Brutal (37 page)

“Venessa, just talk to him so everyone chills out,” says Max, filled with worry.

I keep walking, I don’t have time for a fucking Hallmark moment.

“Kharma!” he yells, and my feet freeze. Odd…

I find myself wanting to equal parts hug him, then hurt him. He doesn’t want me getting hurt, and that’s because he loves me, some part of my head tells me. The other part wants me to put him out of his misery, because I have shit to do. Struggling with both parts of myself isn’t something I have time for. Either Rafe or Tony stops him, or I will. Mate or not, I have a job to finish. Looking him in the eyes is something that usually bound us, but tonight it could break us.

He needs to know that he’s not dealing with Venessa right now. Venessa needs his strength, but I don’t.

“Come back to me,” he begs, looking at me, and I say nothing.

 “God dammit, Angel, don’t you do this,” he says. “We’re partners.”

“No, Detective,” I say. “Not tonight.”

Turning and walking away wasn’t difficult. It was fucking brutal.

He doesn’t stop me.

I hear the others, reassuring him I just need some time to get my head straight. He won’t give up, just like I wouldn’t in his place. So when I round the corner, I don’t look back, I don’t slow down. Door locked behind me, I get past the lockers, through the back door, and into Tony’s car. I’m not out of the alley when I hear Rogan’s soul being ripped from his chest. He wasn’t quiet about it. Though a small part of me wants to turn around and comfort him, the larger part doesn’t, so I drive.

T
his whole situation is wrong. From the second Rafe said the word ‘gone’, Venessa pretty much disappeared, too. She doesn’t want my opinion, she doesn’t want to lean on me, she won’t even look at me, let alone talk to me. I’m positive Tony is serving as a distraction, and I half way wonder about Rafe, too. Max just looks worried, and Julian resigned. Me? I’m close to losing my shit.

She’s in the lockers, and every time I turn to go, they find a reason to keep me here, and it’s pissing me off. Gallo and Perret speak their own god damned language of head nods and whispers, and part of me is convinced they are talking about her and me. I can’t put my finger on Rafe, but just as I contemplate getting in his shit, she walks in the room, then my ability to speak leaves me. Again.

She’s wearing this black cat suit, with the most wicked looking boots I’ve ever seen. Her hair's down and she’s wearing make-up so dark I can’t see the color of her eyes. If this mission wasn’t critical, I’d probably take back my vow of not fucking her and bend her over a table. However, this isn’t my Angel walking through the bar. She walks past me, straight to Perret, not sparing me or anyone else a glance. She asks for the papers, and I tell her not to sign them, but she ignores me. There’s this remoteness about her, she’s almost robotic. She signs it, hands it back, nods, then plans to exit? What the fuck is going on?

Does she not know which side we’re on here? I’m not a cop tonight. I’m here, willing to do whatever it takes to get Macy back and keep her alive. I call out for her, I get nothing. I ask where she is right now, because I can’t fucking find her, I get nothing. I call her name, I get nothing. Fucking Gallo, aka Mr. Supportive, is all for this bullshit, but I’m not. I’m not playing games with her life because she’s hell bent on going in alone and getting herself killed. So I yell Kharma and, for a few seconds, she stops dead. I get in front of her, to try to remind her that I’m here, I’ll fight, I’ll fucking kill, if that’s what she needs me to do. I just… fucking need to be with her.

“Come back to me,” I say looking at her, but she says nothing.

“God dammit, Angel, don’t you do this,” I say. “We’re partners.”

“No, Detective,” she says. “Not tonight.”

Then, without even blinking, she turns and walks out of the room. I just stood there, stunned. I’m trying to figure out what just happened and what to about it, when Rafe comes to my left, then Gallo to my right, and each take an arm. Perret is in front of me, and Max’s eyes look like saucers.

“Rafe,” I say. “Get your motherfucking hands of me now.”

“Not yet,” he says. “Listen.”

“Gallo,” I say. “I will fucking kill you if you don’t remove—“

“Enough,” says Perret. “Venessa has given me enough to put you out for a considerable length of time if you refuse to cooperate. She’s going to need your help when the time comes, so I will give you two choices. Cooperate and help your woman, or sleep it off and let us handle it.”

Looking over at Rafe, I don’t see my partner, I see a traitor.

“She’s doing this for you,” he says.

“He’s right,” says Gallo. “She’ll need you, just not
yet.”

“How are we doing this?” asks Perret, and I can see he hopes I choose not to cooperate.

All I can manage is a nod. I’m so fucking raw right now. These three bastards are helping her get herself killed, and they don’t even look fazed by it. My entire life just walked out that door, and if it wasn’t for the look in Perret’s eyes I’d have been right behind her. Knowing she’s gone and taking my choice to help her away from me, I broke. I didn’t even realize the unholy sound bouncing around in my head was me until my knees hit the floor.

I’ve never hyperventilated before, but I think this is the real thing. My vision is blurred, my chest is heavy, I can’t drag in enough air. I’m also about to beat the fuck out of my partner.

“Come on, partner,” he says. “Let me help you up, so I can explain.”

“Get away from me,” I say, feeling defeated and weak.

“We need to talk. Grab your phone.”

“Ain’t no
we
anymore,” I say. “You don’t give a shit what happens to her, as long as you get Macy, that it?”

“Fuck you,” he says, getting in my face. “She fucking
told me
how this was going to go down, and it was to protect
you
. She didn’t give me a choice. This isn’t all about you,
partner
. Venessa isn’t like other females, so don’t fucking act like she’s helpless. Check your god dammed phone to see when the tracker comes back online. She’s going to give us her location so we can back her up.”

