by Jasmin Quinn
She slipped from the office, sidling past the dark foyer, through the living room and into the kitchen. The alarm was set, the red eye blinking at her. Her water bottle was in her bag on the other side of the door. Ninety seconds and she could stop for a drink. The code, the code. She reached to punch in a number, then stopped, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She was exhausted, her mind wasn’t cooperating, all the codes tumbling around in her head. Which one was wrong? A number transposed, which one? She felt the tears, the fear, and started shaking. She dropped her fingers from the keypad and clasped her hands together leaning her head against the cool casing on the door.
“Let me get that for you.” A deep soft voice spoke behind her and her stomach fell to her feet.
She let out a small whimper as she slowly turned to face Owen Scott, his face shadowed, but still enough light for Isabelle to see the curiosity in his eyes. She flinched as he reached past her to the alarm keypad and entered the passcode. The light blinked green. He opened the door and held it for her. “Go,” he said softly. “Get as far away from here as fast as you can. Then get some food. I heard your stomach growl.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Isabelle stumbled out the kitchen door, grabbed her bag as she regained her balance and heeded Owen’s advice. Her heart was hammering out of her chest, her throat was dry, she could barely breathe she was so terrified. As she struggled back through the hedge, scrabbling at with her hands, the branches tearing at her, she pictured Owen. Why had he let her leave? Why not raise the alarm? Because he feared for her life, it was clear in his words, in his eyes. He knew Randall Scott would kill her if he caught her. She stumbled out the other side of the hedge and lost her balance at the sudden loosening of the branches, falling to her hands and knees. Pain shot through her, but she ignored the throbbing in her scraped hands, her bruised knees. She scrambled up and ran, not a gentle late-night jog, but a flat out run, like she was being chased by a raptor.
Her feet clattered on the cobble-stone path and she quickly lost her breath. Her chest hurt, and she grabbed at her aching side as she slowed to a jog, then a fast walk. She wouldn’t feel safe until she was on the fucking plane.
She was rapidly approaching the original drop-off spot, so late that she thought the car would be gone. Then she’d have to go another five miles to find them. She didn’t know if she could – the muscles in her legs were screaming, she needed a drink, she had to pee and all she wanted to do was collapse in a heap and sob. Still holding her aching side, she took a few shallow breaths and gave herself a pep talk. C’mon Isabelle! Think of the prize you have. No one is after you. You just need to hand off the fucking phone. You don’t even need to accept their ride to the airport. You can get a cab.
As she sighted the park, she stopped walking and leaned over at the waist, hands on her knees, drawing in full breaths. She didn’t want to sound winded if Jack’s men were still there. She didn’t want to indicate that anything was out of the ordinary. She melted into the shadows of a fence and dropped her bag on the ground. She was soaked, from her journey through the hedge and her sweat. She took off her gloves, then pulled her black T-shirt over her head, snagging the wool cap along the way and stuffing both in the bag with her wet sneakers. She pulled out the hand towel and wiped her torso dry, her hands, her face, her neck. Then she put her hoodie on, zipping it up and flipping the hood over her hair.
She grabbed the towel again, gently placing her precious prize in it, wrapping it carefully, then placed it in her bag. She left the tool belt on. She couldn’t take any of the contents with her on the plane. Better she just hand off the entire belt to Jack’s clowns. She pulled out her bottle of water and then zipped her bag. Taking a long series of small swallows, she dropped her body down into a crouch, sliding down the fence and resting her back and head on the cool slats. Just a few minutes, she thought as she closed her eyes. She just needed a little time to regroup. Regain her sense of equilibrium before she had to deal with the Grunts. She took deep calming breath, let her mind clear, then opened her eyes and focused. She was ready.
She checked her surroundings as she stood up to make sure she hadn’t dropped anything, then made her way across the park, her shoes getting soaked through again. Under different circumstances, she would have lingered on the deck, sorting her tools, stowing them away, changing her shoes again, to the wet ones. But not under these fucking circumstances.
