Chapter 7
Cora
Warmth seeps from the mug into my hands. I take a sip of the tea Rune made me, my brain scrambled from everything Rune said.
I know the men never wanted money for Delly. But maybe negotiating a term and focusing on money keeps suspicion off Clyde or Ben aka Breaker. On my return flight here, that was my first thought. That they’ve been communicating.
Now I know they have.
My eyes track Rune’s as he moves around the kitchen, frying eggs and making toast. Acting as if last night never happened.
Fucking psychopath.
He still hasn’t hired new staff or security, and I can only guess that when Clyde said he was waiting to hear from their father, leaving himself exposed and vulnerable was a sign of peace.
His version of waving a white flag, confident their father won’t come after him.
Because he truly believes that money is an acceptable exchange for his daughter’s life.
That the men simply want money as payment for their brother’s life.
It’s always about money with him.
“There you are.” Clyde’s voice cracks through the kitchen and my head snaps toward the doorway, my heart nearly exploding. For a split second, relief floods my system, but it’s short-lived when I lock in on Clyde’s face.
He’s clean shaven as usual, the Windsor knot of his tie sitting perfectly centered. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he looked exactly the same. But a calculated coldness turns his features hard. Turns the deep brown of his eyes fiery, ready to burn the world around him.
Clyde’s ruinous gaze locks on Rune as he moves toward him. His eyes drift to the knife block feet away. My pulse hammers in my throat. I grip my mug, waiting for him to grab Rune and punch him, over and over until he’s bloody and raw. For him to snatch a knife and stab him.
But then Rune drops the spatula into the pan, faces him and says, “Where the fuck have you been?” and within a fraction of a second, the murderous look vanishes, falling away as Clyde slips on his mask.
He even smiles. “Is a man not allowed to sleep?” Reaching for a mug, he snags up the carafe and pours himself coffee. “When the fuck are you getting Claudia back? I miss her coffee.” He turns around and his dark eyes land on me. “Jesus. What the fuck happened to you?”
My thoughts scatter into a million pieces. When I left, I figured Clyde would have enough foresight to let me handle this like I always have. That he’d figured out this isn’t new, and I have dealt with Rune before.
Maybe he has, and that’s exactly why he’s here.
So I don’t have to do this alone.
“I fell in the shower,” I blurt out, so obviously lying that I cringe. Clearing my throat, I set the mug down gently. “Last night. When I was at my condo to get clothes.”
Clyde crosses the room, hooking a finger under my chin to examine my face. His thumb brushes my cheek. The concern I see turning his eyes softer is real. There is no faking that.
“I let you out of my sight for five fucking minutes, girl,” Clyde grumbles.
“You know me. Always the klutz,” I say, watching Rune from the corner of my eye.
Clyde’s focus lingers on the bruise on my cheek, a dark edge turning his demeanor icy, and I swear I see the moment he realizes the amount of times I’ve lied to his face, covering for Rune.
His hand drops and that cold intensity shifts to Rune. My fingers curl into my jeans, my entire body tense as I wait for the explosion of rage. Something. Anything.
But there’s nothing.
Is that disappointment souring my belly?
“What are we doing about Zane?” Clyde asks, backing away to open the fridge and pulling out the creamer.
And like that, it’s over. The fear, my careful movements to make sure Rune never suspects Clyde knows the truth, and in a moment it’s done.
I blink back tears as Clyde pours creamer into his mug. Sips it, making conversation with Rune, marveling at how easy this is for him. To lie. Pretend.
But I keep forgetting. He’s had years of practice.
“It was a warning,” Rune says, back to checking on the eggs and pretending he’s a good, decent man. A father who cooks breakfast for the girl he took in and raised like his own. He flicks the burner off and slides the fried eggs onto a plate, then butters the toast like normal.
I pick up my mug. Sip my tea. Act normal.
I may be good at this too, but I’ll never be used to it.
“A warning?” Clyde asks. “Because we forced his hand?”
