Authors: Sandra Brown
He glared at her. “It’s extremely dangerous. You were never a good shot.”
“I’ve been practicing,” she said, and then sobered. “This is for Abby and all those other girls, Phin. I’m not going to miss.”
* * *
She had missed.
That was the fuzzy thought running through her mind as she came to, swimming her way out of a blackness so deep, so complete, it felt like death. She couldn’t move, could barely breathe. Something bright shone in her eyes, and something—ammonia—filled her nostrils and she tried to jerk away.
Except that she could not move.
The last thing she remembered was Phin trying to stop her from stepping out of their hidden spot that moment she saw LaCroix and realized:
Now. I have a shot now
.
She’d missed. And now, a hardback chair held her hostage, with her hands tied behind it, her feet to its legs. Blood trickled down her forehead and pain radiated from the back of her head where someone had clubbed her just as she’d aimed at LaCroix.
LaCroix, who now sat across from her, one of her knives in his hand as he slapped it against his thigh, a terrifyingly patient rhythm.
“Good,” he said, leaning forward to inspect her. “You’re the substitute cook. I almost didn’t recognize you. Nicely done.”
She glared at him, his perfectly chiseled face that seemed practically made for magazine covers, his expensive Armani suit, tailored to perfection across broad shoulders.
She spat on him and he studied the spittle on his suit; his hazel eyes went feral and he held the knife to her cheek.
Stupid stupid stupid
rattled in her head. She tried to blink away the memory of what a knife had done to Abby.
“Hello, Sadie.” When she blanched, surprised, he laughed. “Yes, I remember you, now that you’re not in disguise. We’re going to get to know each other very very well, soon, but first, where are my girls?”
“I don’t know where they are,” she answered, frantically worried about Phin. “They were running, the last time I saw them. They’re probably all over the Quarter, by now.”
“No, they’re not.” He put the knife back up to her cheek and started slicing…lightly, but it burned from the pain.
Where’s Phin?
“Did you know your sister begged me to take her back? She especially loved the coke.”
She stared at him and realized he wasn’t lying. Abby had been acting strangely. Manic…erratic, almost, but Sadie had put it down to the stress.
LaCroix kept taunting, twitching the knife at her cheek. “She’d do anything for the coke. Went a little too deep undercover, that Abby. Told me all about the investigation. You wouldn’t believe what she would do for the coke.” His lascivious gaze raked over her and she tried to pull back. “Oh, but you will. When I’m done, you’ll be begging, too.”
Men shouted from the other room, “Got him,
got him!
” and semiautomatic fire startled her, and then a man screamed,
screamed
—and then another shot and…silence.
“Ah,” he said, smiling into her wide eyes, the tang of fear, metallic in her mouth, her heartbeat pounding in her head, “that must’ve been your partner.” He leaned closer. “Nobody’s coming for you, Sadie.” He
tsked tsked
her. “You didn’t think I’d run a business this successful to be stopped by a couple of amateurs, did you? I’ll show you his mutilated body in a few minutes. Now, answer the damned question, or I start on your breasts.”
He put the tip of the knife at her right breast and she knew he would do it. Blood oozed down her cheek, Phin was dead, and she had not avenged Abby. But there were six girls free right now, in a car on their way to Baton Rouge, and he’d never get his hands on them again. Maybe that counted for something.
Then it really hit her: Phin
was dead
. He hadn’t told anyone about Abby turning. He’d tried to protect her. Them. And Sadie hadn’t trusted him. She’d accused him and walked away, destroying everything.
Her heart shattered; the blade cut into the thin shirt she wore, slicing into her right breast, but she wept for Phin. The pain was almost welcome. Nothing mattered. Phin was gone.
She barely heard the gunshots through the agony of the blade, her entire being focused on that point of pain. Someone slumped just to her right.
LaCroix looked up, past her, and then a red dot bloomed on his forehead and he jerked away from her, the knife still impaled in her breast where he’d begun carving. The look of surprise on his face, frozen in that moment, had been worth it.
* * *
Phin watched her open her eyes in the morning light that filtered in through gauzy curtains. He had the doors open to the balcony of his apartment. She was stitched and bandaged and confused when she finally focused on him. He had not known what to expect: recriminations, for allowing her to get hurt. Hate, for the scars she would have. Disgust…
Instead, her face shone with relief.
