Authors: Jade Allen
****
Chelsea had once more
fallen into a doze, with nothing better to do to pass the time waiting—she had
told herself that the caller was probably a prank in the first place—when she
heard, at her door, the knocking pattern that the man on the phone had
performed for her. Opening her eyes, Chelsea groaned, sitting up in her bed.
“No one wants me to get any sleep today, that has to be it. The whole world is
in on it.” She flung the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the
bed, getting to her feet unsteadily.
How do you even know you can trust this
guy? He’s probably here to abduct you, and you’re playing right into his game
plan.
Chelsea frowned and grabbed at her phone. She heard her mystery guest
repeat the coded knock at her door and stirred herself to pad out of the
bedroom.
Considering, she
opened up her recent calls and checked for the unfamiliar number; she didn’t
know for certain if the caller and the person on her doorstep were the same
individual, but it was worth making the phone call anyway, wasn’t it? She hit
‘recall’ and stood, a few yards away from her door, waiting as it rang. “I’m
here,” the voice said the moment the call connected.
“I assumed as much
from the knock-knock-knocking at my door,” Chelsea said wryly. “What I don’t
know is whether I should let you in.”
“You should,” the man
said. Now that she was more awake, she could detect a faint accent in the man’s
deep, almost rasping voice, though she couldn’t identify where the accent came
from. “I promise you, Chelsea, that I’m not here to abduct you. You are
actually in some danger right now. If you let me in I can explain it to you.”
Chelsea glided her tongue along the front of her teeth, hesitating only a
moment longer.
She took the last few
steps to the door and unlocked first the deadbolt, then the chain, and finally
the twist lock on the knob, before opening the door. For a long moment, Chelsea
stared. The man on the other side of the door was more than tall; he dwarfed her,
easily a foot taller than she was, over six feet. He had dark blond hair, cut
short with razor-precision, parted to the side, and bright blue-green eyes that
shone intently as he looked down at her. Chelsea’s gaze took in the slightly
darker stubble that roughened the man’s cheeks and jawline, contrasting sharply
with the soft look of his Cupid’s bow mouth. He wasn’t just tall; the man
filled up the frame of her door: broad shoulders and chest, tapering to a
narrow waist and hips, and long legs. He wore fitted jeans, and a black tee
shirt that clung to the lines and ridges of his torso, with a dark leather
jacket over it. “Are you going to let me in?” He asked her, raising one
wheat-colored eyebrow. Chelsea took a step backwards, blinking and shaking off
her confusion; she felt disastrously underdressed in her pajamas, next to the
man who strode quickly through her door, closing and locking it behind him.
“This is the part
where you explain what the hell is going on, right?” Chelsea threw herself onto
the couch, feeling irritated at her own reaction to the man.
“We have some time
now, but not very much,” the mystery guest said, sitting down in the wingback
chair nearest to her. Chelsea frowned.
“I don’t even know
what you’re talking about,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest. She
was acutely aware of the effect of the slight chill in the air when her guest
had come in, of the fact that underneath the thin fabric of her top and the
pajama bottoms she’d managed to pull on before she’d gone to bed the night
before, she was bare.
“Someone wants to kill
you.” Chelsea stared at the man in disbelief. “They think you know something
that they’d rather keep hidden.”
“But that doesn’t make
any sense,” Chelsea protested. “I don’t know anything—I can’t even think of
something I know that might make someone want me dead.” The man shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter at
the end of the day whether you know it or not—the person after you thinks that
you do, because you have the information.”
“What are you talking
about? I’m nobody. No one’s handed me some mysterious parcel or anything, I
haven’t even gotten anything in the mail.” The man’s lips twitched in a smile.
“And who the hell are you, anyway?” The man’s smile deepened.
“My name is Johan
Lindstrom,” he said. “Tell me, Chelsea; what comes to mind when I say the name
Aaron Rosen?” Chelsea stared at the man blankly.
“The CEO of the
company?” Chelsea frowned. “What does he have to do with anything?” Johan
raised an eyebrow, the smile not quite leaving his lips.
