by Jasmin Quinn
She was not the kind of thief that did a break and enter or a quick grab and run. She wasn’t a common burglar. She always knew exactly what she wanted when she entered the premises. The prize. Once she located it, if she was in a home and not an office, she would spend a few more minutes rifling through the obvious places for expensive jewelry or cash or other items of value. Then she would help herself to one or two pieces. Not usually the grandest, though occasionally she couldn’t resist. The prize she loved best was artwork. The jewelry and the other small items were the gravy. Some she’d keep, some she’d sell to give her the means to live her luxurious life. She was generally in and out in 10 minutes unless there was a safe that tempted her.
She glanced up at the clock as she shifted the tools on the table. It was 8pm. Two more hours. She picked up the pry bar and hefted it in her hand. It was too heavy, and she had no use for it anyway. If Savisin wanted no evidence of the crime, then she couldn’t force her way into the house. She set aside the balaclava as well. It impaired her vision. Just the dark hoodie, the wool hat, the lockpicking tools, the fingerprint kit and a small flashlight. Probably don’t need the fingerprint kit, she thought as she glanced at the burner cell laying on the coffee table.
Her lips drooped and her eyes shimmered. What had she done? She turned her back on the only man who’d ever treated her with kindness. The only man that cared for her for who she was. Not a whore to be fucked or a thief to be exploited. What a fool she was. She pinched herself, on the skin between her thumb and her forefinger just to make sure she wasn’t totally numb.She loved Michael and she already regretted her decision to leave. Both emotions would be with her for a long time. But she knew that she couldn’t be part of his dangerous world, the same world that she’d shared with Jack. Too often the only way you got to leave was in a casket. And the thought of Michael dead made her heart crumble. She was trying to convince herself she was doing this for him, but she knew in her heart, that wasn’t true. Selfishly, she was doing this for herself. She couldn’t stand the thought of Michael dead. It would make her life not worth living, even if that meant living without him.
“Fool,” she whispered as the sharp ring of the burner cell jarred her from her pit of misery. Michael! Of course, he would know by now she was gone. He’d be worried about her. It had almost killed her not to answer his texts, but Jack had been there at the time and told her not to. It would be better if Michael didn’t know she was okay, better if he didn’t know where she was. She complied with Jack’s reasoning, but so much easier to ignore a text than a phone call. And she wanted to hear his voice, needed to. She reached for the phone, fingers hovering over it momentarily, then she picked it up. “Michael,” she said softly into the phone.
“Where the fuck are you, Isabelle?” Michael’s voice was a mix of anger, worry, and frustration.
“I’m okay, Michael.” Isabelle heard her voice tremor. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” No softness. “Get your ass back here now.”
“I can’t Michael. I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Did someone grab you?” Michael lowered his voice, his anger replaced by fear and caution.
“No. I left, Michael. I’m not coming back.” Isabelle choked on a sob, the tears slipping down her cheeks.
There was a silence on the other line. She could hear Michael’s breathing. She wanted to say sorry again. But instead, she picked up the Balaklava and dabbed at her eyes, ran it over her nose, and waited.
Finally, Michael said, “Why, Isabelle? I don’t understand.”
Isabelle thought she at least owed him the truth. “Michael, I… I love you.” She paused but he didn’t respond. “I can’t be with you. This is my chance to get away from this life. And you… you’re part of that life. If you – “
“Isabelle,” His voice was cold and deadly. “What are talking about? We’ll go away together after the job is done. I’ve got everything we need. Passports, tickets. 6am flight. We go together, we walk away together. There is only a new life.”
“I don’t think that’s possible for you. You have loyalty and vengeance in your heart. I don’t think you can let those go. And I don’t think your life will let you go. I think you’ll get killed trying.”
“So what?” His voice was softer now, not pleading, or begging. Just soft. “So what if I get killed. Isn’t it better to have a short time together then to have none at all?”
Isabelle’s heart thudded as his words tugged at her. “I can’t, Michael. I can’t watch you die.”
