13
CLARK
The day after his fight with Jackson—which Clark knew he’d totally won—he was in New Orleans, a shitty place, in Clark’s opinion. Drunks everywhere. Tourists everywhere. It smelled like stale beer and vomit.
And that was just the airport.
He checked in at the Ritz—because why the hell not?—and made a phone call.
“Slattery, what the hell are you doing?”
“Good to talk to you, too, Alessio.”
“You are asking for trouble,” Alessio growled, his Italian accent thick despite years on American soil. “Mama will not allow you to leave the city if she finds out you are here.”
“I know. I want to bargain with her.”
“What are you talking about? What bargain?”
“I want a meeting. Tonight. Can you help me?”
Alessio sighed. “All right. It is, as they say, your funeral. I will be in touch.”
Clark stripped off his shirt and lay flat on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He folded his arms behind his head. Each day China had been gone had felt like an eternity.
How had it come to this? For supposedly such a heartless badass, a little girl with a ponytail and glasses forever sliding down her nose had been what brought him to his knees. Clark Slattery had fallen in love.
It eased his mind to dwell on her, so he closed his eyes and brought her image into focus. The morning after they’d first made love was a favorite. Her hair had been deliciously tousled over her pale shoulders, her lips pink and swollen from his kisses. Without being hidden behind the clear lenses of her glasses, her eyes were a clear blue and focused intently on his face.
For someone who maintained that she had difficulty reading others, she had little trouble reading him, it seemed. Except his selfishness. That was something she was blind to. Considering she was the most unselfish person he’d ever known, it wasn’t surprising that what she didn’t possess in her own soul, she also couldn’t see in others.
And he had been selfish. He could see it now, though he hadn’t been able to before. Now that he’d decided on his course, he could be honest. China made him feel like he’d finally won something. That all the shit he’d done and been through had been worth it. From starting out as one of the “good guys,” to turning into one of the worst kind, and finally into one of moral ambivalence. He wanted to believe that since he’d known her, he’d found the right path again. One his mother would have been proud of. China had done that. She’d made him want to be a better man, someone worthy of winning her. The one thing he hadn’t considered was whether or not he could make her happy.
China was young. She had her whole life ahead of her. Clark felt as though he was twice his age.
He’d seen a lot of men in battle—some behaved courageously. Others did not. It was always so easy to talk big about how you’d do things . . . until suddenly bullets were flying, and the guy next to you gets ripped in half by a grenade. That’s when shit got real. China had gone through more shit than some soldiers he’d known. She was brave and smart, and she didn’t let anyone push her around. Not even him.
Clark had been with a lot of women, most of whose names he hadn’t bothered to learn. His mother died. His brother died, then ended up worse than dead—he ended up a murderous lunatic. People he’d been charged with protecting had died under his watch. Everything he touched was tinged with death. And he was tired. Just so damn tired.
There was only one thing he could do—and he did it well. That was delivering death to someone’s door. So that is what he would do.
His cell buzzed. He put it to his ear without looking at the screen.
“Yeah.”
“She will meet with you, tonight, midnight. The usual place. Do not be late.”
“Got it.” He ended the call.
The “usual place” was the second floor above a tavern off Bourbon Street. The walls and floors had to be reinforced, Clark thought, because the noise from the reveling crowd in the bar diminished appreciably as he climbed the stairs. Not the smell though. Smoke and liquor, tinged with sweat and desperation. The smell lingered.
Men with guns greeted him, though “greet” was stretching it. Since he was expected, he was relieved of his weapons and taken into the parlor. Mama was waiting.
“Mama” was an age-indeterminate, heavyset black woman. She’d ruled her “family” with an iron fist for the better part of four decades. Her hair was thick and white as snow. You might be fooled into thinking she was the warm grandma type, with cookies in the oven and sweet tea in the fridge. But when you got close enough to look into her eyes, you’d realize your mistake.
Mama was harsh but fair when one of hers got outta line. She owned the majority of the brothels in New Orleans and sold illegal firearms on the side. A few had attempted to overthrow her over the years. None had lived to regret it.
Clark sat down on the hunter-green velvet chaise stuffed with horsehair. The furniture in the parlor was all antiques, and just as uncomfortable. Mama regarded him from her overstuffed chair, which looked a great deal more comfortable than his. The light was dim and reminded him of gas-lamp light, though the chandelier above their heads was electric.
When she spoke, Mama had a thick accent that was part Creole, part swamp, and part her own. Her voice was higher than you’d assume it would be.
