I slept like a baby after butcher butchering night.
Well, for the four hours I managed to sleep before the sounds of Becca moving around in our shared dorm woke me.
It’d been an entire week since then and only a couple days ago the stiffness and aching in my legs from the twenty-four-mile return trip to and from Parker and Sons finally leveled out to the normal daily burn. Really, I should’ve added two more miles to make it a murder marathon.
I kind of missed the ache if I was being honest.
It kept my mind off other things. Things I shouldn’t be thinking about.
Billy Parker’s murder hit the news just this morning. They found his body two days ago and the fact his wife didn’t report him missing and start an investigation sooner only served to cement I’d done the right thing. I didn’t know what it meant that I slept better after killing a man. That I didn’t lose my appetite. That I felt…good.
Not at all like the first time.
This time, I was certain there was nothing at Parker and Sons tying me to the murder. No prints, I’d wiped everything down that I touched. No camera footage, I was very careful to avoid the one camera in the plaza and honestly, I doubted it was even functional, judging by the antiquated look of it. There was nothing tying me to his death except for a very clean slit in a redneck bastard’s throat.
And that could’ve been done by anybody. More likely the same people who caught his fishy ass on a hook to be flayed. Though, I was fairly certain they hadn’t left any traces of themselves there, either.
I almost felt guilty when I finally secured the bug I’d been covertly trying to acquire on Monday night. And that same guilt ate at me when I planted it on Tuesday.
I hated that I felt guilty. I shouldn’t. Not after the shit they’d pulled. Even if the self-proclaimed Queen of Briar Hall still hadn’t attacked, I knew they weren’t done toying with me. Once their meeting with the Aces and the other shit with the Mexicans was done, I’d be fair game again.
It was just like I’d planned. Easy in. Easy out. I didn’t go inside the Crow’s Nest to plant it. Not wanting to risk leaving so much as a stray hair behind to be found.
I’d had to settle for planting it just outside the kitchen window. It was strong enough to pick up conversations inside the house, albeit, not as clearly as I’d have liked. And the old wood siding gave me the perfect little knot to cram it into.
It wasn’t top quality and the battery needed to be replaced every three days, but barring a trip back to Lennox to visit my usual contact, it was as good as I was going to get.
They had exactly three things planned that I was now aware of:
In three days, on the holiday Monday, they were meeting with the Aces whom Corvus didn’t trust, but didn’t think was at fault for the death of some guy named Randy.
In two days, Sunday, they would be making some kind of exchange with the Mexicans. I had to assume guns or drugs but couldn’t be sure. They were all a little on edge about that one.
And tonight, in exactly three hours, at eleven, Rook would be up against some sorry sucker named Conor Jones in an illegal fight ring in the basement of a bar called Sanctum.
Two of those things, I was planning to attend as a ghost. The fight and the Aces meet.
The thing with the Mexicans was too far. I could jack a car, but from the sound of it, it was in the middle of nowhere, so they’d easily spot a tail. And the ride would be too long for me to be able to get away with climbing into their trunk. An option I was considering for the Aces meet to avoid the thirty-mile round trip run to what they liked to refer to as no man’s land. Which was basically just a fancy way of saying Spirit Lake, the all but abandoned village just east of Thorn Valley. The only place within a hundred-mile radius not claimed by a gang.
Talk about a useful bug, am I right?
Though knowing all of this paled in comparison to the fact that I was pretty sure Corvus would shit an actual brick if he knew I’d one-upped him and was eavesdropping on everything. The thought alone brought me so much joy I’d been living on cloud nine all week.
I’d gotten even more ahead on all my projects, academic and extracurricular. Becca and I had a new routine of evening horror movie watching and popcorn when she or I weren’t out—which I actually enjoyed. Way more than I thought I ever would.
She seemed sad lately, and I didn’t feel bold enough to ask her about it, so I simmered in silence hoping that one day whoever made her upset would cross my path so I could cheerfully gut them.
But all good things had to come to an end.
I lowered myself behind the burgundy SUV across the street from Pop’s Midnight Cafe where the owner, a balding man in his late forties, would soon be exiting with his weekly cash deposit to drop off at the bank on his way home. Like he had done the last two Friday’s before this one.
It paid to pay attention. Literally.
If I wanted to get into Sanctum, I needed cash. If it was what I thought it was, it would be pay to play. All attendees would need to place a bet before entry. A hefty sum of which would be raked by the house.
If I showed up with my last three hundred bucks, I’d be laughed out. If I showed up with the 8-10k I thought might be in that faded gray cash bag, I’d have a better chance of being let in.
I needed to see what I was up against. Watching Rook fight might give me an advantage if we ever came to blows. More than that, I wanted to see the man himself. Diesel St. Crow. I wanted to take a measure of him. See if he was made of the same things as his sons.
At least, that’s what I was telling myself. It definitely wasn’t because I wanted to see Rook beat Conor Jones to a bloody pulp. Not at all. And fucking definitely not because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about all three of them since last Friday night.
Listening to the recordings on the bug only had me more confused. They talked about some show they had later this month, and I got the idea it was a concert. I prayed it wasn’t the Primal Ethos one Becca was taking me to. That would be a surefire way to ruin my fun.
