Chapter 18
Eighteen
Otto
The computer flashes in front of me as I click through windows, sifting through information until the words start to bleed together.
It was easy enough to find information on Ricardo McCoy at the surface level, but I’m looking for the deeper stuff now, such as how long his newly discovered embezzlement has gone on for, proof of misdoings, more accounts.
What I don’t expect to find so easily is his proof of abuse.
Medical records are easy enough to hack.
Unfortunately, most hospitals can’t afford, or refuse to pay for, top-of-the-line security, and it shows.
Ricardo’s medical records are clean mostly.
There’s a history of an STD when he was younger, an injury from a minor motorcycle crash that seems to have stopped his motorcycle interest altogether, and a chronic sinus infection he’s battled for years, but that’s about the extent of his history.
But Ava? Her medical history is extensive.
Most of her medical history transpired during her ten years of marriage. Before that, there were only a few cases of strep throat as a child. As an adult, married to Ricardo, there is so much, I have to take a deep breath before I start reading.
A slip down the stairs that resulted in a concussion.
Elsie’s birth which included its own complications and thirty-six hours of labor. She’d been alone for that despite being married, no spouse to support. It was significant enough for the medical staff to note her calling someone and them never coming.
A broken collarbone. A broken ankle. A broken wrist. Her tailbone had been broken at some point. Lots of broken toes. A few broken fingers. Femur. Radius. Ulna. She’s damn near had more broken bones than professional adrenaline junkies.
There was a deep gash in her thigh supposedly from slipping and falling, but the doctor had noted how clean the cut had been. Someone had asked if she was safe at home and noted in her file that they thought she might be being abused. She’d declined help.
But there’s one thing I never see in the records. Her daughter, Elsie, has a completely different history. No broken bones. No extreme injuries or sicknesses.
Which means Ava had probably taken it all to protect her daughter.
“Fuck,” I growl, rubbing my face. I knew it probably had to be bad, but god damn, this is worse than anything I expected.
I can’t fault her for staying so long. Narcissists have a way of gaslighting people until their victim hardly knows there’s anything wrong.
The fact she was able to leave at all and get her daughter out speaks to her strength.
But even I know men like Ricardo don’t just let sleeping dogs lie.
Her leaving would have been the biggest slap in the face.
He would have hated losing control. No doubt, he’s been looking for her since the time she left. She’s lucky it took him a year.
She’s lucky Dagen hates Ricardo enough to go forward with this silly plan.
“You need better security, mate,” Wylan says from the doorway, his shoulder leaning against the doorjamb.
I’d felt him come in, but hadn’t cared to look up. “I have the best security money can buy,” I point out.
And that’s true. There isn’t much that gets through that security without me knowing. In fact, the one man that could is standing in the room with me.
“Not so good if I got in, yeah?” he mocks, studying his black painted nails.
“How’d you find me?” I ask because I’d planned to stay low profile through this entire thing.
The less people who see my face, the better.
Dagen doesn’t come looking, trusting me to do his dirty work, but Wylan clearly hadn’t been happy with that.
No doubt the fucker had decided it was a puzzle to find me.
I suppose I should feel honored it took him two days.
I glance over at the man with a raised brow as he leans there, exuding sensuality and confidence.
“A few bits and bobs, some rumors, and a hunch,” he replies, grinning. “Your system took me six hours. I think you could find something better.”
When you look at Wylan, he doesn’t look like the deadliest assassin alive.
I’d never pick him out on the street as a threat, not in the way he actually is.
Wylan dresses between a mix of punk rock and death metal Chad.
Ripped black jeans, black chains hanging from the belt loops, studs in his jacket.
The belt he wears even has studs on it like was all the rage when we were kids.
He has piercings running along his ears, in his lip, in his eyebrow.
Black ink tattoos run along his skin where I can see, but they never touch his face.
He’s too pretty for that, even with his hair as black as the clothes he wears.
The only spot of color on Wylan is his eyes, which are the softest blue I’ve ever seen on a man.
“As if there’s any system that would keep you out,” I grumble, scrolling through more medical records.
“You’re not bloody wrong,” he laughs before walking across the room to lean over my shoulder. “Whatcha lookin’ at?”
“Medical history,” I admit.
“Whose?”
“Who do you think?” I respond, my voice belying my anger at just how much pain Ava suffered at the hands of Ricardo.
He whistles. “There’re so many broken bones, mate.”
I nod. “Yeah. There are.”
“The little girl—”
“Nothing,” I say before he can get the question out. “She protected her. Left before he could start in on her.”
“Thank fuck for that,” he surprisingly says.
I’ve never been jaded about what Wylan can do.
Both of us work in the shadows of the world.
My work makes it possible for people like him to do theirs, but I don’t pull the trigger.
I’d always assumed an assassin had to lack humanity to be an assassin, but perhaps, I was wrong.
Perhaps it’s because they have too much humanity.
Wylan never offs anyone who hadn’t done terrible shit at least. He’s got pretty solid morals for such a high-paid assassin.
“Do you have a reason for being here or are you just here to get on my nerves?” I ask, clicking out of the medical history and returning back to the finances.
I just need to find every business and connection Ric has screwed over.
We’re going to need that information if we’re going to bring him down like a couple of high school girls.
Jesus. This has got to be the most immature thing I’ve ever been a part of.
“I haven’t gotten on your nerves yet,” Wylan says with a grin.
“Yeah, but you will,” I reply, shaking my head.
“You need to come out of the shadows more often, mate.” Wylan laughs. “They make you stuffy.”
“Says the man who dresses like a shadow,” I point out with raised brows toward him.
He just grins. “I thought I’d just drop in to annoy you, but then figured I’d also ask for any current information. Trying to earn my paycheck, as useless as this feels. Can’t say I’m not enjoying it though.”
I shake my head. “Nothing new at the moment. Sorry to inform you of that fact.”
“How disappointing. Maybe I’ll go annoy Ava later then,” he shrugs.
I turn in my chair and meet his eyes. “Maybe. . . be careful when it comes to Ava.”
He tilts his head. “You think I’d hurt her?”
“You’re a hired assassin, bro,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“And you’re the world’s best hacker and on the most wanted list the same as I am. What’s your point?” he asks with a raised brow.
“My point is that I know Dagen spoke to you about the real plan, just as he spoke to me. This little job isn’t quite as little, and you shouldn’t fuck it up by hurting the woman that’s the catalyst for it.”
Wylan’s charming smile fades until there’s no emotion on his face at all.
I imagine that’s the look he wears when he points a gun at someone.
Cold. Calculated. Dangerous. He glances at my computer screen again where a picture of Ava sits, her bright eyes beautiful and still somehow dull compared to the real thing.
“I hear what you’re sayin’, hacker boy,” he finally answers, his eyes still on the picture. “Can you do me a favor?”
“What’s that?” I ask, watching him carefully.
“Send me a list of every injury she sustained while with him. Every bone. Every cut. With placement and detailed description.”
“What are you gonna do?” I ask, but I can guess.
“Nothing,” he responds. “Yet.” His hard eyes meet mine and I nod once.
“Consider it done.” Because if there’s anyone who deserves to taste the pain they put someone else through, it’s Ricardo fucking McCoy.
He slips out the door silently. I never even hear the door open and close. I’m willing to bet there aren’t even fingerprints left behind. He’s no different than a ghost.