Alessandra jumped back as Val’s hands came for her ankles. The move pushed her off-balance, and as she tried to stay on her feet, she could barely hang on to the gun in her hands.
The gun. His gun. Crap.
He was already going for it. And she clued in that his dive toward her had been a distraction, too.
Furious at herself for not catching on, Alessandra fought to regain control of the situation. She had the advantage of being on her feet while Val was still on the floor. So she used it. She slid past her attacker, one foot extended. Her toes hit the weapon, and the gun slid over the hardwood and disappeared under the bed. A space far too narrow for even the small man in front of her to squeeze into. She almost wanted to cry with relief. But she didn’t have time. The fight wasn’t over. And now Val was even more furious than he’d been before.
He snarled and turned his attention back to Alessandra. He’d made his way to his knees, but was clearly impatient to get to her, because instead of coming to his feet, he simply lunged again. Alessandra leaped back out reach. She tried to train the gun on him, but her lack of experience wielding a weapon made it hard for her to move and aim at the same time.
Just squeeze the trigger!
She tried to obey the silent, self-directed command. But her finger slipped, the gun wobbled, and she had a sudden feeling that if she continued to try to use it, especially in such small quarters, things weren’t going to go in her favor. What she had to do was escape. Or at the very least, get some space. And for that, she had the right tools. Speed, agility and wits. All she needed was a clear path to the door.
With renewed determination, Alessandra feinted left, then dodged right. Val followed. She danced backward, and Val growled and tried to stand.
Don’t want that, she thought.
She pretended that she was going to try to jump past him, hoping it would deter him from wasting time trying to right himself. It worked. The snarly man gave up his effort to stand and dived sideways instead. Alessandra stepped easily out of reach. The dodge made her assailant stumble, and it gave her just the break she needed. But she didn’t take the time to be grateful, or to turn around and check on Val’s recovery. She just bolted out the bedroom door. Then she flew through the living room, knocking over an rustic-looking antique barstool in the process. She ignored the clatter and moved on, so close to freedom that she could already taste the rain-heavy air outside. But the second before her fingers landed on the knob, a bang and crash from behind told her she was going to have to fend Val off again.
She spun, her hands coming up, ready to shove away her attacker. But her adrenaline-fueled defense was unnecessary. Val was on the floor, tripped up by the same barstool that had impeded her progress. He’d knocked over a wall-mounted shelf, too—probably in an attempt to stop himself from falling over completely—and he was flat on his stomach, blood pouring from an ugly open gash on the side of his head.
What in God’s name...
Alessandra’s gaze found the cause a heartbeat later. It was a stone knickknack, carved into the shape of a mountain, and its already-jagged edge was split and covered in crimson.
“Val?” She said his name, took a step forward, then immediately, “Oh God.”
Her attacker’s eyes were already wide and unseeing. There was no doubt that he was dead. And in spite of the fact that he’d been sent there for the sole purpose of killing her, Alessandra couldn’t stop herself from doubling over and dry heaving. Even when she was done, and her stomach was aching from the pain of it, she couldn’t quite bring herself to be thankful he was dead. She just felt sad and defeated and scared.
But you still need to keep going.
“But where to?” she whispered aloud.
She eyed the door. Obviously, escape wasn’t an issue now. She flicked a glance toward Val’s body. But staying in the cabin didn’t exactly have appeal. She turned back to the door. Anything had to be better than sitting inside with a body. Even waiting in the storage shed outside sounded good in comparison. But she no sooner made the decision and took a step toward the door than the musical tone of a ringing phone—not hers and not Rush’s, which were both in the bedroom—came to life.
She swallowed nervously and eyed Val. It had to be his. And Alessandra had a feeling she should at least see who it was. She sucked in and held a breath, then moved closer. Tears threatened. But she pushed through them and bent down.
“Oh, thank God,” she murmured when she saw that the phone was sticking out from the dead man’s jeans pocket.
She yanked it free and glanced down. As impossible as she would’ve said it would be, her stomach twisted even more. Jesse’s name was scrolling across the screen. She stared at it, wondering what would happen when Val didn’t answer.
Nothing good.
Alessandra stared for a second longer, a simple plan—maybe a stupid one, too, she wasn’t sure—forming in her head. She would answer. Say nothing. And hope Jesse assumed it was bad cell phone service. Telling herself it would work, she tapped the screen, then lifted the device to her ear. But instead of Jesse’s angry voice coming on the line, it was Rush’s rough and angry tone.