He tried a different tact. “You’re a master thief. What makes you think that you are any more capable of leaving this life than I am? You’re out there in a big way. I’ve always stayed under the radar, Isabelle. I am good at that. You’re not. I can keep you safe.”
“For how long, Michael? Are you willing to give your life up for me? Would you really just walk away for me?” She knew she was going in circles now.
“My organization – “
“Which I know nothing about.”
Michael ignored her interruption. “My organization will keep you safe, Isabelle. It’s good at hiding people; it will keep us both safe.”
“And will it exploit me, Michael?”
The silence stretched between them. Isabelle waited, worrying the balaclava with her fingers. Her tears had stopped for the moment. It was easier now that the conversation had strayed in practical territory.
“Maybe,” Michael finally said. “But so what? Are you honestly telling me you’re going to walk away from your lifestyle, stop thieving?”
It was Isabelle’s turn to think. “No, I can’t say that. But I can do it on my own terms, not someone else’s.”
She heard him sigh. “How will you leave without me, Isabelle? I have the tickets, your passport.”
Her eyes dropped to the Balaklava and she threw it across the room. “I have everything I need. I got it today. I have a kit, I have a plan and I have the means to leave on my own.”
“Bullshit!” Michael exploded. He was shouting. “You have no connections to get a passport and I have yours. Besides, you’re not that stupid to travel under Isabelle Sterling. Who the fuck is helping you?”
“That’s irrelevant.” Isabelle snapped at him. She had to. If she let his anger in, it would crush her. “After the job, I leave town. Alone.”
“Who are you going to hand the pictures off to? Rusya Savisin?” His laugh was mocking.
“Jack,” Isabelle said, but she softened her voice this time. That one single word would tear them apart.
“What do you mean ‘Jack’?” Michael’s voice went cold. Hollow. “Where the fuck are you, Isabelle?”
“I love you, Michael. Forever.” For some reason, she desperately needed him to know this.
He didn’t respond to her words. “Are you with Creed?”
Isabelle couldn’t decide what to tell him and he didn’t give her a chance to think.
“Answer me, Isabelle.” The promise of death in his tone.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I came to him today. He’ll be my hand-off and he’ll help me disappear.”
“Are you fucking him, Isabelle?”
She didn’t answer. Thought maybe if she left it on those terms, Michael would leave her alone. He wouldn’t come after her. He wouldn’t want her. He would hate her. The tears slid from her eyes as she ended the call.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Michael threw the burner cell across the room with such force that it shattered as it hit the wall. He didn’t care and then he did care. He hated Isabelle right now, a hate so deep that it crushed him. And that’s how he knew he loved her. Because his pain was agonizing. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this. He sat down on bed, his heart thudding heavily, then squeezed his head with his hands as he leaned forward toward his knees. It was too much for him. He cared about her, he trusted her, and she betrayed him. He wanted to kill her, but then he wanted to take her. She didn’t deserve a life anymore. Sh
e deserved to be locked up, away from fucking Creed, away from her pretty baubles. Michael wanted to strip her down, put rags on her. Make her beg.
And Creed. He was a dead man. Not today, but soon. He stood and grabbed his glass and the bottle of vodka, tossed back a healthy shot and then replenished it. He inhaled the second drink and was pouring a third when Anto walked into the room. Jack looked at him, murder in his soul, and Anto stopped dead in his tracks.
“What happened?”
“She’s gone to Jack.” Michael’s voice was flat. He tossed back the vodka and then viciously threw the tumbler, gaining a glimmer of satisfaction when it too shattered.
“Fuck!” Anto swore. “That mean’s she’ll give the cell phone to Jack, not me.”
Michael swivelled his head and glared at Anto. “So the fuck what?”
Anto narrowed his eyes and growled. “The fuck is that Jack will have access to the same names Rusya has and that’s not what Rusya wants. It also puts me in a bad spot when Jack passes the phone off. And don’t you think Jackman might find the names useful too? I can’t pass them on if I don’t have them.”
