One year earlier
Shelby
Some people say revenge is sweet. Delusional people who talk the talk but never walk the walk. People who haven’t a clue what it feels like to have your world ripped apart, with you scrambling to find a Band-Aid large enough to secure all the shattered bits back in place.
Revenge is the salt on your tongue from the hailstorm of tears you’ve shed. Acidity churning like grease inside your gut when sorrow overshadows your desire to eat. An overwhelming bitterness after you realize the world isn’t made up of flowers and rainbows and honest, smiling faces. That despicable things happen even to the kindest of folk. Inexplicable things that turn your life to shit and forever sours your soul.
A motivating force stronger than worry, sadness, or guilt.
Or fear.
I should be afraid. Shaking in my worn and weary cowgirl boots along with the rest of the five thousand long-term residents of Shelby, Okla-fuck-me-over-homa.
Revenge also requires patience—something I’m sorely lacking in but remind myself frequently of.
Like . . . right now.
A shrill, off-pitch whistle pierces the air. I jerk in surprise, wincing as my head connects with the fallen tree I’m hiding beneath. The bird’s either swallowed a tequila worm or has fallen off a high perch and is whistling his last tune.
I’m not the only person who’s taken notice. The Prick patrolling the compound I’ve been spying on drops his cigarette and takes off running, allowing me the much needed alone time to wiggle out from where I’d hurriedly taken cover less than five minutes ago.
Close call. I’ve been watching these Pricks for weeks without incident. Every Tuesday morning, rain or shine. Yet this is the first time they’ve patrolled to woods outside the barbed-wired fence surrounding the newly constructed compound located on the outskirts of Shelby. Shaking my head, I kick at the dirt to cover the lit cancer stick. Yeah, it’d serve them right if the large warehouse burned down in a forest fire.
Pulling out the sheets of notepaper and carpenter’s pencil stashed in the small pocket of my running shorts, I note the date, time, and activity. I’ve a whole book full of similar notations, with a flurry of activity happening early Tuesday mornings under the cover of dark.
Screw Sheriff Rush, his lame badge, and his do-nothing approach.
Homeland Security, it is.
And when they’re through carting off this group of foreign-born murderers, they can turn their attention to all the American-bred lowlifes who’ve ruined what was once a quaint western town.
I retrace my steps, following a familiar path through a crop of trees leading out onto a dirt road. My thoughts turn to my sister, Madelyn, and how I’m going to explain the muddied condition of the T-shirt she gave me as a twenty-third birthday present a few days ago. Over the years I’ve built up quite a collection of bold, eclectic T-shirts, most featuring classic rock or punk albums. Madelyn’s gift is neither rock or punk themed but all the same, I love the dark black T with its faint orange CAN’T CATCH ME decal plastered across the snug bosom. She’d laughed when I’d put it on, informing me how the print on the shirt suits me. How I never seem to settle long enough in one place and am always on the move. “Restless,” she’d said.
But she’s wrong.
I won’t stop . . . I can’t stop until I get what I’m after.
With a final glance over my shoulder, I begin the long sprint back to town. The morning air cuts into my lungs as I take to the dirt roadway, working my way back to the winding stone-riddled streets leading into Shelby, picking up my pace like the world’s nipping at the heels of my worn, dirt-caked sneakers.
I wait impatiently for Sylvia, the town’s self-proclaimed moral compass—infamous for her long, knotted “thou shall not do” pointer finger that, with even the slightest rousing, she’ll poke you in the eye with—to open Shelby Quick-Mart for business. Heading to the bread aisle, I snatch up a loaf of Texas toast. A burden, my jogging home with groceries in tow. But it’ll be well worth seeing Mama’s and Madelyn’s faces when I whip up my infamous French toast. No better way I can think of for shaking off a stressful morning.
