Undertow

1. PANIC ATTACKS

1

PANIC ATTACKS

I never asked to be a criminal mastermind.

Maybe no one does. Maybe it’s one of those things life chooses for you. Like being born into the wrong family or cursed with a genetic condition. You can handle a few bad breaks, sometimes even find the silver lining that inspires art and leads to celebrated stories. It’s amazing the beauty that gets harvested from pain. But eventually, one trial compounds on the next and the next, until you’re on your knees, surviving instead of living.

Once you’re a prisoner of survival, anything goes.

Right now, survival has me on a slim two-lane bridge slicing through the Gulf of Mexico. I glance out the window of a luxury SUV while Abe drives us to my next assignment.

“Damn. That view, though, right? Never gets old.”

His smile is deceptively friendly. I remember that from our first meeting at one of the Las Vegas properties. He reminds me of a furry snake—he’ll cuddle you close for a deadly strike.

“Lots of water,” I say coolly.

Abe shoots me a smirk before focusing back on the road. “They said you were smart.”

My lips twist up as I shake my head and try to focus on the dashboard, my pants, my hands… anywhere but the window.

Because there is a lot of water. So much that my stomach pinches and my breathing accelerates with each second on this narrow bridge.

They didn’t tell me where I was going when I got the call to board the McArthur private jet. Florida it seems. We must be heading to one of the islands, which is the last place someone afraid of water wants to end up. Hopefully, this will be a quick job and they’ll send me back to Philadelphia.

I never know what’s waiting for me when we land, but I stopped fearing the unknown a while ago. The response is always the same no matter what nightmare awaits me.

Adapt.

Fight.

Survive.

This one feels different, though. This one feels…

Viscous .

“What they didn’t say was how pretty you are.” Abe snorts. “No wonder Scarlett is hung up on you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I mutter.

“Scarlett McArthur? The boss’ daught?—”

“I know who she is. The other part.”

More fodder for my rolling stomach when he shrugs with a glib look. Shit, does he know? He can’t. Scarlett swore no one would know our sordid story if I played by the rules.

I survey Abe’s shaved head and smug brown eyes. No, he just enjoys tormenting me with floating puzzle pieces. Maybe this is a punishment. Enduring hours in an enclosed space with a dude who’s about as funny as the nine-mil he likes to wave around.

All humor drains from my thoughts when I catch a glimpse of the endless water through Abe’s window. Same view as the one through mine. Crystal hell surrounding us on all sides, mocking our tiny sliver of asphalt cutting through the liquid abyss.

Dry ground carved in naked seas.

Just breathe.

Breathe, Shaw.

Eyes closed, I pull in a steadying breath. We have to be nearing land soon.

Fear is a scratch not a scar.

“You okay?” Abe asks.

I swallow my anxiety and force a quick smile. “Yeah. Just a little motion sickness,” I lie. “It was a rough flight.”

“Ah. Well, in a few more minutes you’ll be sipping cocktails on a beach.”

Not likely.

“Oh, shit. But first…” He nods toward the backseat. “I’m gonna need you on the floor in the back.”

“Excuse me?”

“Exactly what I said. I need you out of sight while we drive through Undertow.”

“I don’t?—”

“Now, Picasso!”

I give him a hard look, clenching my jaw as I unbuckle the seatbelt.

Picasso. I hate that nickname. It started right after I was dragged into the McArthur organization two and a half years ago. Something about my tattoos and “artist vibe,” whatever the hell that means.

With another cold glare, I squeeze between the front seats and contort myself to fit on the floor. I’m over six feet tall, so trying to maneuver out of sight is no easy task, especially with Abe’s seat pushed so far back. He moves it up maybe half an inch in a cursory gesture.

“What’s Undertow?” I ask.

“I’ll explain later. We’re about to hit the toll. Just shut up and stay invisible, got it?”

I roll my eyes, but at this point I’ll do anything to be on land again.

As soon as we pull to a stop, Abe lowers the window.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he says in a chipper tone.

“Fuck off,” another voice grumbles through the open window.