“Come here,” she said, holding out a hand, and Phin moved from the chair at the foot of the bed to sit by her side. She squeezed his hand hard, tears rolling down her cheeks. “You’re real.”
“I’m real.”
“He said he killed you.”
“They thought they had. They actually shot one of their own guards who’d been looking for the girls—he’d found the passageway you’d used and was following it back into the house.”
He felt his own tears now, and he didn’t try to stop them. “I’m sorry, Sadie. I should have gotten there faster.”
“I botched your job.”
“No. Without you, I doubt very seriously I would have gotten out alive. Or that I’d have bothered trying.” He looked away, staring out the window onto the rooftop of the building next door. “You’d been in the house before? As the cook?” That one had surprised him when LaCroix had said it.
“Just a few times. Elana told him I was her niece, and could be trusted.”
She’d planned it well, even if she’d guessed the number of guards wrong. If she’d not frozen in that moment of face-to-face with LaCroix, she might have succeeded.
She reached up toward the bandages, seeming to just now remember, and she flinched.
“Are you in pain?”
She shook her head. “Just grateful. You got me out of there. In one piece.”
“Mostly,” he said, bitter with regret. “I’m sorry. I got a doctor in here—a guy I know, does amazing work. But there’ll be scars, unless you go in for plastic surgery later. There’s a lot they can do.”
“Does it matter?”
He whipped his gaze back to her, to understand what she meant, and saw the fear that he would somehow be repulsed.
“God, no,” he answered. “Everything you do, everything you are, is beautiful to me, Sadie. It would take a lifetime to show you, though, but I’d like to. If you’d let me.”
She got a faraway expression, contemplative, and his heart stuttered, scared as witless as he’d been when LaCroix held that knife to her.
“We can’t go back to being those people we were before,” she said, and his heart broke. He started to step away from the bed, and she tightened her grip on his hand. “I don’t ever want to lose you, Phin, and I’ll go and do whatever you want. But I can’t—” She turned away, her eyes closed, and whispered, “I can’t let the LaCroixs of the world get away.”
“Neither can I.” Her gaze snapped back to him, and he saw her understand. “If I have you, we can do anything.”
She smiled, and he could breathe again.
“I will believe in you,” she promised. “I will honor you. I will trust you.”
“I will believe in you,” he whispered, kissing her hand, then clutching it tightly. “I will honor you. I will trust you.”
* * *
Marjorie was ten the summer her family went back to New Orleans, and they strolled through the crowded French Quarter, weaving their way through hordes of people meandering in Jackson Square. It felt huge, with the green park in the center surrounded by wrought-iron fences, with shops ringing that area all putting out goods on their sidewalks. Her mom paused briefly at the tap dancers, but Marjorie tugged her hard. She had to know if her friend was here again this year.
“Phin!” she screeched, from halfway across the square and her mamma laughed, letting her go hug the blind vet. “You’re here!”
“I am, indeed,” he answered, and she guided his hand so he could pat her on the head. “And you remember my wife, Sadie.”
Marjorie waved and smiled at the way Phin squeezed Sadie’s hand as she painted children right beside him.
“We went to Austin last summer—not nearly as fun. And they don’t have vigilantics!”
“Vigilantes?” he asked, as a man dropped a piece of paper in Phin’s hat and Marjorie could have sworn—almost could have sworn—that blind Phin saw it and nodded at the man. But that wasn’t possible.
“Yeah, vigilantes. I’m hoping we see them. They’re in all the papers. Mama said they’re cleaning out the riffraff but good!”
Phin laughed. “Well, there was a lot of riffraff here to clean up, I suspect. If you see them, tell ’em I said good luck!”
“I will! Can I come back tomorrow and you’ll play me a special song?”
“Sure,” Phin said, and smiled when Marjorie hugged him.
She ran off, and when she looked back, she could have sworn he was watching her go, grinning.
* * * * *
HOLDING MERCY
Lori Armstrong
You gotta love a heroine who wears black patent cowgirl boots. And that’s the least daring thing she does. ~SB
The bad thing about wearing a tight, sexy little black dress?
No place to put my gun.
