Shadow Man: Grayson Duet: Book One Page 8

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. It’s a strange sound, a not-quite-hollow sound. A sound I’ve missed. “Do you have any other tattoos?”

  “Just some script on my hip. I’d love to add more roses, but I’d need some serious money for that. It’s never gonna happen if people keep wrecking my bar.”

  There’s that cue again, and whether it’s the evening, the moon, the beer or my laugh, this time I bite.

  “Do you think it’s the same men who made you fly to Miami with the coke?”

  She drains the last of her beer and wipes her mouth. “Yeah.”

  “Is it to do with your cousin’s debt?”

  “Something like that...” She glances back at the bar again. “This is just more of his heavy-handed persuasion tactics.”

  “Persuasion for what?”

  “To get me to suck his dick in exchange for a debt extension.”

  My stomach lurches in horror.

  “What did he do to you in the SUV, Vi?”

  “He tried to sell it, but I wasn’t buying.” She rolls her eyes at me, but she keeps tugging at the hem of her dress in a mirror movement from earlier. The crude details are all there, from her subtle shift in position to the re-crossing of her legs.

  The strength of my reaction catches me off guard.

  When will they ever stop?

  “Men are so fucking talented at making your refusal to screw them the greatest imposition in the world,” she carries on with a grin, as if it’s not affecting her as much as I know it is. “It’s like you just stabbed their mother and spent all of their—”

  “What if they never gave you an option?”

  My admission slips out, and hangs heavy and dirty next to the moon.

  Vi looks shocked. More shocked than she should be when a Colombian drug lord is moving in ever-decreasing circles around her with the same intention.

  “Is that what he did to you? Is that why you’re running?”

  Not him.

  Never him.

  “Listen, you know you don’t have to talk about it if—”

  “You know what the real imposition is?” I interrupt, staring up at the moon again; fixing on a single point to give me the courage to say it. “It’s not the act or the pain so much—most of the time you can just shut it out. You can visit a place that’s all rainbows and unicorns while your soul is busy getting dissected. It’s what happens afterward that destroys you. It’s the shame, the disgust, the hurt, the confusion; the nightmare that’s just your reality with black cloths thrown over it like someone died. And pieces of you did die. Pieces you’ll never get back again. Pieces that you never knew were part of your jigsaw in the first place. Months go by, and everything worsens. You end up so far inside of yourself you can't find the door anymore…” My breath is coming out in sharp gasps. By the time I realize I’m crying my tears are dripping off my chin. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, rocked to the core by what I’ve just confessed. I’ve never said any of this out loud before. Not to Eve, my therapists, him… Instead, I’ve broken the seal to a total stranger. “I’m so sorry. I’m so—”

  “Shhhhh, Anna, it’s okay.” Vi pulls me into her arms, and I go willingly. They aren’t the arms I want around me, but it’s the next best thing.

  Her compassion is a key. It’s not so much the floodgates she opens as the Niagara Falls. I cry for all the words I couldn’t say; for everyone I pushed away. I cry for sailing too close to the rocks of a man who is as much damned as he is beautiful. For the rash of feelings sealed so tight inside me, it’ll take more than his gun to shoot his way in.

  “You know what you need, right?” says Vi, stroking my tears into my hair.

  “A Delorean time machine?” I lift my head and swipe my eyes, catching the edges of her wicked grin through the fuzziness.

  “I’ll be right back.” She jogs inside and remerges with a bottle of tequila. “The old cures are the best.” She replaces my half-drunk beer with the bottle. “Three sips. Three questions. And then we never have to speak of this again.”

  “Fine by me.” I take a swig while holding her gaze, the alcohol searing the back of my throat. “Wow,” I croak, spluttering like a teenager after stealing her mom’s vodka. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “It’ll be a sweet, sweet death, I promise,” she says, laughing at my reaction. “I grew up on this stuff… Does he know you left him?”

  My smile vanishes. I nod, and take another sip, not bothering to correct her assumption. He’s not the bleakest chapter in the story of my life, but if I make him the villain, he’s easier to hide from.

  “Can he trace you here?”