“You took those cocksuckers' side over mine,” I argue.

“I didn’t take any side,” he says. “Venessa is not a rookie, and I’m playing this the way she’s asked me to, because this is Macy’s life we’re dealing with. I know what my job is, what’s yours?”

“I’m supposed to be with her!” I yell.

“You will be!” he shouts.

“Something happens to her because of the stunt you three fuckers pulled today, you don’t need me to spell out all the ways I’m going to destroy you,” I say, looking at Rafe first, then Gallo, and Perret.

They each surprise me by nodding.  Max walks over to me, and asks to speak with me in private. I tell him at this point jack shit is private, and to spell it out.

“James contacted me and told me that the club was safe now, we’re safe now, that she’s on her way to him,” he says.

“Is that it?” I ask. “Did he say anything else?”

“He said it was time she come home,” he says.

“What does that mean?” asks Rafe.

“It could mean several things,” says Perret. “But I believe the only one with the answer just left.”

“She fucking knows who it is,” I say. “Fuck!”

“Now we wait,” says Gallo.

“Fuck that,” I say, looking at Rafe. “Suit up.”

I
’m on I-75, heading back to the last place I ever wanted to be. I’m no shrink, but I’m guessing there will be something therapeutic about this trip down memory lane. Truth is? I’m not expecting to walk away from this. I’ve known my life span would be significantly shorter than most, because I chose a dangerous path. I mean, the odds of me getting a disease at my age are slim, right? I have no bad habits, aside from tweaking out on people who touch me.

Funny how life can trick you, though. I had begged to die in this house ten years ago, and was denied. Now, I want to live. I’ve also accepted that if it’s my time, it’s a righteous way to go. Saving Macy, and hopefully others, is a cause worth dying for. The only tie to this mortal place is Rogan. As much as I’d like to say I’ve got this in the bag or something equally cheesy, I know there’s a good chance I won’t make it, and my only regret will be that I didn’t get to love him longer. I’d love him forever, if I was allowed.

My phone buzzes, and I’m caught off guard. A) Because I actually heard it (a first), B) Because I didn’t have music on (another first).

I slide the phone on, and look at the photo in the text. How long I stared at it without crashing, I’m not sure. But I continued to stare anyway, committing this face to memory. I know this fucking face. Not only do I know this fucking face, I’m going to kill the man wearing it. I’m not shocked, because nothing shocks me. I don’t look the same, so why would he? Suddenly, the eyes on me make sense, that feeling of a shadow but not sensing a threat. I wouldn’t know this person if he passed me on the street. This person made it personal by bringing Macy into it. This person made it fucking personal by bringing everyone I care about into it. This person sealed his fucking fate when he put his hands on Macy and forced me to push my mate aside in order to see Macy to safety. The motherfucker made me choose.

I’m almost there now. I can tell by the diner that still sits ‘open’. Again, a shrink would probably say a clear sign your head isn’t in a good place is when you aren’t asking yourself
why
someone is doing this but wondering how their death will feel instead. The why of it no longer matters. The why holds no relevance here, Macy does.

Pulling up, I don’t do the ‘perimeter check’, I don’t try to sneak around. He’s knows I’m coming, because this is his show. Well, it’s his show until I walk in that front door, anyway. Once I cross the threshold, it’s my show. I don’t bother with a head check. My head is as solid as it’s going to get. My best friend is in that house. It’s not my house; hasn’t been since I sold it ten years ago.

Based on memory, I recall the floor plan. My old home wasn’t large by any means, like any older home the floors squeak, the rooms are small and there are only so many places a person could hide.  Outside of the basement, the living room is the hub. To get anywhere in the house it starts and stops with the living room.

Why does this matter? Because it gives me the advantage, that’s why.

Leaving the key in the ignition, I reach into Tony’s glove box, and retrieve my 9mm that’s currently sporting a high quality suppressor (another favor I owe Tony). I close the door and walk up the concrete steps. I open the metal door and step in. Looking left, right, then straight ahead, I see and hear nothing. Outside of my beating heart and the massive pain in my head, it’s quiet.

Once inside, a man I don’t know approaches me with his hands up, showing me he’s harmless. Harmless or not, I aim and fire, dropping him where he stands. Not sparing him a glance, I head toward the kitchen, when another man steps out, gun drawn. He makes no move to advance on me, but nods toward the basement. I nod back, then raise my gun and fire again. What did he expect? A thank you? He’s lucky I ended his suffering as quickly as I did, so yeah, you’re welcome. I'm taking in my surroundings, waiting for men, but none come. Two men. I should seriously be insulted. So it’s the basement, then?

Before opening the door, I notice the walls, the floors; everything has stayed the same.

Opening my senses was my first mistake, but I couldn’t stop myself if I tried. I smell blood, except it’s not fresh. I see my dead mom reaching for my dead sister. I see my dead dad crumpled on the floor, bleeding from a gunshot to the head. I see a seventeen-year-old version of myself, rearranging her family on her living room floor, hoping to join them. I close my eyes to block it out.

Kharma needs to be here, not me. Clearing my head, I attempt to open my eyes and dig my nails into my palms to remind myself that this is real. Only I can’t get the smell of death out of my nose and lungs. It’s consuming me. Open your eyes! I'm at war with myself now. All of the thoughts and feelings I’ve buried are rising to the surface. The tree house in back, the hidey hole between my room and Maddy’s, my mom’s love of potpourri, my dad’s freshly lit Cubans. It’s a physical assault on my senses. It’s all there for me to see, feel and suffer. All over again.