Chapter 45
Forty-Five
Tiff
In all my life, with all that’s happened, I’ve never had a gun pointed at me.
I’ve been poked and prodded with needles.
Sequestered in scary machines.
Had ports put in my chest and slept in hospital beds that were so uncomfortable every single bone in my body ached.
Death had hovered close for years .
But never so near as the black barrel pointed at my face tonight.
And I can’t even ask what they want or beg for mercy or do my best to talk my way out of this.
Because my mouth is taped shut and my wrists are tied to a chair.
So, I’m doing my best to absorb every detail, to scour the room for any opportunity to escape.
Only…I’m coming up short.
There isn’t a knife within finger’s reach and, even if there was, my wrists are tied so tightly I don’t think I’d be able to maneuver it beneath the zip ties without slicing off a finger.
Of course, is there really any comparison between losing a finger and losing my life?
Not, certainly, after I fought so hard to be able to live it.
Not now that I have something so wonderful to live for .
So, I tamp down my panic, the fear that threatens to make me freeze and do nothing, and I scour the room for anything I can use to MacGyver my way out of this.
And as I do that, I listen.
The man is the one who’s clearly in charge, and if I hadn’t seen Angela in her full powers of bitch the other week at Chrissy’s house then I would have thought the woman in front of me was someone completely different—the good twin to the bad twin who is Jean-Mi’s hellish ex.
She’s cowed.
She’s sporting a black eye and a bruise on her throat that looks suspiciously like a handprint, along with cuts on her hands, wrists, and forearms (the latter of which I only saw when she shakily pushed her hair out of her eyes).
Pieces of a puzzle.
One that doesn’t make sense based on what I know about her, based on that single interaction with her.
But pieces I’m carefully gathering anyway.
“Where is he?” the man snaps.
I jump at the sharp question, not that I can go anywhere, but I jerk against the bindings.
Unfortunately, another piece of the puzzle is that Angela jumps too—and hers is paired with a flinch.
Damn.
“He’ll be here,” Angela says nervously, her eyes darting to mine. “Jean-Michel has barely been away from her. She texted and said she was on her way and didn’t show?” She shakes her head. “He’s probably already searching for her and it won’t be long before he’s doing it down here.”
She’s not wrong.
But that doesn’t make me feel any better.
Because Jean-Mi can’t walk into this.
He can’t.
“And he’ll make the transfer?” the man growls.
“Yes.”
“How can I know?” His question is cold. Angry. “You failed with the video feeds?—”
I still, stomach twisting.
The feeds at Chrissy’s house?
The ones Angela had been trying to hack into?
“ I didn’t fail,” she says, frost entering her tone. “Your team was slow and incompetent and fucked up on their task.” Her chin lifts. “Thankfully, I delayed Jean-Michel long enough so they could slip out without being seen.”
Shit.
What else had they planted at Chrissy’s place?
“What? You want a fucking medal? It didn’t make one bit of difference.” His words are snapped out. “That bitch’s house has been locked down tighter than Fort Knox ever since he caught sight of you. And now we’ve got nothing remotely useful to lean on him with.”
Relief that Chrissy is safe…
And more shit.
Because his words have Angela turning and looking at me—her expression filled with icy triumph.
“We have her.”
The man’s cold gaze comes to mine. “Well, she better pay off”—it swivels to Angela and I watch her flinch then try to hide it—“because with the Duarte deal going south?—”
That pings through my mind.
Duarte is the name of the company Marie found the connection with—Jean-Michel told me last night.
Same as he told me it may be the thing to bring Angela down.
Is it at risk of taking the scary man with the gun down too?
I struggle to bite back the panic again.
Because the man was scary before, but motivated by a potential lifetime in a federal prison?
I don’t love my chances.
“You’re the one who screwed up!” Angela snaps, throwing her hands up. “You weren’t careful and they connected my name to the Corporation. That’s your fault, not mine.”
One second, she’s yelling at him.
The next? He’s backhanding her, sending her down to the floor, her hand clamped to her face.
She doesn’t cry out.
She doesn’t look surprised.
It’s like she’s lived this violence, over and over again.
And maybe she has.
“Someone had to take that risk,” he says icily. “Just so happens that someone was you, so quit fucking bitching about it. Now shut up and get the shit ready for when Jean-Michel shows up.” A beat. “ If he shows up.”
“He’s got a white knight complex.” Her tone has grown hard. Sharp. Sneering. Like it was that night on Chrissy’s driveway. “Jean-Michel can’t resist the temptation of a damsel in distress.”
I wince.
Because that’s the truth.
And I’m terrified he’ll do something dangerous to save me…
Like signing something.
Like transferring something.
Like putting himself between that gun and me.
“I have the papers here,” Angela says holding up a stack. “ Trust me when I say that he’ll sign.”
“I’ve trusted you for a long time,” the man says, “and while it’s worked out in both of our favors, if you don’t come through on this then none of that will matter.” He steps close, voice threatening. “And if you fuck me over, it’s all over.”
“That one”—a jeering look—“is his newest duckling he’s hard up to save. He’ll come for her. You’ll get what you need, and then I’ll get what I need.”
“And what’s that?” he asks, that gun lifting, pointing at her.
She doesn’t blink. “Me out of this shit, once and for all.”
“Your father gets to decide that much.”
A glimmer of fear on her face, here and gone so quickly that I would have thought I imagined it if not for the fact that I’ve been paying such close attention to their conversation.
Another puzzle piece sliding into place.
Damn. Damn.
This is…
The gun points back in my direction.
…seriously fucked up.
And I don’t have a chance to ponder that, to wonder at Angela’s fear and the violence and those papers and her father…because death is close again.
Pointed down the barrel right at me.
“Now where should we start with you?” the man says, his eyes lighting up, telling me exactly how Angela got those scars.
“Patience,” she snaps, drawing his focus. “Jean-Michel will be pissed if his package is damaged. And put the fucking gun away for God’s sake. She’s tied up and it’s overkill.”
“I’m bored,” he says, stepping closer.
“Deal with it.”
He glares at Angela but does tuck the gun into the waistband of his jeans.
Unfortunately, the moment of relief I feel at that is here and gone in a second.
Because he bends, slips a knife from his boot. “Still, I might as well be entertained while we wait.”
I jerk again as the blade glints in the overhead lights and I hate that it’s bright enough to see the sick expression his face.
It’d be easier to cower in the shadows.
To not have to face this.
“Don’t,” Angela snaps.
“She doesn’t need to be completely undamaged,” he murmurs, shifting closer…and doing it while not lowering the knife.
“You’re a fucking idiot if you think that’s the truth,” she hisses, grabbing his arm, yanking him back.
“And you’re a dumb bitch if you think you have any power to stop me from doing what I want.”
“You need?—”
“Shut the fuck up,” he snaps, swinging out a fist.
I gasp, the sound muffled against the tape over my mouth, then freeze, worried I’ve drawn their focus.
But neither of them are paying attention to me.
Because—unfortunately for Angela—the fist the man swung out was the one with the knife.
Bright red appears on her blouse, starts spreading out, soaking into the material.
She staggers back a pace, falls to a knee, her eyes going wide in shock.
But I barely have the chance to absorb what’s happened.
Because the door room slams open…
And people stream into the room.