Keeping to the shadows, she headed to the drop-off point. What the fuck? The car was still there. Did the assholes not understand English? But as she neared the car, she could see that the Grunts were not in it. She stopped in her tracks, confused. Her heart started fluttering again. Something was wrong, so very, very wrong. She took a step back, then another, trying to melt into the shadows. Then she heard her name, his voice, low and grim, felt his hand on her wrist, pulling her to him, drawing her close.
She froze, she couldn’t move, she couldn’t speak. She was caught. Anto had caught her. “Settle yourself. I’m not gonna hurt you.” His voice was gruff but soft, trying to soothe her. She knew better. He was a predator, playing with his food.
“Where are they?” Her words sounded rusty, her voice creaked.
“Jack’s men?” Anto shrugged. “They’ll live. Did you get the pictures?”
“Yes.” Isabelle shuddered. Cold, scared, exhausted. She looked past Anto to the light, to the shadows. “Where’s Michael?” Anxiety flooded her again.
“Michael’s fine. Come,” he said holding her close to him. “We’ll take my car.” And he moved in the opposite direction of Jack’s car, strolling, but even so, his long strides made Isabelle struggle to keep up and she felt herself stumble. Anto didn’t stop but his strong arm around her waist, the grip on her wrist, righted her effortlessly.
Isabelle felt lightheaded and feared she might completely collapse. She didn’t know whether to be grateful to Anto or scared to death. She decided to be grateful if for no reason other than to calm her thudding heart. She was too tired, too overwhelmed to be anything else. She didn’t have the strength to try to break free and even if she did, she had no energy left to run.
They walked several blocks, then Anto steered Isabelle to a well-lit parking lot. The Pig and Whistle Pub, music blaring, voices floating out the door. A few bodies outside, the smell of cigarettes and marijuana floated over to her. They grinned at Anto and nodded. But nothing else. The big guy and his little woman. Anto reached his car and unlocked it, helping her inside the passenger side. He reached for her bag, but she clutched it to her chest. “It’s not in there. It’s in my belt.”
He studied her face. “You’re not going to hurl are you? Not in this car. It’s brand new.”
Was there no end to the man’s empathy? “No. Nothing to throw up anyway.”
He reached across her and fastened her seat belt. Then closed the door. Isabelle dropped her head against the head rest and closed her eyes. Anto’s weight rocked her as he entered the car and she opened her eyes. He pulled onto the road and headed south, out of the neighbourhood.
“Where are you taking me, Anto?” Isabelle asked. She had no energy to fight him if he was taking her to her burial site, but she needed to know anyway.
“Out of here, Isabelle. Away from this neighbourhood. Then we pull over, you show me the pictures. I make a few phone calls. Then I take you to the airport.”
“Where’s Michael?”
“Shut up Isabelle, your voice is getting on my nerves.”
They sat in silence for about twenty minutes as Anto drove through the dark, circling around on himself, on high alert. Isabelle watched him. He was a machine, she thought. Military precision to everything he did. She let the tension from her shoulders go as much as she could. Her muscles were sore and achingly tired. Her brain a mess of mush and knots. She hoped Anto wouldn’t ask questions. Hoped that he would be satisfied with the pictures.
Her hopes were quickly shattered as Anto pulled into a loading bay and shut off the eng
ine and the lights. He turned to her. “The belt,” he demanded holding his hand out in expectation.
Isabelle reached behind her and fumbled to remove it. Her fingers lacked their usual nimbleness and she couldn’t undo the clasp quickly enough. Anto grunted impatiently and twisted her around pulling her hoodie up her bare back. Slapping her hands out of the way.
“I can do it!” Isabelle protested. The thought of him touching her back sent tremors through her. She didn’t care if he was Michael’s friend. He wasn’t hers. He was feral. And she was afraid.
“Stop your struggling, woman.” He unclasped the belt and pulled it roughly off her. As he let her go, he said, “I saw them go into the house. Scott and the other two men. What happened inside?”