“More than likely.” Rune sets the plate down and slides it my way. “When I had Zane contact him, requesting her return with zero fuss, I imagine he was furious. Probably why he waited so long to bring her back. Just to spite me.”
“And to spite Zane,” Clyde adds. “I think he hates him more than I do.”
“Might be why they took Cora too. Just to piss him off,” Rune says, handing me a fork. “They only needed Delilah to get my attention.”
My stomach tumbles oddly. I had known they didn’t need me for their plan, yet hearing Rune say it out loud hits differently. The wall of pictures and information they gathered on us over the years flashes through my mind. I wasn’t the target, Delly was, yet they took me.
They wanted me too.
Not just for a plan, not just because I could be used as a tool.
They wanted me.
All of them.
I inhale, sitting up straighter, that knowledge solidifying my resolve. Reaper needs information, so I’m going to get it.
“Come on,” Clyde says, shaking me from my thoughts. He shoves the runny eggs and dry toast toward Rune. “You eat this shit. I’m going to get Cora a proper breakfast.”
***
To say that the car ride to Clyde’s house is tense is an understatement. The proper breakfast Clyde promised is a quick stop at a chain drive-through. He places the order and drops it unceremoniously into my lap without even a glance my way.
Red light after red light catches us, stretching minutes into what feels like hours.
We come to a standstill on the interstate, caught in morning traffic and with each passing second, the air grows thicker with tension and everything Clyde’s not saying.
Explanations stack up in my throat, but I swallow them down.
Clyde doesn’t want excuses, and I don’t want to talk about it.
It appears he doesn’t either.
So we don’t. I pop a few greasy hash browns into my mouth to keep it occupied instead of rambling from nerves and we sit in a heavy silence all the way to Clyde’s giant white house.
I’ve been so tense, my body on such high alert, that I can feel the crash coming on as I walk up the steps and into the immaculate and sterile mansion.
The familiar sting of bleach hits my nose as we enter, making my eyes water.
“Who cleans this place?” I ask. “And who’s obsessed with bleach? You or the person who cleans?”
I bet it’s him.
Clyde doesn’t answer as he shuts the front door, then brushes past me like I don’t exist, marching down the hall toward the back of the house.
Placing my now cold fast food on the large table in the center of the foyer, I follow, my stomach tumbling, making what little bits of my shitty breakfast I ate, roil in my stomach.
By the time I catch up to him, he’s already at the door leading to his indoor range. Without a word, he punches in the code to unlock the door, and enters, leaving it open behind him. I take that as my cue to follow. I step through the door, inhaling the tang of metal and gunpowder.
“We’re shooting?” I ask as the door slides shut behind me.
Nothing. Not a damn word.
He unlocks the large metal lockers and takes out several black rifles, magazine clips, and boxes of ammo, setting them on a nearby bench, but keeps his mouth pressed tightly closed.
Apparently, Clyde’s response to my disappearing act is to give me the silent treatment.
My gaze travels around the open room, taking in the military gray walls and black lockers, still amazed that Clyde has a secret range in his home, when they land on the large black and white pictures of the ballet dancers.
I step closer, drawn by the stark contrast of something so delicate in such a militant, sterile place.
Both photographs capture several dancers in various poses, showcasing the long lines of their limbs, the slim columns of their necks.
The stage where they dance is old, the surface worn, lacquer bubbling and peeling from the procession arch framing it.
The entire scene makes the silk hugging the dancers’ lithe bodies seem far too delicate for such a harsh environment.
Each woman is young and pretty from what little I can see of their faces, but there’s a severity in the look of them. A hardness the cameraman captured, adding an edge of darkness to the pictures.
“I didn’t know you liked ballet,” I say over my shoulder.
“I don’t.”
I whip around, catching him with his eyes fixed on the images. “Then why have the pictures on the wall of your secret lair?”
“First. This room isn’t a secret,” he says. “I had to pull permits to have it built. Second. That”—he points to the pictures—“is none of your business.”
Clyde thrusts two large rifles at me—the familiar one from before and another with a compact barrel and grip. I take both, resting them on my shoulders as he gathers up the rest of the items, then hands me a pair of earmuffs before stalking to the back of the room.