“My goodness, dear. You’re covered in mud. Did you have a bad fall?” Sylvia admonishes from behind the counter. Surprised? Not really—I’ve established a bit of a reputation with Shelbians for my “shenanigans.” Like the time their piddly Fourth of July fireworks display was overshadowed—or should I say overpowered—by my pyrotechnical skills. A few extra cups of carbon mixed within the blue, and the Oklahoma sky was ablaze with color. Afterward, my parents insisted I withdraw from chemistry class and enroll in beginning French. I simply kept quiet and only did the latter. It turns out, I excelled in both, which in my parents’ eyes, made up for my occasional acts of rebellion.
I give a mental shrug. It’s not like either disciplines are of much use in Shelby, anyway.
“Just out jogging, Sylvia . . .”
She raises an eyebrow, the skeptical old bat.
“ . . . but if you have a tissue . . .”
With a sigh and an eye roll, she hands me a Kleenex, which I use to rub across my cheeks.
“Do be careful, Kylie. This town isn’t what . . .”
“ . . . it used to be,” I finish for her, but rather than wait around for her pity party, I exit the mart.
With a tight grip on the bread, I hit the roadway, running hard and headed toward the far side of town.
Clouds roll in. Figures I left our house filled with determination only to trek back home wet and weary. Beyond weary. Tired. So bleeding tired of fighting battles no twenty-three-year-old should ever face. But these are the cards I’ve been dealt.
I’m so preoccupied with the downpour of troubles that seem to accompany the downpour of rain, I ignore the black sedan and the gravel it’s kicked up as it passes by me. Dismiss the red glare of its taillights, faintly visible through the rain. Pay no heed to how the sedan is backing up as quickly as it’d sped by me.
Too late, I stop and gesture wildly at them to continue on.
Then everything but the rain seems to pause. The blond hairs on my arms stand at attention. It’s like being swept into a cloud of darkness, where for a split second everything is calm before all hell breaks loose. But I’m a native Oklahoman, where tornados crop up like spring daffodils. Where quick thinking and survival know-how are the name of the game.
I take off running back toward town, then pivoting on my heels, burst into a withering wheat field bordering the road. Stalks swat my face. Mud covers my sneakers and splashes up my legs. My mind spurs on my tired body. “Faster. Go faster.”
I slip and slide but am abruptly grabbed by the waistline and hauled up off my feet. Gritting my teeth, I send my right elbow and left heel backward. Both connect hard, into my captor’s jaw and junk trunk. He drops me.
“You goddamn bitch,” I hear, but faintly. My legs are already in motion.
A different man grasps onto my arm. I turn and, using the momentum from my spin, aim the heel of my palm up into the tender flesh beneath his nose. Blood spurts out of it like a lawn sprinkler. I’ve broken the second guy’s nose and ruined his faded white T-shirt.
Before he can grab me, I dash into the thickest, healthiest crop of stalks, which better conceals me. But it slows my progress. My sense of direction is distorted. If it’d been a clear night, the stars would guide me to safety. Today’s nothing except another miserable Shelby day.
The more I think about it, the more pissed off I become. Really? After the day I’ve had? It’s barely past seven a.m. and two Shelby goons decide I’m their next source of amusement.
The only victim I am is one of circumstance.
In the morning before classes—every morning except Tuesdays, that is—I catch the bus to Dayton’s Boxing and Mixed Martial Arts Club. Sticking my nose in a book used to be my thing. But I can’t concentrate; I’ve lost the simple pleasures in life. Now I get my kicks by kicking ass. I’m a natural, or so my trainers tell me. Comes in handy when dealing with the Shelbian riffraff. Still, the odds are against me. Two men to my one woman.
I pick up the pace, ignoring the sting as the stalks smack my face, arms, legs. It’s difficult to hear anything besides the rain. Have they given up? Has my perfectly aimed cock-kick and a broken nose discouraged them? Caused them to move on to a less-pissed-off victim?
The answer comes in the form of a solid wall of muscle, which I realize too late that I’ve run right into it.
