Entombed In Sin (Graveyard Games Duet #2)

13. Sagan

13

SAGAN

B y the time we get to our final destination for the evening, I know Knox has won over Beatrix. Her hesitancy to smile at him has dissolved, and he’s even managed to get her to laugh. It’s not because she’s still drunk off her first kill, either. No, this is all Beatrix. I never doubted they would reconnect. Knox has a way with people that I will never understand. He can unthaw even the coldest bastard. Usually, with those ones, it’s only so he can see the shock on their face while he slits their throat.

I enjoy watching those kills.

While pleased with the situation, as the deep bass of the club rattles my insides, I’m beginning to wish he’d come up with a different idea to sway Beatrix to his side. Fighting off men who seem to seep from every corner of every establishment we’ve entered who want to talk to Beatrix has been a full-time job. They descend upon my pet, not seeing anyone else but her, stopping only when Thatcher or I move to block their view. I want to blame the outfit, and Knox who put it on her, but I know that’s not the case.

Beatrix is a naturally beautiful woman. But this evening, in that outfit, happy and clearly drunk, she’s a siren’s call. What’s more, she doesn’t even seem to notice the attention she’s drawing. Clearly uncomfortable, she continuously adjusts the corset she wears or tugs at the skirt. Her shy, reserved nature is poking out, making her even more endearing and attractive to the fucking assholes of Chicago.

She will be the perfect bait once we eliminate the potential threat hanging over us.

Knox is just as appealing. I can see the curiosity and hunger in the expressions of those unfamiliar with his extravagance. Men and women alike are drawn to him. The overly used hyperbole; a moth to a flame comes to mind. He’s flirtatious, confident, and coy. His uniqueness and how he owns it makes those around him both envious and uncomfortable. They want to explore that, meaning they want him.

From where I stand on the second floor, against the wall and in the shadows, I watch the two of them dance. My heart clenches. I grunt at the warm, unfamiliar feeling gathering in my chest and then let out a pained groan as my heart suddenly swells painfully large at the sight of Beatrix turning to look at Knox and Knox smiling at her. They look good together. A smile teases the corners of my mouth. Knox might have found a way to win over my pet, but she seems to have wiggled her way under his skin as well. He’s let her in on one of the few places he doesn’t mind being touched. That’s a big step for him. It took him four months to tell us where we could lay our hands on him without it causing pain.

Annoyance erases the warm fuzzy feelings as a handful of men begin to crowd Knox and Beatrix. I bite the inside of my cheek. How dare others covet what’s mine?

“We should get out of here,” I grumble. The ‘before I do something stupid’ goes unspoken but Thatcher hears it loud and clear.

The woman leaning into Thatcher throws me a pouty look. “Don’t leave me, boys. I promise I can be fun.”’

“I can tell how much fun you could be,” Thatcher assures her, brushing a strand of her greasy black hair from her face. His other arm, wrapped around her thin waist, pulls her closer to him. The Jersey Shore -looking chick is about as fake as you can get. From the dark heavy eyeliner, the exaggerated plump lips, to her stiff as fuck tits—it’s all ridiculously over the top. And that spray tan? It makes her look like a rotten orange.

I can’t watch. My skin crawls every time he touches or pulls her close. I don’t know why. It’s never bothered me before when Thatcher flirts. In fact, we usually play off one another. Women and men alike love when twins fight over them. None of them realize until it’s too late that our attention is deadly. Tonight, however, the thought of touching anyone else makes me want to vomit.

I understand why Thatcher’s toying with her. Two men standing stiff and uninterested in the dark corners of this place would draw unwanted attention. We’d make people uneasy and the whispers and looks would start. Having a woman fawning over one, or both of us, allows us to blend in. Still, I recoil whenever this woman attempts to reach out to skim her ridiculously long nails down my arm. If she touches me, I’m going to lose it. The only hands I want on me belong to the two people having fun on the dance floor below.

“Unfortunately, I think my brother’s right,” Thatcher continues with a rueful sigh that he exaggerates for her benefit. “We need to get going.”

“Oh, well, if that’s the case,” she shoots me a sly smile, “let me go to the bathroom and freshen up. Then the three of us can head out of here.”

“Sounds good, darling. You go do that and meet us by the back door,” Thatcher smiles at her and she practically swoons.

“I’ll see you in five, handsome,” the woman promises. After planting a kiss on Thatcher's cheek, she steps out of his arms. Turning to me, Thatcher’s new friend tries to do the same, but I pull away.

“Not interested,” I growl.

She takes that as flirting and giggles. “ Sure you aren’t. See you soon, tough guy.”

With that, she saunters away, overexaggerating the sway of her hips, hoping we’re paying attention. The minute she’s out of hearing range, she’s forgotten. Thatcher turns to me and says, “We’re being watched.”

