Chapter 18 Shyanne
SHYANNE
“Hey boss—”
“Close the damn door!” I shouted.
Carlo flinched and closed the door until there was only an inch left to speak through. “Damn. Calm down,” he said, sounding both confused and irritated. “I just wanted to tell you that your old man is here. He’s talking to Jackson, but he asked about you.”
Quickly pulling the tarp back over the car, I let out a sigh.
The damn thing was almost ready, but I didn’t want my staff seeing it.
I wanted to be sure every single one of them had plausible deniability if things went sideways with this plan.
I’d need to wait until they went home to bring out the welder and additional steel, so I could complete the louder portions of the work I had to do.
“I’ll be right out,” I said.
“Sure,” Carlo said, then closed the door to the paint room.
I’d kept the roll-up door locked since sneaking the car into the shop a few nights before, allowing myself and Jackson to work in secret.
I only let anyone in and out through the small side door.
The job we were doing was painstaking, but it had to be done just right, otherwise everything would fall apart before we even got started.
The closer we got to the day we had to pull this off, the more stressed out both of us became.
I headed to the door and stepped out into the main shop.
Dad was at the far end of the shop, talking to Jackson.
Rather than his usual walker, he was using his cane.
That irritated me. The walker was more stable and had a flip-down seat so he could rest if his joints got too tired or painful.
Typically, he only used the cane when he was going a short distance, but his pride sometimes got to him too much, and he used it when he was going out and about.
“Where the hell is your walker?” I asked.
Dad turned to look at me, taken aback. “Well, hello to you too.”
“Sorry,” I said, rubbing my temple. “I’m worried you’ll fall down or hurt yourself without it.” I glanced out the window. “I’m guessing you didn’t take the medical transport here, either?”
Dad looked down at his feet, which was all the answer I needed.
“You drove,” I said—not a question but a statement.
“I did. Now, lay off me.” He gave an exasperated shake of his head. “What is the matter with you? You’ve been awfully short with me the last few days.”
Jackson and I shared a look. We’d decided to keep Dad out of the loop—it was better if the fewest people possible knew what was happening.
It pained me to hide things from my father, but it was for his own safety.
Honestly, it was almost too far having Christian involved, but we needed him for this plan to work.
“I don’t mean to be,” I said, easing my tone. “We’ve, uh, got something big we’re working on.”
“Yeah,” Jackson said, twisting the top off a water bottle. “Really important and stressful. That’s all. You want a drink, Marquel?” he added, offering my father a different bottle.
“No,” Dad said slowly, eyeing him with that shrewd expression he sometimes got when he’d been haggling with parts suppliers for a better discount. Finally, he said, “You haven’t gotten Shyanne pregnant have you?”
Jackson coughed, spraying a fan of water across the room as he barely managed to turn away before choking. He bent over, clutching his knees as he spluttered.
I glared at my father. “Dad! What the hell?”
He shrugged and gave me a “who? me?” look. “You’re both acting weird and stressed. I figured it was a justified question.”
“No,” I said through gritted teeth. “I am not pregnant.”
“All right, all right,” he said, patting the air with his hand as if to calm me down. “It was just a question.”
“Which has been answered,” I said.
Jackson wiped his mouth and tried to change the subject. “So, what brings you by?”
“I was on the way to my doctor and thought I’d pop in.” Dad glanced wistfully around at the garage. “I wanted to see how things were going.”
My irritation at him faded into sadness.
He hadn’t retired early because he’d wanted to—his body had simply given out on him.
He still loved cars and missed the camaraderie of the shop environment.
He’d stop by like this once or twice a week and joke around with the guys before hobbling back home.
I knew it ate him up inside, and no amount of Loteria or dominos clubs could make up for the loss of this place.
Each time he came, everything his body had cost him was only reinforced.
“You can hang out longer if you want,” I offered.
“Nah.” He waved me off. “I’ve got an appointment. I should get going.”
“Let me walk you out,” Jackson offered.
“I’m fine, son, but thank you.” Dad eyed the both of us once more. “There’s something going on here. You two are acting strange.”
“It’s not a baby,” I said dully.
“Sure,” Dad said, still looking at us as though we were a puzzle he was trying to solve. “But there’s…something.”
“Okay, Sherlock. I love you. Have a good afternoon.” I hugged him and planted a kiss on his cheek.