“Are those really the
first words that come to mind?” he asked her.
“The first words that
come to mind are ‘the scumbag I work for,’ ” Chelsea retorted, feeling the heat
rising into her cheeks. Johan inclined his head slightly, his eyes glinting
with amusement.
“The scumbag you work
for, that’s much more accurate. I’m sure you’re aware he’s engaged in some…less
than savory practices.” Johan made the statement an almost-question and Chelsea
shrugged.
“Everyone in the
office knows that,” she pointed out. “If he didn’t want that getting out he’d
have to kill us all, not just me.” Johan’s lips twisted into a wry expression.
“Drug running,
profiteering…those are the common-knowledge things,” he said slowly. “But you
know what happens to people who think they’re untouchable. They start taking
bigger and bigger risks.” Johan shrugged. “The CEO of your company has
had—dealings—with someone who’s now decided that it suits him better to roll
over, give himself up—basically, to out Aaron Rosen for some very dire crimes
indeed.” Chelsea swallowed at the tightness she felt in her throat. “And that
man is one of the clients you’re working with right now.”
“Why would he give
that information to me?” Chelsea shook her head in disbelief. “It’s not
like…I’m not anyone with any authority. I’m not even a project manager.” Johan
watched her intently for a moment.
“Have you noticed a
few people going missing at the office?” he asked her. “Just…dropping off the
radar? No explanation, they just aren’t there anymore?” Chelsea felt her mouth go
dry as she tried to rack her tired brain for the answer to that question. Johan
held his silence for a moment before speaking again. “Perhaps Sarah Johns,
Micah Paxton…Cary Knowles?” Chelsea felt as if her stomach had fallen to her
knees. Sarah Johns was the project manager for one of the clients that Chelsea
was assigned; Micah Paxton was the account manager. Cary Knowles was one of the
salesmen. “They were all involved in this particular client’s business dealings
with your company, and they’re all deceased.”
“No,” Chelsea said,
shaking her head in denial. “You’re lying to me. Whatever kind of sick prank
this is, it isn’t funny.” Johan exhaled, reaching into one of the many pockets
on his jacket. He withdrew a folded-up bundle of papers.
“I have proof,” he
told her, almost sympathetically. Reluctantly, Chelsea took the papers from him
and unfolded them, staring down at the pages. The first several she flipped
through were obituaries—featuring each of the names he had mentioned, listing
unknown causes of death, presumed accidents. As she continued through the
stack, Chelsea’s blood began to run cooler and cooler as she saw emails, text
messages.
Target has been handled,
one read.
No information found.
Confiscate their work computer.
At the bottom of the
pile, there was a picture of her—the one she had taken in the office, that was
used for her email signature; it was attached to an email that read like a
macabre dating profile, listing her address and phone number, the hours she
worked, the fact that she typically went out to happy hour with her department
on Fridays. “No,” Chelsea said, her voice little more than a breath. “This…I
don’t even know anything!” She looked at Johan as her heart began beating
faster in her chest, her eyes stinging.
“We need to do a few
things, and we need to do them quickly,” Johan told her, his tone level. “Can
you access your work computer from home?” Chelsea nodded absently, glancing
down at the papers in her hands. She felt her fingers trembling, almost unable
to hold the surprisingly slippery sheets of paper. “You need to download the
information the client sent to you, and we need to get the hell out of here.”
“Where are we going?”
She looked up again, meeting Johan’s level gaze.
“Away. That’s all you
need to know for right now.” He paused. “Away for several days.”
“Do I have time to
pack? Change clothes?” Johan shrugged.
“We should be out of
here in an hour; by then your boss will have probably reported you phoning in
sick.” His gaze trailed over her slowly. “Pack whatever you feel you can’t live
without.” There was something so final in the statement; as if to underscore
the point, Johan added, “I can’t guarantee anything you leave behind will still
be here at the end of the day.” Chelsea stood unsteadily, letting the papers
fall from her hands and onto the coffee table. She wished—fleetingly—that she
had made coffee, instead of using the time she spent waiting for Johan’s
arrival to get sleep; she had the feeling that it was going to be a very, very
long day.