“Aw. Don’t be like that, Ty Baby,” Abe snickers.

“We can do this without words, you know.”

The other man sounds younger than Abe. Maybe my age? Gruff, but then it’s hard to tell if the speaker or his audience is responsible for the rough, clipped tone.

The pause and flutter of movement that follows suggest a transaction is taking place. Abe said something about a toll?

“Always a pleasure, darlin’,” he says with that same mock fondness.

“The pleasure is all mine, Abraham Dearest ,” the other man jeers as my driver raises the window again.

“Fucker,” Abe mutters, peeling away.

I file that odd exchange in the mental vault and push up from the floor.

“Can I move front now?”

“Not yet. I’ll tell you when. We just crossed into Hartford territory. We still have another mile or so ‘til we’re in Palmetto Acres.”

“Palmetto Acres?”

“McArthur territory.”

“Wait. Palmetto… as in The Palmetto Grande ?”

“Ding-ding. And the genius golden boy strikes again!”

I’d kick his seat if I could move my leg.

Shit. The Palmetto Grande? Rumor is that’s the hub of the McArthur empire. The favorite residence of the family and one of the main cash cows of the entire organization. Why am I being called directly to the gilded palace?

There goes my heart rate again.

Fear is a scratch not a ? —

“Well, would you look at that. Those bastards are building a bed and breakfast now? Wait until the boss hears about that.”

“You don’t think he already knows?” My tone conveys just how annoyed I am, scrunched on the floor like a fugitive. Maybe I am one.

Running. Always running. From fate? No. Myself and what I’ve become.

“Of course he knows. It was a figure of speech. When’d you become such a dick, anyway?”

Abe says this like we’re old friends. I know absolutely nothing about the guy. And I hate the fact that he probably knows a lot about me.

“When you shoved me in the back of your car like a gym bag,” I grunt.

“Not my fault. Orders from the top. You can’t be seen.”

“Seen by whom?”

“The trash.”

“The trash?”

“The Hartfords.”

“Who the hell are the Hartfords?”

“I can’t say any more. That shit is way above my paygrade.”

Great. More secrets to file and solve. My brain is a fucking congressional library at this point.

The vehicle stops and Abe lowers the window again.

“Hey, boss,” he says, his tone more genuine this time.

“’Sup. You got the kid?”

“In the back.”

“Good. McArthur is waiting for him. He’s hot today, so better get your asses up there asap.”

“Roger that.”

The window closes and we continue on.

“I’m moving up front now,” I say, pushing up from the floor.

“Nah, I kind of like the peace and quiet up here.”

“Asshole,” I mumble as I climb into the passenger seat.

My mood lifts when I look out the window. Rows of tall palm trees line the stone drive like sentinels guarding their tropical kingdom. Lush vegetation blankets the landscape behind them, obstructed at various points by man-made structures, statues, and fountains. It’s like a living, breathing postcard. No wonder the McArthurs chose this location for their personal lair.

“So this is Palmetto Acres?”

“The one and only.”

“Damn.”

“Wait until you see the resort.”

Right. The world-renowned tourist haven, and probably the reason I’m here. Who am I supposed to swindle this time? A senator’s wife? Maybe the senator himself? Or both.

I push away memories of what happened in New Orleans.

“You’ll be okay, kid. Why don’t you take a few days off?”

Only in my world do we get paid time off to shatter.

“You golf, pretty boy?” Abe asks.

I blink back to the present in time to see a clearing of neat hills and perfectly manicured grounds. I didn’t think there was a nickname I could hate more than “Picasso,” but apparently there is.

“Not really.”

“Too bad. You know, the Palmetto Acres Golf Club was named twelfth in the nation this past year.”

“Yeah?”

Man, it’s hard to care about shit when your brain is exploding. We just need to get in front of Montgomery McArthur and find out why I’m here. The not-knowing is the worst part. When you live in a nightmare, infinite possibilities are a cancer not a drug.

My phone buzzes, and I look down to see a notification. The coded message tells me I’ve received a communication from Gramps. How does he always seem to know when I could use a ray of light?

