Page 10

B

I skidded to a stop inside the abandoned warehouse, well away from the entrance, and got out.

The large rusty doors screeched like I was torturing the metal as I forced them shut.

Not that I worried about noise or witnesses.

Nobody ventured near Rosebud’s crumbling wharf anymore. I'd made sure of that years ago.

I yanked off the wig, grabbed my phone from my purse, and shoved it into my pocket, then pausing at the trunk of the stolen Camry, I scanned the shadowy corners of the cavernous warehouse.

As expected, other than random pieces of dusty furniture and rusty remnants from the boat service business that ceased operating here over forty years ago, the place was deserted.

High in the cobwebbed rafters, pigeons shuffled and cooed, and the sound tugged at a memory I could never quite bury . . . my boy, Thomas.

He’d loved those damn pigeons. Every time we came here, he brought scraps of bread and tossed them out with that wide-eyed grin of his, then he would chase after them like some kind of pint-sized animal whisperer.

He was obsessed with catching one, swearing he would keep it as a pet.

He was such an innocent kid back then, so full of life and wonder.

Until he got tangled in my bullshit.

“Move,” I muttered to myself .

I heaved a breath, popped the Camry trunk, leaned into the cramped space and as I fumbled for a better grip on Grant’s limp body, my damn back twinged.

Why didn’t I steal a bigger car? This piece of junk was going to be the death of me.

Hooking my hands under Grant’s arms, I heaved him upward.

My head slammed against the edge of the trunk lid.

“Fucking hell!” I hissed, rubbing the side of my skull.

Leaning against the car, I took a moment to ease my lower back.

Through the broken louvers high on the walls, the early afternoon sun slashed through the gloom, spearing light between the massive support beams overhead.

A pair of pigeons burst from their roost, scattering dust motes in a swirling cloud as their feathers glinted in the golden light.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like Thomas’ ghost was here with me, suggesting that I wasn’t alone.

But I was fucking alone.

Everyone I loved was gone, and it was just me now. Me and my fury to finish off the hell that had started over forty years ago.

I leaned into the trunk again, and moaning like an old woman, I hauled Grant’s limp body free. I let him fall onto the weathered planks, and the bandaged stumps of his amputated legs thudded onto the floor.

He moaned.

My heart jumped.

No. Don’t you wake up yet, you stupid bastard.

Adjusting my grip, I dragged him backward across the dirty boards, which groaned beneath us. His head lolled limply against my arm, and his body sagged like a bag of dirt. He wasn’t as big as some of the bastards I’d killed, but dead weight always felt heavier.

Or maybe I was just getting weak. Sweat trickled down my spine, soaking into the waistband of the nurse’s uniform.

My arms trembled with each pull, and my damn back was letting me know it was not happy.

Ten years ago, I could’ve done this without breaking a sweat.

Hell, back then, I wouldn’t have been doing this at all. I had people for this kind of shit.

But those days were long gone. My allies were dropping like flies, and the ones who weren’t dead had either gone into hiding or were too scared to answer my calls. Fucking cowards .

The air in the old wharf was thick with the stink of rotting wood, sea salt, and rust, bringing back memories of my boys laughing and playing in this area and Thomas chasing his precious pigeons.

But the memories twisted, like they always did, spiraling down to that one I couldn't escape: Thomas and Fraser’s bullet-riddled bodies laid out in secret at the morgue, cold and lifeless under harsh fluorescent lights.

As that image burned into my mind, rage sliced through me like a jagged blade.

Grinding my teeth, I fed off the smoldering fury that kept me moving. One agonizing step at a time, I dragged Grant toward the rusted chains and chair I had set up in the center of the warehouse. Every inch felt like a mile. My legs burned, my back ached, and my patience was wearing thin.

Grant moaned.

“Shut up, you fucker.” I gritted my teeth and kept pulling.

His eyes shot open. His body went rigid.

He jerked like he’d been hit with a Taser, thrashing violently in my grip.

“Help!” he screamed. As the sound ricocheted off the metal walls and tin roof, the pigeons exploded from the rafters in a frenzy of wings.

“Stop moving, you stupid bastard,” I snarled, tightening my hold.

“Help!” he screamed again, twisting, jerking, clawing backward in a desperate attempt to grab at my arms.

“Fuck!” I hissed as he slipped from my grip.

He dropped like a deadweight, hitting the floorboards with a sickening thud, and cried out in pain. He scraped his fingernails over the splintered wood, trying to twist around to see me.