****
Chelsea paced back and
forth along the length of the living room area of the suite she had checked
into with Johan only a few minutes before, her arms crossed over her chest,
looking at the floor beneath her feet. She knew, in the back of her mind, that
she was not doing any favors to herself; but as she turned sharply and counted
the steps to the other end of the room, she couldn’t help herself.
They had driven for
three hours; that was the most that Chelsea knew. She was not even certain that
they were three hours away from the city she lived in. It seemed somehow as if
Johan had doubled back at some point, as if she had seen the same vague
landmarks—a stand of trees, or a particular unfamiliar sign—more than once,
though she couldn’t be sure. Fatigue throbbed in her bones, waging war with the
adrenaline surging through her veins. Chelsea felt as if there were tiny bugs
underneath her skin, making her tingle, making her nerves twitch inside of her.
Johan had given her
exactly an hour and a half before they left; he had told her to bring her
laptop out, log into her work station, and then dismissed her to pack her
things while he went in and downloaded whatever files she was supposed to have
been given, the information that had led to the CEO of her company deciding
that she needed to be eliminated. “Why didn’t he just fire me?” she asked out
loud, glancing at Johan. He was seated on the other end of the room, reading a
book; a perfect picture of tranquility.
Who the hell is he, anyway?
Chelsea wondered, frowning at the sight of the man reading. The front cover of
the book gave her no clues as to what its contents might be; Chelsea couldn’t
make heads or tails of the foreign words, and there was no picture to provide
any context.
What the hell kind of guy carries two guns, three knives,
drives a sports car, and reads in his downtime?
Johan glanced up from his
book, his expression almost bored.
“Because, he can’t be
certain that you don’t already have the information—or didn’t already have the
information. If he fired you, that wouldn’t do him any good.” Johan licked his
lips, smiling slightly. “If it gives you any consolation, he’s after the
criminal mastermind who decided to roll on him, too.” Chelsea felt a shiver
work down her spine.
“That doesn’t exactly
make me feel great about my chances. He’s killed three people already.” Chelsea
remembered—bleakly—a fortune she had gotten once at a Chinese restaurant:
“Three can keep a secret, if you get rid of two.” She wondered if Rosen had
received that same advice, or if as a lowlife, the epiphany came naturally to
him. She started walking more quickly, feeling like a lion trapped in a cage.
The hotel they had
come to was much nicer than Chelsea would have expected; the suite was as big
as her apartment, with two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchenette. It was
obvious to her that Johan had had much more lead-time than she originally
thought; the room they were in was already booked when they arrived. “Who do
you work for?” Chelsea asked him suddenly, stopping in mid-step.
“That really isn’t
your concern,” Johan pointed out, glancing up from his book once more.
“I would think it is,”
Chelsea countered. “I mean—as far as I know, you’re just…you might even be
working for Rosen. Holding me here until someone can come and get me.” Her feet
started moving again as the adrenaline flowed through Chelsea’s veins, making
her heart beat faster.
“Because Rosen would
want you to be comfortable while you waited?”
“Why not? Lull me into
a false sense of security.” Johan laughed.
“His goons could have
snatched you out of your apartment at any time. They didn’t. I could have
grabbed you on your way to your car this morning and drugged you to bring you
here.”
“That is probably the
least comforting thing you’ve said to me all day.”
Not that he’s been
exactly chatty.
Chelsea looked down at the floor, numbering her steps as
she made her way from one end of the room to the other.
“You should stop
pacing,” Johan said, his voice perfectly level. “It’s making you more anxious.”
“Well excuse me!” Chelsea
countered, her feet coming to a stop in spite of her protest. “I just spent
three hours on the road with someone I don’t even know, I have no idea where I
am, and my morning started out with being told that someone wants me dead, and
I have an hour and a half to pack up anything I couldn’t bear to lose, because
my house might get wrecked—who knows?” She crossed her arms over her chest,
pinning Johan down with a stare as brittle anger built up inside of her.
