Chase
I watch the scene from behind a thick tree.
Grace runs into the arms of Cyrus whose badge swings wildly against his chest. She babbles and gesticulates like a lunatic, then they hug. My jaw clenches. My fingers curl around the cool hilt of my knife—they only relax when my phone starts ringing in my pocket.
“You have nothing to do with what just happened, right?” Lucas’s voice is stoic, calm. His arrogance makes me furious.
“It was them,” I reply.
“How did you find out?”
I don’t answer. I can feel his arrogant smile on the other end of the line. I’d very much like to wipe it off his face.
He let me rot in jail for years—while letting them avoid prison.
“Ortíz will pick you up. Stay where you are, and don’t do anything even more stupid.”
His patronizing words make my lips twist into a dark smile.
I slide my phone back into my pocket and keep watching the scene unfold in silence. I don’t move. I am one with the night. These idiots probably believe their perpetrator is on the run. But he’s here, hiding in the dark, watching those bastards get packed into body bags.
Ortíz parks his car behind my hiding spot.
When I get into the Chief of Police’s car, the smell hits me—worn leather, cheap, stale coffee, and the musty scent of his clothes, tinged with Cheetos.
The arrogant bastard pulls his thick lips into a lopsided, sly smile.
I lock eyes with him through the rearview mirror, and a memory slowly crawls into my mind.
For a moment, I feel the echoes of old pain—my arms twisted behind my back, a knee between my shoulder blades, cold handcuffs biting into my bones.
I crack my neck and rub my wrists. That was still much better than what the prison guards put me through.
The shitheads used to come at me in a pack, beat me with their batons, and shock me if I resisted.
They thought they were doing Cyrus Phoenix a favor—back when he had no idea how much shit he’d just gotten himself into.
I throw up my hood and pull it down over my eyes. My lips curl into a menacing, dark smile, because it’s time to pay Cyrus back for what I owe him.
Ortíz drops the junker into first gear. For a few seconds, the engine fights for its life, then we start moving along West Main Street. We cruise through the districts until we merge onto Road 35, where he steps on the gas. The city’s lights blur together in the distance.
The night belongs to darkness—nothing moves, no other cars haunt the road. It’s only us, driving along this forsaken stretch toward Lucas’s luxurious mansion.
Lucas doesn’t allow darkness inside his home.
In the middle of an estate turned into a park, his mansion glows like a lighthouse, spilling warm light into the night.
It’s an impregnable fortress. He has more guards than a prison.
Both the massive northern and southern gates are manned by armed men.
Within the estate, more walls and gates separate the different parts and residences.
The circular driveway is flanked by a gorgeous park, lined with forty palm trees, each forty feet tall. A fountain rises at its center.
After we get through the first checkpoint, the guards stop our car, make Ortíz step out, take his service weapon, and search him.
Seeing the arrogant cop reduced to scared prey puts a tight, cold smile on my face.
He looks like a rabbit before it enters the den of a sly fox.
Both sides of his pale face burn red, and even though he acts as if he was only trembling from nerves, he’s terrified—his pupils dilate and darken as he struggles for air, watching the guard dogs snap frothingly, their white teeth bared.
“You’ll get it back on the way out,” one of the guards tells him in a deep, measured voice. He’s dressed all in black, melting into the darkness.
Ortíz wipes his sweaty hands on his pants and grips the steering wheel. When we’re far enough from the guards, he starts swearing at them under his breath, his voice low. He’s as pale as a ghost.
“Everyone abuses their power. You cops ignore the law pretty often too.”
“Some of us do, yes.” He wipes his brow with a checked handkerchief. “But most of us are decent, honest people… son.”
“Then why do you serve Lucas?” I raise one eyebrow and cross my arms over my chest.
“It’s not just me.”
“I know. But that wasn’t the question.”
“Why do you want to hear my answer if you know so much?”
“There are two kinds of people who serve Lucas. And I’m curious which category you belong to.”
“At first, it was nice to have a bit of extra money. Back then, he only asked me for small things. Then the requests became more and more serious… and started to cross the line I had drawn. I said no—more than once.” Ortíz gazes into the emptiness, the bright light spilling from the mansion and illuminating his profile.
