Chapter 7 — Isla
I drive back to my rental with the taste of Chuck still on my lips and my body still humming from sex on his couch.
The roads are empty at nine-thirty on a Saturday night, just me and the cicadas and the heat that refuses to break even after dark.
His house disappears in my rearview and I think about how fast he moved when those texts came through. How his whole body shifted from relaxed to alert in seconds. How he told me to lock the doors and stay inside and be scared enough to be careful.
The fear sitting in my stomach now feels warranted.
My rental looks exactly like I left it. Porch light on, windows dark, nothing disturbed.
I park in the driveway and scan the street out of habit before getting out. Two houses down someone's watching television through their front window. Across the street a porch light flickers like the bulb's dying. Everything normal and quiet.
Inside I lock the door behind me and flip the deadbolt. Check the back door too, make sure it's secure.
The windows are all closed because of the AC running and I double-check the locks on those too even though I know I'm being paranoid.
Except Chuck told me to be careful. Told me Marrow might know about me. Told me to keep my phone on and not open the door for anyone.
I'm not being paranoid. I'm listening to someone who's been doing this for twenty-five years and knows what real danger looks like.
I text him: Back at rental. Doors locked. I'm okay.
Three dots appear immediately, then: Good. Stay there. I'll call when I know something.
I set my phone on the kitchen counter and try to figure out what to do with myself. My suitcases are mostly packed for tomorrow. My laptop has work I could do. I could read, watch something, take a shower.
Instead I sit on the couch and stare at my phone and think about how Chuck looked when he was getting dressed. The controlled urgency. The way his jaw was set. The kiss before he left that felt like goodbye even though he said he'd call.
Around nine-forty-five I force myself up and make tea I don't want. Chamomile that tastes like grass but the mug gives my hands something to do. I lean against the kitchen counter and watch the front door like it might do something.
My phone stays silent.
Outside a motorcycle passes on the street. The engine sound is loud and then fades and my heart is racing for thirty seconds after. Not Chuck's bike. Wrong sound. But now I'm listening for motorcycles and every car that passes makes me tense.
At ten I'm still standing in the kitchen with lukewarm tea when I hear motorcycles again.
More than one this time. The sound gets louder instead of fading. Coming closer. Slowing down.
My stomach drops.
I set the mug down and move to the front window, staying back from the glass. Peer out through the blinds.
Two motorcycles pull into my driveway. Two men in leather cuts climb off. Even in the porch light I can see the patches aren't Vigil.
My phone is still on the kitchen counter.
The men walk up to my front door and one of them pounds on it. Three heavy hits that make the whole frame shake.
"Isla!" The voice is muffled through the door but clear enough. "We know you're in there. Come out and talk for a minute."
I don't move. Don't breathe. Stay frozen by the window.
More pounding. "Don't make this difficult. We just want to talk. Crane sent us with a message for Chuck. You can deliver it."
Everything in me is screaming to run. Back door, get out, get to a neighbor, call 911, anything but stay here. But my phone is fifteen feet away on the kitchen counter and the back door is past the front door and I don't know if I can get to either without being seen through the windows.
"Last chance," the voice says. "Either you open this door or we open it for you."
I hear the sound of a boot connecting with the door. Once. Twice. On the third kick something cracks and the door slams open, deadbolt torn through cheap wood.
Two men step into my rental and I'm still frozen by the window.
One stays near the door blocking any exit. Tall, maybe six feet, muscled, older than the kid from last night, with a scar running down his jaw. The other walks into the living room looking around like he's assessing the space. Shorter, stockier, maybe late twenties.
His eyes find me by the window.
"There you are." He smiles and it's not friendly. "You're Isla, right? The one Chuck's been spending time with?"
My voice won't work. I press back against the wall.
"Crane wants Chuck to know something." He takes a step closer.
"Wants him to understand that being with someone makes you vulnerable.
Makes them vulnerable. See, Chuck's been causing problems for us.
His intelligence network, his contacts, all that tracking he does.
Gets in our way. So Crane figured we'd send a message Chuck can't ignore. "
The man by the door hasn't moved. Just stands there watching with dead eyes.
The shorter one takes another step toward me and I'm running out of room to back up.
"We're not here to hurt you," he says, and I don't believe him. "Just here to leave a message. Let Chuck know we can reach anyone we want, anytime we want. Even his pretty new girlfriend."
