24. Isolde
Isolde
The Spider’s accent is indistinct. His tone pleasant.
He is, of course, full of shit.
He and I both know it as we stand in the middle of an alleyway in Manhattan.
A few meters away from me, there’s a busy street full of financial workers, tourists, and wealthy women on the way to lunch.
That’s the thing about crime. Most of the time it doesn’t care how close you are to a busy, moving stream of people. If I yelled, what are the chances of someone noticing? Of sneaking down the smelly and creepy alleyway to help me.
And yelling has never been an option.
It’ll do you no good when you’re up against a Spider.
The man stands tall, the telltale tattoo along his wrist just peeking out.
Hadrian and I had both known the astronomically high likelihood of Cade sending along a Spider. I don’t think I’d ever truly accepted those odds, though, until I’m standing face-to-face with him.
Just me and the mercenary.
“Cade had said you’d gotten with the big wigs,” the Spider says. “Dress shopping with the Akatovs.”
His fake pleasantness grates on me.
“Is the food at Fujimori’s good?” he asks.
He’s no doubt been before. No one would have even noticed the man eating ramen. They had no idea who sat at the restaurant.
He wants you to be intimidated.
It’s Hadrian’s voice, and he’s right.
“You haven’t taken the shot yet,” I point out. He’d been so sneaky, he could have passed for the Ghost. One shot in the head, gone before Luis or one of the Akatov guards noticed.
The Spider laughs slightly, rocking on his heels. “Take your phone out, Isolde.”
I hate his use of my first name.
“Text your guard that you’ve found a big fish and you’re going to make a move. God knows you’ve made a name for yourself. Collecting contracts left and right.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” I ask. “Don’t the Spider’s—”
“You know nothing.” His hands are still clasped in front of him. He appears unbothered, but he won’t be taking any questions. “Now be a good girl and take out your phone.”
I pull it from my back pocket and write the text out to Luis.
“Turn it off.”
I switch the phone off, showing him the dark screen.
“Very good,” he praises, making my hackles rise. It’s no wonder he gets along with Cade. They’re both misogynistic pricks. “Now let’s go home, shall we?”
The Spider is in the driver’s seat of a black sedan. It’s a rental, a clean linen scent wafting from an air freshener.
Was I stupid getting into this car?
Everyone would tell me yes. But the truth is not many understand just how dangerous a Spider is.
There’s nothing in the car. Not a bottle of water, or a bag, or even a piece of trash. I’m not in the trunk, so I can’t be sure, but I’d say the Spider travels light.
He told me to get into the front seat and locked the doors. He hasn’t shown any signs of aggression. At least other than the baby names and the way he smirks when I follow his orders.
The car is silent, except for the occasional sound of the blinker. He used his windshield wipers after a bird took a massive shit on the front window. I took that as a sign of things to come.
“No music?” I ask. The car picks up speed as we enter the highway. I keep my eyes forward, scanning the sky. The longer we’re in the car, the more my heart rate ticks up.
Cade sent a triggerman the past two tries. The Spider will know how to use every weapon available to him. Gun, axe, knife, sword, or fucking nunchucks if he wanted. He hasn’t revealed a single weapon on him yet.
I expected death, but what I’m getting is so much worse.
Especially, because as we follow the highway, the truth begins to wash over me.
We’re headed to a private airstrip. He intends to take me back to the UK. Back to Cade.
“You normally used as a valet service?” I ask. So far not a single thing I say has upset him. “Seems kind of like an entry-level job for someone with your expertise.”
I’m not joking. The Spider should be offended at the request.
“So does, like, Cade have something on you?”
The Spider drives with one hand on the wheel, his seatbelt on. He checks his blind spot and moves over one lane.
“’Cause from what I hear you should be taking on—”
“I’ve been paid an ample amount of money to bring a bitch who doesn’t know her place to Cade.” He flashes me a smile, his eyes warm like he cares.
I find this more fucked up than anything. He actually likes this job. If I didn’t already know his views on women, it’d be pretty fucking obvious.
There’s a drumbeat wracking my entire soul as we turn down a long road. We drive right down the tarmac, heading toward a plane, ready and waiting for us. Stairs lead up to it.
There’s the wrong type of thrill running down me as I stare at the piece of machinery that costs millions of dollars. It’ll drop an obnoxious amount of carbon pollution as it flies over the Atlantic.