Oh, and Corvus cooks. Who would’ve thought? He also got up several times a night and wandered to within range of my bug by the kitchen for water and to grumble wordlessly to himself like a total lunatic.
I adjusted my wig, the short black bob had bangs and when it shifted, they tickled annoyingly at the skin just above my brows.
I groaned, hushing rapidly as the bells jingled and I peered around the edge of the SUV to see Mr. Jordan Hughes exiting with his big ’ol bag of cash. Right on schedule.
Fuck, he walked so slow it hurt to watch him. Made my skin itch.
Come on, fucker, hurry up. I don’t have time for this.
Sanctum was across town and word on the street was that attendees were locked in when the show started. Unable to leave until it was over. Something about preventing a raid. If I didn’t get there before eleven, I wasn’t getting in at all.
I’d have to make this quick.
At this time of night, the streets were all but empty, but of course, because my luck was total shit, a patron exited the cafe right after my mark.
She went the opposite way, but would be quick to turn around if there were signs or sounds of struggle.
Awesome.
So, plan B it was.
Mr. Hughes whistled to himself as he unlocked his car and slipped into the drivers’ seat. He didn’t even balk as I opened the passenger door and slid into the passenger seat opposite him other than to give me a confused look.
“Uh, miss, I think you have the wrong ca—”
I jabbed my blade against the base of his ribs, and he flinched away, eyes wide, hands raised, faded gray cash bag dropped onto the center armrest.
“Don’t scream,” I warned before his mouth even opened. “All it would take is one thrust and this will pierce your lung. If it does, there’s about a fifty-fifty chance you’ll live long enough to get to a hospital.”
His face paled and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, but his wild, jerky eyes were narrowing. Fixing on me.
My blood boiled, and I pressed harder with my blade, just enough to nick him. A small blood offering to keep my darkness at bay. “Don’t fucking look at me,” I hissed. “Drive.”
The prosthetic nose, double layer of lip plumper, and colored contacts would be enough to protect me, at least here in the dark of his SUV. The nose at least, would have to be removed before I entered Sanctum. I ran out of Dermabond and this bitch was held on with a bit of school glue and a prayer.
“Let’s go, dickface,” I urged when he hesitated.
Mr. Hughes fumbled to dig his keys out of his jacket pocket and took three tries to get them in the ignition. Already the high was wearing off. This man was pathetic. Not even a challenge.
I sighed inwardly as he roughly turned the SUV away from the curb, making me jerk in the passenger seat. Idiot.
“Turn left,” I ordered as he came to the next street corner, and I got an idea. Maybe I didn’t have to walk all the way back across town after all. There was a dead-end road I’d found on a run a few days back near Sanctum. Well, near enough that it wouldn’t take me that long to get there. Far enough that if Mr. Hughes woke up before I was finished, the cops wouldn’t find me anywhere in the immediate area.
“What do you want?” Mr. Hughes asked, his voice the tone of a man trying his best to be brave and failing miserably.
I shifted and paper crinkled at my side. I noted the edge of a crayon picture sticking out between the seat and center console. It was upside down, but a name was visible as we passed under the last of the streetlamps before I guided my mark down the dead-end road. Bethany.
I already knew enough about him to have dismissed him as any sort of threat, but judging by the drawing, the ratty old booster in the backseat, and the wedding band on his ring finger, I doubly knew he wasn’t going to fuck around.
Not if he was a good husband. Not if he was a good father.
Not if he wanted to go home to his family.
“Just keep driving,” I replied, the leather glove on my left hand creaking as I gripped the blade tighter. How I’d missed them. They were faded black, well worn, and fitted to every curve and knuckle of my hands like a second skin. “We’re almost there.”
Mr. Hughes began to shake as we passed the dead-end sign and kept on going.
“Please,” he said, the word a breathy plea. “I have a family. You…you don’t have to do this.”
I rolled my eyes. Fucking yawn.
“Park.”
He did.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I told him, slipping the faded gray bag onto my lap. “I’m going to take this, and you are going to forget that you saw me. You’re going to say it was stolen out of your car. I’m sure your insurance will cover it.”
He swallowed again, eyes shifting to the gray bag on my lap like he might make a play for it.
Try it, fucker.
Mr. Hughes didn’t answer me, a knot forming between his brows.
“I’d hate for anything to happen to Bethany.”
His head snapped up and a fire lit in his eyes. I’d struck a nerve. Good.
“I know where you work, Jordan Hughes. I know where you live. I know where you like to park and jerk off to amateur porn before going home to your wife. I know where darling Bethany goes to school.”
His lips parted, a raw form of terror taking over his features. My thighs clenched, and I ground my teeth, a rush of power pulsing through my veins.
“Do we understand each other?” I asked after a second.
Hughes nodded and I flipped my blade away from his ribcage and lifted myself in the seat, using my full body weight to drive his face into the steering wheel. His sharp intake of breath was the only sound before a sharp blare of the horn. Then he was out. His body sagging against the wheel, arms hanging down.
The engine revved as his foot hammered down on the accelerator and I quickly shut off the engine and nudged his leg off the gas.