The lights pop on as we walk toward the table.
Clyde sets everything down, gesturing to the guns and ammo as if he wants me to set it all up, then presses buttons on the control panel.
Two targets slide into place with a mechanical whirr.
I glance at him occasionally as I lock clips into place, arranging the extras and boxes of ammo on the table.
“How mad is Breaker?” I focus on the rifles, avoiding Clyde’s eyes.
His exhale cuts the silence. “Furious.” Then a second later, “Worried. He blames himself.”
“Because of Zane,” I say, my stomach tumbling. Breaker’s face flashes in my mind. Jaw tight, the hollowed-out expression. I blink hard, trying to erase the image. I can’t stand the thought of Breaker blaming himself for what Rune did.
“How long?” Clyde says suddenly.
I freeze, my fingers curling around the grip of a rifle, my throat tightening.
I guess we’re doing this.
For a second, I debate how much of the truth I should give him, my focus on the shiny black weapon, tracing the cold metal barrel with my thumb. There’s no point in lying now.
“Since right before my eighteenth birthday.” The words scrape my throat, and I cough, hating how they taste in my mouth. Like dirt and ash.
Clyde’s hand flies out, gripping the table like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. I don’t dare look his way. I don’t think I can stomach what I see.
After a few deep, shaky breaths, he picks up the earmuffs and jams them over his head, covering his ears like he can’t stand how harshly the truth sounds.
He slides a pair of earmuffs toward me, then picks up his own rifle.
I place the earmuffs over my ears, and pick up a rifle, checking the barrel, adjusting my grip, doing anything but chance looking at him.
When I finally risk a glance, the expression he wears isn’t what I expect. There’s no rage, no disgust.
I don’t know what I see.
Like he’s seeing into me maybe. Seeing the trap I was caught in. Surrounded by powerful men who could ruin me. All the years I lied and protected Delly. Him. Myself, by staying silent.
He lifts his chin, eyes locked on me. Tearing free of his penetrating stare, I take aim and a deep breath, then pull.
Bullets spray out, and I keep tapping the trigger, shredding the target as each bullet lands.
His eyes bore into the side of my face as I empty the clip.
Chest heaving, I lower my weapon, and face him.
His gaze hasn’t wavered, but the moment my magazine clicks free, his rifle snaps up and fires.
He keeps shooting until the clip is empty, then sets the gun down, pushing the earmuff clear of one ear as he reloads. I do the same.
“Why didn’t you come to me?” he asks, tugging at the collar of his shirt.
Inside my head screams with everything I wish I could say. I wanted to. I was too scared. He’d hurt you.
My vision blurs, and I swipe at my cheek with my shoulder. “He would have killed you if he had thought even for a millisecond you would betray him.”
From the corner of my eye, I see his jaw clench, his chest moving a tad too fast with each breath.
“True,” he says, voice thick, then snaps a new clip into place, slamming it with his palm with too much force, then sets the gun down.
Tt’s hard to miss the tremble in his hand.
He leans forward to place his hands flat on the table as if to steady himself, head dropping forward.
“Does he…” the words catch in his throat, but I already know the question he can’t ask.
“He’s never laid a hand on Delly,” I say, slamming a fresh clip in place. “And she didn’t know. Not until right before I was brought back.”
A heavy sigh escapes him and his shoulders slump, then he stands upright, puts his earmuff back in place, motions for me to do the same, then fires.
Each bullet lands dead center and with each hit, his body coils up tighter.
Like he’s coiling all his anger and grief, gathering it inside into one dark mass, methodically.
Precise. Every pull of the trigger, done with deadly precision. Which means one thing.
I’m right. He may want Rune stopped, but he wants something more.
They all do.
Jaw grinding, Clyde sets the rifle down, all that rage bottled up tightly, and punches at the control panel as he slides his earmuffs back. A new target glides into place.
“You’re going to kill him,” I say.
Clyde shoves his earmuffs back in place and snaps in a new magazine, then aims. “No. I won’t be the one killing him.”