  “He can trace me anywhere,” I admit, taking my third and final mouthful.

  “Do you want me to kill him for you?”

  It’s the way she says it. It’s so brutally casual; so effortlessly sincere.

  “You can't kill a shadow,” I say, my eyes seeking out the moon again. “They thrive too much in the darkness.” I rise to my feet, feeling a little unsteady. I’m done with this day. My emotional exhaustion is like a sinkhole, sucking me down into the dirt. “Do you have a couch or something I can crash on?”

  “I mean it, Anna,” she says seriously, rising to her feet as well, looking and sounding like some beautiful Colombian Kill Bill assassin with much cooler shoes. “Just say the word.”

  “The word is sleep,” I argue, swaying not so gently in the evening breeze.

  “No, American Girl,” drawls an amused voice from behind us. “The word for tonight is betrayal.”

  13

  Anna

  “Isn't that so, Viviana?” The deep voice reaches into the yard where we’re standing again, curls around us like tentacles and forces us back inside. “Would you like to tell your new friend its definition, or shall I?”

  “Tell me what?” My gaze snaps to Vi, but hers is fixed on the Colombian standing in the middle of her bar without an invitation; the kind of man who looks like he never seeks permission for anything. Late thirties, black suit with an open neck white button-down, tough lined skin like a lizard. He’s huge in every sense of the word: Broad, muscular… Even his moustache is two sizes too big for his face.

  “Vi?” I prompt again in a panic.

  “What are you doing here?” she says, ignoring me. “We agreed on tomorrow.”

  “Vi, who is he?”

  Again, she doesn't answer, but I’ve made the connection anyway.

  My suspicions are confirmed when the two men from outside the airport terminal start crowding up the place as well. They’re sicarios, I realize with a jolt. They’re cartel soldiers who hurt and kill for their leader, and they’re even sleazier in person. I watch their gazes slip from our chests to our bare legs as the truth slams into me like a wrecking ball: I ran from drama into the arms of more drama, and this time there’s not a hope in hell of my shadow rescuing me.

  Alberto Fernandez himself is exuding the worst kind of sin. If I’d thought Vi was bad news at first, this cartel prince is kicking that rep to the curb. No one says a word as he circles the bar and helps himself to a new bottle of aguardiente, tossing the shot glass down and pouring out a double with a sinister amount of care. He doesn’t offer anyone else a drink until long after he’s downed it, and then he’s sliding the bottle toward his men, not us.

  “Our deal still stands, Viviana,” he says, his jet-black eyes flickering between us as an icy cold hand takes a hold of my stomach and squeezes. His accent is as thick as his neck, the dark flesh stamped with skulls and crosses. “I’m moving the delivery time forward a day… Let’s just say I was anxious to sample.”

  “I don't care. I’ve changed my mind. You’ll get your money another way,” she says, slipping into urgent Spanish; firing missives at him that sound more like pleas and bargaining.

  Fernandez chuckles and shakes his head, dismissing her like he’s swatting a bug. Meanwhile, every bad intuition I’ve ever had is crushing me. Snap shots of R-rated images blitz my mind—basements
, cages, brutal hands. My past is rushing up so fast I can feel the incoming breeze.

  Betrayal.

  They couldn’t have been talking about me. Could they?

  “Please, Vi—”

  “Señor Fernandez was just leaving,” she says in a tight voice, but she can’t hide her undertones of desperation. If her fierceness were a tigress, she’d be slinking around her ankles right now.

  “Am I?” he says casually, shifting his attention back to me. “You didn’t exaggerate, Viviana. She really is quite lovely.”

  He can’t mean…

  “The terms have changed,” she snaps, but her face is drained of color. “Come back tomorrow. You can have your money in full then.”

  “I disagree.” He pours himself another shot as the chilly atmosphere in the bar drops a couple of degrees. “I make the decisions—not you.”

  Vi goes to speak in Spanish again, but he bangs his fist down on the counter. “English only,” he snarls, before gliding back into his deadly smooth drawl. “You have guests, Viviana. Do not forget your manners.”

  “This isn't up for discussion,” she argues. “We both know I’m what you really want.”