None of Anto’s logic served to settle Michael. “She just fucking left, Anto. No thought to me or you.” Then he paused. “Did you have a hand in this?”
Anto snorted as he elbowed Michael aside and picked up the bottle of vodka. “I wouldn’t waste the effort on her and neither should you. She went to Creed. She betrayed you. Get over it or get revenge. We have work to do.” He peered at the almost empty bottle. “How the fuck much did you drink?”
Michael glared at Anto, then dropped into a chair, sliding down so that he was uncharacteristically slouching. He rested his elbows on the table and leaned his head on his hand, his fingers splayed across his forehead, rubbing his temples. He was out of control. All emotions in him bubbling to the surface and pointed at two targets: Jack Creed and Isabelle Sterling. He would deal with them both later. Right now, his focus should lie with the man standing by the bed, swigging the last of the vodka straight from the bottle, the one person in this motherfucking mess that he owed his loyalty to. He sighed, trying to dig Michael Black out from the lava pit. Trying to douse his emotions.
“What, Anto? What do we do next?” His voice sounded weary to his ears. Where was the confidence, the strength, the arrogance?
Anto dropped the empty bottle on the bed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “First I need to change my shirt. For some reason, people object to the blood all over it. Then I need to get the phone from Isabelle before she hands it off to Jack. I’ll have to go to Scott’s now. She isn’t going in at 3am. That’s bullshit. Amateurish too.”
“I’ll go with you. It will give me a chance to break fucking Creed’s neck.”
Anto shook his head. “You’re not thinking straight, Michael. Creed won’t be there. He doesn’t get his hands dirty. He’ll have one or two of his minions drive her over and keep watch for her. She’ll hand the phone off to them and then disappear.”
Anto was right. He wasn’t thinking. It no longer made sense for he and Anto to stick together. He needed to find Creed first. Beat him senseless, find out where Isabelle was going. What little love nest he set up for the two of them. And if he couldn’t get to Creed, he needed to go the airport and watch for Isabelle. If she slipped by Anto, this would be her next stop. But instead of voicing these thoughts, he said, “I should surveil the house.”
“No,” Anto replied simply. “Your thinking is whacked right now. The one place where you cannot make a disturbance is Scott’s house. Go fuck up Creed. Trust me, you’ll feel better for it.”
Michael nodded. He’d already known what Anto would say, the logic behind it. He needed to keep distance between him and Isabelle right now. He was too raw, too angry. He might kill her in the state he was in. He looked over at the shattered remains of the burner cell. “I broke the phone.”
Anto grinned. “I would’ve expected nothing less.” He tossed a set of keys at Michael. “An Audi, new, baby-shit brown. I parked it on the third floor of the parkade.
Michael deftly caught the keys. “What will you drive?”
“You’re just full of stupid questions today.”
Yeah, he was. Full of stupid, plain and simple. “Right. Meet back here?”
Anto shook his head. “We’re done here. I won’t bring Isabelle back with me. She won’t come willingly.”
“I’ll go to the airport after I’m done with Creed. I’ll pick her up there.” He straightened his shirt sleeves and buttoned the cuffs, then slipped on his suit jacket and gave it a little tug. He nodded to Anto and walked out.
Chapter Twenty-Five
After Michael left, Anto cracked his knuckles, slowly and deliberately. It helped him think. Michael would find Creed, he had no doubt of it. Michael would either beat Creed to a pulp or Creed would kill Michael. Given Michael’s state of mind, he thought the latter was most likely. It didn’t matter that Savisin promised Michael safe passage out of Vancouver. Creed would dispose of the body so well it would be as though Michael Black never existed at all.
Anto looked longingly at the empty vodka bottle on the bed before plunking himself down heavily on a chair. Vodka helped him think. A punching bag helped him think. A good fuck helped him think. None of these was currently at his disposal.