On contact, the man’s chest flexes beneath my breasts. I jerk back, but instead of glaring up at him, my eyes are drawn to the little green horse embroidered onto his pale pink polo shirt. A jockeyless pony situated on the upper swell of what is the tightest, brawniest, most muscular display of pecs around, the tight pull of his shirt across his chest leaving nothing to the imagination. I want to press my thumb against that pony, make sure my girls got it right. Except this man isn’t one of Dayton’s gym jockeys . . .
I bring my knee up, aiming for his privates.
He laughs and neatly sidesteps me, so my knee connects with his hard, chino-clad thigh. Pain jolts through my leg and up my spine.
I grit my teeth, pissed off and slightly unnerved.
I send an elbow up toward his jaw.
This move’s brought many a man to his knees, but he swats my elbow away. I feel his control, his power. And I know I’m in trouble.
“What are you going to pull next, fireball? Hit me over the head with that loaf of bread?” he asks, his tone deep, rich like chocolate, smooth like truffles. His voice is amused. His words grate on my nerves. Run, common sense tells me. Stay, a recklessly rogue thought pops into my head. I reluctantly drop my loaf of Texas toast.
He’s folded his arms across his chest, obscuring the little pony beneath his muscular arms. I stare at the spot, wondering why a preppy like him is after me.
“What do you want?”
My eyes skim upward and I’m greeted by smug, self-assured tilt of his lips. You, his smile seems to say. I want you.
I’m tall at five feet nine, lithe and long-legged. This man’s chin can rest on my head. A perfectly shaped chin, accompanied by high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and as my gaze flickers across his face, deliciously full, kissable lips. He’s fair, like me. Except he’s sporting a fine line of five-o’clock shadow.
His jaw-dropping good looks snag my attention. But it’s the energy between us that knocks the wind out of me. Sexual magnetism. It’s like the air’s supercharged, undergoing some kind of chemical reaction, hot and bubbly and ready to explode. And, as that lazy smile of his broadens, I feel my body physically responding . . . what the hell?
“What do you want?” I repeat, in a hoarse tone. Far too affected by him than I care to admit. He makes a sound deep within his throat and I swear the crotch of my shorts are instantly wet.
“To see if what your T-shirt says is true.”
CAN’T CATCH ME. Oh shit.
He whistles. Off tune. In the exact same manner as that hallucinogenic bird call from earlier. Holy sweet Mary . . .
“Over here,” someone shouts. I’m furious, at myself for being distracted like a teenager with her first crush. And, with him—for leading me on, tempting me, bending me to his will with one lazy come-hither smile.
Before I can ram my fist into his perfectly shaped nose and ruin his perfect, symmetrically shaped but far too smug face, I’m flanked in by the two other riffraff.
“Sneaky bitch,” the man with the busted nose growls. “Move out of the way, Jaxson. I’m going to teach her a lesson.”
“Move aside, Jaxson,” I mock, growling right back at him. “This sneaky bitch is going to give Broken-Nose a taste of what Ball-Busted got.”
“Broken-Nose—”
“—Ball-Busted? You’re dead, bitch.”
God, it’s like a scene right out of a Laurel and Hardy rerun on the Looney Tune Network. Except for the threat of bodily harm. And death. The two men charge forward.
Jaxson steps up from behind me. I feel his hands on my shoulder, his body against my back. Protecting me? Or doing what my T-shirt boasts?
“A bit of advice. When dealing with Hayden, control your temper,” he informs me. “Remember it well, Kylie.”
Oh, shit. They know my name?
A sharp pain mars my head just above my right eyebrow.
My world spins, and then it’s lights out.
Dangerous.
No other word comes to mind when describing the intense stranger sitting across from me. A large oak desk separates us. Not that it’d do much to stop him if his intention is to harm me. Given the circumstances of how I arrived here, I’d say the probability of escaping him isn’t in my favor.
