, shaking my shoulders. “You’re doing this. Now. Run, sis.” Whispered fiercely as his fingers dug into my shoulders, his eyes bright with unshed tears. Gently, Abel helped me onto the bike. I gasped, pain spiralling out as I settled on the seat. I immediately pushed to stand. Abel’s face darkened.
“Go.”
He pushed, holding me steady until I got a rhythm, his hands slipping back allowing me to pedal away.
I glanced back. There he stood, Abel, a boy-man trapped in between duty and desire. He raised a hand, then turned, pushing back into the thick bush.
I turned, watching the road ahead.
My virginity had been brutally taken from me. A sham wedding where my sister-wives stood, eyes downcast, baring silent witness as the meanest man in the commune promised to cherish me. He hadn’t waited for the reception before breaking that promise. Taking me, kicking and screaming, back to his house. A house I would share with him, his two wives and their children. My father had watched, laughing and calling encouragement. My siblings shook their heads in disappointment as I fought my husband. My protest meant nothing when God and the commune had supposedly blessed the marriage. Only Abel had tried to intervene. For that, he’d received a black eye and been banished for the night.
Virginity had been sacrificed to achieve my ultimate goal −freedom.
Into the dark night I rode, pushing my aching body to pedal faster, the small light on the handle bars flickered in the darkness, illuminating rock and plant, lighting the dirt road.
As dawn broke over the horizon, mother nature painted her promise of a new day in pink and orange glory.
The outskirts of town came into view. A man leaned against a car parked at the sign post welcoming people into town. Just as I’d planned. Just as he’d agreed. Four in the morning and he’d delivered.
Relief, pure relief.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Luc
The Present
I’d fought tooth and nail to get Emmie to my place. I’d pointed out that running would make more sense tomorrow, once she had time to prepare. I’d pointed out it was safer to travel when there were multiple people on the road, more witnesses in case she had a tail. I’d used every weak, stupid, outrageous excuse to get her in my car. In the end, Emmie had only given in because I’d refused to leave her.
Her face pale, her body trembling, she burrowed into the corner of the couch, jumping at every little noise. It’d been a long while since I’d seen such bone-deep terror. There was no way in hell I’d let her leave. There was no fucking way she was leaving period.
Over my fucking dead body.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Emmie
The adrenaline faded leaving behind a fine tremor and sweaty palms.
I’d forgotten the fear.
I’d stayed in Canberra for six years. Six years is a long time when you’re on the run. More than long enough for me to become complacent. To forget.
I sat in Lucien’s house, on his dark grey couch, watching him watch me drink tea. He leaned against the far wall, a mug in his hand.
“So.” He drew out the short word.
I took a sip not answering.
He sighed. “Don’t make me spell it out.”
I ignored him and looked into my tea cup, wondering if it held the answers to the mysteries of life. I attempted to ignore the fine tremble of my hands.
“Keys, come on. Tell me about the letters.”
“No.” I immediately retreated, pulling my foot away. I turned to curve into the arm of the couch.
“Emmie–”
“No.” I held out a hand, blocking him.
“Beautiful, you gotta tell me.”
“No.”
Luc watched me for a minute, his stormy blue eyes taking in my legs curled up to my chest, the blanket tucked tight around me, arms wrapped around my legs holding the cup. He pulled the cup from my hands, setting it on the coffee table before reaching over to gently haul me into his arms and across his lap. I opened my mouth, then immediately shut it, halting the protest. It felt so freaking good to be held.
“Okay. You don’t have to tell me.”
I relaxed against him.
“But here’s what I see.”
I tensed.
“You’ve got next to no background. You’re friendly, a good listener and generous.” I stayed silent, eyes fixed determinedly on the far wall.
“You’re quiet, you don’t let people in. You keep your head down, cruising under the radar. Even after the last few months, I know next to nothing about Emmie Franklin. Tonight, I come to you with information, you freak. I haven’t seen you react like that to anything. Not even when you got shot. Twice.”