We’d never been face to face before, and as far as I knew, he had no idea who I was or what I looked like. He just knew me as B, the woman who’d been pulling his strings for years. My heart thundered as I stepped into his line of sight.

“Hello, Grant,” I said, smirking. “Or should I say, Thomas Apollo?” I hated that this greedy prick had the same name as my son.

His eyes flew wide as the weight of realization slammed into him like a guillotine blade.

“Fuck!” he shouted. “Help! Help! ”

"Save your breath." I circled him slowly. "Nobody can hear you."

“Where am I?”

“You’re in the last place anyone would ever look for you.”

His eyes flew even wider. “Fuck!” He tried to push himself up on trembling arms. "What do you want?"

I kicked his hip, and he toppled onto his back.

"Help!" His scream bounced around the emptiness. "Somebody, help me!"

He rolled onto his stomach, dragging himself across the floorboards. I followed, pleased that he was crawling exactly where I needed him in the center of the warehouse, where four massive timber pillars supported the rusted hoist that had once lifted boats from the water below the floorboards.

"Help! Please! Somebody!" His voice shattered with desperation.

A chair waited by the nearest pillar, with rusty chains coiled beside it. The same chains that had restrained so many bastards before Grant.

Four feet shy of the chair, he stopped, going rigid. Maybe he’d realized that the chair was marked for him.

He turned to me, panting like a rabid dog. “What do you want?”

I smiled. “You.”

I kicked his temple hard enough to make him dizzy, but not enough to knock him out.

As he howled and tried to curl into himself, I grabbed his arm and dragged him the last few feet to the chair and let him drop with a thud.

“Get on the chair,” I ordered.

Groaning, he clutched his head like he was trying to stop his skull from exploding.

The chains attached to the hoist above him clinked softly in the draft whispering through broken windows.

I kicked his hip. “Get up.”

“I know who you are!” His glare held more fear than fury.

“Good. Then you know exactly how this is going to end.”

He released a noise like he was swallowing a dead rat.

“Now get up.”

“I can’t.” His voice cracked, and he seemed to melt into himself .

I leaned down, gripping his jaw and forcing his face upward to meet my eyes. “Then I’ll make you.”

The links clinked as I lifted the chain from the ground.

"No! Please!" Panic flashed in his eyes. "I'll do whatever you say."

"I said, get on the chair." I wrapped the chain around his neck.

"Wait!" Gasping, he clawed at the links. "I'll do it!"

It was almost disappointing how quickly men broke.

My phone buzzed. Fuck. This was a call I had to take.

"Get on that chair, Hughes." As I stepped back, he dragged his trembling body toward the seat.

I pulled out my phone, expecting it to be the dipshit managing my shipment; the one who’d created that Border Force clusterfuck. Instead, the screen displayed a number that only appeared when things went seriously wrong. Detective Cooper Heathcote.

Grant’s movements were erratic, and his limbs were stiff and uncoordinated as he finally collapsed into the chair.

His chest heaved, and his trembling hands gripped his thighs above the bandages like they were the only things anchoring him to reality.

He looked up at me, wide-eyed and quivering, like a cornered thief staring down the barrel of a gun.

I answered the call. "This better be good, Heathcote."

"Well, that depends. Did you bury someone at Angelsong in the last year?"

The blood drained from my body, and I tightened my grip on the chain until the links bit into my palm. "What are you talking about?"

"Jaxon and his K9 just dug up a fresh body. A woman."

Oh, Jesus, they found Alice. My Alice.

My throat constricted.

"Are you there?" Heathcoat asked.

Tears prickled my eyes. I couldn't swallow. I could barely fucking breathe.

Behind me, Hughes shifted in the chair and the wood creaked beneath him. His breaths came in short, terrified gasps.

I turned away from him, brushing a tear from my cheek. One tear. That was all they would get from me. That was all I could afford. I had to get through this.

Had to end it.

"B, I'm guessing the answer is yes."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Who else knows about this?"

A whimper escaped Hughes, followed by the creaking of the chair as he fidgeted.

"Jaxson told his brothers, Whitney and Parker. And I overheard Parker telling the captain."

"Do they know who the body is?"

"Not that I've been told, but Whitney is already at the orphanage."

Fuck. I liked it better when I had a coroner in my pocket. Fucking Deputy Prime Minister, Mason Kingsman, ruined that connection when he got trigger-happy at Rosebud Hospital. Whitney was the replacement coroner, and he wasn't the type of man I could manipulate.