Twelve Justice
TWELVE
Justice
Thirty minutes. That’s all it’s been since I caught Ella on the feed. One grainy camera out of Silicon Valley that whoever scrubbed the others missed. And there she was—Ella—in a cowboy hat and a damn glittering green jacket, striding through a storm like she belonged onstage.
I’d been behind the wheel before the clip even finished playing. Drove hard, cut through traffic, didn’t care about the red lights or the cops who looked twice and thought better. Every second felt like an edge digging under my ribs.
Yeah, they know my car.
Now her beat-up van sits crooked in a dirt yard, headlights dark, rain sluicing off the windshield in heavy sheets. The same van from the footage. She doesn’t cover her tracks half as well as she thinks.
I roll my shoulders.
What the hell is Ella Rendale doing in this dump?
She’s a hacker, and this is no place for her. Nobody is going to end her life until I’ve fucked her out of my system.
I roll my eyes at myself. Yeah, my plan is solid, but even then, I won’t let anybody kill her. Even when I’m done with her.
So I stride out of my Bentley Mulliner Bacalar and check the road. Vacant and sad. There’s an empty lot to one side and an abandoned, boarded-up home to the other.
The place stinks before I’m even inside.
It has a sagging porch, wood black with rot, and beer cans lined up on the railing like trophies.
A broken swing creaks in the wind. Rain pours through the holes in the eaves, drumming against the muddy ground.
Somewhere close, a dog barks rough and desperate, the chain rattling with every pull.
Energy careens down my arms, and the garnets set into my watch start to glow blood red.
I take the steps fast, each one groaning under my weight. My hand flexes at my side. Ella’s voice, raised inside, nearly stops me.
What the hell?
A man yells back, his voice slurred.
My jaw tightens. I don’t knock.
I lift my leg and nail the door with my boot. The worn wood shudders and bursts wide, wood cracking against the wall. The stink of booze and grease spills out, hot and thick.
Crossing a filthy living room with a ripped sofa and stacks of what looks like kiddie porn on a chair, I barrel into the kitchen to see grease stains, rotting food, and a stack of bottles on the counter.
And in the middle of it—Ella. Bedazzled jacket plastered to her from the rain, cowboy hat tipped low, her arm twisted back in the fat hand of a red-faced slob.
His gut strains against a stained undershirt, his knuckles white where he grips her.
Her eyes snap to me. Defiance, always, but there’s strain under it, too. She’s fighting.
“Get your hands off her.” My voice comes low, steady.
The man stares, sways, and doesn’t let go. His eyes are bloodshot and his pupils dilated.
I take another step in, rain dripping from my coat, boots hitting the linoleum with a solid crack. The dog outside keeps barking, chain rattling, the sound mixing with the storm.
The man mutters something ugly and tries to drag Ella closer. His voice, dark and evil, ripples across my skin and bruises my fucking elbows. My vision narrows until all I see is her in his grip.
Absurd. Sequins and rhinestones in a filthy kitchen. But there’s nothing funny about the fury boiling in my chest.
“Fuck you,” the asshole mutters and yanks Ella tight against him like she’s his property.
That’s it.
I move before he can blink and grab his beefy wrist. The bone snaps in my grip, breaking with a sharp crack. He screams, high and panicked, and Ella tears free. I shove her behind me, never taking my eyes off him.
He staggers, clutching his useless hand, and swings with the other. Pathetic. I catch his arm, drive my knife up under his ribs, and push until his mouth opens in a wet gasp. His eyes go wide, confused. He didn’t see me go for one of my knives.
No words. No warning.
The blade slides free and his knees buckle. He crashes to the filthy linoleum, bottles rolling across the floor, blood soaking through his stained shirt.
The only sounds are the storm pounding the roof, the dog still barking outside, and Ella’s sharp breath behind me.
I wipe the blade clean on his shirt and straighten. Cold rage still burns steady in my chest, but the job’s done. He won’t touch her—or anyone—again. Blood spreads fast, mixing with the grime already ground into the linoleum.
Behind me, she inhales sharp and quick. Tennis shoes, one blue and one purple, scrape against the tile as she backs away.
“Justice …” Her voice shakes once, then steadies with sheer will. “You didn’t have to kill him.”
I turn just enough to see her, the cowboy hat tipped low, sequins catching the weak light. She looks furious, but her eyes—wide, startled—betray her.
She doesn’t understand. Of course she doesn’t.
The man touched her. He doesn’t get to breathe after that. Neither of us needs to question the why of that. Not right now, anyway. Seeing that scum try to hurt her had awakened something primal in me.