Isabelle’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach. He knew. And then she remembered, and she gritted her teeth. “You gave me that fucking intel, Anto. You said he’d be out all night. Was this your plan? Set me up, get me shot?”
Anto laughed at her. “I’m not that clever. I don’t come through the side door if I’m after someone. So yes, the intel was bad. The fact that they came early was just a happy accident.”
“If Randall Scott caught me…”
“He would have killed you.” Anto finished for her.
Isabelle shuddered. “God,” she said weakly.
Anto turned on the phone and flipped through the pictures, nodding. “Good girl, Isabelle. Rusya will be pleased. You want him on your side. You’ll have his protection.”
“I don’t want his protection. I don’t want anything from him or from Jack. I just want out.”
“And Michael?”
The tears started. Asshole, she thought as she swiped angrily at them with the sleeves of your hoodie. “None of your fucking business.”
“He’s not going to forgive you for fucking your ex-husband.”
Isabelle shook her head miserably. “I wasn’t fucking Jack. Jack wanted to see me and I went to him. We talked, that’s all.”
Anto assessed her with a half-lidded gaze. “It’s very fucked up what you did to Michael. If you got him killed Isabelle, you’ll never make it on the plane.”
“Where is he, Anto? Where the fuck is Michael?” Isabelle was aware that her voice had risen, that she sounded on the verge of hysteria.
“Let’s find out, eh?” He pulled out his cell phone and tapped a number in it. He brought his index finger to his lips as he glanced at Isabelle. No talking. She got it. She slumped back against the passenger seat and rubbed her fingers against her temples.
“Jack,” Anto said. “It’s Anto. Then he said, “Oh, that’s flattering that you recognize my voice. Makes me feel less insecure than before.”
He laughed, then the smile dropped from his lips. “Where’s Michael?”
Isabelle held her breath watching Anto as he listened to Jack. “What the fuck do you mean, he never showed?”
Isabelle wrung her fingers together than raised both hands to her mouth, biting at the knuckle of a thumb. Anto stared into her eyes, his unhappiness reflecting back at her.
“I hope you are telling the truth, Creed. Rusya is very attached to the truth.”
He hung up. “Tell me what happened in the house, Isabelle.”
“Tell me about Michael.”
Anto brought his hand to Isabelle’s chin, his fingers and thumb holding it. “Don’t fuck with me, woman. I don’t have time to play your games.”
“I’m not playing a game.” Isabelle pulled on her reserves as she slapped Anto’s hand away from her face. “I want to know that Michael’s safe.”
“You forfeited the right to that information when you left Michael for Jack.”
His words stung her, shredded her heart. But the bastard was right. She’d made a choice and she would have to live with it. She needed space to think, to decide what she wanted, needed. Her heart cried for Michael, but her tired, stubborn brain wasn’t ready. When she didn’t respond to Anto, he nodded.
“Good. Now we’ve got that out of the way, what happened in the house?”
“Nothing. I was in the den, just finished the job and was heading to the exit point when they walked in. I retreated to the office and hid under Scott’s desk. It’s big so I was well-hidden. The three men came in and had a couple of drinks. Talked mostly bullshit. Randall Scott, a guy named Owen – I think his son. And a guy named Tony.”
“What’d they look like?”
“I never saw.” She wanted to roll her eyes and say obviously, but she bit back the words. “I was under the desk and didn’t leave until they were well gone. Owen was the first to leave - decided to stay over then went to bed.”
“That’s it?”
“No, not entirely.” Isabelle withered under Anto’s glare. “It was clear that Owen, the son, had interrupted a dinner meeting between Scott and Tony. I think Owen might have an addiction problem. Scott was surprised that Owen showed up at the posh restaurant. He was suspicious and so was Tony. So they called it a night, setting up a lunch meeting tomorrow.”
“Where?” Anto said, the first time his hard features slackened, but not directed at Isabelle. He was thinking, planning.
“They didn’t say. Randall’s assistant would make reservations and then call Tony with the details.”