He pulled a chair in front of him and used it as a footstool as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Rusya could not know that Isabelle had gone to Jack. Isabelle could not hand off the phone to Jack. Michael needed to stay far away from Scott’s house right now. And the airport too. Isabelle had to get on that fucking plane. But how to stop Michael without getting him killed?
He needed to intercept Michael; take him down and hold him somewhere. He knew he couldn’t trust Savisin’s men, even if they were his grunts. Rusya was still the boss and too many of them would like to see Anto in disfavour. After Lukov and his wife were killed, they were thirsting for blood, wanted Anto’s. But he was not anywhere near the murders when they occurred. Not even in the country. He came back immediately as soon as he heard. To make himself look good. To make it look like he was out to avenge Lukov’s death. Ironically, Lukov was not better liked by Rusya’s men than Anto, but that’s what made them leaders in Rusya’s eyes. They were leaders of men, not their friends or partners. Anto hated being on the same level as Lukov in that regard, but he understood the shared trait. Neither of them would hesitate to kill one of their own for the greater cause.
Except for Michael. Anto would not kill Michael, he would not let him be killed. Motherfucking Jack Creed was his only option. But he had to be careful how he managed the conversation. He had to make it sound like he wished Michael was killed, but Rusya was clear on his orders. Michael should be allowed to leave Vancouver on his own accord, unharmed. He used his fingers to tick off the list of things he had to do tonight: call Jack Creed and convince him to hold Michael without harming him; then he had to steal another car, go to Scott’s house, wait on Isabelle, take out Jack’s goons, grab Isabelle and the phone, get her ass to the airport, find Michael and free him, then get the phone to Rusya. He shoved over the chair where his feet had been resting and stood up. He cracked his knuckles and looked in the mirror, grinning at himself ferally. He loved a fucking challenge.
He pulled off his T-shirt and checked the bruises on his stomach and chest. His opponent got in more than one lucky punch – fast little fucker. But it would be a while before he woke up, a while for his bones to mend, a long while before he’d be brave enough to step in the ring with Anto again. He tossed his bloodied shirt into his pack and pulled out a semi-clean T-shirt. It was wrinkled, smelled a little bit of sweat, but it would be less off-putting than the bloodied one. It would make him only slightly less memorable. Then he picked up his phone and called Jack.
“Creed.” Jack’s deep arrogant voice poked at Anto making him want to bite the phone in half.
Instead, he said, “It’s Anto. Michael Black is o
n the warpath.”
“Isn’t he supposed to be with you?”
“Yeah, so is his irritating little girlfriend. But we both know that’s not true.”
Jack paused. “How do you know she’s here?”
“I know a lot of fucking shit, Creed. I know the problem isn’t the woman – I know what you have planned. Get her to do the job, get the phone from her, pocket the information and take it to Rusya.”
“Aren’t you the genius, Anto. Not just another pretty face, eh?”
Anto grinned at Jack’s remark. He had to admit it was funny. “There’s a problem, Creed. You take the phone to Savisin and that does us both in. You, because he’ll know you double-crossed him. And me because I was derelict in my duties.”
“Ah, Anto, you don’t give me enough credit. I will surely throw you under the bus to make sure Rusya understands that I had no choice but to take over from you. Especially since you killed Michael Black and tried to kill Izzy.”
Anto laughed into the phone, loud and harsh. “You cannot kill Michael Black and then claim I did. Savisin will be hugely amused by you, just before he puts a bullet between your eyes. Don’t kid yourself, Creed. Savisin won’t believe that I killed Michael Black.”
Jack was quiet on the other end. “What the fuck does that mean, you Russian prick? Do you imagine we’re going to partner on this?”
“If I had any imagination, that’s exactly what I would imagine.”
“What, Anto? What’s swirling around in your tiny fucking brain?”
“Michael comes to you. You don’t kill him. You sit on him for a while. Until the woman has done the job and is on a plane out of the country. Then let him go. Alive and reasonably unharmed. Rusya will keep his word to let him leave Vancouver. And he will expect you to keep your word. Rusya’s got eyes on you. He’ll know.”