Chelsea fleetingly wished that she hadn’t outgrown the kind of tantrums that
had marked her toddler years; it would be so satisfying to throw herself onto
the floor kicking and screaming. “Someone could come in at any moment and try
to kill me. How the hell are you so calm?” Johan’s lips twitched and Chelsea’s
anger deepened at his amusement.
“Because I know that
someone could come at any moment and try and kill me, or you—or anyone,” Johan
said. “At any time.” He shrugged. “Or you could get hit by a car. You could get
struck by lightning. Hell—people have been killed by animals falling out of the
sky. The difference is that right now you know someone is out to get you. At
least right now there’s someone between you and your death.”
“I’m sorry I don’t
have a fabulous, detached attitude about my entire life going to pieces around
me,” Chelsea said, carefully keeping her voice low. She could feel the anger
rising up inside of her, the temptation to raise her voice, to scream, to
shout, making her throat tighten.
“You should do
something to relax,” Johan said matter-of-factly. “Take a bath, or get a
massage. I’m fairly certain the mini-bar is well stocked.” Chelsea clenched her
teeth, suppressing the shriek of indignation that threatened to rip through her
throat at the dry, almost bored tone of Johan’s voice.
“Take a bath?” she
asked him finally. “When someone could bust through the door at any minute, you
suggest I take a bath.”
“You’d have ten
minutes or better to get dressed before they broke in on you,” Johan pointed
out. “Or if you don’t mind fighting naked, you could use that time to find a
weapon.” Chelsea stared at him in utter disbelief.
“Are you even
listening to the words coming out of your mouth right now?” She bit off the
rest of the words that threatened to tumble past her lips as she heard the
volume of her voice rising. Johan set his book down, regarding her for a long
moment. Chelsea felt a thrill of instinctive fear at the sight of him seated a
few yards away, absolutely still, completely silent.
“I’m going to need you
to calm the fuck down, Chelsea,” Johan said, his voice a low almost-growl. The
sound sent a shiver down Chelsea’s spine; somehow his accent was more
pronounced, the rasping edge of his tone sharper. “Go take a bath. You look
exhausted, and if you’re going to keep moving for the next few days, you’re
going to need to sleep at some point.” Chelsea felt her mouth go dry; there was
something about Johan’s absolute stillness that reminded her of a predator
about to strike. “If you aren’t in the bathroom and running a bath in the next
five minutes, I will pick you up and carry you there, and instead of a nice hot
bath, you’ll have a cold, fully-clothed shower.”
For just a moment,
Chelsea’s brittle rage rose up, and she reveled in the thought of defying him,
of telling Johan that she was not about to do what he said, that he wasn’t in
charge of her and she would take a bath or not as she damned well pleased. But
after the satisfying fantasy played through in her mind, she felt the fatigue
of her inadequate sleep, even less adequate caffeine, and the stresses of the
day come crashing down around her.
She turned away from
Johan, walking quickly in the direction of the master bedroom. “I’m not doing
this because you told me to,” she shouted over her shoulder, casting a
resentful glance in the direction of the back of his chair. Chelsea knew it was
petty; but she couldn’t resist saying it, as she closed the door behind her and
began to strip off her clothes. Irritation carried her through as she peeled
off her jeans and tee shirt, as her arms tangled somehow in the straps of her
bra. Chelsea flung her clothes away from her with bitter disregard for where
they ended up, muttering to herself as she twisted the knobs on the taps. “I
need to calm down, he says. I look exhausted he says…maybe, Johan, that’s
because I am exhausted, because my entire life is falling to pieces around me
and I have no idea what the hell is going on.” She plunged one foot into the
water and hissed, reaching out blindly and turning the cold water on to lower
the temperature.
Chelsea climbed over
the high lip of the deep tub, appreciating it almost resentfully. As she sank
down into the water, the bitter words crowding their way past her lips began to
ebb, and she felt her muscles slowly relaxing as the heat swirled around her.
Try as she might to hold onto her resentment, the warmth and support of the
water surrounding her began to lull her mind, even as the ache of fatigue
flowed out of her body. She found a ridge in the wall of the tub and rested her
head on it as drowsiness overcame her.