I snort. “We’ve had someone watching us since the minute we sat down at the first restaurant.”

The guy tailing us has long since melted into the crowd, but I know he’s around. He’s been keeping his distance, but I’m not sure why. Is this strictly surveillance like the guy who’d followed us last night home from Briar Glen?

Thatcher nods. “The tracker really is active then…”

“You had your doubts?” I frown. Why would someone go through the effort of putting trackers that didn’t work on our cars?

“No, I just didn’t want to believe someone has gotten this close without us knowing until now,” Thatcher corrects with an angry huff. “It’s hard not to believe it, though, when we’ve had a tail for the past five hours.”

I shrug. “Want to take care of him?”

Thatcher thinks about it. As he does, my eyes sweep the crowd below again until I spot Beatrix and Knox once more. I watch as Beatrix suddenly pulls away from Knox, whispering something into his ear before she starts pushing her way through the crowd. It doesn’t take a genius to realize she’s headed for the bathroom. Knox continues to dance, but he turns and watches her, never letting her leave his sight.

Good boy.

“No,” Thatcher decides suddenly. “Let’s cut our time here short and do a family game night. I want to fucking rattle someone’s cage. Whoever it is doesn’t want us hunting on their territory. Well, fuck that. I want to draw so much blood that the streets run red.”

A grin splits across my face. “I’ll text Knox.”

“Ok, ok, I see what you’re up to,” Knox says, rubbing his hands together as he leans forward between the driver and passenger seat of his car. “We’re about to play Bait and Fish, aren’t we?”

I can smell the alcohol on his breath. I’m not worried though. Knox can drink like a camel and function just fine. It’s almost disconcerting how well he can hold his liquor.

“What’s that?” Beatrix asks curiously, her words slightly slurred.

My mouth twitches.

“It's only one of the most fun games in the world,” Knox explains as he sits back in his seat. “The guys set me loose on a sketchy looking street, and I sway my ass as I walk up it. People can’t resist approaching me. Thus, I become the bait.”

Thatcher chuckles from the passenger seat. “According to social media, there's a ‘bomb-ass party’ happening around here. It’s a bunch of college students. The party should be fizzling out soon, so this is the perfect opportunity to cause a little mayhem.”

Why the fuck is Thatcher sending Knox there ? He knows what that type of environment does to Knox. Then again… that’s probably my answer right there. If my brother really wants blood to spill tonight, sending Knox into a party like this will certainly do the trick.

“So there’s going to be a whole lot of fucked up people. Perfect!” Knox exclaims gleefully. “Sounds like we’re playing Fish In A Barrel instead. Even better!”

I stare at the streets as we approach the house the GPS is taking us to. Knox’s first guess wasn’t a bad one. The neighborhood here is, well, rough. Most of the row houses are boarded up and have been for a while. Gangs have tagged street signs, glass and trash have collected along the side of the streets, and I catch sight of a rat scurrying beneath a parked car. There are a few people out. Groups of younger kids hang on the occasional stoop, couples hurry to wherever they need to go.

As we make a few more turns, the houses become just a smidge nicer.

Fewer buildings are boarded up here. Lights are on in windows and families are inside. The people out and about are friends. They loiter in the streets and laugh with one another. A bicycle flies by us as we stop at a stop sign. As we continue on, a few drunken young men help keep each other up by swinging their arms over each other’s shoulders.

We’re close.

The blood in my veins warms and races. Big cities like this make for easy pickings. Even with all the security cameras, doorbells that record, and phones in everyone’s hand—if you strike fast and subtly enough, none of that matters.

I roll my shoulders, aching to get this night going.

“Ok, I’m dropping you off here, Knox. Are you ready?” Thatcher asks. “The house is two blocks up that way.” He points to the right as we come to a four-way stop.

“Got it. I’m psyched, let’s do this!” He whoops and Beatrix giggles in response.

As Thatcher stops the car, Knox leans forward and plants a kiss on my cheek, then Thatcher’s. He pulls back, opens his door, and as he climbs out he says, “Give me an hour and let’s see how many fish I can catch. Wish me luck, boys.”

“Have fun, Pretty Boy,” Thatcher calls out.

Knox doesn’t look back as he saunters up the street, hips swaying and a hand raking through his wavy blond curls, heading toward the party. My eyes linger on his ass. Once we’re done here, I’m going to take it.

Thatcher doesn’t linger along the side of the road. He pulls away and turns left at the intersection and takes off in the opposite direction.

“An inebriated Knox with a group of assholes… I didn’t realize you were looking to cause a massacre tonight,” I growl as I look over at Thatcher.