His freckled skin is pale like a corpse, slick with a sheen of cold sweat.
“He kidnapped my son.”
“But he gave him back.”
“Only days later. Fortunately, he doesn’t remember much—he was only four years old. But his mother and I… those days were hell. I realized that if you don’t want anyone to get hurt, you shouldn’t say no to Lucas.”
He pauses. “What’s going to happen now? Will he get your ass out of trouble? Or will he let me put you behind bars again?”
My jaw clenches. I bite the inside of my mouth and taste blood on my tongue. I jump out of the run-down police car without a word. Lucas’s men move through the night like ghosts, two of them flanking me immediately and leading me to their boss.
The villa, adorned with enormous windows, boasts thirteen bedrooms, seventeen full bathrooms, and eight smaller ones.
The largest communal space is dominated by an old-world fireplace, while coffered ceilings and vast arched passageways evoke the interior of a castle.
We enter through double doors crafted from premium teak, and a grand foyer opens before us, leading into a four-thousand-square-foot formal living room.
At present, Lucas’s villa is the most expensive property—the most valuable home in all of Oklahoma.
The floors and surfaces are always so clean I can see my reflection in them.
The interiors have a refined, aristocratic style, defined by high-quality, handcrafted furniture—ornately carved and custom-made.
Muted tones dominate the expansive spaces.
Whites, light grays, soft neutrals, and creamy hues blend and alternate throughout.
The chandelier hangers, as well as the cabinet and door handles, are finished in polished dark bronze. So much luxury.
Lucas is sitting in an armchair upholstered in white, wearing a suit—and a self-satisfied look on his face as he’s sipping whiskey and smoking a cigar. To his right sits the blonde whore—the cold-hearted bitch. Catherine.
I’m tense and bloody as I step into the room. My brother looks me up and down, smiling.
“You said you’d only watch her.”
“I was watching her,” I reply in a cool, calm voice.
Lucas tilts his head slightly and flashes me his charming smile. Arrogant prick. My brother is an arrogant prick—and a psychopath. It must run in the family.
His lips twist into a tight, self-satisfied smile.
He wants me to lose control. I can feel my pulse in my fingertips.
I let the knife slide down the sleeve of my hoodie.
We both take a lightning-fast step toward each other.
Lucas raises his hand and blocks my attack without spilling a drop of whiskey from his crystal glass.
He always kicked my ass when we were kids. He could probably kick my ass now too, if he wanted. Shitheads like that goddamn gang are easy to deal with. Lucas is a different beast entirely. He’s death made flesh.
He’s taller than me. Stronger. Leaner. And more vicious.
He inherited Dad’s features while I inherited Mom’s—my profile is mild, his is sharp and dangerous. His smile is malicious, his eyes radiate deceit.
He lets out an absent-minded laugh, then takes another sip of his whiskey.
“Calm down, little brother.” He nods to the girl, signaling her to leave us. He watches her as she walks away, then turns back to me, his face hard. “The whole station is buzzing like a beehive because of what you just did.”
“What should I have done instead? Watch her get raped?”
“No.” His answer surprises me.
“When are they coming for me?”
“They aren’t. Ortíz will take care of it.”
“But Grace…” My Adam’s apple lurches when I think about her eyes full of terror.
“They won’t take her statement. She’s a mess.
After what they did to her—or, more precisely, after what you did to her…
she doesn’t want to be in the headlines again.
She’s unstable. Several people can attest to that.
Ortíz will make it look like she was walking home when she saw the bodies and came up with delusional stories because of her troubled past.”
“They’ll think she’s crazy!” I lean into my brother’s face. His smell—the scent of his expensive, spicy perfume mixed with alcohol—hits my nose. My hands clench into fists at my sides.
“She is,” Lucas says with a cold smile on her face. “She’s not a reliable witness, and what she said might get… forgotten somehow.” He takes a sip of his drink.
I’m afraid Lucas is right, but Grace didn’t used to be like that. At least not before she was kidnapped.