Page 70 of The Vigilante's Lover

I listen to the soft hiss of the shower in the bathroom as I dress.

In my mind I picture the rivulets of water cascading down Mia’s body, caressing each curve as my own fingers have often done so recently.

For a moment I envy them. They are ephemeral, however, a fleeting touch on her skin. Perhaps they should be jealous of me.

I sit on the edge of the bed and pull out the Identipad. Mia’s record is easy to recall from the cache without pinging a Vigilante server. It still tells me nothing more than it did that first night. Just a name.

I let my idle gaze wander the room as I think about how to find out more, and I spot the black onyx ring sitting on the nightstand. I pick it up and turn it in my fingers. Inside the band are the initials we found last night. KHS.

I decide to risk a connection and pull up the Vigilante network on the Identipad after bouncing the signal through as many anonymizer nodes as I can find. It won’t stop someone if they’re looking, but it will slow them down. Then I let the Identipad scan the ring, and I start digging.

Currently the ring has only a special’s ID attached to it, which means there is no way of getting a name for the current owner. The initials are a dead end, but a query into the history gets some hits. It’s old, dating back to the founding of the Vigilantes during World War II.

But still no names. I idly flip through early records and stop on a grainy black-and-white photo of several early Vigilantes.

They’re posing in front of what looks like the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C.

The man on the far left has one arm around his neighbor, and the other clutching his suit.

Prominent on his right hand is a large black ring.

I check the names. The man on the right is Mr. Prescott Adams. I pull up his information and scan through photos.

There’s no doubt. The black ring is his. But whose initials are inside the ring? They aren’t his.

I type in his name in the network. He’s a special, which isn’t surprising since the ring is tagged as belonging to one. I glance at the identification number and blink, looking at it again.

000001.

He’s the first Vigilante. The first special.

But his ID is not the one connected to the ring now.

My heart speeds up. I have a hunch. A crazy, wild, unbelievable hunch.

I pull up recent records from the St. Louis silo and skim the information. Somewhere among all the alerts surrounding me is what I’m looking for.

I suck in a breath when I find it. A number. The ID number of the only special who entered the silo on the same day I did.

Mia.

I cross-reference that number with the one currently tied to the ring.

It’s a match.

I’m dumbfounded. No wonder they protect her. No wonder she has the key to everything.

She’s a Vigilante. And not from just any Vigilante family.

The very first one.

My head buzzes. This explains so many things. The safe house. Her aunt. Her parents, and the gun on the boat. And all the wiped records surrounding them.

But how do I tell her?

A noise from beyond the closed door pulls me from my thoughts. I check the time. Too early for the bartender to show up, and any other staff would have announced themselves.

Not good. I scout the room for defendable positions and weapons. No telling where the gun is. Somewhere on the floor, under the bed. Out of reach. I grab the rope we used last night. I can work with this.

I jump from the bed as the bedroom door swings open on silent hinges. Two men fill the doorway, one standing and one crouched low, dart throwers in their hands. I catch a glimpse of a woman behind them.

No mistaking Vigilantes.

“Please don’t,” says the standing man, motioning at the rope in my hands. “We really don’t want to involve Ms. Morrow.”

I look at the bathroom door. The shower is still running.

“She’s fine. And alone,” says the woman from behind the two men. “But we are not.” The implication is clear. The building is surrounded. And I’m trapped.

For the moment.

I sit back down on the bed. The rope and ring are still in my hands. I need to stall long enough to come up with a plan. “I expected you sooner.”

The woman looks bemused and tosses me a shirt. I guess I’m leaving in my pajama pants. “We didn’t want to interrupt your romantic interactions,” she says.

The crouching man snickers, and she nudges him into silence.

“And that’s why you haven’t shot me yet, despite the standing kill order.”

She nods. “Our orders were to take you away from the special first. We’ll take care of the messy parts soon enough.”

“I’m sure you don’t want your lady in danger,” the crouching man says.

If they are even entertaining the idea of involving her, then they have no clue how special Mia really is. I do not doubt the hell they would go through if any harm befell her. Accidents happen, however. And with Sutherland calling the shots, a cover-up would be a certainty.

A sick feeling forms in my belly. The longer I stall, the greater the chance she gets hurt.

Or worse.

I can’t risk it. But I can’t just vanish on her.

“Very well,” I say. “I will go with you. On one condition.” The woman raises her eyebrows but says nothing, waiting. I start tying a simple knot around the ring. “Mia’s gotten wrapped up in this circus surrounding me. I must know she will be safe and protected once I’m out of the picture.”

“She’s a special, of course she will be,” says the woman.

“Not good enough. You know her house was blown up. That wasn’t just about me.”

The woman’s eyes harden for a second, as if she thinks I’m accusing her of something. But just as quickly, they soften.

“I saw the report,” she says. “No one is supposed to harm the special, but some people took matters into their own hands.” She snorts. “The official cause is ‘undetermined.’” Her expression makes clear that she knows it’s a cover-up.

“So you see my concern,” I say.

“Killing her is not part of our job today,” the woman says. “Now, move.”

The shower shuts off. I glance at the bathroom door, then back to the woman. She watches me, then gives me a small smile. “Time to go,” she mouths silently. She kicks my shoes at me.

I think about going into a full-scale battle. Fight them off to the last minute. My fists tighten. Even if they dart-gun me, I’ll have several minutes to do damage.

But if Mia comes out, she could get caught in the crossfire.

Crouching man seems to know what I’m thinking. He heads over to the window and pulls back the curtain.

There’s a window washer there with his wide metal shelf. He waves at me, then opens his jacket. A normal gun, metallic blue, like Klaus’s.

They’ll shoot me on site, then. And Mia would have to come out and find the mess. I don’t want that.

I shove my shoes on my feet and walk to the door. The two men stand aside, weapons at the ready, but I keep my stance open and nonthreatening. They fall in behind me as the woman leads us out. I resist the urge to look back. It wouldn’t do any good.

At least my last memories of Mia will be happy.