Something I don’t want.
Rain pounds the roof. The dog outside thrashes against the chain, barking hoarse. I slip the blade back into its sheath, the motion automatic, my pulse already steadying.
“He laid hands on you,” I say, my tone flat. “That was enough.” I’ll have someone burn this entire place to the ground once I get her to safety.
Her mouth opens, then shuts. She shakes her head, hat dripping water onto the floor, and takes another step back. Shock rolls off her in waves, but I don’t move toward her. Not yet. She needs space to realize what kind of man I am.
What kind of man she’s facing.
The storm hasn’t let up. She turns and runs out of the back kitchen door. Curious, I follow her. Does she actually think she can escape me?
Again?
Rain sheets sideways, hammering the sagging porch as we step outside. The door bangs against the wall behind me, left open to the stink of booze and blood.
Ella doesn’t look back. She pulls the hat lower, her sequined jacket dripping like a beacon in the dark, and heads toward the sound of the chain. She’s pale, lips pressed thin, but her stride doesn’t falter.
Why is she wearing a bedazzled jacket and cowboy hat? If she wanted to disguise herself, she failed.
She’s still in shock. I can see it in the tremor of her hands, the stiffness in her spine. I killed a man for laying hands on her, and she doesn’t know what to do with that truth.
The dog knows we’re coming. He barks, raw and hoarse, yanking against the chain.
When we round the corner of the house, he’s all teeth and fury, ribs showing through wet fur.
A metal collar digs into his neck, too tight, rust flaking under the strain.
He looks to be part Rottweiler and maybe something else. Too skinny.
Ella stops short. Water runs off the brim of her hat, down her pale face. She lifts her chin, but she doesn’t take another step.
“Let’s go,” I tell her, keeping my voice even.
She flicks a glance at me, defiant even now. Her fists clench at her sides. The rain drills her, sliding down the feminine angles of her pixie-like face. “I’ll make you a deal.”
I ignore the rain smashing on me, intrigued. “Go on?”
“We work together for today. It’s obvious you want something from me. I’ll give it to you if you help me.” Her eyes are so blue, something in my chest hurts. Hard. And her words cause more pain—right to my cock. She’ll give it to me?
“What if I want you dead?”
She rolls her eyes. Actually rolls her fucking eyes. “Then I’d already be dead.”
Yeah, she’s not wrong.
She lifts a hand in the rain, toward me, before I can argue.
“I know. You probably do have plans to kill me at some point, but right now, you need something from me. We were going somewhere last night, so I figure you need computer help. I am the best.” She shrugs, looking ridiculous and uncomfortably appealing in the sparkling jacket.
Again, her instincts, or raw intelligence, are spot on.
The dog whines.
“Why are you here, Ella?” My patience is about gone. It’s shocking I have any left.
She glances at the animal. “For him.”
I blink. Barely. “Explain.”
She shrugs. “Somebody called in an animal cruelty report, and nothing was done, so I came to take him.”
Is she bullshitting me? “You came here, knowing you’re being hunted by not only me but somebody who sent an assassin after you last night, to save a fucking dog?”
Pink bursts across her high cheekbones. “Yes.”
I don’t know what to make of that. Kindness, sweetness, even vulnerability aren’t attributes I want to find in her. She definitely isn’t my type. I date women who want a hard and fast—often painful—fuck. That’s it. “Explain better,” I snarl.
She wipes rain off her nose. “That’s the entire situation.”
“What do you get out of it?” This doesn’t make sense.
She sighs, her sapphire-colored eyes softening. “A safe dog. He can’t protect himself, so here we are. Do you want to make a deal or not?”
We both know I can take her out of here in a second if I wish. Yet, having her cooperation will be helpful. Plus, I’ll never admit it, but I’m damn curious about what she wants. “All right. Give me your terms.”
She perks up, looking like a rare lily in the gray storm around us. “Excellent. All right. So, you’re going to help me save, um, Leo here.”
“Leo? His tag says Killer.”
She moves closer to the dog and stops when I shift my weight. “Not anymore. He’s Leo. It’s a strong and admirable name with ties to Citrine because of the astrological sign.” Her voice lowers to a purr. “Right, boy?”
He cocks his head, his focus on her. Then he gives a short whine.
She bunches as if to move toward him, and I shake my head. “Stop. He’s dangerous. So I help you with … Leo, and then you’ll help me?”
“Sure. I’ll give you twenty-four hours of my hacking skills, with the provision and your word that you let me go afterward. That you take twenty-four more hours before coming after me again, if that’s your choice. And that under no circumstances, no matter what, do you try to kill me.”