The Spider parks the car, turning it off. He opens his door, his long legs stretching.
He rounds the car, opening my door for me.
You’re actually going to do this? I question myself as I stand on shaky legs.
The plane is already running. I wonder how many people are on it. Is it just the pilot?
The whispers I hear of the Spider are so faint, they’re almost silent. I know they prefer to do as much on their own as possible.
Less people that way. Less hassle. Less ways to fuck things up.
Guess he’s not willing to fly commercially internationally when he’s on prisoner transport duty.
Not that he takes it seriously. He turns his back on me and begins to walk up the stairs. It’s a given I’ll follow him.
The tarmac is wide open, the vehicle locked. There’s nowhere to run that would do me any good. Not a single person in sight.
“Nah.” I stand a few steps from the bottom of the stairs. I’ll be fucking damned if I get on a plane after everything I’ve been through.
I don’t regret helping those girls escape Cade. I regret not stopping his operation entirely.
I didn’t come all the way to New York just to go back to London. Where Cade will terrorize me. Rape me. Slice my skin open and let me bleed out just until I’m on the brink, and then stitch me up again.
I can see it now. He’ll invite people to see me. The human Frankenstein who’s punished. A warning to some, a sick fetish to others.
“I’m not fucking getting on the plane, mate.”
The Spider stops halfway up the steps. There’s not even a sign of amusement or frustration.
He still takes it for granted that I’ll fall in line.
Most people do. Because who the fuck has ever gone up against a Spider and survived?
“I’m not going back.” I’m not sure who I’m telling—myself or him.
“Get in the plane, Matheson. We’re going to be late.”
“You really think I’m going to just get on the plane.”
“Yes.” He takes one step toward me.
My feet plant to the tarmac.
“Don’t make me do this,” he warns.
“Do what?”
“Give the overly overdone villain speech. It’s horrendously boring. Get on the plane, and I’ll even make you a warm cup of tea. Reacclimate you to your British roots.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll pass on the offer.”
The sun glints off the side of the plane. I don’t like the noise of the engines and the wind whipping against my skin.
“Shall I threaten to drag you?” It’s the first time his accent slips toward something more Russian.
“You’re better off just killing me. There’s no fucking way I’m getting on that plane.”
I should pat myself on the back for how my words remain calm. There is no backup here. It’s not like Ren with her orchestrated shootout. Hell, it’s not even like when we saved Len from Leopold. Adeline isn’t here with her gun.
The saying ‘you’re on your own, kid’ takes on a whole new meaning.
“Isolde,” the Spider warns. His dark hair sticks up thanks to the wind. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s in his fifties, but he’s fit. He’ll catch me if I run. But it’s not like there’s anywhere to run. “Get in the fucking plane. We have somewhere to be.”
“You want to be Cade’s bitch, go for it.”
There’s the trigger. A Spider is no one’s bitch.
“It must worry you.” He cocks his head to the side. “Knowing the person you’ve pissed off can afford me. What was it you said earlier? Valet service. Cade has gone to great lengths to ensure you arrive in London.”
He withdraws a gun from his waistband. “Shooting you doesn’t mean killing you. It’s just an extra charge if you bleed on any of the interior.”
I swallow, eyes narrowing on the gun. “Nah. Like I said, you’ll need to kill me, ’cause I ain’t fucking getting on that plane.”
He clicks the safety. “Start walking, Isolde.”
I take a step back, daring him.
The shot echoes.
It’s the blood I notice first, a delay, as my brain tries to protect me from the searing pain in my side.
“A clean fucking shot,” I laugh, my brow wrinkling. One eye leaks, but it’s not like my earlier sobs.
Of course he fucking shot me.
A weird Christmas jingle from my childhood worms around in my brain. Tristan’s face flashes next. And the scent of ramen, my mind freezing on the image of all the plants Jane’s set out at Fujimori’s.
I sway on my feet, fighting the urge to fall to the ground. To curl up and shut my eyes.
The Spider appears annoyed, his thick boots planting on each step as he descends the stairs.
“Shall I help you board?” The mockery pricks me. He grips my arm, and for the first time I’m in grasping reach of a gun.
I grab for it.
A spider lures their prey, tangling them in a web.
It’d be fucking nice if I had a way to poison and paralyze him, but I’m lacking the necessary biological means.
Instead I make do with the only thing I could think of. The only way I could get him close.
