Exiled (A Madame X Novel) (20 page)

I
wake up, and Logan is gone. The bed beside me is still warm, though, so he hasn’t been gone long. I get out of bed, dress quickly in yoga pants and a T-shirt, and go looking. The terrace is empty, so I descend to the main level. Kitchen, empty. Living room, same.

My heart rises in my throat. The clock on the microwave says it’s 2:19, so I didn’t even sleep two hours. Where could he have gone? There is a hammered copper bowl that Logan owns. It is the size of his two hands cupped together, tarnished, battered. It sits on a ledge near the front door, and it is where he puts his keys and wallet whenever he comes home. Without fail, he will walk in the door, close it behind himself with his heel, dig out his wallet and toss that and his keys into the bowl.

The bowl is empty.

I do not like this. Logan never just leaves. At the very least, he leaves a note, telling me where he’ll be. Or he sends me a text to read. My phone is plugged in on the kitchen counter; there are no messages.

I take my phone off the charger, slip my feet into a pair of flats, and move in a near-run out the front door. To the elevator, down to the parking garage. Our reserved spot is empty, but I see Logan’s G63 heading for the exit.

I run. Flat-out sprinting, even though I’m wearing neither bra nor underwear. I catch up as he stops at the exit, checking traffic. Smack my palm to the back window. He was just beginning to accelerate, slams on the brakes. I hear the locks disengage, a loud
chunk-chunk
. Open the door, slide in, close the door, buckle the seat belt.

A moment of silence, unmoving in the exit.

“Goddammit, Is, you’re supposed to be sleeping,” he breathes. “You need to go back home. Now.”

“No.” I glance at him.

He is dressed in the same jeans and T-shirt as earlier, but now has tied his hair back and put on a Blackwater ball cap. There is a pistol on his lap, huge and black.

“What are you doing, Logan?”

He pulls out into traffic. Doesn’t answer for a long time, a couple of miles at least. “Ending this, once and for all.”

“I walked away, Logan. He
let
me. He brought me back.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s done with you.”

“You weren’t there, Logan.” I touch his bicep; his gaze remains focused on the road. “That was the end of it. It’s over.”

“He put his hands on you.” Logan reaches out, glances at me, touches the bruises on my throat. “He left marks on you. Your voice is hoarse.”

“Yes, but he let go. He let go of me, and he
let me go
. It can be over.”

Logan doesn’t respond. He heard me, but he is determined to do this.

A mile. Two. Three. We’re heading to midtown, to Caleb’s high-rise.

“Logan, please.”

“You’re
pregnant
, Isabel.” We’re stopped at a red light; he turns, and venomous rage is written in every line of his expression. “He kidnapped you off my mother
fucking
roof in broad daylight. He shot my dog with a tranquilizer. He
choked
you. I have tried like fucking hell to let this be between you two, to let you handle it your way. I’ve tried to stay out of it. I haven’t even tried to get even for the fact that he tried to kill me, and took my eye in the process. I can handle that shit. Revenge isn’t my style, Isabel, but when you fuck with my home, my dog, and my woman in one move . . . you do
not
get to just walk away unscathed.” He is quiet, his rage is a fierce, hot flame, all the more terrifying for the fact that he is utterly calm.

Back to silence, one hand on the wheel, knuckles tight, jaw flexing and tensing, the other hand on his pistol, thumb flipping the safety off and back on, over and over and over, finger lying along the outside of the trigger guard.

He brakes to a rough halt outside Caleb’s building, tires barking as he parks in a clearly labeled no-parking zone. He doesn’t seem to care.

“Stay here.”

“Logan, I’m not going to let you—”

His expression silences me. This is a side of Logan Ryder I’ve never seen before, and it scares me. “Isabel, I will only say this one more time: stay . . . the
FUCK
 . . . here.”

I stay. But I can see the lobby of the building through the glass doors. I watch as Logan exits the SUV, gun held tight to his thigh. His stride as he shoves through the revolving door is liquid, smooth, determined. I watch as he stalks across the gaping lobby, and I watch as he spots Len leaving the private elevator. I watch as Logan levels the pistol at Len, from less than five feet away. The few people in the lobby scatter, fleeing out the doors. I can see both men, Logan
and Len. Logan has the pistol against Len’s forehead. I see Len’s mouth move, answering whatever question Logan asked:
Where i
s he?

Logan backs away, lowers the pistol.

I see it in slow motion.