Hayden—this is the man my lazy-smiled assailant warned me about.
“Sit,” he’d said in the way of a greeting, pointing the eraser end of a pencil at the leather chair before his desk.
I blinked, once.
His eyes narrowed.
I quickly relocated from the leather couch I’d abruptly woken on and now sit before him. With as much discretion as I can muster considering my throbbing headache, I survey the room.
It’s richly appointed, like something out of Dallas Digest, with two floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining two of the four walls. My unexpected sleeping quarters takes up a third wall. The fourth, a door—the one that’d been slammed and that had likely snapped me out of an unexpected slumber. I’ll have to thank my sly, pony-shirted assailant the next time I see him. For a second, I regret how it’s not him here with me instead.
Hayden taps his pencil on the thick manila file in front of him, impatient and intense and, as my attention turns to him, boldly taking me in.
“You’ve been spying on the compound outside of Shelby,” he states. It’s not a question. Like my Tuesday morning Prick Patrol is common knowledge.
“Don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” I smoothly reply. He’s dressed in a suit, which adds to my nervousness. After all, the Pricks I’ve been spying on favored suits. What could a man like him want from me?
Leaning back in my chair, I do my damnedest to act like I’m unfazed by him and what’s happening to me.
I try to focus on the obvious; the stranger is sexy as hell, in a scary, domineering way. His crisp, white collared shirt is unbuttoned, allowing for enough exposed skin to give a sense of the firm muscles hidden beneath. A clean-shaven, strong jaw softened by a slight sexy clef to his chin. His green eyes are so pale they’re almost translucent. Windows to a soulful man, or just the opposite? His nose is slightly crooked, like it’s been broken before. But it’s his hair that throws me off and, in a strange way, calms my nerves. It’s a rich chestnut color and long, though it’s difficult to say how long as he’s twisted it neatly up into a bun. Yep, he’s sporting a man bun, which I’d find hilarious if he didn’t make me so bleeding nervous.
I find myself comparing his dark good looks to the other man—that player, Jaxson. With his tight polo shirts and seductive smile. He had this raw kind of sexuality that instantly—or should I say intuitively?—catapults him to the top of my Hot Male Bucket List. A list consisting of . . . one. Yeah, call it what you will.
I bet that player’s bed is never empty.
“You find something amusing?”
I jump. Hayden’s voice is quiet yet still menacing. Jesus, that bump on the head knocked the sense straight out of me.
With a fierce scowl, he taps his pencil on the stack of papers. Thump. Thump. Thump. Until my fingers itch to snatch it from his hand and ruin the steady drumbeat while he waits for me to respond.
I wait for a chance to remind him this isn’t the Dark Ages, that you can’t just forcibly kidnap someone, knock them unconscious, and then treat them like some wide-eyed intern on her first job interview.
We wait and wait, in a battle of wills. Although I might be slouched nonchalantly in the chair before him, my spine is as straight as they come—stubbornness being a character trait I’ve perfected out of necessity.
My mother and Madelyn must be worried sick. And at this rate, we’ll be at this all day.
“What do you want?” I demand.
He stares at me, assessing me. Like a chess master gaging the worth of his opponent as he moves his piece into checkmate. Dangerous, I remind myself, struggling to control the anxiousness rolling around in the pit of my stomach.
“Answer my first question. Why have you been spying on the compound on the edge of town?”
“I’m curious.”
“Bullshit.”
Thump. Thump. Thump. Our eyes connect and hold. His harden, shooting daggers at me. The words Don’t fuck with me unspoken, yet as loud as thunder within his unforgiving depths. A shiver runs down my spine as I realize how threatening this man truly is. Still, I struggle not to look away.
He tosses a familiar black pocket-size notebook onto the desk. I grip the chair arms as he recites my annotations from memory.
January 22, 4:27 a.m.-Twenty-two pricks unload twelve heavy burlap bags.
