A Life Betrayed (Montreal #2)

Chapter Twenty-Two

M athias watched Rayan disappear down the corridor and toward the back of the warehouse. If Truman suspected anything, he didn’t show it. Mathias reached beneath his jacket, fingers brushing his gun, and pulled out his cigarettes. He placed one between his lips, flicked his lighter, and held it to the tip then pocketed everything before taking a long drag.

“He’s going to take her with him,” Mathias announced. “I don’t need pig blood on my hands—not now.”

Truman’s lackey glanced in the direction of the corridor then turned to his boss. “Should I—”

Truman raised a hand, silencing him. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your nerve.”

“I haven’t lost shit,” Mathias said. “But unlike you, I’m not an idiot. When the heat’s on, it’s better not to light a match.”

“Or what?” Truman baited. “They’ll lock you up? The mighty Mathias Beauvais, afraid of prison. That’s where they’ll send us anyway if we sit on our hands.”

“I’m tired of your shit, Truman.” Mathias clenched the cigarette between his fingers as he stemmed the roiling in his gut. “I was tired of it years ago—hell, I was tired of it the minute I met you. It was only a matter of time before you did something to fuck us both over. And now you’re going to knock off a federal cop?”

“Ah, come on,” Truman protested. “I was led to believe you, of all people, weren’t afraid to do what it takes.”

It was as though they’d returned to that fateful first meeting, the man having learned nothing. There was an art to this, whether one was conducting business or bloodshed. Both relied on a certain finesse—the ability to approach the situation with a level head, anticipate the potential complications, and act accordingly. Shooting first and thinking later almost always led to far greater trouble, a lesson Truman had still not grasped. The sudden disappearance of a federal inspector might well compel the government to open the lid on the provincial Pandora’s box that was Quebec and flush them all out for good.

“And this coming from the man conspiring with the Feds. The first hint of trouble, and you rolled, belly-up,” Mathias shot back.

“I told you I didn’t give them nothing,” Truman spat.

“You handed them my name and the details of our arrangement wrapped up in a nice little bow.”

Truman frowned, his pale eyes narrowing. “They had your name before they came to me. They were already looking into you.”

“Because your tip-off launched the whole fucking investigation,” Mathias growled, tossing his smoking cigarette at Truman’s feet. “All hush-hush, too, getting them to strike your name from the record.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Truman exclaimed.

Mathias felt a sliver of reservation at the baffled expression on Truman’s face. It was a performance, more of the man’s bullshit, but for a moment, it looked pretty fucking convincing. “I had you followed—I know you’ve been meeting with her,” Mathias snapped. “You think it’s a coincidence they discovered the link to the holding company right after you and Allen were seen together?”

“Why would I make a tip-off to the Feds?” Truman thundered, his neck flaring red. “I’d be shooting myself in the foot. I’m just as tied to the shipments as you are.”

“They already had you against the wall. You’re just trading one felony for another. This way, you can pass the buck, and who better to pass it to than me?”

“Look…” Truman rubbed his chin with the back of his hand, lowering his voice. “The company—I’ll admit, that was me. I have a fucking trial date. I was desperate. But I swear to God—”

“You’ve been desperate for a while now, Truman. The mess with Border Services—that’s a year in the making. You expect me to believe when you got word of it brewing, you didn’t send a friendly message up the chain to try and see what you could get out of? The trouble with the Feds is that one bit of information is never enough—they’ll always want more. And then you end up where you are now, spilling your fucking guts. Once a rat…”

He didn’t need to finish. A silence fell over the warehouse. Above them, the overhead lights flickered.

“So, what are we starting, Mathias?” Truman said, a hard glint in his eye. “We gonna have ourselves a little shoot-out? As you can see, you’re a man down.” Beside him, Truman’s lackey gave a slow grin and shoved his meaty hands beneath his armpits.

“You forget where you are,” Mathias said. “This is my city. Here, I’m never outnumbered.” He saw the Reaper’s face slacken as he processed the fact that he was now in enemy territory. “And we aren’t starting shit.” Mathias slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “I’m finishing it. This alliance was built on trust, and you sold me out. The family is done with you, Truman. We’re pulling port access and wiping our hands of the shipments. See how far you get when the door closes in your face. You think after what you tried to pull tonight, Allen’s going to come back for more? You blew your chance at a plea, and in a month, whatever’s left of you will be finished off in court—I won’t even have to lift a finger.”

“You’re making a mistake, Beauvais,” Truman warned.

“My only mistake was not pulling the plug earlier,” Mathias said. “Fortunately, that oversight has now been rectified.”

“There’s more hands on this than you think,” Truman said viciously, spit forming at the corners of his mouth. “Someone else is looking to bring us down.”

There remained an inkling of a feeling—something that didn’t quite add up. Yet Truman had already admitted to lying, and what was this but more smokescreen?

“You would say that, wouldn’t you?” Mathias sneered. “How is it that you have a trial date, but I’m the one who found myself in the hole? I won’t stand around while you play me, Truman. I’m taking the girl, and I’m leaving. You’re not my problem anymore.”