I shouldn’t check the message, but I need a breath of fresh air and Abe is distracted with driving. I tilt my screen out of view and open the cloud drive connected to my other phone.

I’m glad I took the risk when I’m blasted with the hilarious image of Gramps attempting a selfie with his new “girlfriend.” Bonnie, I think. She’s seventy-three and beat him at backgammon nine times in a row before he finally declared his love. The left half of his face lines up with the top of her head, and the caption reads, “ Lunch is outside today .”

My hidden amusement grows at the follow-up message.

Lots of squirrels though.

It’s amazing what proper care and hope can do for a person. The man who didn’t seem like he’d last another week three years ago is now enjoying life like he’s in his prime. He deserves it after all he gave up for me. He’ll never know what I’ve given up in return.

Your life.

Your freedom.

Your soul.

At age twenty-five, I was supposed to be something else. I’ll never know what because I lost the chance to dream. Because life— they— forced me down a splintered path. They thought their cruelty would save me from myself, that they were carving my “weak spirit” into protective scars. They made me granite, and where did their road to salvation lead? Trapped as a pawn in a sadistic criminal enterprise.

Same story, different villain.

I was born a dreamer. I don’t even know what I am now.

A reluctant monster infected by life.

Perched on shattered heights.

Waiting to fall.

God, if only I could fall.

“Interesting news?” Abe asks.

I tuck my phone away with a scowl. Could this guy be more intrusive?

“No. How much longer until we’re at the resort?”

“What’s the rush?” He lifts his hands at my hard look. “Okay, geez. I thought you were supposed to be Prince Charming or something. You’re as cranky as the boss.”

Fuck, he’s right. My entire survival depends on hiding who I am and making people like me. I have to get my shit together.

You’re the elite performer, remember? And you play the game better than anyone.

So well that I can barely tell what’s real and what’s not anymore.

“Yeah, man, sorry. Been a long day.”

His brow lifts as he scans me, and I offer my best smile. The good one that can be cashed in for anything. Dinner, information, money, sex—whatever needs to be done. Right now, it’s a pass for being a dick over the last three hours.

Looks like it worked when he settles back in his seat and focuses through the windshield. Perfect timing, as we pull up to another gate straight out of a fairytale. Ornate metalwork blooms from post to post and towers at least twelve feet above us.

Who knew the Gates of Hell would be so impressive?

Through the opening gap, I see a magnificent fountain that resembles the Italian Fontana di Trevi. In fact, most of the aesthetic since entering Palmetto Acres has been old world Italian. Under other circumstances, I would have appreciated the nod to ancient beauty. Instead, I feel like a prisoner of war being marched back to Rome. The irony of the ties to my name is not lost on me.

We circle around the fountain and pass the huge columns and intricate stonework of the main entrance.

“Always go in through the back,” Abe explains as we follow the decorative driveway around the outside of the massive complex. There, the expensive stone gives way to asphalt, and the building’s fa?ade becomes much less remarkable. The sandy color is the same, but beyond that, there’s nothing to distinguish it from any other hospitality operation. Loading docks, service doors, and, yes, a cluster of walled-off dumpsters attest to the fact that even palaces require deliveries and produce plenty of garbage.

Abe stops at what looks like a garage door and types a code into a panel on a post several yards from the entrance. When the door opens, he continues to an indoor ground-level parking area.

“We’ll get you a code, although I doubt you’ll have your own car while you’re here,” Abe tells me as he pulls into a space marked 108.

I look around after we step out, mentally tabulating the fortune’s worth of vehicles parked within view. I’ve been surrounded by luxury during my time on the McArthur payroll, but this is a whole new level of excess.

“Is that a Vitale AX12?” I ask, eyeing the unicorn I was pretty sure only existed in theory.

“Nice, huh?” he says with a smirk as he beeps the lock of his SUV. “You don’t even want to know what that cost.”

“Probably not.” I take a wider than necessary path around it, as if my inferior essence might damage the precious exterior. It looks like it’s never been driven. Maybe it hasn’t. Maybe that’s part of the fun of owning a car that shouldn’t exist.