“Val,” he snapped. “Where the hell are you? Boss says you were supposed to be done with a job fifteen minutes ago.”
Alessandra exhaled, her voice wobbling. “He failed.”
There was the briefest, heaviest pause on the other end. Then Rush spoke again, his words no softer and no less tinged with anger.
“Good news,” he said. “Boss’ll be happy to hear it. And speaking of the boss...he wants me to pass along the message that we’re already on our way to the warehouse. But don’t worry. I’m sure I can take care of the second job on your behalf.”
Then there was a click, and Alessandra was left staring down at the phone. It was obvious that Rush’s reaction—or lack of reaction, really—to her answering the phone was a result of him not being alone. But his words...she was sure they were meant to convey a message.
She was the job. Or rather, her murder was the job. Which meant that the dead man wasn’t just a glorified errand boy. He was a working class assassin. She shivered at the thought, and forced herself not to dwell on that fact. She needed to figure out what it was Rush wanted to communicate to her.
What else did he say? That they were on their way to the warehouse?
Alessandra thought about that for a second. On account of his audience, Rush had to have meant it literally. So maybe he was just disclosing his location. And if that were true, then it’d worked. She knew there was only one area in Whispering Woods that even had warehouses. It was a small industrial complex that she’d read about online when briefly researching the town.
A tiny lick of relief at knowing where Rush was filled her. But as quick as it came, it was gone. Because she recalled the next part of what Rush had said.
Taking care of a second job.
She knew what that meant, too. At least as far as Val was concerned.
But Rush wasn’t a murderer. Even undercover, he wasn’t going to kill someone. Not for Jesse. Not for anyone. So...what?
Then it hit her.
Val was supposed to do the job. The only reason Rush would’ve mentioned it all was if it was important to Alessandra in some way. And there only one person in all of Whispering Woods who mattered to her.
Rush.
Rush was his next target.
Alessandra sucked in a breath that burned through her lungs.
She needed to get to him. Now.
No.
Before now.
Urgency overtook horror and disgust, and she bent down to Val’s body. She stuck a hand in one coat pocket and came up empty, but a reach into the second pocket yielded triumph in the form of keys. Squeezing them tightly in her palm, she moved quickly through the cabin. She grabbed her bag, Rush’s gun and phone, then slid into her shoes and ran straight out the door.
Rush glanced over at Garibaldi’s too-relaxed hands on the steering wheel, his mind slipping repeatedly to Alessandra and to the phone call.
Stop obsessing over it, he ordered silently. If she wasn’t fine, she would’ve found a way to tell you, even with the twenty-second length of the call. And if you don’t stop, Garibaldi’s going to notice. If he hasn’t already.
But it was exceedingly hard to distract himself when he was sure they were headed toward his own execution.
Before the call—God, how he hoped Alessandra had picked up on the fact that he didn’t want her to follow them—he hadn’t been able to figure out what the purpose of their trip was. They’d completed one mundane task after the other. Time wasters, every one of them. First they’d grabbed a to-go coffee from the gas station in town. Then they’d snagged a piece of certified mail from the post office and dropped it off with another of Garibaldi’s lackeys. Finally, they’d checked in on one of the souvenir shops Garibaldi owned, and made small talk with the owner. And even though he’d chatted the entire time, Garibaldi didn’t once bring up their current situation. He didn’t mention the shooter at the cabin, or Alessandra, or where they were ultimately going. Instead, he’d talked about a movie he’d seen recently. About sports. About a job he’d pulled off in his twenties. Hell. He’d even repeated a series of terrible jokes he’d recently read online.
Rush had grumbled about it all, as would be expected. That, at least, there’d been some truth to. Everything else about their meaningless tasks reeked of falsehood. With each passing minute, the deep sense of wrongness in Rush’s gut had grown. It still grew, even though he now knew that the little stops and overzealous chattiness were a deliberate distraction. Not so much a time waster as a time buyer. To give Val a window to accomplish whatever terrible task he’d been assigned. Which was a whole other freshly opened can of concern. The man set Rush’s teeth on edge at the best of times. He was a sadist. A criminal who committed crimes for the sheer pleasure of it. Rush had once seen him grin as he blew through a crosswalk, narrowly missing the three kids using it at that moment. Garibaldi saved Val for the jobs no one else would do. So the thought of him anywhere near Alessandra...
But he failed. Alessandra said so.
Rush was relieved that she was okay. He wished like hell he’d been able to say more to her. Or anything to her, really. But all he’d been able to do was to deliver his pseudo-boss’s cryptic message—which had been abrupt and accompanied by zero explanation—to Val. At least the part about heading for the warehouse appeared to be true. Garibaldi was turning into the industrial complex now, and Rush itched to ask questions.