I slipped my blade away and unzipped the cash bag, flipping through the stacks of cash. They were nearly organized in bundles of fives, tens, twenties, fifties, and hundreds.
The smaller bills would be coming back to Briar Hall with me. The larger ones would be my bet.
I judged the sizes of the stacks, quickly thumbing through the bills for a rough count. About seven grand in larger bills.
I fucking hoped that would be enough.
“Thanks.”
I gave Mr. Hughes a gentle pat on his arm and slid the money into the inside pockets of my oversized jacket. It cost me thirty bucks at the small Thorn Valley thrift shop, but it held all the cash easily. I’d find a place to stuff it and two of my three blades once I got closer to Sanctum. They’d undoubtedly be doing pat downs before entry, and I didn’t want to be caught with big ass wads of small bills and knives.
I opened the door and stepped out into comparably chilly air, breathing it in to erase the lingering tang of his fear and stress-sweat clogging my nostrils.
“Here,” I offered, digging a few tens out of the stack and tossing them onto the booster in the backseat. “Buy your kid a better booster seat, asshole.”
Sanctum.
Not exactly a covert name for a pub owned by the Saints of Thorn Valley. But then again, I didn’t think they really needed the anonymity. Hell, it seemed they strived for the opposite.
I was sure it helped officer Vick’s pals know exactly who not to mess with. Where not to step foot.
It didn’t look like all that much on the outside. A heritage building at the edge of the strip, taking up the full corner lot. Three levels. Well, if you knew about the basement, anyway.
On the top floor, cherry red curtains hung in the windows, backlit with diffused light. I’d heard talk that there was a brothel of sorts up there, but hadn’t confirmed it just yet. Couldn’t go asking too many questions of the locals, especially when they were so clearly as enamored with their Saintly St. Crow and his merry band of misfits as they were with themselves.
I bypassed the burgundy painted front entry of the pub and went around the side of the building to the nondescript black service door near the parking lot behind the bar.
I felt naked in the skin-tight black dress I wore after getting rid of my larger jacket and the rest of the cash. But the long sleeve little number was easy to move in, made the girls look killer, and hopefully, would help me blend in. I knocked. Waited.
The door opened three seconds later and the burly bouncer gave me a once over.
It was five to eleven now. I knew I wasn’t too late, but by the look on his face, he was going to turn me away.
“I think you’re in the wrong place, sweetheart.”
He began to close the door.
I tugged the cash from my thrifted designer purse and thrust out a palm to stop him.
He eyed the cash. “Don’t call me sweetheart,” I deadpanned. “You want my money or not?”
“Fighter?” he asked, his shoulders tensing as he frowned at me.
“Rook,” I replied. I didn’t even have to know a goddamned thing about his opponent to know where my money would be safest. If I could double it. The More the better.
But it still physically wounded me as Mr. Bouncer ushered me into the narrow space at the top of a set of stairs going down and took the wad of cash from my hands to feed it into a counter.
When it was done eating my spoils, he stuffed it into an envelope and wrote the amount on the front. “Name,” he barked gruffly.
“AJ,” I replied on a whim, kicking myself when it was too late to take it back. I had a cycle of names I usually used. All variations of Evangeline. That name had so many short form variations. Eve, Eva, Evie, Vanna, Angie, Lina, Gilly, the list went on and on. Made it easier to remember and if I forgot I could just say Evangeline and they would connect the dots themselves. Voila.
But AJ? Fucking, really?
I groaned inwardly, telling myself that AJ could stand for any number of things while mentally kicking myself.
He added the name beneath the amount and sealed the envelope before prying open a metal drop shoot in the wall and chucking it in.
The shhhhh of the paper sliding down the metal shaft made a weight settle in my belly.
Bye-bye, my sweets, I’ll be seeing you and your cousins very soon, I promised each bill.
The bouncer looked me up and down, judging my ability to hide a weapon somehow beneath the skin-tight dress I was wearing. The heels, the ones Becca lent me the night at the docks, were strappy and wouldn’t conceal anything, either.
“Spread,” the bouncer decided, and I heard a few cheers erupt from deep below. I could hear the faint thud of music, too, but it was all so muffled up here, they must have invested a small fortune in soundproofing.
I lifted my arms and spread my legs as the guy completed a very thorough search. Above his head, I noted the blinking red light of a surveillance camera set into a nook on the ceiling. I wondered if they already knew I was here. I held no illusions that this disguise would fool the Crows, but if I managed to stay in the choked crowds of people I assumed would be surrounding the ring, I may skate by unnoticed.
“About finished?” I asked the burly fucker as his fingers trailed up my left thigh, hedging below the hem of my skirt. Another inch and he’d know exactly what I was hiding down there.
He frowned, but released me, snatching my small purse to look inside that, too. He grunted as he stepped out of my way and thrust the bag back at me.
I had a fake ID prepared, but it seemed my money was good enough to neglect the need for one even though I could smell the strong tang of mixed spirits and beer below.
“Good luck,” he barked as I took the first step down into the bowels of Sanctum. I heard the deadbolt slide shut behind me and my heart skipped a beat, mouth going dry.
This was going to be one interesting night.