I follow Abe into an elevator and watch as he punches in another code to set it in motion. “I’m sure you’ll get the full tour later, but the boss is anxious to see you.”

“Yeah, I got that. You have any idea why I’m here?”

My stomach drops when he looks away and stares at the elevator panel.

“No idea,” he lies.

I don’t call him on it. It would just force another one.

My pulse pounds with each frantic second, each ding closer to my fate. Even Abe’s jovial persona has mellowed into somber silence. Is he escorting me to my boss or my execution? In my world, it could be both. I shudder at memories of the last time I stood in front of Montgomery McArthur.

Bloody.

Broken.

The moment I stared death in the face.

The moment I finally learned to breathe underwater.

But I’m steel now. Nothing like the na?ve kid who thought he knew pain.

The elevator stutters to a halt, and I step out first. Within seconds, I’m facing a direct view into an ostentatious penthouse. But my gaze slices through the grandeur surrounding me and locks on the endless blue vista beyond the glass walls. People pay a fortune to torture themselves with views like this.

My fists clench against the sudden rush of panic. I can’t show my fear. One misstep, one display of weakness, and I’m done.

I push myself forward, projecting every ounce of confidence I don’t have.

“And the prodigy arrives!” A distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair rises from one of the leather chairs, his arms open in a deceptive greeting. The razor stare shadowed by thick brows tells the real truth, however. I only saw him once before, but this image has been embedded in my brain.

You don’t forget Satan when he’s staring you down.

Today he’s dressed like he just finished on the golf course. A quick scan reveals six other occupants—two women and four men—in addition to the three of us. No exits except the elevator behind us. Weapons? Five I can see, which means there are at least a dozen I can’t.

“Mr. McArthur, so good to see you again,” I say, moving toward him. I block the violent memories of our only other encounter.

His smile sends a shiver through me. It’s not deceptive like Abe’s, but insidious, like he revels in the power his facial expression has over you. As with our last encounter, his eyes shift from my head to my feet in open appraisal.

Also, like that day, the chills freeze to ice when his smile slides into a grin. There’s nothing I like about the way he’s looking at me. Or any of them, for that matter. Covetous, domineering.

I’m a possession, like the cars in his garage.

Abe’s earlier comment about Scarlett McArthur thunders through my head when I sense her intense gaze from the couch. I don’t acknowledge it, but I feel the unspoken secret I never asked to keep. We barely know each other.

Liar.

I shake off the memories to focus back on my present mess.

Based on her outfit alone, the other woman in the room must be McArthur’s wife. Her cold expression makes her an extension of her husband, which should cause every living organism on the planet to shudder. She studies me now, sliding her gaze up and down my body like I’m an animal at auction. The examination makes me uneasy, and I distract myself by evaluating the rest of the room’s occupants.

Two of the men I recognize: McArthur’s right-hand captain, Merrick, and another regular soldier named Ben. The remaining two unknowns mirror the grave expressions of their associates. They all have that same intense concentration that tells you nothing would make them happier than having a reason to pull their gun.

I know what it feels like to have cold metal pressed against your skull, the pinch of restraints on your wrists as a fist smashes into your face.

It’s why I’m here.

“Roman Shaw. The chameleon. The all-star utility player for our organization. By all accounts, you’ve been exceeding expectations since you’ve joined our ranks.” He shakes my hand, then holds on as he continues. “Things have worked out quite well for both of us, haven’t they? How are you enjoying your time as McArthur royalty?”

His grip tightens to a painful level as he searches my eyes. I will myself not to flinch.

Royalty? A prisoner, and he knows it.

“It’s been great, sir.” More lies, but words are power. Horde them for your arsenal. Share only what’s necessary for survival. Another lesson learned hard and brutally.

His smile turns sinister with a secret only he knows. “I believe you may have been right, Scarlett.” He casts a dramatic look at his daughter. The young woman returns an irritated frown he seems to enjoy. “Want to hear a funny story?” he asks me.

I swallow my anxiety at the strange question and uncomfortable attention of everyone in the room. Pretty sure no one wants to hear the story except the man who’s about to tell it.