Anto nodded, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
Isabelle looked down at her lap and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “No. Tony left, and Randall turned out the lights and went to bed. I waited and listened for several more minutes, then I left.”
She peeked up to find Anto’s assessing eyes boring into her. But he nodded, seemingly satisfied. “You’ve done well, Isabelle.” He reached to the back seat and drew an envelope to him, which he handed to her. “Passport and tickets out of here. Some cash, not a ton, but enough to get you on your feet. This will get you to Paris. But don’t make it your last stop. Go somewhere else where you can get lost. Lay low. No fucking four-inch red heels. Try being normal.”
Isabelle bit her lip. She didn’t tell him that Jack had already set her up. She didn’t think it was wise to mention Jack’s name at all. But now she had two IDs, two tickets – she had choices. She was starting to believe in her freedom. She looked over at Anto who was staring straight ahead, the curve of his jaw working as he started the car and pulled away from the curb. She began to say something, to thank him. Then she stopped. He was taking her to the airport. Wasn’t that enough?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Michael watched Isabelle from across the square – the last time he saw her was four months ago, when he’d left to search Scott’s office. When he’d returned, she was gone. She was sitting at a small table, in the sun, legs crossed gracefully, long fingers wrapped around a small expresso cup. But she wasn’t quite the Isabelle he knew. Slighter than he remembered, her long auburn hair curling loosely over her shoulders. She was wearing a modest sundress, soft blue flowers on white. She had on flat open-toed sandals, no heel whatsoever and a big white sunhat that hung low, keeping the sun from her eyes and other people’s eyes from her face. But she was still Isabelle, so beautiful, so perfect in her elegance.
A waiter approached her table carrying a small plate. As he set it before her, she looked up and flashed him her beautiful smile. A bolt of heat surged through Michael. Part fury, part lust. The waiter said something, and she threw her head back and laughed, her long throat exposed, her hand touching the waiter’s forearm. Michael’s anger wrestled down the lust. He wanted to storm the square, punch the waiter, pick her up and carry her off. Lock her away. It was nothing less than she deserved.
He’d waited two months for her to contact him. To tell him the truth about her and Jack. Tell Michael that she was using Jack, not fucking him. He felt the now-familiar bile rise in him. Even if she wasn’t fucking Jack, she’d still walked away from Michael, turning instead to a man who’d terrorized and beat her. Michael’s only mistake was loving her. No, that wasn
’t true. He had a list of mistakes he’d made: wanting her, needing her, trusting her, protecting her, treating her with respect and care. And here she was now, a couple of hundred feet from him, so close he could snap her neck before she realized he had his hands around it.
And flirting with a fucking waiter, using her charm on him. Even from his vantage point, he could see the prick assessing her, lusting for her. His stomach churned, and he clenched and unclenched his hands. He was too tightly wound. He needed a drink. He turned his back to her and lost himself in the maze that was Venice. Made his way back to the pub he’d frequented since his arrival four days ago.
The pub was dark and moody, patronized by gruff old men. Regulars, like him now. He blended. No suit or tie. His polished leather John Lobb’s replaced by canvas deck shoes, a linen shirt and tan khakis. No jewelry except his watch. His dark brown hair a little longer, his face unshaven, a deep bronze tan. He could pass for Italian – he spoke the language fluently. Only a few detected the deceptiveness of his accent. But they found it amusing, not affronting. He took a seat in a corner and ordered a scotch. Neat, no ice. His usual. He would take blending only so far. It was early afternoon, middle of the week, the pub not yet buzzing. But later, more men would arrive. Later he would be gone.
Isabelle had been harder to find than he’d anticipated. She’d learned her lesson in Vancouver, he guessed. It took him every ounce of resolve to get on that plane the night he left Vancouver. His heart had hardened but he was still raw as he stood in the airport, in the first-class line to board the plane that would eventually take him to Cyprus. He needed reassurance that Isabelle was safe. He needed desperately to hear from Anto. But no call was forthcoming before his plane was due to leave. He would have to get his reassurances later, after the plane landed in Turkey.