My brother shrugs with a smug smile. “Didn’t I say I wanted the streets to run red? You know better than to think I was exaggerating. In any case, you know how much Knox loves being around assholes his age.”

I do know that. I also know how carried away he can get in this type of environment. The last time we played this game, he’d been nearly fucked before we got there—having antagonized one too many marks at one time. But Knox can’t seem to help himself in these situations.

“We’ll be there if he needs help,” Thatcher says unnecessarily.

Of course we will be. In the meantime…

As Thatcher drives, taking random left and right turns, I turn my head—not quite looking over my shoulder, and ask, “Are you ready to play, Little Viper?”

There’s a short pause. Her nervous energy behind me has been an ever-present feeling since we got into the car. Knox’s excitable one overpowered her apprehension, but without him here, Beatrix is left exposed. I half-expect her to balk. Last night, she had the safety of solitude to explore the thrill of killing. Tonight will be vastly different, and I’m sure she’s picked up on that, drunk or not.

“What do I need to do?” she asks.

Surprise and delight are a warm burst of emotional fireworks in my chest. Her eagerness, my reaction—both are unexpected but welcomed. My lips peel back in a grin as I turn in my seat to give her my undivided attention. Despite her drunken, happy stupor, Beatrix flinches at my abrupt movement. She tucks her chin against her chest, drops her gaze to the floor of the car, and pulls her shoulders inwards. I hate the reaction.

Like Knox, my pet has triggers due to the trauma in her past. But unlike our Pretty Boy, who lashes out in a fit of rage, too much or really any type of attention causes my pet to shrink into herself. As if she’s coiling tightly to protect herself. I’m going to snuff that reaction out of her one day.

Thatcher pulls to the side of the street in one of the rougher neighborhoods we’ve driven through. A single guy four stoops ahead of us sits with a cigarette in his mouth and pays us no attention. At least, he’s pretending not to.

“Just get out and walk down a few streets looking as edible as possible,” I tell her.

That shouldn’t be too hard for her. Beatrix’s timidness—punctuated by how she walks with her head down, hands wringing together, and quick strides—will be a beacon for the perverted and deranged. As will her lack of clothes.

“Edible?” She lets out a nervous giggle. “How do I do that?”

Thatcher answers before I can, “By just being yourself.”

I expect her to ask more questions, or to hesitate. This really isn’t a great part of town. Just thinking about leaving her, if only temporarily, makes me feel… uneasy. She’s too easy of a target. It won’t even be much of a game. Then again, who cares about the game? Tonight is all about how much blood we can spill.

“Ok.” Beatrix nods once before reaching for the door handle. She shivers hard at the cold wind that hits her when she opens the door. “You’ll be close?”

“Of course,” Thatcher promises.

Beatrix smiles at him, then hops out. She shivers hard once before she looks back at us and says, “Alright, I’ll see you in a bit.”

With that, she shuts the door and starts to walk. It’s not in a straight line, but hey—her drunken stumbles work just as well. I chuckle as my brother hits the gas and takes off, leaving Beatrix to walk these sketchy streets on her own.

“She’s going to make this too easy,” Thatcher says.

“Good, we can’t go too far anyway,” I growl. “Knox might get himself into trouble before we catch up to her if we let it go on too long.”

Thatcher nods as he takes another turn, then another. “I’ll drop you off two blocks away. Then I’ll get out and circle around?—”

Something hard hits the windshield. Both Thatcher and I flinch as the egg shatters against the glass and the yoke slides down, obscuring Thatcher’s view of the road. He snarls.

“Fucking kids…” he growls and flips on the windshield wipers.

Rather than removing the yoke, the wipers only smear it, making visibility worse. Even with windshield wiper fluid, the egg doesn’t come off.

“Great,” Thatcher grumbles as he’s forced to pull to the side of the road. He doesn’t cut the engine, but he throws the car into park and climbs out. I reach down and grab my black ball cap. After it’s settled, covering my face, my bangs helping to obscure my face more, I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my gloves, prepared to go clean up the mess. Just as I yank them on, I hear someone snap, “On your knees motherfucker, or we’ll blow your head off.”

At the sound of someone threatening my brother, I don’t hesitate. I throw open my door and step out of the truck. As I straighten, I find myself looking down the barrel of a gun. The man holding it can’t be older than eighteen, though I could be wrong since most of his face is covered in tattoos. More ink runs down his neck and disappears beneath the collar of his thick jacket. He flashes me a grin, a gold tooth glinting in the streetlights.

“Same goes for you, homie,” the kid warns. “On your knees.”

I glare at him, feeling no fear of death, only annoyance it might happen at the hands of a child. And with a gun, no less. Psh. A coward’s weapon.

