Epilogue #3
Escape from Rafael. That man watches everything I do, has done so ever since he first laid eyes on me. Should I be happy about that since it came in tandem with the deaths of Shawn and Zasha, and my freedom from their tortures?
Is it attraction this devotion he shows, or is it that he’s been instructed not to let me do anything rash? He’s hot, experienced with weapons, and probably fucks like a champion.
Except I do not need a desirable, dangerous John Wick type. I do not.
The CNC Fraternity is insanely wrong, that I do know. Juniper filled in a lot of the gaps in my knowledge before I left Australia. They are kinky as fuck, organized, and capable of mustering enormous power and wealth due to their sprawling manifesto of members.
Billionaires, government heads, investors, company CEOs, and for all I know, half of the lords and ladies in the UK are members.
At least Australia is free of those posh types.
We just have a ton of dickheads in power, who also have more money and power than they should.
Capitalism sucks when you’re on the wrong side of it.
Alden and Rafael are walking away from me, along the side of the road, with Rafe at the front carrying his gun. I step backward, carefully, retreating into the field. He’s making sure no one else is here. Sensible. Although Alden is tagging along behind him, I doubt he’d be of much use in a fight.
Maybe I can get far enough away in the opposite direction that he won’t find me. At least I’m wearing sensible shoes. I don’t want to feel like I’m merely an object to be surveilled. I need more. Warmth, companionship, and true friendship would be the minimum. Once upon a time I had that.
I don’t know why Rafael sticks to me like glue, but a glimpse of gray metal ahead, through a grove of trees, solidifies my intent. Escape. I think it’s a van, and it’s been parked off the road in a niche, where trees shield it from passing traffic.
Looking over my shoulder reveals only the hedgerow with the leaves shuddering in a light breeze coming across the field. Alden the joker and Rafe are still preoccupied. The corpses show as mounds above the grass stalks. And the Porsche keeps smoking, ticking as the metal heats or cools.
If the grass catches fire will this be a signal that Hell is coming?
I eye my finger stump where it ends with neat suture scars, and my heart pounds into overdrive. I hear the snick-snack of the secateurs again. Feel the grind on my bone as the blades crunch shut.
After the last month of horrors that are surely imprinted on my soul, on my heart, burned into me for the rest of my life, Hell would be a let-down.
Snick, crunch, snack.
“Shut up,” I mutter.
Ignoring the aches and twinges in my back and legs, I resume my wobbly march toward the vehicle in the trees.
That probably belongs…make that belonged, to the dead men.
Are those hoofbeats? I cock my head, half-turning and listening.
My hearing might be damaged. Yet through the large gap in the hedgerow I catch sight of someone riding down the road toward Rafael.
He slows and turns his head as he passes and our eyes meet and lock.
On the huge black horse is a man with peppery gray hair, wearing a fucking suit.
What is it with the brits and their attire?
Then he’s gone. I should hurry. I don’t know who he is and if this property is where Alden was going, it could be that man’s land.
The Somersby’s? His dad was Lord Somersby? Benjamin Somersby, my strangely random memory tells me. It cannot remember recipes or song lyrics but spits out the names of British Lordy Sir Somethings on a whim.
Limping—I may have sprained my ankle—I reach the grove of trees and yank at the driver’s side door of a silver-gray Skoda SUV, while praying they left the keys somewhere inside. The door opens.
Yesss.
I slide in and softly shut the door, assessing the controls as I do so.
After a frantic five minutes of searching under every mat and in all the hiding places, I find the keys nestled in the cup holder in the central compartment, under some balled-up grotty tissues.
How did I miss them?
This is an EV. Thank god. Getting this thing going should be simple.
I press start and it barely makes a sound, the sneaky car, even as I shift into drive and edge out onto the track they’ve used to back into this hiding spot.
I think this runs at right angles to the road we used.
I accelerate onto the small one-lane, one-way road then curve right and merge into the larger road.
I’m cruising along, purring away from Rafael. That simple.
That’s a yell from behind. I refuse to check the rearview mirror.
Rafael might hate me for escaping him. Good.
He’s been like a parasitic thing on my ass, watching me ever since he helped extricate me from that hellhole place, from the Evil House.
I clench my jaw and stop myself reminiscing over the bad shit.
I was beginning to like him and that would never do. Is he a good man? It’s possible.