January 29, 4:35 a.m.-Eighteen pricks unload fifteen bags.
February 5, 4:21 a.m.-Twenty-five pricks unload thirty-three bags.
“I’ll ask you again. Why are you spying on them?”
I shrug. “They’re up to no good.”
Hayden snorts.
“You agree?”
“You’ve got balls and work well under pressure, I’ll give you that.” He picks up his pencil yet cuts me a break by not thumping it. Placing his forearms onto the desk and leaning forward, he stares at me up and down. “You’ve got a set of guns on you. Can you fight?”
“You looking to find out?” I shoot back, my tone cocky despite how nervous I feel sitting before him. Right after Franco DiCapitano and his mob associates began filtering into town—along with their drugs, money, and poor taste in clothing and cars, favoring 1970s polyester suits and gas-guzzling sedans—my father enrolled me in intensive self-defense classes over in Dayton, a short ride from Shelby. An old army buddy of my pop’s ran the class, though he never went easy on me. By the time I turned sixteen, I could break a man’s nose, bring him to his knees, and put a serious hurting on his baby jewels. Matter of fact, if it wasn’t for Mama falling ill along with the fact that I’m a rule bender not follower, I’d have enlisted in the army by now.
“How about weapons?”
“I spent some time at the firing range.” Yeah, Pop saw to it that I could accurately handle both pistols and rifles. Some of my fondest memories are of us shooting cans out of the air. Two scientists chuckling over the precision of each spot-on shot. God, do I miss him.
“Good enough.”
I frown. “Why do I feel like I’m being interviewed?”
“Tell me why you’ve been documenting the compound’s activities and we’ll chat about why I had you brought to me.”
Brought to him?
My head hurts. I’m tired. I want to get home to Madelyn and my mother. Make a few phone calls and tackle the other issue weighing heavily on my mind. Maybe the truth might just strike enough of a sympathetic chord that he’ll let me go on my merry, miserable way.
No twenty-three-year-old—no one at any age, for that matter—should have to survive the murder of her father then, in an awful twist of fate, struggle to prevent the death of her sick mother.
I straighten then lean forward and fold my arms on his desk. I’m might be blond but I’ve got the temperament of a redhead, which is why instead of cowering before the intimidating man, I find my body stiffening in anger. “Those Pricks shot my father. One moment, he was sitting on the front porch, reading the newspaper and minding his own business, and the next he’s riddled with bullets from a drive-by shooting. He died in my arms.” I blink, but my tears have long since dried up. If only I’d had a rifle with me, and that Mercedes and the Pricks inside would be history. Yet crying in front of this man could only be perceived as weakness. I inhale sharply, then continue. “The sheriff is afraid to act. Always has been a coward but in recent years, he’s worse. Too afraid of the consequences to do his damn job.”
“But you’re not?”
“Not what?”
“Afraid.”
I look around the room, thinking about his question. Yeah, I’m afraid—scared shitless. But not because of those Pricks. No, my fear stems from the not knowing. The uncertainty of a possible life without my mother, of what will become of Madelyn if I can’t get her the hell out of this Shelby shithole and away from the riffraff and send her off to college like she deserves. Along with the weight I carry on top of my father’s murder . . .
Yeah, that’s real fear. Accompanied by real loss.
“Could you kill a Prick?”
I blink. Could I? Kill the men responsible for my father’s murder? Men going about their business, scot-free while law enforcement turns a blind eye. All those Tuesday mornings spying on their compound, patiently waiting for them to screw up so I could report them to Homeland Security. Growing more frustrated with each passing week where thoughts of justice changed to the overwhelming desire for revenge. “Well, if push came to shove—”
“—even if it doesn’t, could you do it?”
I think about how I held my father in my arms as he breathed his last breath. “Yes,” I snap.
“Good.” Hayden rolls his pencil between his fingers.
