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SCARLET

“ W hat on Earth?” Miss Sherry jumps from her seat when I burst into the foyer of La Maison Rouge . “What happened to you ? Were you in an accident?”

I slam the door shut behind me and run past her. “I’m okay, Miss Sherry. Go back to doing… Whatever you were doing.”

“Miss Holland!” she calls after me, but I’m already halfway up the stairs.

“I’m okay,” I repeat. Except I’m not. “Shit.”

With a shaky hand, I unlock my door and slip into the dark suite, closing it quietly behind me. It takes me a few moments to catch my breath. I stand there, peering into the silent room, scanning every shadowy corner for anything suspicious, listening intently for any foreign sound inside or out.

When I’m finally sure I wasn’t followed, that I’m not going to be ambushed, I flick the light switch. The lamp on the nightstand turns on.

I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror hanging over the dresser and have to stifle a gasp. No wonder Miss Sherry thought something had happened to me, I’m a mess! My hair is disheveled, eye makeup is running down my face, and the black mesh of my turtle is neck torn in several spots.

Taking a step to get a better look, I grimace. Gunn really did a number on me. I touch a tender spot on my cheek and wince. A cough escapes me, and the fire I feel in my windpipe reminds me of exactly how far I allowed him to go.

I hook the turtleneck with my finger and tug it down and yikes. If Miss Sherry had seen the bruises on my neck, she’d have called the cops. As it is, I’m not sure she won’t.

“Fucking, Dimples,” I say. He came much too close to killing me.

The question is, what stopped him? Because I’m certain leaving me alive wasn’t a mistake. People like us make sure our targets are deader than dead when we walk away. That means something interrupted him. But what?

Another cough has me searching for a bottle of water in the mini fridge. I take a painful drink as I pull my cell out and search for the number to Maisie’s burner phone. It’ll be the last time I’ll risk using it.

Me : Did you tell anyone where I am?

It’s the fucking middle of the night, so I don’t expect an instant reply. But it comes anyway in the form of a call.

“What’s happened?” she asks in a groggy whisper.

“Did you tell anyone where I am?”

“Of course not. Why? Wait, what’s wrong with your voice?”

“I had a visitor.” I swallow as I gently touch my neck. “Tried to kill me.”

“Who?”

I don’t reply to her question. Instead, I ask again, “Are you sure it didn’t slip out at any time where I am?”

“Scar, I don’t talk to anyone about you. Not even to my sister. Trust me, I haven’t said a word.”

“What about your phone? Have you had it with you the entire time like I told you?” The line goes silent. “Maisie?”

“I lost it for a few days,” she confesses. “But I found it under my bed and it was fine.”

It’s as if a bucket of ice water has been poured over my head. Even my burning throat gets a good dose of cold. If her phone was missing for days, it was probably not under her bed. It was most likely in the hands of Arran Maxton. Which in turn would mean…

“Oh my God. They know.”

“Who?”

“The alliance. They know where I am.” I take a step back as my gaze flies to the window. Could they be watching me even now?

Maisie remains quiet for a bit. When she speaks again, her voice is small and full of regret. “Did I do something wrong?”

I cup my hand over my mouth to keep from yelling at her. To keep from screaming that yes, she did something very wrong and it could well cost me my life.

After a breath, I say, “You were supposed to dispose of the phone if anything like this ever happened.”

“Then I wouldn’t be able to talk to you.”

My jaw works so hard I swear a tooth chips, but I manage to refrain from saying something that will push away one of the few people that mean something to me.

“Scar,” she says. “I screwed up.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, kid.” I drop my head and stare at my feet. “We knew this was risky. That’s why I gave you a burner phone. But I’m afraid it may have been compromised.” Fuck, Luca Sinacore and his men could possibly be listening to her conversation right now.

“What do we do?” There’s a hint of desperation in her voice, probably because she knows exactly what I’ll say.

“Smash your phone.”

“What? No!” she whisper-cries. “We won’t be able to talk.”

“We will. I’ll find a way, just like I did before.”

There’s silence and the sound of something like a sniffle. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

It takes me several minutes of pacing as I rehearse a truth so twisted it might be believable before I can bring myself to text Gideon.

Me : 786 Mission aborted. Location compromised

I’ve barely hit send when the song Purple Rain blares from my phone.

“Fuck.” I stare at the word Giddy on my screen, the nickname Maisie gave Gideon just to annoy him.

I didn’t want to talk to him. It’s a lot easier to tell half-truths in a text.

“What the fuck happened?” he says the instant I accept the call.

“I had to abort the mission.” Truth.

“Why?”

“I was followed.” Also true.

“By who?”

“Luca Sinacore’s right hand, Gunn Sinclair.” Accurate.

“The Sinacores are in New Orleans?”

“It would appear so.”

Silence. Then, “How did he know where you were?”

“That’s a good question. Does your brother know where I am?” Proactive deflection.

“No.”

“Are you sure?” I push to get that seed of doubt in Rowan Kane nice and planted. I mean, it could be true. Blood does not always equal loyalty. He barely even knows the guy.

The quiet tells me it’s working. “What happened?” he asks after a moment.

“Gunn spotted me on Bourbon Street.”

“Near the target?”

“No.” Sort of. Depends on who you ask. Everything in the Quarter is close, so near is relative. A few blocks can be considered far. “I took him in the opposite direction.”

“You managed to lose him?”

“Yes.” Definitely true. Once I blacked out, I lost sight everything.

There’s a scratching sound, and I imagine he’s rubbing the scruff on his chin. “Finish the job tonight, before Sinclair sounds the alarm. They should still be expecting you.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be on the road home before sunrise,” I assure him.

“No. You’ll have a second job now. Another target.”

“Who?” I ask even though I already know the answer.

“Gunn Sinclair.”