The other man spoke first. “Recognize this place, Atkinson?”
“Yeah, boss. Why wouldn’t I?” Rush replied.
Garibaldi shrugged. “Thought it might mean something to you. My guys and I have been running merchandise through a unit here for the last few months. Thought you might’ve noticed.”
There was an edge to the comments, and Rush had a sudden urge to grab Garibaldi by the collar and demand that he just say what he meant. Instead, he just grunted.
“Try to mind my own business, boss,” he said.
“Do you now? I’ve been getting the feeling you’ve been champing at the bit to know exactly what this little project is all about.” The edge was still there—a threat under a casual observation.
Rush responded with an equally offhanded tone. “Always trying to go after whatever’s bigger and better.”
Garibaldi said nothing as he slowed the car and pulled up to the only privately gated warehouse in the bunch. He rolled down his window, punched in a code and guided the vehicle through the gate as it slid open. He stayed silent as they rolled over the concrete, and that was just fine with Rush. It gave him a moment to assess his surroundings.
One way in and out. Two armed thugs at the door. No signs. Nothing good about any of this.
“What the hell is this, boss?” he asked, his voice infused with all the curiosity and none of the concern he felt.
Garibaldi brought the car to a halt in a stall directly in front of the warehouse and cut the engine.
“You’ll see,” said the other man, swinging open his door. “Come on.”
Rush rolled his shoulders in a useless attempt to ease some of the tension stiffening them, then climbed out of the car and stared up at the nondescript building. He pretended not to feel the guards’ eyes on him as they stepped up to the door. He couldn’t keep ignoring them, though, when one shot out a hand and grabbed his elbow. The grip was like being squeezed by a slab of meat, and Rush’s immediate inclination—that he just barely managed to rein in—was to deliver a perfectly placed punch to the man’s solar plexus. He settled for a glare.
“What the hell, man?” he said, flickering a narrow-eyed glare toward Garibaldi.
His boss shrugged. “Sorry, Atkinson. Rules are, you’ve gotta turn over your weapon.”
Dread hit him in the gut. “You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly. Unless there’s some reason you think you need your gun when you’re with me.” Garibaldi smiled darkly.
Rush rolled his eyes—deliberately dismissive—and yanked open his coat to reveal the antique revolver. “Should I hand it over myself, or initiate a wrestling match so the Testosterone Twins feel validated?”
The other man’s gaze rested on the weapon. “Interesting choice. New to you?”
“A souvenir,” Rush said. “Belonged to our gray-haired friend at the cabin.”
Garibaldi’s face tipped again up, any disbelief hidden behind a blank stare. “Go ahead and hand it over.”
Rush grunted and dragged the weapon free. For the briefest second, he considered whether or not he might be able to shoot all three men in rapid succession and still come out alive. He shoved off the idea almost as soon as it came, though. The revolver wouldn’t fire rapidly enough, and there was a damned likely chance there were other thugs lurking in unseen places, prepared to act under the slightest provocation. So he simply held out the gun, butt end first, and let the other guard—the one not trying to crush his shoulder—take it without protest.
“Good,” said Garibaldi. “Let me show what I’ve been working on.”
Rush nodded wordlessly. The thick concern was still rolling over him like a fog, and it didn’t lessen any as he followed his boss into the building. The interior was dark, the air so dry that Rush had to let out a little cough. But the cough died abruptly when Garibaldi flicked on the lights and the space became illuminated in a yellow glow that revealed the contents of the warehouse. Paintings. Dozens and dozens of them. And Rush recognized them for what they really were—a cleverly disguised means of transporting and distributing an opiate. His partner Harley had been the one to figure it out.
The method was ingenious, really. A specialized paint was mixed with the drug in question. A local “artist” was hired to create the landscapes, and an unknowing art dealer sold them to predetermined buyers. The people who knew what was up were limited. There was Garibaldi himself and the men who created the paint. There were the guys who received the painting and extracted the drugs, and a few select men inside the crew.
And you aren’t supposed to be one of them, Rush reminded himself.
He started to turn and face his boss, feigned ignorance on his lips. He only made it a half a spin before he realized there was no need to pretend. Three men stood around him in a triangle, each with a weapon trained at his head.
Garibaldi nodded. “There’s a chair right there, Atkinson. Why don’t you have a seat? We can have a little chat about how I feel about betrayal.”
And Rush had no choice but to obey.