Chapter Five
Noa
My storage unit was my first stop. Partly because it was rented under a dummy alias, so the cops—if they were looking for me—wouldn’t be able to track me there.
But it was more so about what was in that unit.
All the things I didn’t want to keep at home: cash, weapons, fake IDs, and a set of keys to my safe house.
I’d been meaning to get it stocked with essentials too: changes of clothes, toiletries, cleaning supplies, sheets, maybe even a tent, anything I might need to get away in a pinch.
But I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
This was the closest call I’d had since moving back to the Miami area.
That wasn’t a good excuse, though, and I knew it. I should have been prepared to bug out.
As it was, I grabbed a duffle bag, shoved in a few stacks of cash, various weapons, and one fake ID—just in case.
Then I walked calmly back toward my apartment so no one had a reason to pull up beside me and question what might be in my bag.
When I got to my place and saw no cops anywhere, I stashed the duffle in my trunk before heading up to my apartment.
I’d convinced the owner of the strip mall to allow me to knock down a few walls when I’d first toured the place. And by ‘convinced,’ I meant gave the greedy bastard what could have been a down payment on a house.
The thing was, it was harder to secure a house. A townhouse meant too many people knowing my business. And a traditional apartment meant too many possible victims if something popped off.
So, whenever possible (and it was always possible if you were patient enough), I went with units over the top of businesses.
It allowed you not to be completely alone—at least during work operations.
It also gave you a height advantage to see a threat coming from a while away.
Add in the fact that there was only one entrance—the one in front between the storefronts, and that I had that covered with cameras but inside and up the stairwell—and that I had a box under each and every window with an emergency fire escape ladder tucked away in them, and I felt pretty comfortable with the location.
Once the walls were down and I had space to breathe.
I rushed up the stairs, feeling relief at being home, even if I knew it wasn’t a safe place for me at that moment.
I just wanted five minutes in my own space to decompress, maybe make myself a cup of really good coffee before I had to spend the next who-knew-how-long in a shitty little safe house with nothing but a pour-over coffee and stale grounds.
So I went through the ritual of packing the portafilter, putting it into the machine, and letting the espresso drip as I warmed up milk in the microwave.
A couple pumps of caramel syrup, some frothing of the milk, and the finished espresso, and I had the perfect latte to give me the pick-me-up I needed to get through the process of packing.
I made my way to the bedroom, flicking on the light, and going right to my phone, checking to make sure no one of those guys had made any contact.
No missed calls.
No texts.
Nothing.
Save for some calls from Zayn I was pretending I didn’t see.
“You little assholes,” I grumbled.
I scrolled to their number, hit call, and set the phone on speaker as I grabbed another duffle bag.
But there was no answer. Not on the first, third, or fifteenth calls. Not to the many texts that went from ‘Guys wth?’ in tone to ‘I’m going to track you down’ when I still got no answer.
“Dammit,” I grumbled, ending the call and turning off my phone.
I changed burners every few months, but if the cops were trying to track me, better to be safe than sorry.
There was no such thing as a hundred-percent untraceable phone.
They all dinged off of cell towers and could be traced if someone knew the number.
It was the same reason I left my smartwatch on the bathroom counter, since it linked to my phone. I was going to miss the updates on my sleep (or utter lack of it) but this wasn’t going to be forever. And with no internet at the damn safe house, I would probably be bored to sleep pretty easily.
If I even made it to the safe house.
My first priority was to find those damn stoners and the guns and get this job back on track.
But if that didn’t go the way I planned, I needed a place to stay until things blew over.
I glanced at my fancy walk-in shower with the four shower heads I had paid to have put in myself. I might miss that more than anything else.
I stepped back into my bedroom, checking the security feeds. There was nothing, no one. The world was dead at this time of night. If you could even call it night when it was closer to morning.
I could squeeze in one quick shower. Wash off the stress stink, the sweat from all the walking and running around, the lingering traces of desire from the little makeout session.
Turning the screen so I could see it from the shower, I cut the water on, stripped out of my clothes, and stepped under the spray.
For just a moment, it felt like it was physically possible to wash it all away: the sleeplessness, the shock, frustration, anger, worry, adrenaline, and, yes, interest .
But as soon as I was toweling off, it all came rushing back.
Then I saw it.