“Clark,” she said, “it’s been a while. Why you comin’ ta town? Ah warned you abou’ that.” She spoke softly, as though gently chastising him, rather than the death threat it actually was.
“Hi, Mama. I’m here because I need your help.”
“Now why yous thinkin’ ah be helpin’ with some o’ your business?”
Clark settled back against the chaise, resting one ankle on the opposite knee. “As a trade. You help me. Once my business is through, I’m yours.”
Her sharp eyes narrowed. “Mama don’ grant mercy twice, boy.”
“I know.”
There was silence for a moment, and Clark didn’t look away from her penetrating gaze.
“Who is she?” Mama asked.
Clark’s eyes widened fractionally. “Excuse me?”
Mama waved one meaty hand, calloused and rough from the years she spoke to no one about. “Mama’s nobody’s fool, boy. You only do sum’tin like this for love of a woman. Who is she?”
He hesitated. “Her name is China,” he said. “She’s in the city. I need to find her.” He’d hoped he could leave his personal feelings aside and portray this as just another job. But Mama had seen through him immediately.
Clark reached into his jacket, slowly because he didn’t want some trigger-happy lackey to use him for target practice. He withdrew a photo and handed it to Mama.
It was a shot of China, complete with ponytail and glasses, her eyes rolled heavenward. Seeing it sent a pang through him. He’d insisted on taking her picture one time while they were at her favorite Chinese place. The evening sunlight had been shining through the window, giving her an almost golden glow.
She’d been carefully cutting her beef-and-broccoli into bite sizes and pairing them off so she could have “one of each in every bite.” She’d been left with a surplus of broccoli, which had stymied her until Clark had reached over with his chopsticks, grabbed the offending broccoli, and stuffed it in his mouth.
Her smile had made him feel as though that warm, golden glow of sunshine was bathing him instead of her, and he’d snapped a photo as she’d rolled her eyes in protest.
“She’s not your usual type,” Mama commented.
“She’s different. Height about five two, weighs about one ten. She’ll have arrived in the city in the last couple of weeks. She won’t be in a hotel. Most likely a cheap Airbnb or VRBO. It’s likely she’ll have ordered consistently on Mondays from a pizza place, and Thursdays from a Chinese joint.”
“Why is she runnin’ from you?”
“She’s not running from me,” Clark corrected. “I just need to find her. Will you help or not?” His patience was at an end. There was a gnawing in his gut that wouldn’t ease until he knew where China was.
Mama nodded. “Yas, I be helpin’ you. But when your business is done . . . you’re mine. We clear?”
It was amazing how easy it was to sign your soul over to the devil when it was for someone you loved. “Crystal,” he replied.
She nodded in satisfaction, lifting her arm to beckon Dax—her right-hand man. “Then we shall begin.”
It didn’t take long for Mama’s Minions (Clark was particularly amused by his own cleverness with that one) to find China. An unsigned note was dropped off at his hotel after five days.
2480 NE Dauphine, #5
The knot in his gut loosened. They’d found her.
He waited until it was fully dark before going, which had cost him all he’d ever learned in the field about patience. He parked two streets away and made his way back. Dark jeans and a black T-shirt was enough for the shadows to envelop him. His weapon was tucked into the back of his jeans. Never leave home without it.
This was what he was used to. This was what he was good at. The hunt. His muscles were loose and ready, his senses taking in everything around. The dog barking a block down. The couple arguing in the driveway across the street. Sirens to the south and heading east.
The streetlights were laughable. The ones that worked were few and far between. The street was narrow, tiny alleys like capillaries running to a vein branched off between the buildings. Though the sun had gone down, the heat still lay like an oppressive, moist blanket. Taking a deep breath felt as though breathing through cotton.
Number five was lit from the inside. Clark saw movement and froze, his breath catching in his chest.
There she was, sitting in front of the artificial glow of a computer monitor. Her silky, thick hair pulled back in the ponytail that Clark was forever wanting to tug, as though the perpetual eight-year-old boy inside just couldn’t resist the temptation.
The dull ache he’d felt since she’d walked out the door of that hotel room burst into a searing pain. And it scared him, which was even worse. Because if he was scared he’d lose her, then he’d fuck it up. She could get hurt. He had to face the fact that he’d already lost her. Jackson would be the last man standing, and that was okay. He could live with that.
Or not.