Granted, I was supposed to be on a date, and probably didn’t need a firearm, or handcuffs, but being armed was a habit ingrained during my twenty-year stint in the army and now as a newly minted G-woman. Legally, I could carry everywhere and I took advantage of that perk without apology. But my belt and holster looked clunky strapped over the clingy black dress. Stowing my weapon in my compact beaded purse didn’t feel right, neither did slipping the small handgun in the pocket of my leather trench coat, so I compromised and shoved my Kahr Arms P380 inside my right cowgirl boot. Then I placed my handcuffs between the “Mercy Gunderson, Special Agent, FBI” badge in my purse and my cell phone. All set for my date.
Still seemed ridiculous that Dawson referred to our dinner out as a “date” because we were living together. But I’d recently returned from a four-and-a-half-month training stint at Quantico, so we were trying to carve out couple time between his duties as Eagle River County Sheriff and my new job with the FBI. Plus, he’d been stuck working the night shift, and I worked the day shift, so he was rolling into bed as I was rolling out, which left us little time to roll around in the sheets together.
Our last attempt at an official date ended before it began due to me being covered in blood and vomit after a routine questioning had turned ugly. The woman had raced out the back door of her house after I showed her my badge. When I caught her, she accidentally smacked her face into her knee and blood poured from her nose. Seeing blood turned her hysterical and she hurled all over me. By the time I’d showered and changed clothes at home, neither Dawson nor I had been in the mood to go out.
I hoped tonight would play out differently. Not being much of a girlie-girl, a fact my man Dawson was well aware of, I’d decided to shock him by taking extra time with my appearance for our romantic rendezvous. Hence the sexy dress, the waves in my normally straight hair, the curled eyelashes, the berry-colored stain on my lips. However, I refused to wear high heels—couldn’t run in them—and opted for a dressier pair of black patent leather cowgirl boots. I hadn’t taken my fashion inspiration of pairing fancy shit-kickers with a dress from ingenue Taylor Swift, but the grand dame of the West, Dale Evans. She’d worn boots with everything. If it was good enough for Roy Rogers, it was good enough for Dawson.
Day morphed into night as I drove from my ranch to the edge of the Eagle River Indian Reservation. The period between autumn and full-out winter on the high plains of Western South Dakota was the most visually depressing time of the year. The rolling hills, previously lush, boasting a dozen different shades of green, were stuck in monochromatic bleakness. Dead grass, naked trees, dry creek beds, lackluster sky. Even the soil, ranging from brick red to cocoa brown, reflected in dull tones. I secretly wished for snow. At least a blanket of white would hide the ugliness until spring arrived.
As I stood at the front entrance to the Eagle River Casino, I revisited my plan to circumvent a security check so I could keep my gun hidden. The reservation was one place where normal—in my case federal—rules don’t apply.
But I noticed right away my carefully crafted plan was unnecessary, because security was decidedly lax. No metal detector. One unarmed guard who gave me a bored once-over before refocusing her attention on her cell phone. When her walkie-talkie beeped, she turned the volume down. I shoved aside the niggling sense of unease, betting the bulk of the security was done in the back via a bank of computer monitors connected to security cameras.
Air from the vents blasted down on me as if I’d stepped into a wind tunnel when I entered the main part of the casino. First time I’d been in the facility. It’d been constructed in the past five years while I’d been toiling in the world’s sandboxes. The decor wasn’t Vegas glitzy, or bingo parlor cheesy, but somewhere in between, with Indian themes threaded throughout. The hand-painted murals depicting past Indian life on the Great Plains were amazing. Vibrant. Haunting. Glorious.
A decent-size crowd milled about for a Thursday night. Mostly senior citizens. I’d noticed two tour buses in the parking lot. Had they come to gorge themselves on cheap crab legs like Dawson and I intended? He’d called me en route to a traffic accident to relay the unhappy fact he might be as much as an hour late.
So how was I supposed to entertain myself?
Federal law prohibited alcohol to be served or consumed on reservations so I couldn’t cool my heels at the casino bar nursing a beer or knocking back shots.
I wasn’t much of a gambler. Slot machines bored me. Indian casinos weren’t big on craps or roulette. I’d joined in poker tournaments with fellow soldiers, but it’d been more about camaraderie or blocking out the sounds of incoming mortar rounds, than winning the pot.