I could disarm him. The only thing that holds me back from moving is that he’s not alone. There are seven other guys surrounding the car, dressed in baggy clothes, oversized jackets, and covered with ink with their own guns drawn, pointed at me or Thatcher.

On the other side of the car, Thatcher slowly sinks to his knees. My teeth gnash together as anger and annoyance ripple through me. This isn’t how I saw the night going. They should be quaking in terror because of us. But Thatcher and I have brought knives to a gunfight, and we’re outnumbered. Fighting, we stand no chance. Yet on our knees, it isn't any better. Unable to figure a way out of this without both of us ending up dead, I’m forced to kneel.

As my knees hit the cold cement, I can’t help but feel a surge of panic and rage. Both are rare and uncomfortable emotions, inspired by the thought of Beatrix. We dropped her off, and she’s wandering these streets, expecting us to be watching out for her. If we don’t get out of this mess and go find her, she could be in serious fucking trouble soon.

“Got any money?” the guy in front of me asks. “Empty your pockets.”

I glare up into his eyes. The brown orbs blaze with a smug satisfaction. Slowly, I trail my gaze over his face, memorizing each tattoo and the structure of it. If I don’t kill him tonight, and he doesn’t kill me, we’ll meet again. I’ll make sure of that.

“Quit it,” another member snarls.

“Ah, c’mon! Might as well make something from this,” the kid in front of me complains loudly.

“Shut up,” the guy holding a gun to my brother’s temple snaps. He turns and looks at the other guys around us. “Everyone just fucking wait for the signal.”

A signal? What the hell is this about? Is this some game set up by their boss? I don’t know much about gang activity, but this feels… odd. From what little I do know, I expect to be robbed, beaten, and probably killed. But no one moves.

In the back of my head, I wonder if this has to do with the person tracking us. The idea is fleeting. There’s no way these two things can be connected. Gangs don’t work like this. They don’t use trackers.

My attention turns to the guys on either side of the man pointing a gun at my face. Their expressions are grim, but their attention is elsewhere. One even looks over his shoulder, searching for some sign of trouble or whatever signal they’re waiting for. Interesting… this can’t be a normal hit. Otherwise, they’d have killed us or tried to beat our asses by now. Why wait? Their lack of action tickles my insides. If we made our victims wait, it was because we were too busy inflicting terror or pain. These guys are waiting like dogs on a leash. They can’t act without their owner’s permission.

Fucking weak-ass bitches.

A smile toys at my lips as time ticks by, confirming my suspicion. I check the gun pointed at my face. The safety is on, a rookie move. If he was going to kill me, he should’ve taken it off. Because by the time I move?—

I’m on my feet, snatching the gun from the guy’s hand. As I flip it around on my assailant, I remove the safety and shoot him in the head. His eyes widen before they roll up and he collapses to the ground. The move surprises everyone. Before anyone can react, I turn the gun to the next closest member. Shock freezes him in place. Sucks to be him. The gun in my hand goes off, and even before his body hits the ground, I’ve killed one more of his buddies. Four are dead within seconds of one another. The gun in my hand isn’t the only one that goes off, though. I spin to find Thatcher holding onto one, and the men around him are now on the ground, dead or dying.

Looks like great minds think alike.

A well of laughter climbs up my throat and spills out of me. This is not how I foresaw the evening going, but fuck if this isn’t better. The dead lie scattered around us, their blood pooling around them like full body halos. Around us, the houses are quiet. The boarded-up row homes only house cockroaches and maybe a few homeless who have no intention of sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong.

“Knox is going to be pissed he missed out on this,” Thatcher says with a grin.

“Naw, he’s having the time of his life,” I object as I toss the gun onto the corpse it once belonged to. With my gloves on, I’ve left no prints meaning the police will be none the wiser on who did this. “We leavin’ these guys or tossing them into the back of the truck and taking them back to Bright Starr?”

“Let their blood stain these streets,” Thatcher snarls with a predator’s delight. “Let whoever is watching us see that we’re not intimidated by him.”

I nod as I turn to catch Thatcher tossing the gun into a sewage runoff.

“We need to get going,” I tell him. “Beatrix?—”

A whistle pierces the air. The sound comes from a distance—that I’m sure of. The only reason it sounds loud is because of the empty houses, the noise bounces off. This must be the signal these guys had been waiting for.

I wonder what the point of this job was for them? Was it an initiation thing? I’ll have to do some research when we get home. While fun, I’m not sure we can afford to risk coming back to this particular part of town. Not if we don’t want a repeat performance.

“Come on, we need to get to Beatrix,” Thatcher says quickly as he slides into the driver’s seat. “She might’ve found herself in a similar situation.”

The thrill of killing dims as I think about her facing off with a group of armed fiends. My hands curl into fists. None of these fucking bastards get to touch my Little Viper.

“Let’s go.”