Len reaches into his suit coat. Withdraws the most massive handgun I’ve ever seen, a long-barreled silver thing with a black handle, a handgun large enough to be a cannon. Logan is walking away, gun at his thigh once more. Not hidden, but not obvious unless you’re looking.

I see Len’s arm go up. The hand cannon is level with Logan’s skull. I am screaming, I think. I don’t know. Even from this distance I can see the moment when Len’s finger slides inside the trigger guard, and the moment when a thick index finger squeezes the trigger.

Flames belch. The concussion is like thunder, even through the doors of the building and the insulated interior of the Mercedes.

But Logan isn’t dead. At the last moment, he pivoted and sidestepped, pistol whipping up into a two-hand grip.

BANGBANG!

His pistol jumps twice; I see each buck of the barrel, tiny burst of flame.

Len flinches, staggers. Gun hand droops. The silver hand cannon hits the floor. Red florets bloom, become a rosette, and then a spreading crimson splotch, and then Len’s once-white button-down shirt is painted red.

Logan shoves his pistol into the back of jeans, drapes his shirt over it. Bends over Len, withdraws something from an inside pocket of Len’s coat, and then straightens. Turns away. Walks toward the exit. Emerges from the building. Gets in the car. The engine is still on; he never shut it off.

The whole scene lasted less than a minute, and now Len is dead.

Logan doesn’t look at me. He is utterly calm. Too calm. He has a key card in his hand, uses one hand to drive, clutching the key card in his fingers. The card was once white, and now is spattered with red.

I am fighting hyperventilation.

“Keep it together, Is. Not done yet.” He doesn’t look at me as he speaks.

We don’t go far, just around the block to the private underground garage entrance and exit. There is a yellow box with a card reader, and a red-and-white-striped barrier arm. A swipe of the card, and the arm rises, admitting us. Down, then, into the darkness. Into the belly of the beast. The Mercedes’s bluish-white headlights turn on automatically, bathing the dimly lit garage.

There are several cars parked with plenty of space between them, all Caleb’s, I assume. The Maybach, a low, sleek red sports car, a yellow one, a green one, a buglike silver one. I don’t know the names or models of them, nor do I care. There, directly ahead of us, is the private elevator. To the left of it, a black SUV.
Range Rover
, the badge says. It is on, idling, rear passenger-side door ajar.

It is facing the exit. Thomas stands outside the driver’s door, an earpiece in his left ear. He has two fingers pressed to the earpiece, receiving the news of Len, I presume.

The elevator door slides open as Logan brings the car to a halt. Shoves the shifter into park. Throws open his door.

Steps out, bringing his gun up as soon as his feet touch concrete.

“Hands up, Thomas,” he orders. “On your head. Now.”

Thomas complies slowly, placing his paws on his clean-shaven scalp. Calm, unafraid. Eyeing Logan as a lion might eye prey from behind a scrim of tall grass. Waiting for an opportunity to pounce.

Caleb is walking toward us, still, eyeing the scene, one hand in a trouser pocket, cell phone to one ear, suit coat draped over an arm. Hair slicked back, freshly showered.

I am outside the car, though I don’t remember moving.

Logan has his gun up, still. Touches the barrel to Thomas’s temple. “Weapon out, now. Slowly. Two fingers.” Thomas complies. “Now. Get in the car.”

Thomas folds his huge frame into the driver’s seat, buckles his seat belt, closes the door, and places both hands on the steering wheel.

Only then does Logan turn his attention to Caleb. “You, motherfucker. Get on your knees.” The pistol leveled at Caleb adds weight and immediacy to his command.

Caleb ends the call, slips the handset into a trouser pocket. Stares, unperturbed at Logan. “I think not. I have business to attend to. If you’re going to shoot me, get on with it. I have no time for dramatics.”

“You had time to kidnap Isabel from my roof. You shot my
dog
.”

“No one suffered any harm.”

“You
took
her from our
home
.”

“And brought her back.”

“You choked her. Left bruises on her throat. Cut her with a knife. You brought her back naked and sobbing.”

“She had a robe on.”

“You cut off her bathing suit, you sick fuck.”

“She was mine first. I was her first everything, Ryder. First kiss, first fuck, first love.”

“She never loved you. It was Stockholm syndrome.”

Caleb’s gaze goes to me. “If you think that, then you do not know her as well as you think.”

I am frozen, pinned in place by Caleb’s eyes. There is something
in them. That in itself is unusual. But what I see is . . . an apology? Despair? Farewell? Something I cannot place. Something dark and tragic and definitive.

Caleb moves toward Logan, who shifts his grip on the gun, jams the barrel against Caleb’s cheekbone.