After Dad left, Jackson shot me a guilty look. “I didn’t realize we’d been acting strange.”
I had. How could anyone not act strange with what we were planning?
Our lives and the lives of two children rested on whether or not our plan worked.
If I was the only one at risk, I’d have been nervous but not as terrified as I was knowing other lives were relying on me.
We’d been working on this for over a week, and as the day grew nearer, the anxiety continued to crank up, sending my blood pressure through the roof.
Jackson turned to the shop. My seven employees—three full-time and four part-timers—were hard at work. “Who’s hungry?” he called, raising his voice above the clamor.
At the mention of food, every head turned in his direction and a faint cheer erupted.
“I’ll put a call in,” Jackson said, then headed to the office.
An hour later, a delivery driver arrived with bags and bags filled with gyro and falafel sandwiches, fries, and Greek salads, along with pitas and tubs of hummus.
Brent had half a gyro stuffed in his mouth as he tried to speak, pointing at Jackson.
“Your new boy toy needs to come hang out every day!”
“Yeah,” Carlo agreed. “When this dude’s around, my bologna-and-cheese sandwiches go to the waste, and that is not a bad thing.”
Over the last week, Jackson had been spending more time at the garage, and the guys had fully accepted him as one of their own.
It didn’t hurt that he bought either breakfast or lunch—some days both—when he was here, but they truly seemed to enjoy his presence.
He had no ego about anything they worked on, asking intuitive questions about their jobs, and helping out where he could when he wasn’t helping me with the car.
When I finished my food, I excused myself and went back to the paint room to continue working on the car.
Since we had no upcoming paint jobs, I’d turned the room into a private workshop so I could do what I needed to with the car.
It was taking longer with just me working on it and a few assists from Jackson, but it was almost done.
Jackson joined me a few minutes later, locking the door behind him to make sure the guys didn’t barge in the way Carlo had earlier in the day.
“How’s it looking?”
I was under the car on a rolling creeper, inspecting some of the work I’d done.
“Okay,” I said. “I think I still need to—”
“Ah, shit,” Jackson hissed.
I rolled out from under the car and looked up at him. “”What’s wrong?”
He was looking down at his phone. “It’s Joseph.”
I scrambled the rest of the way out from under the car and moved to his side.
“Are you gonna answer it?” I asked.
He nodded slowly, then hit the speaker button.
“Hello,” he said, putting his fingers to his lips to make sure I stayed quiet.
“Where’s the bitch?” a gruff voice growled from the phone speaker.
For a moment, I was both offended and terrified that he’d perhaps discovered who I was and that I was helping Jackson, but then I realized he was talking about Christian’s sister Bryn.
This pig was calling a little girl a bitch?
From what Jackson had told me about this prick, he was the one who should have that moniker. I gritted my teeth and stayed quiet.
“I’m working on it,” Jackson said.
“Working on it?” Joseph sounded beyond pissed. “It’s been a week since we had our little talk. I expected action from a winged dragon, not a bunch of foot dragging and excuses.”
Jackson let out a low growl. “You want me to kidnap a kid who is the youngest child of one of the three most powerful wyrm families in the world. You and I both know that’s not going to be easy.
I have to consider their security, the timing, and the fact that you don’t want them knowing I’m taking her.
You can’t possibly think I can get all that done in a couple—”
“You don’t tell me what can and can’t be done, Jack,” Joseph snarled. “This isn’t a fucking game.”
“Did I say it was?” Jackson barked.
A somewhat weary sigh emanated from the speaker, making me think the guy was struggling to maintain his composure.
“Jack,” Joseph went on, “I get it. You’re best pal, his baby sister, you gotta put a bullet in her head, all very deep stuff.
I mean, heh, I suppose you don’t have to use a gun.
You could choke her to death, slit that little throat.
Fuck, you can shift and bite her goddamn arm off and let her bleed out for all I care. ”
I pressed my hand to my mouth, horrified at how callous and uncaring this monster was. How could any human talk like that about anyone? Much less a child? Jackson gave me a warning look, and I nodded, keeping my mouth covered. God, what I would give to take a chainsaw to that piece of shit.
“One thing you have going for you, though, Jack,” Joseph said, “Looks like Christian Bauer has no clue what’s coming. That’s good. It’s very good. It means you haven’t let our little plan slip.”