I’m stupid for leaving his protection but staying also has risks.
Providing this car has no tracker on it, it should be safe-ish, and what self-respecting assassins have trackers on their getaway vehicle?
Safe, providing the cops don’t come after me, too.
Three men are dead back there, with bullet holes in them.
There is a place on the coast where I can hide.
I hope James and Raina are still away. And if they aren’t?
I’ll beg them to let me stay. I just need some peace, some space, then a miracle.
I can keep away from everyone for a week or two.
Is that long enough though. My hands are shaking on the wheel. I relax them and inhale slowly, exhale. The tires keep humming. And after that? How do I get home to Australia?
Flying saucer? And it’s not exactly home anymore.
An eerie kind of silence descends on my thoughts. I don’t know what I’m going to do, really. If I can rest and think and get my head in order, I will still need to meet the world again.
My butt shifts on the upholstery as I go over a bumpy section and I remember the surgery I had done in Australia. Internal sutures, after the finger surgery was done, because the first doctor didn’t check me inside. Despite all the rapes and the violence I told him about. The stupid fucker. Men.
I know I shouldn’t think that—putting all men in the same basket is wrong and dumb but…one basket is easier.
The scalpel blade, when I pressed it into Alden’s neck. I can see it, feel it twist in my hand, and the red line appear on his skin.
I dearly wanted to cut him deep, and he didn’t even do anything bad. He tried to help me. Fuck men though. Even Rafael.
Joseph and his damn drug-fueled party started this. May he burn in Hell, rot for eternity.
I merge onto the highway and head north, feeling the pounding of my angry, anxiety-riddled heart. I’m not normal right now. Surprise surprise.
Those men in London were chasing me. Only me. I find I’ve pressed the accelerator too much and I’m speeding. I ease off. I don’t have a driver’s license here. If I do something wrong and get pulled over, how do I explain this car?
Fuck the police too.
I wriggle, settle myself in the seat, and pray for an easy run to their house. I’ve no phone and no money. I eye the glove box. It’s dead unlikely I’ll find money in there or a paper map, but it’s worth a look.
Phones are bad, remember. Phones can be tracked.
I can do this. I’ll ask directions at a service station and keep calm.
I pinch my lips together. I can do this. Today was scary.
But Shawn and Zasha were worse.
Rafael
As the rider slows his horse to a trot, his frown lessens. “Alden! You’re okay!” The hooves make loud clops when they strike the road. From the way he turned his head as he passed the flattened section of hedgerow, he saw the wreck. Though perhaps not the bodies.
Alden smiles grimly and nods. “I’m fine, father, though the Porsche is a write-off.”
“I see.” The man leans forward over the withers of his mount, his hands fidgeting on the reins, his eyes and mouth hard.
I lower the gun to my side.
He takes a few measured seconds to assess me and my weapon then our nearby surroundings. “Good. Thank god you’re not hurt.”
He carefully dismounts, keeping the reins in one hand, and giving the horse a pat. Then he steps over to also pat his son on the shoulder and grip him there. He gives the bemused Alden a light shake.
At a guess, from the peppering of gray in his hair, he must be about fifty.
Finally, he looks to me. “What’s happened here? That looked like a gun in the grass back there, and you have one. I expect the police have been called?”
“Not ye—”
“No.” I cut off Alden. “I wouldn’t.” I’m thinking fast under the surface while trying to act in command of the situation.
This could be a nightmare for the CNC Fraternity.
If no one had arrived to see this, we had a chance to cordon off this area and wipe the crash site clean.
I will have to make contact and ask. They offered me a broad slate of services for watching her, keeping her under control.
Now I’m having to sort out what to do, in seconds.
Georgia is still back there. I glance above the hedge and am relieved at the lack of smoke in the air—only the same burned rubber and oil smell.
I need to go check on her.
Alden’s father raises his eyebrows. “And you are?”
“The man who shot the three men who spiked the tires then tried to kill us. If…” I say this firmly as he opens his mouth to speak. “If you call the cops, you’ll be in the media spotlight for months.”
“I don’t know you, sir. You carry a gun and you helped my son survive this—I can see this and I am grateful. However, the repercussions from not reporting this and it then being discovered would be worse and much more illegal than—”
“I may have shot a man too.” Alden grimaces. “Wasn’t exactly murder but the asshole was lying down…”