Chapter 6
SIX
brIAR
I hate this.
I wish I could leave all of it behind.
But they would find me.
I know.
I’ve tried to leave—more than once.
And it doesn’t matter how far I go, what color I dye my hair, the disguises I wear or how off the grid I try to live…they always find me.
The first time they dragged me back, they left a finger on my bathroom counter.
It wasn’t mine.
It had belonged to Sylvie.
We’d become sort of friends, talked about finding our way out, starting over somewhere very far away. We even made plans to get out together.
Then she didn’t show up at our meeting point…
But they had.
And the finger…
I sigh. I never saw her again.
The second time, I was more careful. I didn’t share my plans with anyone. And I had a few weeks of peace and freedom.
Until they found me.
That’s how I got the scar on my stomach. The burn marks on my back. My arm. My legs.
And the last time…well they had nearly killed me, and what they forced me to do in recompense—
I shudder.
At least like this, I can avoid the worst of the jobs, can pretend I have a modicum of freedom, can have my apartment and my books and food in the fridge and TV shows on repeat and—
My phone buzzes.
And my reality intrudes—that modicum of freedom is small after all…and a facsimile, able to be snatched away at any moment.
If I stop doing what they want—
Another buzz has me moving, pulling my phone out and peering down at the screen.
A change in plans.
“Shit,” I whisper as I scan the text, my mind running through the consequences in rapid succession.
All of my work over the last few days goes up in smoke in an instant.
I need new clothes, need to do something about my hair—it still looks like I hacked it off with a chainsaw and I’m not going to get away with wearing a beanie or baseball hat.
I need a wig.
Then I need to conduct at least a bit of reconnaissance, exits and entrances, hiding places, getaway routes, a surefire way to slip in that won’t cause suspicion and I have less than an hour to do it.
I want to whine and stomp my feet in protest, want to curse and rage at this being my life.
But I don’t have time.
I need to make my exit and do it without raising any red flags.
I tug down the brim of my hat, slink toward the shadows, and wind my way through the thankfully busy lobby of the office building.
Genen-core is in biotech and though I didn’t have time to do more than get the highlights, I know that Jace Henderson is the CEO, that it’s one of the fastest growing companies in the US, and that I’m supposed to be inconspicuous in the lobby, waiting for the sign that the package has been dropped off.
Then I need to retrieve it without arousing suspicion and pass it off.
But the location has changed.
Hell, it all has changed.
My phone buzzes again with an incoming call the moment I step outside.
(See? They’re always watching).
“Hello?” I answer as I hurry to my car.
“You’ll need to locate Christina Dawson’s office,” the cold voice on the other end says, ice all but crawling through my phone’s speakers as I listen to my newest orders. “She runs an animal charity.”
I frown.
That doesn’t seem to fit our normal modus operandi.
“Her father owns Oak Ridge vineyards, where the fundraiser will be held this evening. Jean-Michel”—my eyes flare as I place the names, mostly because everyone knows how powerful Jean-Michel Dubois is—“will no doubt have security in place, but we’ll get you in through the temp agency that’s supplying workers for the event tonight. ”
“Is he the target?”
“No. Christina is.”
My frown deepens because none of this feels right. “And what happens to her?”
“She’s about to have a really bad night.”
“I—”
“The drive is in your car,” the voice says, clearly having run out of patience. “Just download the files to her laptop and get out. They’ll be too busy dealing with the shitstorm that follows to worry about anything that’s happening with us.”
“But—”
A deadly pause. “Do we need to have another conversation about your attitude?”
My ribs throb in memory. “No,” I say quietly. “I’ll get it done.”
I’ll frame Christina Dawson.
Who runs an animal charity.
Hanging up, I close my eyes, guilt rippling through me.
It’s always the people with the softest hearts who pay first.
For a second, I consider throwing the drive away or deliberately making it so I get caught. It’s just…
What’s the point?
The family will just send someone else out to finish the job and Christina will be fucked anyway.
And it’s not like the Lyons will care if I go to jail or get hurt or disappear (so long as that’s permanently from this planet rather than me trying to escape so I can have a better life).
I’m disposable.
Only here to be used and then discarded when my usefulness is used up.
Part of me wants to allow that to happen, to just end this.
I’m so damned tired.
The rest of me…well, however stupid it is, I’m making plans to get out.
I don’t know how that will work yet—and maybe it will end with a permanently-from-this-planet sort of resolution—but I haven’t completely given up.
Because maybe the tiny sliver of hope inside me—still soft and green and alive—is there for a reason.
Maybe I will find a way out.
But first I have to not get dead doing this job.
I make it to my car without issue and take an extra-long way to the winery, parking in a mostly filled row that gives me good sight lines to the back of the large, stone-covered building that overlooks the vineyard’s rolling hills.
Rolling hills.
The bite of the memory is sharp, as is the guilt.
I shake my head and start up my car, having seen enough to form a plan, or the skeleton of one.
There will be no blood today. No fighting.
Just stealth and a quick in-and-out.
Why does that feel like…famous last words?
Shaking it off, I drive back through the winding roads, make a quick stop at a discount store for the necessary supplies, and then I’m securing my wig, buttoning up the bland, white collared shirt, the plain black polyester slacks.
They’ll do the job, but between the wig and the pants I better not get too close to any open flames, otherwise I’ll be going up in a flash.
Since there are no acceptable shoes, I’m sticking with my boots, but I use a black marker to touch up the dings and scratches.
Not perfect.
Nothing about this is.
But, just like the rest of my life, I’ll get through it.
I always do.
Then I’m leaving the gas station bathroom, getting in my car and driving back up to the vineyard.
This time I pull behind the building, parking among the beat-up Toyotas and the older-model Fords instead of the Range Rovers and Mercedes and Rivians.
I cut the engine, allow myself just a moment to focus, to steady my nerves, then I pop the door, get out, and follow the stream of similarly clad workers into the building.
A brunette with striking blue eyes is standing in the kitchen, smiling at us as we file in to fill the small room.
I stand awkwardly in the corner, waiting for orders, but to my surprise the woman comes close to us, her smile only growing.
“Thank you in advance for your work tonight. My charity couldn’t exist without you and while I know this is likely just another job for you, the animals you’re helping really appreciate it. As do I.”
Something happens in my heart, my belly—the sliver of hope growing, the kernel of hate getting just a little smaller.
There’s something so genuinely sweet and earnest about this woman, and I can’t help but like her.
“Please make sure you eat at some point tonight,” she says.
“We have food available now and the kitchen will make sure you’ll have options as well to take home after the event.
And if you like wine”—a nod to a table positioned on the far wall—“there are two bottles there for each of you.” Her mouth kicks up.
“And please don’t forget to grab one of the goodie bags on your way out.
I promise if you use the bath salts, your feet and body will thank you tomorrow. ”
She waves and smiles again then slips out of the room, leaving a pair of woman with clipboards to take over.
“Is she for real?” I find myself whispering as we line up.
A slender blonde turns to me. “First time?”
I nod, even as I’m kicking myself for drawing attention. I’m going for stealth, for a quick in-and-out.
Small talk isn’t part of that.
“Yeah,” I say because I have to say something.
“Chrissy is great,” the blonde tells me.
“She wants to raise money for her charity, but she also actually cares about us. We’re not just interchangeable robots to her.
” She leans close, rubs her fingers together.
“And if you stick around to the very end, she’ll make her gratitude known in cold hard cash. ”
Chrissy who runs a charity.
The slender thread of hope inside me dies a quick death.
Because what are the chances that she’s Christina Dawson née Dubois who owns the charity putting on this fundraiser?
The Christina I’m supposed to frame for a crime from tonight.