As Mathias walked to the warehouse doors, he slipped a hand beneath his jacket to grip the handle of his gun, readying himself for the man’s reprisal. But Truman remained quiet, letting him leave.

No sooner had Rayan removed the metal bar from the door than the lackey who’d been in the room with Allen burst from it, blocking his path.

“There you are,” the man said, flushed and furious, his hoarse voice a lingering reminder of Rayan’s blow to the throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Who’s asking?” Rayan hadn’t planned on striking him, but something about the way he’d gripped Allen’s wrist and the fear in her eyes had pulled him back to another time, sending a surge of violence through him.

“You little shit!”

He saw the man coming. The old Rayan would have ducked and smashed a fist beneath his jaw. But in the time it took Rayan to grapple with the resistance that thought brought on, a set of knuckles made impact with his cheek, and he hit the ground, dazed. His muscle memory had deserted him, his conscience too fractured to fight back.

He felt the metal barrel of the pistol dig into his lower back. Rayan had only to reach for it, and the man would be finished. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get his fingers to move.

“Finally figured out where you belong,” the man jeered, standing over him. “Down on your ass—”

There was an audible crack as Mathias struck the Reaper clean on the side of the head, teeth bared, his face twisted in fury. Rayan hadn’t witnessed his former capo’s particular shade of brutality in a while, and the sight sent ice down his spine.

The man tottered, almost able to recover, but Mathias was faster, a fist to the guts sending him crashing against the warehouse wall. “We’re done here,” Mathias instructed Truman’s lackey. “Take it up with your boss inside.”

The man glowered, managing to heave himself up and stagger to the front of the building. Rayan got to his feet as Mathias approached.

“You let that ape lay hands on you,” Mathias snarled. He reached out to grip Rayan’s chin and turned his head to inspect the bruise throbbing along his cheek. He clicked his tongue. “If I taught you one thing”—his voice was lower now, his grip softening, gray eyes revealing a flicker of concern—“it was how to defend yourself.” Mathias dropped his hand. “Come on.” They walked back to the car, and Mathias got in behind the wheel, pulled out of the alley, and sped down the road. “Of all the fucking things,” he muttered. “I knew you shouldn’t have come.”

He was angry, not in the scornful way he’d been in those early days when Rayan had fucked up on a job but in a way that made him grip the steering wheel with both hands. Rayan stared at those hands. He could see the redness along the knuckles even in the low light. His fault. Mathias was right—he shouldn’t have come. He was no longer able to protect himself, let alone Mathias.

“What happened in there?” he asked, if only to distract them from his failure.

“It’s done,” Mathias said curtly. “Truman and the family are done.”

Rayan attempted to read his impossible expression.

“And Allen…?” Mathias returned.

The full weight of what Rayan had done came crashing down on him. He fought to control the panic that constricted his throat. He’d gone behind Mathias’s back to make a deal with the inspector. There was no version of reality in which that would go down well, and judging by the grim look on Mathias’s face, things were already far from good.

Rayan recalled their conversation back at the man’s apartment and how Mathias had been adamant about staying and taking his chances here. Mathias’s loyalty to the family was his blind spot, and as the ship began to sink, it would pull him under. This loyalty—the need to prove that he wouldn’t buckle under pressure or betray the allegiances to which he’d given his word—had prevented Mathias from using the photos to his own advantage.

But Rayan couldn’t stand the thought of what would happen if Allen succeeded in taking Mathias down. Over the past few years, he’d watched parts of Mathias emerge from the darkness, bit by bit. When Mathias had returned from his short stint in jail, for a moment, it had felt like he’d once again disappeared from view. He couldn’t let Mathias lose what had been so painstakingly reclaimed. So Rayan had taken his chances, hoping that he could save Mathias without destroying what they had.

“I got her out,” Rayan said evenly.

“Bet she was an ungrateful little shrew about it too.”

Rayan thought about how the inspector had gripped his arm. He’d felt the clench of terror in her fingers. “That about sums it up,” he said, staring straight ahead.

Mathias pulled the car up to the curb a street away from the safe house. “You hesitated,” he said into the silence of the cab. “You haven’t done that since the beginning.”

Beside him in the passenger seat, Rayan pressed his lips hard together.

“Give it to me.”

Rayan reached for the gun in his waistband and placed it down on the dashboard. “I could’ve done it,” he said, his voice tight, unconvincing.

“I won’t let you put me in that position again. From here on, you stay out of this, understood?”

“Mathias—”

“Don’t fucking start with me,” he growled. “This isn’t your world anymore. You’d do well to remember that.”

It was just as much for his own sake as it was Rayan’s. When he’d stepped out of the warehouse to find the man on the ground, the explosion of rage had been blinding and immediate. He didn’t function well when thoughts of Rayan’s safety crowded out all reason.

