19. Dallas
CHAPTER 19
DALLAS
As Isaac and I glide up the serpentine drive of Maurice's mansion outside the city, the opulence is almost suffocating—the sprawling manicured lawns of dazzling green seem to mock the darkness we're about to wade into. A man clad in all black meets us at the gate and escorts us toward the house. My hand instinctively brushes the gun at my back, tucked into the belt of my jeans. Its cold touch is the only promise of protection in this unknown place.
I inspect the surroundings while we walk, noting the security detail lurking like spiders in every lush corner and behind every plant. It’s late afternoon and shadows play hide and seek with the sun's last rays, revealing the subtle twitch of curtains on the second floor.
The mansion swallows us whole when we are inside, but the grandeur is hollow, as if echoing with the ghosts of dirty deals and hidden threats.
We're escorted through marbled halls, past the paintings that could probably fund small wars, under chandeliers dripping with light and deceit. Then, out onto the back terrace—a paradise carved in stone, where wealth whispers from each and every direction and the air smells like money and potential treachery.
Two men stand there, aged like expensive whiskey. The one in slacks and a light summer sweater turns to us, his smile tight as he greets Isaac, "Ah, my nephew."
Maurice, I deduce. The current puppet master of the Thoreau family. Jacob’s older brother. I've only seen photos of him a couple of times. The other man, in a suit and a tie, looks familiar but his identity is dancing just beyond my grasp. I can’t remember where I saw him. But I know I did.
"Isaac," Maurice's voice drips with false warmth, "you bring your new dog to family affairs now?"
I watch Isaac's jaw clench, the fingers of his right hand curling into a fist, but he holds back whatever is brewing inside him. "Uncle, if you’re allowed an army of mercenaries, I'm allowed one man for security… Right?"
A laugh bounces between the pillars, but it's not humor that fills the air—it's the scent of blood yet to be spilled.
My gaze ping-pongs between Maurice Thoreau and the second man. His eyes are stones, cold and hard. His name still eludes me, but the danger he poses is crystal clear.
"Why am I here?" Isaac asks.
Maurice shifts, the lines of his face hardening. He speaks without looking at Isaac, "You've become a liability, boy. An unpredictable element that the family can no longer afford."
Attention fully on Isaac now, the second man finally talks. "People with your... impulses shouldn't even draw breath." This voice—a voice I heard somewhere—is a mocking caress that makes my skin crawl. My hand itches to grab the gun hiding underneath my jacket. "A bastard brat, born of a dirty affair. You ruined my son’s career. You should have been left rotting in prison. But since you seem to be making deals left and right with the FBI and other street trash, I have to take care of you myself."
He flicks his wrist, a subtle command, and two hulking shadows emerge from the greenery like ghost soldiers summoned by his dark will.
Oh fuck.
"Sold me out to this piece of shit, Uncle?" Isaac spits out the words, betrayal etched into every syllable. "To him?"
Recognition jolts through me—the cut of the man’s jaw, the voice. It's Russo, his face plastered on billboards across the city, promising a cleaner, brighter future. But the question that nags me the most is: How does Russo know about Isaac working with the Bureau?
"You’ve never been one of us, Isaac," Maurice says and there’s dead finality in that statement and I can sense it, sense his distress. Because I know his secret, the secret his drunk lips spilled for me just days ago. "Georgie's assessment of you is correct," Maurice goes on while staring at his nails. "You're too much of a wildcard. Your freelancing endangers everything the family has been working toward."
"Freelancing?" Isaac's laugh is bitter and angry, holding no joy. "You and that Fat Fuck should be groveling at my feet for cleaning up the mess he made of our finances. Without me, you'd both be drowning in dirty cash and federal attention."
I’m listening to the exchange, two steps behind Isaac. Every muscle in my body is rigid.
This garden is like a stage, and death has its entrance cue. One of the security guard's hand slides into his jacket, drawing out a garrote. My thoughts fracture, splintering under pressure as Russo's voice says something my mind doesn’t register.
Murder is about to happen here and I need to do something, need to stop it.
