Vigilante 01 - Who Knows the Storm (9 page)

If Jenny wasn’t dead, that meant someone knew he was alive.

And if she was the one sending Sam the messages…. Nox stumbled over some debris in the center of the sidewalk. No one lived in these abandoned brownstones; they’d long been ransacked and left for ruin. The power grid didn’t extend here, and the people a block over ran off squatters. You got what you worked for, that was the motto—if you wanted to siphon off electricity, go fuck with those bastards in the District, not here.

The cold seeped through his tux and undergarments, into his skin until his teeth chattered uncontrollably. He thought about Sam and Jenny—and then his scattershot attention went back to the young man he left handcuffed to the bed.

Did Jenny get him out?

Was there real danger—a bomb, a fire?

What was his role in this whole deepening mess?

The burning attraction he’d felt, the clouding of his mind thanks to a nice ass and practiced bedroom eyes…. Nox felt a wrench of shame twist his solar plexus. If he’d let his dick lead him into trouble….

Nox would never forgive himself if everything he’d worked and battled for was undone by his base desires.

He struggled all the way back to the house, relief coursing through him as he came up on his block. He went through the back entrance, keying in his password with blue fingertips. Inside the townhouse, it was utterly silent save for the ever-present tick-tick-tick of the grandfather clock. Sam slept quietly upstairs, the neighborhood tucked in for now. The snow would chase the dealers and junkies inside for at least a few hours, which meant Nox could thaw out.

And figure out what to do next.

He sent a message to the Iron Butterfly through one of his many accounts, overpaying for his time with Cade (guilt, shame, desire, which set the whole cycle off again), and setting up another appointment to cover his tracks. Not that he was going back there, of course.

Apologizing to Cade was a difficult decision, but need twigged in his gut.

For seventeen years, his job had been to protect Sam. Whatever needed to be done—blood on his hands, marks on his soul—it didn’t matter. His son was everything to him, and he’d die before he let his flesh and blood be harmed.

In this kitchen, Nox had made decisions and deals that cemented his life and future. He would stay here on this godforsaken island, he would raise a child as his own, and he would be a shadow for the privilege of being left alone. Every night he walked the Old City to keep the violence out. Every day he climbed to the top of a building and ran wires in the unfinished walls.

Nox Boyet died on Evacuation Day, on an overcrowded ferry in the middle of storm-swept waters. That simple fact—his name on that stone memorial—kept his son safe.

Jenny’s name a few lines down had reinforced that belief. But not anymore.

The warmth of the house began to permeate Nox’s sopping-wet clothes. He stripped off the tux and threw it onto the floor of the pantry. The kettle on, Nox went to the downstairs bedroom where he kept some of his clothes.

All the while, Nox’s brain switched between two things: the woman in the hallway and the woman on the deck of that ferry. Now in the safety and warmth of his home, he could find a more rational space to think. Could he be imagining it? Could it just be a wild coincidence?

Everything about that night was imprinted on his brain—the fear, the hopelessness, the moment he decided he would do anything to survive. The gun in Jenny’s hand, the bodies on the floor of his parents’ bedroom, the impact of her words on his future. No detail escaped him. He couldn’t forget that night if he tried.

Interlude

Before

N
OX
MAKES
it up to the hospital, soaked to the bone and terrified. He’s walked most of the way, except for the ride to the northernmost tip of Manhattan with a guy in a pickup truck. He gives the driver a hundred dollars and winds up at the gates to Morningside Sanitarium.

Ambulances and BMWs speed past him, kicking up the standing water accumulated on the driveway. The grounds resemble a lake, each crack of lightning illuminating another group of puddles joining together to form something rushing and dangerous.

He runs to the front steps and then into the building, boots squelching on the linoleum.

It’s chaos.

People wander the halls in their pajamas, screaming and babbling, a few nurses here and there, frantically running from patient to patient. An alarm sounds down a distant hallway, a klaxon of warning.

Get out. Get out now.