I cringed but didn’t comment.
“You react bad, so bad it makes you physically ill. You say it’s your husband, then give me nothing, simply get up, brush your teeth and start throwing shit in a bag while I’m trying to get information out of you.”
I cringed again, this time because I know he saw too much. I’d panicked. I’d let him in without thinking. Even that small detail revealed more than anyone had gotten before.
“The lack of information I can accept. What I can’t accept is as you’re racing around throwing shit in a bag, you walk across to your dick of a neighbour, hand him a bundle of cash, and he comes back with a safe in which you’ve stashed even more cash, fake IDs, and shit which tells me you’ve done this before. Now, that. That is the one thing I can’t leave alone.” His hand slipped under my chin, tilting my head, forcing me to look him in the eye.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I need to start digging?”
I took him in. He had that serious glint in his eye, the one I saw when we were on a case and he’d gotten really pissed off. He was readying to go all in.
Damn.
I pulled away, shifting on his lap as I sighed heavily.
“You’re a terrible person.”
“Emmie.”
“Shut up, I’m getting there.” I pulled in a shaky breath and paused to collect my thoughts.
Don’t do it.
Just give in. He wants to help. Let him.
You can’t rely on anyone but yourself.
“Beautiful, I’m right here.” His arms tightened around me for a second and then loosened, reminding me that, for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t alone.
I climbed out of his arms and moved to the far corner of the lounge. I wouldn’t get through this if he touched me. Those arms weren’t mine to have.
Luc watched me move and settle. I breathed deep.
“Do you know how ISIS recruit their members?”
His eyes narrowed, lips drawing tight. “They mobilise people through social media.”
“Yeah. They use propaganda to build their base. People can be radicalised in extremely compressed timelines. Some they encouraged to stay in country and become martyrs or physical recruiters. Others they would ask to join them in Syria.”
“You were a member of ISIS?”
“Ha, not quite. There’s a group in Australia called the God
’s Patriot. They operate using a similar technique but have different fundamental beliefs. You know a few years back, maybe five? When that guy drove a car filled with explosives into Parliament house? It didn’t go off, but they made all those changes to security and stuff?”
Luc nodded, his eyes narrowing.
“A lone wolf martyr, the God’s Patriots encouraged him to do it. The police never tied it back.” It felt good to admit.
“Jesus, Emmie.” He reached for me, but I held up a hand.
“The God’s Patriots believe their leader, Edward, is Christ. He’s the second coming. They recruit people online using soft and hard techniques.”
“Soft and hard?”
“They have a soft evangelical approach. Just preaching the good word. They look, on the surface, like any other legit religious group. They have a website, social media profiles, are a registered charity.” I ran a hand over my face. “They suck people in slowly but surely. Then there’s the hard approach. Hacking of websites to spread the good word. If they identify someone of high value, someone of power who they can bring into the fold, they will research them until they know everything about their lives. Then they’ll target their message. Ruthlessly dogging that person until they are either radicalised into a dogmatic disciple, blackmailed into joining, or disappear.”
“Disappear?”
“I’ve witnessed two people who killed themselves rather than put up with the threats.”
Luc’s lips frown deepened. “How did you end up there?”
“They told us my mum ran off. I don’t remember her. It could be true, but I don’t know. My dad was someone they needed. They targeted him, sending him a young, pretty thing to help with the kids and house. Offering a job and a way out. Eventually he married the nanny, Mary, and they took us to join the commune in the middle of whoop-whoop, Western Australia.” I let out a breath as memories flooded in. “I can’t remember my name from before, but when you enter the cult, they baptise you and assign you a new name.” My throat tightened as the name echoed in my ears, ghosts whispering memories I’d sooner forget. I rubbed the back of my neck, soothing the raised hairs.
Bleeding Edge: Elliot Security (Elliot Security Series Book 2) Page 10