A flash of something moving at my side.
I turned, my hairbrush in my hand, to see the back of someone rushing up the stairs past one of my cameras.
“Fuck.”
The brush dropped down on the counter as I secured the tuck of my towel. Then ran like hell across my apartment to my storage cabinet.
Before remembering I’d already taken that gun with me to the warehouse. And had to leave it there.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I hissed under my breath as my heartbeat tripped over itself.
I raced back to my closet, hating that to do so, I had to lose sight of the monitor. I had no idea if it was just one guy, if there were a dozen others coming with him, if I should be trying to stand my ground… or trying to exit through a window, going down a fire ladder in my goddamn towel.
“Come on, come on,” I hissed as I shoved hanging clothes and shoe boxes out of my way to access the hidden crawlspace behind them.
It wasn’t big enough to store anything—except, of course, an extra gun or two.
I thrust my arm in, feeling the cobwebs stick to my still-damp skin. My fingers scraped gritty ground before I finally felt the cool metal on my fingertips.
I pulled it out, checked the magazine, and got back to my feet.
I was too aware of the thrumming sensation in my pulse points, of the sloshing in my stomach, and the cold prickle of fear that I tried not to let overwhelm me.
Fear was a part of my job.
Being aware of it was an asset, not a flaw of some sort. It helped you know where you stood. And what was at risk.
I stepped out of the closet, arms raised, gun pointed.
Seeing the door still closed, I looked over at my screen. But two of my cameras were now turned up.
Great.
Just fantastic.
If there’d been any hope that it was a friend, colleague, or someone not here to, you know, torture and kill me, it deflated at the images of the ceiling in those feeds.
People with good intentions didn’t turn your cameras up.
My heartbeat whooshed in my ears so hard it was impossible to hear past it.
That was how I missed the telltale scraping sounds. Until the doorknob turned.
Picking the lock felt… passive.
Guys in a rush to harm you, they typically kicked a door in when met with resistance.
Picking it felt covert.
Had I read this wrong?
Was someone not here to kill me, but rather to try to gather intel? To search through my shit? To plant listening devices?
Did this have nothing at all to do with the gun shipment going missing?
It wasn’t like it was the only job I was working. I was always fiddling with something. And, let’s face it, no one I did business with was straight-laced. All of them were capable of subterfuge. Or paranoia.
Well, whatever reason he (or they) were here for, they were about to be greeted by the absurdly long barrel of my most obnoxious revolver. It was heavy and had a pretty decent kick. Which was why it was stored in my closet and wasn’t my easy-to-grab weapon.
But it was a nasty thing with a .50-caliber bullet. It could do some damage. And I knew how to use it to that end.
I sucked in a deep breath, held it, and released it slowly.
My father’s voice was in my ear as I did so.
Not gonna shoot shit if you’re all jittery from holding your breath. You gotta relax.
Of course, having someone breathing down your neck telling you to relax after lecturing you about how dangerous the gun in your hand was wasn’t exactly conducive to calming down.
But that was the nature of everything with my father. Everything was pressure. Not to make me crack. But to make me so strong that I couldn’t break.
He likened raising me to the heat and pressure that turned carbon into a diamond.
Was that harsh at times? Sure.
But it was also how my shoulders loosened from my ears, the tremor in my hands eased, and my palms didn’t sweat on the grip.
The door cracked open.
My finger slid to the trigger guard, hovering, ready to curl around the trigger if I needed to.
“Thanks, Dad,” I murmured to myself.
Even if, objectively, I knew all he’d have for me in that moment were criticisms. About my stance.
About not having a second weapon. About the fact that my cameras were able to be reached, that my door wasn’t reinforced, that I was caught damn near naked, that I’d gone back to my apartment at all, let alone taken time to make coffee and shower.
All valid criticisms, too.
Mentally, I put them on a to-do list to fix some other time.
When the door pushed fully open, I forced another exhale, ready to do the unthinkable if it was my only choice. Even as I prepared to deescalate the situation.
But then the man moved in.
His head lifted.
And there he was.
“It’s you.”
Same eyes, beard, the same cocky twitch to his lips as his gaze devoured me, lingering a deliciously indecent amount of time at the swell of my breasts over the towel and the spot on my thigh where the towel split slightly.
“That’s sexier than it has any right to be.”