He reaches out to grab my arm.
Some part of me that's been frozen snaps into motion. I duck under his reach and try to run for the kitchen, for my phone, for anything. His hand catches my wrist and yanks me backward. I stumble and his other hand comes up.
The backhand catches me across the face hard enough my head snaps to the side. I taste blood immediately, copper on my tongue. My cheek is on fire and my eyes are watering and I can't get my balance.
"Don't run," he says. "Makes this harder than it needs to be."
I'm trying to pull away but his grip on my wrist is iron. The man by the door still hasn't moved, just watches like this is entertainment.
Then I hear another motorcycle.
The engine sound is different from theirs. Louder. Faster. It's in the driveway before the sound fully registers and then I hear boots hitting pavement at a run.
Chuck comes through the broken doorway and the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
His eyes take in the scene instantly. Me with a bleeding mouth, the man gripping my wrist, the one blocking the door. His face goes completely blank.
"Let her go," he says. Voice flat and cold.
The man holding me releases my wrist and reaches into his cut. Going for a weapon.
Chuck's faster.
The gun appears in Chuck's hand like it was always there and he fires twice before the man's weapon clears his cut. Both shots center mass. The man drops and doesn't move.
The one by the door is pulling his gun now and Chuck pivots, fires once. The shot hits the man's shoulder and he staggers backward. His gun falls. Chuck closes the distance between them in three strides and I watch him grab the man by his cut, slam him face-first into the doorframe.
The crack is audible. Blood sprays. The man crumples.
Chuck puts the gun to his head and fires once.
The sound in the small space is deafening. My ears ring. There's blood on the walls. Blood on the floor. Blood everywhere.
Two dead men in my living room.
Chuck turns to me and his expression shifts from blank to something else, something I can't name. He crosses to me in two strides, his hands framing my face, gentle despite the violence he just executed.
"Are you hurt?" His voice is urgent. "Anywhere besides your face?"
I shake my head. Can't form words.
"Okay. Okay." His thumb traces my cheekbone, avoiding the split where I was hit. "I need you to pack a bag. Right now. Everything you need. We're leaving."
"Leaving?"
"Can't stay here. They know where you live.
There might be more coming." He releases my face and pulls out his phone, already dialing.
"Tate. I'm at Isla's rental. Two bodies.
Need cleanup now. Yeah. Ten minutes." He hangs up and looks at me.
"Isla. Focus on me. I need you to pack a bag. Can you do that?"
I nod and my body finally responds. I walk to the bedroom on shaking legs and grab my suitcases. They're already mostly packed for tomorrow. I throw in the last few items, toiletries from the bathroom, my laptop from the kitchen table.
When I come back to the living room Chuck is on the phone again. "Clint. Marrow hit Isla's rental. Two members. Both down. I'm taking her to the clubhouse." Pause. "No, she's okay. Shaken up but okay. Yeah. See you there."
He pockets his phone and takes my suitcases. "Come on."
I follow him out and try not to look at the bodies but I see them anyway. Blood pooling on the cheap carpet. The hole in one man's head. The way the other is sprawled near the doorway.
Chuck killed them both in under thirty seconds.
Outside the air is thick and hot and the cicadas are screaming. A truck pulls up and Tate gets out, takes one look at my face and his jaw tightens.
"She okay?" he asks Chuck.
"She will be." Chuck loads my suitcases into the truck bed. "Get this cleaned up. I'm taking her to the clubhouse."
"She gonna need to talk to cops?" Tate asks.
Chuck shakes his head. "She was never here. Called from the clubhouse when she couldn't reach me. I got here, found them breaking in, defended property. Self-defense, clean."
Tate nods. "I'll call it in. You get her out, I've got this.."
Chuck helps me into the passenger seat of his truck and then we're pulling out of the driveway.
I watch my rental disappear in the side mirror and think about how I'm supposed to be leaving tomorrow for Millbrook, how this was supposed to be simple, how three days ago I met him at a bar and now there are two dead men in my living room because of me.
"This isn't because of you," Chuck says, and I realize I said some of that out loud. "This is because Marrow wants leverage against me and you were available. That's on them, not you."
"They broke into my rental."
"Yeah."
"They were going to hurt me. Leave me alive with a message but hurt me first."