“I’ll repeat myself one last time, Ryder. Shoot me now, or leave me alone.”

“That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

“You killed one of my most loyal employees, a man I’ve known many, many years. I returned Isabel to you as I promised, unharmed. And you barge into my place of business, into my
home
, kill my friend, threaten me. What do you want, Ryder? Do you even know?”

“You, dead,” Logan snarls.

“Then kill me. I am unarmed.” Caleb speaks barely above a murmur. I have to strain to hear him.

“Logan, don’t.” I take a step, reach out. For Logan? For Caleb? For both? I don’t know.

“Get in the car, Isabel.”

“On this, your boyfriend and I agree. Get in the car, Isabel.”

I ignore both of them.

Caleb turns his attention back to Logan. “You won’t shoot me.”

Logan pulls back the hammer. “Oh no?”

“Do you know what it would do to Isabel, if she watched you murder me in cold blood?” Caleb is unmoving, allowing Logan to keep the gun pressed barrel to cheekbone. “And ask yourself, Logan, why you’re here. Is it because I took her from your home? Is it really about your dog? Or is it personal? This is about
you
, Logan. It’s about you and me. I got you put in jail. I set you up. I lured you in, waved a few million in front of you, and you took the bait, hook, line, and sinker. You spent five years in a white-bread federal pen and now you want revenge. You probably won’t even admit it to yourself, though,
which is why you’re pinning this on me. Acting all outraged. But it’s revenge, Logan, plain and simple.”

“Shut up.” Logan jabs with the barrel, cutting open Caleb’s cheek. A rivulet of blood runs unchecked. “SHUT UP!”

“You’re unhinged, Logan. You think you’re in control? You think you’ll get away free? You’ve already shot one person. I haven’t reported it yet. I might not. Len is not a man anyone will mourn, save perhaps for me. And an investigation wouldn’t do any good. Having you arrested wouldn’t do me or Len any good, nor Isabel. But you still murdered him. I have reason to hold a grudge against you for that.”

“He shot at me first.”

“Because you threatened him. He is—
was
—not a man to take such a thing lying down.” Caleb’s chin lifts. “I’ll ask you again: What . . . do . . . you . . . want?”

“Logan, let’s go.” I take a step toward the men.

“Get back, Is. Stay out of this.” Logan lowers the gun, turns away, shoves it into his waistband.

Pauses for a moment, a thumb at the corner of his mouth. And then he pivots, swings his fist, and punches Caleb so hard I hear bone crack against bone.

Caleb flies backward, head rocking on shoulders. Logan follows, fist swinging again. But Caleb isn’t down. A stagger, a stumble, and then a pivot, and Caleb plants a fist in Logan’s belly, stopping his rush.

The fight is short and brutal. Both men are hard, powerful, and unafraid to bleed. I watch, cringing, as they batter each other with fists, knees, elbows. Both are bloody. I can only watch, weeping.

For Logan.

But . . . for Caleb, too.

Because despite it all, I cannot say with any certainty that I didn’t love Caleb.

They are on the ground, rolling. Caleb’s knee jerks up, buries in Logan’s gut. It’s enough to buy Caleb time to roll away, and somehow, when Caleb sways upright, Logan’s pistol is leveled at its owner.

Logan is gasping, gagging, coughing. Bleeding from the nose, lips split. Caleb isn’t in any better shape, but Caleb is the one upright, wielding the pistol.

Aiming it, in a moment of terrifying déjà vu, at a prone, vulnerable Logan.

“Caleb, no. Please, please don’t. Not again.”

“He came here, Isabel. He came to me.”

Tears blur my vision.

I’m dizzy. Disoriented. Weeping, sobbing, gasping, unable to breathe.

Staggering to Caleb.

To you.

To him.

I don’t know anything.

“No, please, Caleb.” I hear my voice. “Please. I love him.”

“You loved
me
first!” You . . . he . . . Caleb . . . shouts. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a shout from those lips.

“Did I?” I’m in front of you. Gripping your arm, clutching your bicep, pulling with all my strength, trying to pull the barrel away. “Or did I just not know any better? I never knew anything but what you allowed me to know! I never knew anything! I never knew you, there was never anything to know. You were an enigma. You’ve always been an enigma, Caleb! You are totally opaque. Nothing gets in, nothing gets out. I never know what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling. I never know what you want. You’d fuck me, but it meant nothing. You never kissed me. You never touched me as if you cared. You
possessed
me, and nothing else. Is that love?”