I rise to my feet. This conversation is alarming, forcing me to admit things best left alone, even in my darkest thoughts. “Well, it’s been nice chatting with you. I better be going.”
“Sit. I’ll tell you when you can go.”
I narrow my eyes on him but my thoughts linger on the words can and go. Just in case, I say by way of confirmation, “Fine, but I’m out of here after this.”
With a nod, he gestures to the chair. “Depends.”
Not exactly what I expect him to say. But instead of poking the lion, I do as he bids and flop down onto the leather seat.
“Your father is dead.”
Damn him. “Murdered. I just told you so.”
“And your mother?”
I wince, and his eyebrows arch. What does he want, my whole bleeding sob story? The double header that’s become my life—lose one parent . . . lose—
“—your mother?” he persists.
Sweet Jesus. “She’s sick, okay. Stage four cancer.” I close then open my mouth to emphatically add, “Which is why I really have got to get going.”
“Siblings? Brothers and sisters?” His tone has softened, but something in his demeanor—the way he holds that pencil, poised midair, without a single, solitary thump—sets me on edge. As is, I’ve revealed far too much information about my family. No way in hell am I dragging Madelyn into this screwy situation.
I stare him square in the eyes and lie. “None.”
“Good.” He flips open the file on his desk and scribbles something onto a paper inside. “You’re from Shelby?”
I scowl. “Unfortunately, yes. Born and raised.”
“Do you know a local man named Franco?”
“Yes. Everyone in Shelby is familiar with that scumbag.”
“Does he know you?” Something in his tone changes, like he’s pleased with my answer.
I brush the thought off as my memory of my first meeting with the mob boss races through my mind. “He bought me an ice cream a few years back.” An ice cream that produced a wicked pistachio mustache along with my father’s stern reaction and my subsequently being groomed into a lean, mean kick-ass machine. Or at least, a capable, fearless young girl who at the tender age of sixteen made her first man cup his balls and weep.
Before that, I was so bleeding innocent. For the longest time, Shelby had been heaven on earth. Wheat fields as far as the eye could see. Friendly folk out on their porches, quick with a wave and a grin. A farming utopia. A childhood paradise. The vast nighttime sky filled with stars glimmering with possibility.
When first the mob moved in followed more recently by the Pricks, things changed.
I changed.
“You’ll do,” Hayden interrupts, without looking up from whatever he’s scribbled on the paper before him. “I want you to come work for me.”
This was some kind of fucked-up job interview. “Work for you?”
“They’ll be an intensive preparation period. Training camp—Hell Camp, they like to call it. Prove that you’re reasonably adept . . . hell, even moderately mediocre, and I’ll take you on.”
Jesus. Manipulative much? He hasn’t even given me time to process what this is really all about. “Whoa. Hold on. I just met you. I don’t know the first thing about you. Besides, who said I want to work for you?”
“You did.”
“Um . . . you must be hearing things.”
“Your actions speak volumes. Now sit.” He points his pencil at the chair. I glance down, unaware I’ve even jumped to my feet. I do ask he asks, biding my time until I can gather enough courage to blow this popsicle stand, and run as hard and as fast as my legs will carry me.
“I’m the head of a global, privately run company called TORC.”
I snort. “And you’re based in Shelby?”
He lifts an eyebrow at me. “There’s a reason we relocated to Shelby.”
“The Pricks?” I blurt out.
“Smart girl.” He removes a blank piece of paper, sets it before me, then draws a straight line. Tapping his pencil, he pauses like he’s carefully considering his words. “The average person believes the world operates like this. They’re here”—he draws a smiley face with the eraser on one side of the line—“going about living a relatively safe, orderly life. Then, there’s them”—he draws a frown on the other side of the line—“those looking to disrupt the status quo and destroy the governmental norms already established.”
“Like the Pricks? Franco and all the other riffraff that’s moved into Shelby.”
“Exactly. What does the line represent?”
“A division between good and bad.”
“And?”