Ha. Morbid humor. A sure sign he was Not Right, as his mother would say. But you had to be Not Right to do this job. He’d stopped being normal a long time ago. For a while, he thought maybe he’d found his way back, in the arms of a girl who refused to eat fish because “they swim in their own waste,” and for whom calling Harry Potter “kids’ books” was a mortal sin.
Clark didn’t know how long he crouched there, under the window, watching her. She didn’t move from that spot. Occasionally, she’d take a drink of the Red Bull at her elbow, but her eyes were glued to the screen as she typed.
His knees grew cramped, but he stayed. Just being near her soothed him. She was probably—no, definitely—the last person since his mother who’d looked at him and seen something inside to love. There was a gift in that.
She rose after a while, arching her back and stretching. Clark’s avid gaze traced the soft curve of her shoulder, to the swell of her breasts under the thin camisole she wore. She wasn’t wearing pants, just a pair of tiny white-lace panties. They were the kind that cut up so high in the back, Clark wondered how it didn’t drive her nuts. But at the moment, her curved ass lovingly traced by the white line of the panties made his cock twitch.
Yeah, this wasn’t perverted or anything, he thought, and yet . . . He still watched as she bent and logged off the computer, his mouth going dry at the sight. He was hard as a rock inside his jeans, and it was only by sheer will that he didn’t rub himself. There had to be a line somewhere, though he thought he’d probably already crossed it.
Watching her take down her ponytail and run her fingers through that thick, luscious hair was almost a religious experience. As usual, China had no idea how sexy she was. Her appeal was effortless, not based in any kind of artifice. She just . . . was.
Suddenly, her head came up, as if she’d heard something. Clark stopped breathing, but she wasn’t looking his way. She was looking out the back.
Might as well make himself useful, other than being inches from jacking off outside her window, or worse, coming in his pants like a preteen boy.
Clark made his way soundlessly around the building, picking his way through the narrow alley until he emerged from the other side. He took a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness that was thicker there.
A rustle in the darkness. Muted whispers. Movement by the back door.
Cold fury raged in his veins. This was what you got, Mack, for choosing a shitty part of town. He moved fast and silent. Two men at the back, one standing watch while the other worked at the lock on the door. The one keeping watch never saw him coming. A blow with the butt of his gun to the back of the head, and he went down like a rock.
His partner swung a startled gaze as Clark grabbed on to the iron railing of the back porch and vaulted over it, landing directly behind the would-be intruder.
“Whatcha doin’ there, dickhead?”
Clark’s cold smile froze the guy for a second, then he clumsily swung a knife. Clark evaded easily, the jab so slow he could’ve yawned first. In the next breath, he had the knife and it was pressed to the guy’s neck, right under his ear.
“You have no idea how much I’d love to slit your throat,” Clark hissed. “But it would leave a stain. So I’ll give you and your buddy one shot to get out of here, and don’t come back. If I see your face again, I’ll cut it off and wear it for Mardi Gras. Understand?”
The guy’s eyes were white with terror. “Yeah,” he managed to gasp. “I got it.”
Clark stepped back, and watched. They always tried to get a jab in, thinking they’d just been caught off guard. He wasn’t wrong.
The douchebag turned like he was going to walk down the three concrete stairs, then jerked around, swinging a fist . . . and met Clark’s full force with his nose. Cartilage crunched and blood spurted. He opened his mouth to yell . . . and found Clark’s hand cutting off his air supply.
“Make so much as a whimper, you whiny piece of shit,” he growled, “and I’ll cut out your vocal cords.”
A jerky nod, then Clark hurled him down the steps, hearing a grunt as the wind was knocked out of him. Then he gathered his partner, who was just now stirring in the bushes, and they beat a hasty retreat. Clark pocketed both his gun and the knife. He glanced back inside the windows.
Whatever China had heard, she’d dismissed. The lights were all off save for the sole one in the tiny kitchen above the stove. He could see the shadow of her body as she climbed into bed and pulled the covers up “just so,” as she said. He wondered if she’d had her tea and Newtons, those fucking shitty cookies he kept buying even though she wasn’t there to eat them anymore.
All was quiet. He stood outside the door, leaning forward and resting his forehead on the frame. His fingers lightly grazed the handle. So close . . .
But wishing and hoping were for fools, and he liked to think that trait wasn’t a part of his résumé.
He climbed off the porch and rounded the house to where the air-conditioning unit was. It only took a moment to disable a vital part. He knew China, and she didn’t like the heat. She’d call for a repairman, and that’s when he’d get some listening devices and cameras in the house. She’d said she was going to lure in Danvers. That was just fine, because Clark would be waiting.