  “What if there’s a better proposition on the table now?”

  “We can leave right away.” She reaches for her purse on the nearby table with shaking hands.

  “No.” The word rumbles around the room like breaking thunder

  “Yes!” Her retort is lightning—bold and bright, and fleeting.

  “Vi, don’t.” I go to grab her arm, but it’s her who shrinks away from me this time.

  “You’ll find no loyalty there, American Girl,” says Fernandez with a chuckle. “Your new friend sold you out, if you haven't already guessed.” He raises his shot glass in a mocking toast as my world implodes, all over again. “Viviana offered you up to me like an animal. You’re her down payment. Welcome to Colombia!”

  My head whips back to Vi again, but she can't meet my eyes. You fool, Anna. You trusted instincts that were rusty and weak.

  “What…Who—?” Suddenly it hits me. “Oh my God, did you know who I was all along?” I back away from her, my heart beating so fast my ribs are aching. “Is this why you befriended me? Was it all to gain my trust? Is he already in Colombia?”

  This seems to reap everyone’s attention. Heads turn. Backs straighten. My cries were shots fired wide, but they’ve still managed to hit the board.

  “And who might you be, American Girl?” asks Fernandez coolly. “And who is arriving in Colombia to claim you?”

  “No-no one.” I backtrack so fast I’m tripping over my words. Becoming a cartel pawn is one major fuck-up in life I don’t plan on choosing.

  “Secrets, secrets,” he tuts, emerging from behind the bar.

  Vi shoots me a worried look, but I can’t even acknowledge it. I’m so angry with myself. She sold me a lie, and I swallowed it down like the stupid woman that I am. I let her in when I should have slammed the door in her face and left her in that fucking restroom.

  “Did you even have a busted zipper?” I demand, her betrayal like acid pouring onto my wounds.

  “Please, Anna…” Her face is distraught. “I’m trying to make it right. If I’d known about the other stuff—”

  “Fuck you! When did you slip up and knock your humanity out?”

  “Quiet!”

  The fist crashes down again, wiring both of our mouths shut.

  “That’s better,” purrs Fernandez, prowling over to us. In Vi’s defense, she tries to move in front of me, but he pushes her away roughly and into the arms of one of his sicario. The guy slams her face down onto the counter and pins her there, one elbow crushing into her back as she kicks and struggles for freedom.

  The sudden blaze of violence is like a gun going off in my head.

  “Fernandez, don’t do this!” she cries. “Not her! Not her!”

  “Gustavo,” murmurs Fernandez.

  I watch in horror as the sicario holding Vi pulls her up briefly by her hair, and then slams her face down into the counter again. She doesn't scream, but as she lies there, masking her agony with soft ragged gasps, the blood from her broken nose drips off the edge of the polished wood and splatters on the tiles below.

  “Tell me: who’s looking for you, American Girl?”

  His voice is like a caress. I stand there, stock still, as he stops in front of me, dwarfing me, intimidating the hell out of me, and runs an ice-cold finger down the length of my cheek.

  “I lied,” I whisper, turning my head away. “There’s no one looking for me. I have an ex-boyfriend who won’t leave me alone. He follows me. He stalks me. He’s back in the US. He…” I trail off, lost in my own fear. This scenario is all too familiar to me—the terror, the dread, the uninvited helpless, hopeless feeling inside. My memories are scratching at the woodwork now, blowing foul breath under the door.

  “Gustavo,” murmurs Fernandez again.

  Gustavo smiles with grim pleasure as he kicks Vi’s cowboy boots apart and drags her white dress up around her hips.

  “Get off me,” she croaks, repeating it again in Spanish, fighting harder than ever to free herself but the bastard just laughs and smashes her face into the counter, again and again. Her struggles stop after that. She’s not moving. He knocked her out cold.

  Holy shit.

  “What have you done to her?” I scream.

  “Only what was necessary… The next time I say Gustavo’s name, things won’t be so pleasant for your betrayer.” Fernandez smiles down at me. “What was it you said about humanity? Do you practice what you preach, American Girl? Are you going to sit by and watch Gustavo destroy her lying pussy? I should warn you; Sebastian may insist on a turn as well.”