I frown. “The police. Armies. Governments. Rules.”
“Which keep these two factions separated. World order, if you will.”
I bite my lip and stare at him. “Which side is TORC on?” He’s already told me we have a common enemy . . . “Or does your organization stand in the middle? Like the FBI or CIA?” I give myself a mental eye roll. Spies in Shelby? Yeah, right.
“TORC is a PSC.”
“A PSC?” I ask. We’re just tossing out acronyms like murky water, aren’t we?
Hayden sighs, then flips over the paper. This time, he draws a jagged line across the paper, tracing once again, a happy and sad face on either side with his eraser. “PSC stands for private security contractor. Hundreds exist after September eleventh, but your average person never hears about them. Your tax dollars hard at work and you don’t even know it.”
“So TORC is a military organization,” I say. “Why the jagged line?”
He sits back in his seat and clasps his hands together. He refrains from answering me and instead changes the subject. “How does a thousand dollars a week sound? If you finish Hell Camp, I’ll double it. Every year afterward, I’ll keep doubling it.”
My jaw hits my chest. Dollar bills do a line dance across my mind. Mental math has always been my strong suit—being a science nerd, I’m logically skewed, to say the least—but the numbers I quickly crunch have my heart counting along with my head. Money talks, right? Those dear doctors at Johns Hopkins will be forced into taking my phone calls more seriously. We’ll dig out of the financial hole we’re in. Madelyn’s tuition. My relocating us to a better house, one not filled with sadness and loss.
“Two thousand a week and you’ll double it after I finish Hell Camp.”
His lips tighten. “You’ll sign a contract and a strict confidentiality clause. As far as the outside world is concerned, TORC doesn’t exist. You will not breath a word about this organization to anyone or do anything to jeopardize it. Actions have consequences—always remember that.”
Holy hell. That sounds like a threat.
“You’ll need to practice if you plan on making it onto the team.” He takes a yellow manila envelope out of his desk and pushes it across the table. “Open it. You need to fully understand what I’m asking of you.”
It weighs a few pounds but is too bulky to be paperwork. Money? I tear it open at the seam, and stare down at the smooth black object tucked inside.
“A Ruger?”
“The best pistol on the market. You’ll want to brush up before camp. You’ll be training with the best.”
“The best at what?”
He flashes me a faux smile.
“Can you be any more vague?” I ground out, my tone seething with frustration.
The energy in the room abruptly changes. “You’re going to have to do something about your temper. One hothead on board is one too many,” he snaps, his voice sharp and full of authority.
I swallow hard. Is this what they mean in the movies when a character sells his soul for the almighty dollar?
“Relax. There’s a specific assignment I have in mind for you. One you’ll clearly excel at—you’ll spy on Franco and report back to me. Simple.”
Yeah, as if simple is a word in this man’s vocabulary.
As far as spying . . . “I don’t know.” Damn it. The money, at a time like this . . .
“Kylie?”
I stiffen, disliking my name coming off his lips.
“If it’s revenge you’re after, I’ll deliver.”
“The mob didn’t kill my father.”
“No, but I suspect they’re raising money for the men who did. The Pricks. A fitting nickname.” His lips twitch, his sudden show of humor catching me off guard. “TORC is in Shelby because I’m after the king Prick, a man called Novák.”
I sit up straighter in my chair as he removes a picture from his desk and pushes it across the table for me to look at.
“What began in Sydney, London, Rio, New York, and other major urban centers around the world has now gone small-town. That picture was taken at Truman Lake just outside of Clinton, Missouri. A quintessential midwestern town, which like Shelby, happens to have a group of lowlifes who’d sell their own mothers to make a quick buck. When I say Novák has a nose for rooting out even the smallest of town’s localized criminal element, it’s an understatement.”