Mathias felt Rayan’s eyes on him, but he refused to meet his gaze. There was a click as Rayan opened the passenger door and then a thud as he closed it behind him and disappeared into the darkened street. Mathias let out a slow breath and attempted to straighten the mess in his head. He wasn’t sure exactly what would come of cutting ties with Truman, but he did know that it wouldn’t stop the Feds. If the threat of retribution hadn’t deterred Truman, who would be next?

His eyes fell to the gun on the dashboard. The look on Rayan’s face as he stared up at Truman’s lackey—that was the kid from before, brought suddenly back to life. He remembered that look from the early days, when Rayan had yet to prove himself as his second.

It would have been about a month after Mathias had taken him on. There had been one attempt prior to this, and Rayan had failed spectacularly, proving right all of Mathias’s assumptions. He’d driven Rayan back to the Collections office and told the man he was done with him. But Rayan had refused to get out of the car, imploring him to give him one more chance, and Mathias, taken aback by the intensity of his reaction—this from a kid who barely spoke—had reluctantly agreed.

“You’ve been here too long not to have skin in the game,” Mathias admonished Rayan as they got out of the Mercedes and headed toward the row of tumbledown houses set back from the road. “What happened last time…” They approached the house at the far end of the row, nestled in a forest of ivy and overgrown shrubs. “Choke like that again, and don’t bother showing your face tomorrow. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“If you’re serious about this, then prove it. Loyalty doesn’t mean shit unless it’s sealed in blood.” Mathias came to a stop and turned to his second. “There will be no more chances.”

“Yes, boss.”

From where they stood on the street, the building looked abandoned. Heavy wooden boards shuttered the windows, and piles of junk mail were strewn about the unmown lawn. Mathias tilted his chin toward the house. “Barry Olman. He’s been dodging his debts for months. It’s bigger than Collections now. He’s spreading rumors to rival groups, threatening to go to the cops. Word’s come from up high. We need him quiet.”

Rayan nodded, his face blank.

Mathias tested the handle on the back door and was surprised to find it unlocked. So Olman was slippery but not smart. They entered silently, Rayan ahead of him. The house was dark and in disrepair. Parts of the walls had been smashed in, and loose panels hung haphazardly from the ceiling, allowing a direct view into the attic.

As they stepped into the front room, Mathias spotted a lone figure stretched out on a tattered brown sofa. He was wrapped in a pile of blankets, and in the dimness, Mathias could just make out the top of his head and the shape of an ear. Rayan removed the gun from beneath his jacket and flicked off the safety. On the sofa, the man let out a rumbling snore, almost rousing himself. Rayan stepped over and gave the sofa leg a sharp kick, startling him awake.

“Hey, what the fuck?” The man tumbled off the sofa in a stupor and quickly got to his feet.

“Olman?” Rayan asked.

The man squinted, his eyes still smeared with sleep. “What’s it to you, asshole?”

Then it must have dawned on him. Olman hadn’t had dealings with either Rayan or Mathias—he’d been on Franco’s list—but it wouldn’t be difficult to put two and two together and recognize who they represented.

“End it,” Mathias instructed his second from the corner of the room. But Rayan stood, the same conflicted look on his face, the same hesitation.

Mathias felt a twinge of foreboding as he remembered the fear in the kid’s eyes when they’d first met. Too soft. He’d thought it then, and he thought it now. Death was a fact of life in the family. To falter here would cost Rayan more than he knew.

Mathias sucked his teeth, no longer patient. He’d given Rayan a second chance, and he wasn’t in the habit of giving anyone the opportunity to disappoint him twice. There was no way around it—the kid wasn’t cut out for this. Mathias reached beneath his jacket and unclipped his holster, forced once again to take matters into his own hands.

His second seemed to interpret this as a sign. Before Mathias could step forward, Rayan’s face hardened, and he plugged Olman with two perfectly aimed shots, one to the heart and one to the head. The man crumpled to the floor at his feet.

A silence fell over the room. It was so quiet that Mathias could hear Rayan’s ragged breathing. He stood deadly still, his arm remaining outstretched, gun aimed at the space Olman had occupied just moments before.

“We’re done here,” Mathias said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Rayan started as if coming out of a trance. He dropped his arm and holstered his gun with a series of jerky movements. As Mathias watched his second put himself back together, he felt an unfamiliar sense of responsibility, as though by crossing paths with Rayan that fateful day by the river, he’d unwittingly cursed him. But Mathias hadn’t seen the conflicted look again. From then on, there was no hesitation.

Back in the car, Mathias stared at the gun on the dashboard, the black barrel illuminated by the soft glow of a nearby streetlamp. Then he reached out and tossed the pistol into the glove compartment. He snapped it shut with a click. As he sat back in his seat, his body flooded with a wave of relief.

Mathias had thought he’d taken something from Rayan—torn it from him—when he’d forced his hand all those years ago. But it had never really gone. Whatever Rayan had done to function as he had during his time working for the family had faded, and Mathias was glad for it. He turned the key in the ignition and pulled the car out onto the street, his mind clearing. There was one more person he needed to see.