"Boy, you're a fish that's learned to walk on land—impressive but unnatural," Russo’s words finally take shape as I silently follow the assassin’s movements. "And what do we do with anomalies? We correct them," Russo goes on. "And since you’re so hard to catch, since we can’t seem to send you back to prison, we’ll resort to other ways to serve justice."
"Justice" falls from his lips like a curse, and I know it's personal—a vendetta cloaked in righteousness. I don’t know what Isaac did to this man’s son but I trust that whatever it was, it was well-deserved. The Isaac I know doesn’t ruin innocent lives.
But this man, the one from the billboards, isn’t a good man. No good man brings a pair of killers for hire to someone else’s family meeting.
"You'll be dead soon, boy," Russo says, all cards on the table. "But I want to see you squirm before you draw your final breath."
Isaac's chest rises and falls with the tide of his rage, but I'm already moving, sliding next to him like a parasite clinging to its host.
"Trust me," I whisper in his ear. My movement is sudden, my gun cold against the skin of his temple, grip firm around his neck. He freezes for a fraction of a second as if he didn't get a warning.
The two liquidators falter, confusion engraving hard lines into their faces as they exchange a glance. The second one half-draws a gun but remains hesitant. I guess deviation from the plan was never discussed with them.
"Come on, Mr. Russo! Want your pound of flesh?" I shout, forcing bravado into my voice and shoving my gun into Isaac’s head harder. I need to make it look real, as real as possible. "Then come collect it yourself."
Russo laughs. Loudly. "If you want to be the Bureau’s collateral damage, Agent Bradley, I won’t stop you."
My blood turns to ice in my veins. How the fuck does he know my name?
"A fitting end for an agent turned rogue," Russo adds. "Don’t you think?"
I have no clue what’s going on anymore, but it's clear something isn't right. Maurice didn’t even blink when Russo blew my cover.
The puzzle pieces are shifting, forming an image I hadn't expected. It’s very possible we are in over our heads and all I have is one gun and my skills from back in the day.
Russo flicks his chin, a nonchalant gesture spelling violence. The garrote-wielder lunges forward—he’s determined to end us. He probably doesn’t even know how to get to our necks, but I give him ten out of ten for trying.
Without hesitation, I yank the gun away from Isaac’s head and point it at the assailant charging me. My finger tightens on the trigger.
Bang!
The shot I fire shatters the evening's deceiving calm.
The bullet finds a new home in the man's knee. He collapses down with a grunt. The wire drops at his feet, no longer useful.
"Isaac's the Bureau's property," I declare, gun swinging back to Maurice, who watches from his spot, unmoving, aware of the danger I bring. The next bullet is a warning that whistles past him, kissing the plant beside the man. Its leaves brush his cheek with death's fleeting touch. "If you want your revenge, go through the official channels, Mr. Russo!" I snarl out a threat and send a bullet into the air surrounding Russo.
Russo's smirk fades while his second killer advances, weapon drawn. Another shot bites the ground at his feet, and the message is clear—back off or bleed out.
I pull Isaac with me, arm locked around his neck, every muscle tensed for the sprint through the mansion's maze of opulence while the rest of the security detail is finally catching on to what’s going on.
No, fuckers won’t get me.
I won't let them.
I slam the passenger door shut and Isaac hits the gas before I've even buckled in. Tires screech, gravel spits—it’s a feral getaway from Maurice's place. My chest heaves as adrenaline courses through my veins. I realize I’m still holding the gun in my hand and, although there are no people around in this driveway except for the distant shadows of approaching security detail, I shouldn’t be this careless with a weapon.
"Jesus fuck, Dallas!" Isaac roars as we speed up the curling driveway and away from the house. "You didn't have to choke the life out of me back there!" His voice cuts through the roar of the engine, raw and ragged, and filled with a complex blend of emotions.
"Was trying to make it look real," I snap back, glancing in the side mirror. They're not giving chase—not yet. But I can’t hope that’s the end of it.
"Real enough to crush my windpipe," Isaac grumbles, downshifting as we weave into the traffic as soon as we turn the corner.
"I’m sorry." I watch his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. "Maurice and that other guy, Russo... they knew who I was, and they didn’t even blink."