I study the tall, brown-haired man in the picture. He looks like your typical business executive, dressed in a suit, with a Burberry tie and shiny black shoes. An average sophisticated Joe. But instead of murdering you on Wall Street . . . I run my tongue across my bottom lip then scowl as I taste blood from my biting down too hard. “So Novák has partnered up with other men besides Franco?”
“Partnering up, taking control over. And as with Shelby, each of the small towns have a compound located just outside of town. He’s personally setting up sleeper cells across the globe, making the rounds from place to place to guarantee things are running smoothly. Supplying his local business partners with money for bigger drug purchases, which increases both their profit margins. Buy more, spend less, just like any smooth-operating business model. All this, we know.”
Hayden gestures with his hand for me to pass the picture back to him.
I resist the urge to tear it to pieces and stomp it beneath my foot. What I wouldn’t do to see Novák gets what he deserves.
“One thing is for sure,” Hayden comments.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve got the right woman for what I have in mind. If you want to work for me, you’ll need to work on hiding your thoughts better. As it is, I can see straight through you.”
Screw you, I think, letting my expression do the talking.
“Tsk. Tsk. Mask your anger, Kylie. I’ve already addressed this.”
“If you already know what Novák has been up to, why not set up a sting, catch him red-handed, and arrest him?” I say, my tone ripe with condescension.
“Arrest him.” Hayden snorts, like my suggestion amuses him.
“Why not?” I ground out.
“I need answers. What is he doing with all this money? And if he’s working for a larger global off-the-grid organization that no one’s yet heard of but which I suspect exists. We can’t question his earlier business associates because they’re either dead or have been recruited into a localized cell. And small towns are notoriously difficult to maneuver within without raising suspicion. But something’s gotta give soon. In the past year, he’s gone from a few thousand recruits to enough men to form a small army. I’d hoped he’d gotten careless, that I could have a team in place to work their way in tight with the locals and with luck, eventually be recruited by Novák. But he selects towns based on how tight-knit their criminals are, picking motorcycle clubs or street gangs with strict initiation processes or mobsters like Franco, who hires mostly family, along with the occasional familiar face or local weakling. And as for local familiar faces . . . you’re it. Because it appears TORC doesn’t have men weak enough to fit the bill. I’ve tried and we’ve failed.”
A look of pure fury crosses his face. I feel like saying, “Tsk. Tsk. Way to mask your emotions.” But for obvious reasons, don’t.
“Report back here at seven a.m. sharp next Tuesday. Ring the bell on the gate three times, then two times, then once, and you’ll be let in.”
“I can’t do Tuesday mornings,” I ground out. He knows this already. Before he can act, I grab my notebook off his desk and secure it inside my shorts pocket.
“Your temper is going to be an issue,” he comments, which of course, pisses me off more. “Prove your worth in Hell Camp, Kylie, and I’ll take you on.”
“I haven’t said yes.”
“You didn’t need to.” He stands, sticks a hand in his dress-pants pocket and tosses a few hundred-dollar bills onto the desk. “This isn’t going to be easy. You’ll be training with former military men, street thugs, ex-cons. Men who’ll hurt you if provoked.”
Jaxson’s smug face flashes across my mind. What kind of man is he? Capable—the bump on my head is proof enough.
“I recruit only the best—the men understand that.”
“Why me?” I whisper.
“I’m a man who likes it when things go my way. I detest bullshit. I don’t tolerate failure. I’m not the kind of guy you fuck with. But my current team has come up short. They, too, will be competing for rerecruitment.”
I suck in a breath, for the first time, really seeing Hayden clearly. Straight past his handsome face and into his bleak, soulless eyes.
Dangerous.
“Why you, you ask?” His eyes flash, and a shiver rolls up my spin. No, he’s not a man to fuck with. Not with the simmering rage rolling about just below his calm, collected manner. “Once I get the information I need, I’m going to terminate every Prick out there, beginning with Novák.” He leans forward and lowers his voice to a low rumble. “And you, my clever beauty, are going to be the one no one sees coming.”