  The second sicario laughs. The first already has his belt undone.

  “So, what’s it to be?” His expression switches temperature to match his touch. “Destroyed pussy, or a name?”

  “I’m telling the truth—”

  A beat later, he has my chin in a vice and his moustache is scratching more fear into my cheek. I try to turn away again, grappling to reach the place I always run to when my life tips into a horror show. But I can’t find the passageway. I’m suspended in the here and now. There’s no hope of an escape for me tonight, in my head or otherwise.

  He reels off instructions to the second man who checks that the front door is bolted and runs the blinds down. “Looks like there’ll be two destroyed pussies in the house,” he announces, marking his ownership of me by licking the entire length of my cheek this time—his tongue so wet, rough and gross I have to frantically swallow the bile down to stop from puking all over his five-hundred dollar shoes. “Gustavo.”

  Over his shoulder, I catch a flash of flailing limbs. Vi’s woken to resume the fight, but it’s too late. He’s too strong for her, and her harsh cries soon turn to helpless whines.

  Like me in that basement.

  Like all those times in that basement.

  “Consider your debt cancelled.” Fernandez laughs as her white panties get ripped away.

  I close my eyes as the grunts begin, a single tear leaking down my cheek.

  “Watch it,” he orders, wrenching my jaw sideways. “Get yourself wet on it. I won’t be as gentle as Gustavo.”

  “Stop, please stop—”

  His grip on me tightens. “And why would I do a thing like that?”

  I stare up at him and feel myself tipping. It’s his smirk that does it: those thin red lips painted in shades of triumph. They all wear it—the abusers, the rapists… It’s a mask for their sick seesaw of power; where the wrong side comes crashing down and women like us are left flailing about for survival. These are the ones who live without humanity. The ones who don’t see a woman; only a vessel to break, abuse and control.

  The dam finally bursts inside of me. I see it all now. I see exactly what they did to me in that basement. And it hurts. It’s hurts so badly that it numbs me to the man with his hand wrapped around m
y jaw. It deadens me to the consequences as I reach inside his jacket for his gun and click off the safety before he even realizes. And then I do what I’ve been dreaming of for six long months. I smile as I point the trigger at him and pump three punishingly loud rounds into the bastard’s stomach, leaving my arm aching from the recoil.

  “Fuck you, bitch!” screams Fernandez, going down hard, but I’m too busy aiming the muzzle at the second sicario as he’s still cursing and reaching for his gun.

  Again, I’m too quick for him. A spray of crimson explodes from the back of his head, messing up Vi’s squeaky-clean shelves.

  The power is all in my hands now. And damn it feels good. I’m not numb anymore; I’m drunk on it. Fucking loaded. Meanwhile, Gustavo has pushed Vi away from him, but I shoot to kill while his dick’s still hanging out of his pants.

  Five bullets to change a life.

  Five bullets to calm the storm.

  Let’s make it six…

  Fernandez isn’t dead yet. He’s dying as loudly as possible at my feet. I don't know much Spanish, and now isn't a good time to learn more. I kneel down beside him, my hand completely steady as I point his own gun at his head, and then I reveal my truth to him,

  “I’m running from El Asesino, you rapist motherfucker,” I tell him, watching his eyes grow wide with shock before they’re dimming for good. “But I’ll never run from men like you again.”

  14

  Anna

  “Anna, we need to get the hell out of here.” There’s a frantic tugging on the back of my T-shirt. “Anna, did you hear me? We have to get our shit together and leave now!”

  It takes me a second to drag my eyes away from the smoking gun and the gaping hole where Alberto Fernandez’s head used to be. Vi’s standing right behind me. Her face is a mess of tears and blood. The front of her white dress is in the same state. She’s already clutching her keys and purse.

  How long have I been kneeling here? I stare down at the gun again. It’s like it appeared from thin air. I don't recognize the bitten fingernails wrapped around the grip. Do I make it a lucky seven? I glance back at Vi. She’s the one who dragged me into this mess, but I can't bring myself to hate her anymore. I guess I annihilated that emotion when I shot down three Colombian criminals in cold blood.