Isaac's eyes flicker to mine for a split second, then back to the road. "Yeah, well, it sure as hell seemed that way."
"Who is he? Russo?" I demand. "And what did he mean about you ruining his son's career?"
Isaac's jaw clenches and he’s quiet for a long time until he finally growls, "The jerkwad deserved it."
"Why?"
"Don't want to talk about it," he says, voice flat, shutting down the conversation like slamming a steel door.
We drive on for a few seconds with nothing but the relentless hum of the road and the beat of my own racing heart.
Then Isaac suddenly orders, "Get my phone. Now." His expression is tight as he swerves around another corner, ignoring the traffic rules. "In my pocket." He tips his chin down to point to his chest.
I reach out and fumble with the fabric of his jacket, my hand brushing against the solid wall of his pectoral. A jolt, like static, sparks where the contact happens. Even through the clothes. He triggers something in me, something primal I can’t ignore. But I gather my wits immediately. There's no room for that kind of thought when danger is literally following us as we speak.
Instead, I concentrate on the task at hand—retrieving the phone. It’s a crappy flip one today. Another burner. It’s a different model every week, depending on what’s going on. Sometimes an iPhone and sometimes a thirty-dollar one.
"Dial J," Isaac orders. His deadly grasp on the wheel is the only thing keeping us from getting into an accident.
"Jeremy?" I clarify, thumbing open the phone and finding the contact list.
Isaac's eyes dart to the rearview mirror. "We're sitting ducks after that little performance of yours. Maurice will want blood."
"I thought it was only you he disowned."
"My people come with me. Maurice and I had an agreement when I came into business—I have my own crew. They don’t work for Thoreau. They work for me."
"I see." I press the aforementioned 'J' with a sense of urgency. The phone crackles to life on speaker, filling the vehicle with its static-riddled dial tone until Jeremy's voice eventually answers.
"Boss? What's going—"
"Pack up, get out!" Isaac shouts. "Uncle sold us out."
Silence.
"J? Did you hear what I said?"
"Can't. Eh… We got company here at the club. They refuse to leave without seeing you," Jeremy fires back, a note of tension threading his words.
"Company?" Isaac frowns. "What company?"
More silence, then it’s followed by background noise. Words that I can’t make out.
"He wants to speak to you," Jeremy mutters.
There's a shuffle, then, "Isaac, my friend. Remember me?" The slight Russian accent is oddly familiar. But it’s not Yuri. Not Shtyk either. "Vlad Solovey," the man supplies his name.
"Vlad," Isaac acknowledges, a lick of recognition entering his tone. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"I hear you've got bigger trouble than owing my father some pocket change."
"You could say so," Isaac replies. "And how do you know anyway?"
"I’ve got influential friends."
"Why are you in the club? Daddy sent his son instead of his bruiser to collect the rest?"
"Not exactly. I want to talk. In person."
The car swerves, tires screaming against the asphalt while Isaac grips the wheel like it's the only solid thing in a world gone liquid with chaos. My own fingers tighten around the phone.
"Talk?" Isaac asks, half laughing. It’s one of those bitter laughs. "In case you missed it, I'm knee-deep in shit right now."
"Which is why I can offer protection for Purgatory until then," Vlad counters smoothly. "Let's consider it collateral while we wait for the rest of the money you owe my father. But I do have another proposition. Just not over the phone."
"Your generosity knows no bounds," Isaac sneers. "Fine. But we’re doing this on a condition that if one hair on my people's heads is harmed..."
"Isaac," Vlad interrupts. "I'm not my father. It's not how I do business. Contrary to his outdated views, I value human lives. Your people will be protected."
There's a silent beat where the only sound is the engine's roar, the city outside blurring past us like a nightmare on fast-forward.
"Jeremy will get the location to you," Isaac finally concedes and then ends the call, casting a glance at me, the dark of his eyes piercing in the disappearing daylight. "What do you think it was all about?"
I'm an agent trained to analyze, predict, read between the lines of what's said and unsaid. Yet here, with the weight of Isaac's stare and the gravity of the situation pulling at me, I'm adrift. "I don't know," I admit.
I just hope this is not a trap.