It’s not ideal, being shot. But a guy like the Spider takes the shot without any questions.
He smacks my hand, thinking he’s got the brute strength. I kick his shin. He grits his teeth, his annoyance brimming. My fingers skim the cold metal. Shifting his hand out of reach, he slaps my face, the sting momentarily dampening the pain radiating from the gunshot wound.
He tries to drag me by one arm, but I throw my weight down on the ground. It’s messy and unhelpful and hardly wins any awards for technique.
His boot slams into my face, nose crunching.
My arm slackens, falling to the pavement.
The Spider stands over me, gun pointed. “Shall it be two gunshot wounds before we’re even in the air.”
“Fuck you.”
His jaw spasms, his frustration rising. He should scoop me up. Throw me down in the plane.
Instead he bends down on one knee, his hand splaying around my neck, tightening.
The weight of what’s happening pins me to the ground, iciness pelting over my inflamed skin.
“You’re more than welcome to act like a brat for Cade,” he says, his words oddly neutral considering he’s choking me out. “But you’re getting on this fucking plane.”
His fingers squeeze tighter, my lungs struggling. A bloody hand—my bloody hand—fights against his.
There’s a glint of true evil in his hazel eyes. His face aloof.
A typical day for the Spider, I guess. Strangling women.
My hand slaps at his, tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. I turn my head as far as I can manage.
My sister is beside me, her pale face blank, her eyes glassy.
This is how a pedestrian on their early morning walk found my sister after her rapist strangled her.
Her hair had been caked in mud. Her neck bruised, her body treated like nothing in its final moments.
A man had shoved her to the ground, putting all of his strength into an act of brutality.
My sister had worn mauve eyeshadow with glitter. It was the first time in weeks she’d done her makeup, she was so stressed from the end of term. She’d worn her favorite pair of jeans. She’d sent me a photo from the dressing room at Topshop when she’d first bought them.
I do not want to die.
My other hand reaches up, waving in front of his face.
The Spider easily dodges, but I continue to reach, his annoyance increasing.
I feel the curve of his nose connecting to his cheekbone. His torso moves back, but my hand pushes, my fingers sticking into his eye.
At first they merely touch the squishy organ, but I keep pushing.
The Spider growls in frustration. His hand relaxes just the slightest. My torso lifts, jamming two fingers into his eye.
I instinctively know the foreign words he barks out are curse words. They spur me on, telling me I’m on the right path. With all the strength I can muster, I put the force of my weight into pushing at the delicate organ.
I know it’s nothing more than a nuisance because in this position, and despite using all my strength, I’m nothing more than a gnat to him.
But while he’s swearing at me—his eye closed and his balance off-kilter—my other hand smacks the gun out of his hand.
It skids across the pavement, barely an arm's length away, but the move startles him. He releases my neck, and we both scramble for the weapon.
My fingers grasp, curling around it tight despite pain exploding when his boot kicks my wrist.
“Matheson!”
All I see are the whites of his eyes as his upper body barrels toward me.
There’s no room to navigate. No time for my fingers to slip into a position they’ve been in a thousand times.
I simply throw a Hail Mary. I put as much force into my movements as my arm swings out. I slam the edge of the magazine into his temple, the gun again tumbling to the ground.
He slaps a hand to his head, and with more force than I’ve ever used in my entire life, my fingers dig into his shirt, right at his shoulders.
I slam him to the ground, barely registering the sick crunch.
It takes me another ten seconds to compute.
He’s unmoving. Blood trickles from the back of his head.
My lips part, and I feel like I could puke, but nothing comes out. I’m choking, my chest tight as I realize, thanks to the angle and force, the Spider hit his head in a way that caused immediate death.
“Oh, God.” I’m not one to pray, but the words rise from me, my hair sticking to my face as I sag back on my heels.
The Spider is dead. I am alive.
I killed him because I got lucky.
I continue to choke. Dry heaving on the tarmac.
At least until my hands clutch my stomach and I remember I’m bleeding because, like a fool, I taunted the Spider into shooting me.
“Isolde!”
I’m dimly aware it’s Luis and not Tristan calling my name. And while I’m so damn grateful to be saved, I really need Tristan right now.
“Isolde!”
I’m swaying again, on the cusp of passing out when a head swims in front of me.
I squint, taking in the stranger’s golden green eyes, dark curly hair, and lanky limbs. “Who the fuck are you?” I ask before everything goes black.