Nox doesn’t stop to ask directions. He knows where his mother is; he knows she’s down the center hall, up one flight, and down six doors. This is the nice floor, where people pay extra for private suites and personal attention.

The ward is empty.

Or almost empty—he hears someone crying out in pain.

He runs until he’s out of breath, reaching her door and pushing it open in a frantic effort. The scene in front of him doesn’t register for a moment—the woman in the bed, straining and screaming, blood spreading out under her on the sheet.

She’s giving birth.

His mother is giving birth.

Nox drops his bag. He rushes to her side out of pure instinct: take her hand, reassure her.

Scream for help.

“Mom, Mom, it’s me. Just… just calm down, okay? Just breathe.”

She doesn’t know who he is. He doesn’t know how to deliver a baby, but he’s had health class and seen movies, so he knows to push up her nightgown, and oh God, so much blood. She’s screaming and screaming and suddenly there’s a head and he lets go of her hands to help pull this tiny person into the world.

Even after the baby—a little boy—slips free, his mother keeps screaming. He panics inwardly—there’s so much blood, and all the health class videos in the world cannot capture how awful this moment is. But outwardly… somehow he remembers his mother cannot help him and everything in this moment is dependent on him. His actions.

He lays the baby on the bed then runs into the hallway. He knows from previous visits there’s a nurses’ station – and it’s there he finds a first-aid kit.

Back in the room, hands shaking, Nox ignores the fact that his mother has stopped screaming. He pretends she’s resting—eyes closed, chest barely moving—as he uses scissors to cut through the umbilical cord. It takes so long—his fingers cramp, his shoulders shake, but then finally the baby is free of his mother. Their mother, whose chest isn’t moving anymore.

Nox rubs the infant clean with his mother’s dressing gown, wrapping him up afterward. He doesn’t cry until the baby opens his mouth and lets out a tiny mewl.

Chapter Nine

R
ACHEL
HELD
her emergency meeting on the abandoned casino floor.

Chairs were knocked over, poker chips and spilt drinks littering the carpet.

Chaos.

Zed was a force of nature, stomping around the room in a rage, cursing whoever did this to a violent death. His black-inked arms bulged out of his short-sleeved shirt, his bearded face contorted into an expression of pure ugliness.

“If it’s any one of you….” He stopped, glittering black eyes taking in the semicircle of cold, damp, and terrified employees. “You will wish yourself dead when I find out.” He let the words sink in, then stalked to the bar, leaving Damian and Rachel to take the floor.

Seemingly distracted, Rachel indicated Damian should speak.

“This interruption in service has cost us a great deal of money. For the next seventy-two hours, clients will not be charged for services. Which means….” He didn’t even have to finish. No one dared mutter or moan their displeasure, not with Zed standing right there.

Everyone knew what the bottom line was.

No one was getting paid for services rendered.

“Regardless, we need you to step up and make sure the clients leave here with the intent to return—we can’t afford to lose business over this.” The warning note in Damian’s voice was clear. New casinos were under construction even as they stood in this room—larger, more lavish, more to offer clients. The Iron Butterfly’s reputation beat all of that, but once it was gone, they wouldn’t get it back.

“Any questions?” Rachel asked, stepping into the center of the group. She cast her gaze on each of them in turn, lingering in the back, where Alec and Cade stood. Her look was a challenge.

Alec—with the balls of a giant—raised his hand.

“Oh Christ, you’re going to get murdered,” Cade whispered, but Alec ignored him.

“I’m not in the mood, Alec,” she started, the edge in her tone absolutely brittle.

“It’s relevant, I think,” he said. “Do the police have any suspects yet?”

Zed took this one. He strode back into the group, arms crossed over his chest. “No.”

“Call can’t be traced?”

Damian stepped between Zed and Alec as if to deflect the explosion. “Not that I’m aware of,” Damian offered.

A quiet murmur went through the group. Cade watched as Rachel’s face hardened.

“How odd,” Alec said, leaning back against the roulette table.

The room went dead silent.