“We spent a month discussing this job. We labored over the logistics and the best way to make it work. And you know what cemented the plan?”

I shake my head when he pauses for a response.

“You don’t? Come now, Shaw. You must.”

“Me?” I force out.

His grin widens, which tells me that was the answer he wanted. “Actually, no. We chose you for the job, but weren’t sure how to use you. All these strategic minds”—he waves around the room—“and you know who finally solved the riddle?”

“Daddy, is this really necessary?” Scarlett whines.

McArthur’s eyes brighten with disturbing amusement. “I think this young man would be flattered to know the origins of this masterpiece.”

I can’t stop my gaze from landing on the woman still blasting me with silent messages I don’t want. What’s Scarlett trying to say? And what the hell do I have to do with any of this? Five minutes into the meeting, and all I have is more questions.

“It was my daughter who came up with the idea,” McArthur continues. “Well, in a way. Come sit. Let’s relax while we talk. Patrick, get him a drink, will you?”

The man beside Scarlett recoils at the request, his face contorting into a scowl. The fiancé, maybe? It was big news when the engagement made the rounds a few months ago. He clearly doesn’t like the open taunt of being forced to serve drinks to the guy “his woman” chose.

For something. I still don’t know what.

I’m calm as I take the empty chair McArthur offers me. On the coffee table is a spread of folders, a laptop, and what looks like a map. The other diagram almost looks like a family tree.

McArthur returns to his seat and waves over the table in a clear invitation to observe. Leaning forward, I do my best to keep my expression neutral as I study the contents.

“Are you familiar with the story of the Hatfields and McCoys?” he asks.

I snap my gaze to his. “The two families that hated each other?”

“Exactly. Not just hated, despised each other. They loathed each other to the point of slaughter.”

His gaze scratches at my eyes with unspoken violence. His lips curve into a vicious smile. “Have you ever known that kind of hatred, Shaw? That driving need to annihilate someone?”

Blood pounds through my veins as I stare into the face that’s haunted every shadow, every silence, since the moment we met. The face of the devil himself.

“Bullet or paradise? Which will it be, Roman?” he asked.

Which will it be? Not a question. A taunt .

Cold dead eyes raking my soul, sinking in claws that knew the lie of that choice, even as the words spewed out as toxic air. Knew it wasn’t a choice. What he really meant was Bullet or Hell?

Except I didn’t know Hell like I do now.

“Yes,” I say evenly. “I know that kind of hatred.”

His return smile lodges in the pit of my stomach. “Good. You will need it. Take some time to bathe in it. Wear it as a shield. Let it flow through your veins and steel your mind. Because you, my friend, have just become the epicenter of a war.”

By the time I close the door to my room two hours later, my brain is dark and splintered. Words swirl in a furious vortex, pieces of my soul I’ve had to lock up for too long. My head pounds as I drop to the edge of the bed and press the heels of my palms against my eyes. The ache. The agony of another day I don’t want to live. Another sin I don’t want to commit.

But I will do both. Live. Sin. Tear off another piece of my fractured soul and feed it to the monster I’ve become.

Only one ghost knows the truth of my existence, the real man behind Roman Everett Shaw . Only one vault protects the core of who I am amidst the wasteland of false identities and broken promises. Sometimes I can’t even remember, but it always does. It always reaches through the mirror to drag me back from the shadows, like it has my entire life. To remind me I’m more than this. That somewhere inside the decaying shell, I can still touch what’s left of me. Just the smallest piece.

My heart.

My sanity.

My air that will help me breathe for another day.

I pull the composition book from a hidden compartment in my suitcase and open to the next blank page. The trauma of tomorrow still haunts the recesses of my awareness, but for now I cling to my last, remaining tether.

The one part of me no one can ever own.

Dropping to the mattress, I grip my pen, blink through the shadows… and write.

The light at the end of the tunnel

seems to be eons away,

so I’m doing my best to find some peace

in the darkness for now.

Living for those refreshing gasps of oxygen

in between my panic attacks.

-JD August 11