Cade imagined everyone’s thought bubbles were exactly the same—with all the security and promises made by the city police, why were they having no luck tracking down this person who kept calling in bomb threats to the local casinos?

“Get out of here,” Zed snapped. “Clean yourselves up, then start checking in with the clients. Crawl room to fucking room if you have to, but make sure they’re satisfied.”

Everyone dispersed—everyone but Alec, who was beckoned over to Rachel with a crook of her finger.

“Don’t wait up for me, darling,” Alec cooed as Cade fled with the rest of the models.

T
HE
WEATHER
was too bad to go home, so Cade let himself into the suite he and Alec used for days they needed to stay at the Butterfly. Given his “trauma” and the fact that his customer was long gone, Cade decided his cleanup was going to take all damn night. Everything in the Starling Suite was done in smoky greens and antique silver, a two-bedroom with a central living room and a well-stocked bar. He ordered a chicken sandwich from the kitchen as he stripped his clothes off; then he made himself a double whiskey from the crystal decanters.

In the bedroom, he slipped into a pair of white pajama pants and a heavy gray sweater, feeling the cold down to his bones. It had been a ridiculous and exhausting night, and Cade was done.

“Look up a customer,” he said to the voice-activated computer. “Patrick Mullens.”

A discreet wall screen lit up next to the bar.

Patrick Mullens, resident of Boston.

37. Lawyer. Clean bill of health.

Top-tier deposit.

Hot spot: blackjack table at 21.

Cade scrutinized the picture next to the stats. He got as close as he could, studying the man’s body, the curve of his shoulders. He remembered the scent of the man in the alley, the man who’d seduced all sense out of him….

Pretty boy
.

“I think you’re hiding something,” Cade murmured, touching his fingers to the picture on the bedroom wall. He traced the man’s jaw and down his strong neck.

He tried Rachel a few times, but she didn’t answer her pager or her phone. Same deal with Alec. The past twenty-four hours caught up with him, so he dragged himself into the bed, facedown like a starfish in the center.

Tomorrow he’d find out what the hell was going on.

R
ACHEL
WASN
’
T
anywhere to be found in the morning, nor was anyone else above a manager pay grade.

“Yet another emergency meeting,” said Alec as they passed in the hallway. “Hush-hush and serious faces.” He looked like he’d been attacked by a wolverine, his shirt split down the back and scratches on his neck.

“I hope you got a decent tip.” Cade pressed the down arrow on the elevator.

“Decent tip, a gold watch, and an invitation to the palace this summer.” Alec smirked. “You might lose me to a harem.”

“Your dream come true—being put out to stud.”

Alec walked backward down the hall, musing over this as he tried to rearrange the mess that was his hair. “I actually think that might be it.” He checked his watch. “Where the hell are you going?”

The doors slid open and Cade put one foot into the car. “Emergency meeting.”

“H
OW
CLOSE
can you get me to Ninety-First Street?”

The cab driver snorted loudly. He was the lucky guy Cade chose of the line of cabs, anxiously waiting for business on a day when no one wanted to be outside in the escalating bad weather as yet another storm smacked into the island. “Are you kidding?”

Cade leaned forward. “How close?”

“Maybe Seventy-Ninth,” he huffed in response, driving around a mammoth pile of broken concrete in the street. “You’ll have to walk from there.”

“Fine.”

T
HE
RIDE
took forever. Cade stared out the window, once again on the outskirts, once again marveling that people lived like this. Even during the worst of times—summer droughts, dropping prices—the farm kept his family fed and sheltered. He and his brother, Lee, didn’t want for much in their lives. Maybe they didn’t have the newest or fanciest anything, but unless someone pointed it out, it escaped Cade’s notice.

Until he came out of college with a degree in English literature and no prospects except being second banana to his brother in the family lineage of farm ownership. A farm suffering under the weight of a second mortgage and yet another drought, the huge plantation that had been in his family’s possession for generations sold off to developers in small parcels. Now when you looked out the kitchen window, you saw condo complexes and McMansions built for the flood of Northerners who fled when the weather went deadly.