BELL

The shot caught me in my shoulder, a thousand volts of fuck-me-up causing my body to seize, everything shaking, my collision with the floor one that I saw coming but could do absolutely nothing to stop. God, the impact hurt, the pain muted by the greater wrath of the Taser.

I had grabbed an electric fence at the barn once. It had left me disoriented, the pain more of an uncomfortable buzz, one that shattered your teeth and stole your breath. This was entirely different.

Snot ran from my nose, my heart galloped in my chest and every muscle seemed to cramp at one time. I heard a loud knocking sound and realized it was my head banging against the tile, my feet flopping into the edge of the tub, everything chattering inside my skin in the most uncomfortable manner possible.

The Realtor bitch approached, fuzzy through my tears, her blonde hair cascading down, and she had something in her hand.

I was helpless, unable to fight, unable to think, unable to do anything but watch through blurry eyes as a sharp pain jabbed into my bare thigh.

She stabbed me. The thought came and then, pleasantly enough, I had no thoughts at all.

DARIO

The back door, the one the Realtor had let him out through, was locked. He pulled at the handle, one that had a keypad on the dial, and cursed the security system that had brought him here to begin with. She should have taken him through one of the sliding doors, those giant masterpieces that had set someone back a fortune. He could have left it open and be jogging up the stairs to the second floor right now. But between the FBI’s number showing up on the screen, and the heat from outside, he’d stepped out and pulled the door firmly to, wanting privacy for the call. Now, he was stuck out here like an idiot.

He cupped his hands and peered in, banging on the glass with his fist. Shielding the glare with his palm, he looked over the great room and kitchen. No sign of them. They were probably still down that stone hall, still in the master suite. He stepped back, to his place by the pool and squinted up at the windows to the master suite, hoping to see one of them cross. Nothing. Unease began to set in. Unlocking his phone, he called Bell’s, growling in frustration when the voicemail picked right up. Thumbing through his contacts, he tried the agent. Same result. Fuck.

They’d have to come out of there eventually. Pass through the living room. Look at the kitchen before crossing to the other side of the house. He returned to the door and leaned against the glass, taking another visual tour of the space. Any minute.

A minute passed. Then two. He pounded on the glass again. Yelled out loud like a lunatic. Finally, he gave up on the back doors and stepped off the back deck, trudging across the manicured grass and through a planter, moving purposely toward the side of the house. Screw it. He’d go around front.

He was stopped by the wall. Ten feet high and covered in ivy, designed to keep intruders out. Another security selling point, one the sales brochure had gushed over and he now vehemently hated. He was rolling up his sleeves, examining the brick obstacle with the practiced eye of an athlete, when he heard the engine.

He stilled, holding his breath and listened, trying to decipher the sounds. It wasn’t a lawnmower. Too powerful for that. There was the pop of a clutch and his irritation bloomed into worry. He knew that sound. Every boy in Louisiana knew the sound of a four-wheeler popped into gear. There was the clatter of a garage door opening, the roll of hinges and metal, and his worry manifested into fear.

There was no good reason for a four-wheeler to be started right now, not unless Mrs. Fucking Realtor planned on a desert tour, and she wouldn’t have done that without getting him. Something was wrong. He backed up and screamed Bell’s name. Ran forward, his dress shoes slipping on the damp grass and hurtled himself at the wall. He grappled with vines and slick soles and made it halfway up before falling. The engine revved, moving, and he screamed her name again, scrambling to his feet and back at the wall, his nails digging into stone, his muscles bunching, pulling, working him up the solid face. He got one hand to the top, finding the iron spikes that helped, giving him a handle. His forearms flexed and he hoisted himself to his waist, getting his first clear view of the front yard.

An open garage door.

The realtor’s minivan, still parked at an angle.

The Lambo, still in place.

The drone of the four-wheeler grew faint.

He pulled himself over, the spikes of the wall catching on and ripping his shirt. He fell down the face of the ivy, hitting the ground, his knee screaming in protest.

Everything was still. Everything looked normal.

Except, of course, everything wasn’t.

THE REALTOR

One of her first lessons was from Tanaka Kangara. They’d grown up together. Like sisters, only Tanaka was black, and she was white, and they were only two months apart in age. Both with moms who didn’t care enough, both with dads they didn’t know. Both liked Jerry Springer after school, hidden under the bench in Lorna Pulley’s sewing shop. Ms. Lorna worked her embroidery machine and ignored them, her ridiculously long legs stretched out, inches from their faces as she pressed down on the pedal, the needles whirring to action above them.

In middle school, they’d been allies, their arms linked in stubborn support as they’d negotiated through the crowded hallways of Vegas’s worst school system. In high school, they’d all but abandoned their mothers, staying out late, dating older men, and scheming over their futures, ones out of the projects and closer to the glam of the Vegas Strip.

Tanaka had tutored her through her struggles with algebra. She’d taught her how to create the perfect smoky eye. She’d taught her how to flirt, how to lie smoother than butter and how to distract a mark from deception. And Tanaka had taught her, when she was begging for her life, how not to die.

And Robert Hawk, in killing Tanaka, had shown her how to truly rip someone’s heart out. You could only hurt someone so much with pain. You could kill them slowly, kill every bit of humanity and happiness in their soul, when you took away the ones they love. When you killed the ones they loved. It was a lesson she had never forgotten, and one she would use on Bell and Dario.

The four-wheeler climbed up the berm easily, moving in between the thick trees, branching occasionally slapping against her chest. Before them, the sounds of the highway increased. She heard a shout, and didn’t look back, increasing her speed, the excitement burning through her chest.

Mounting the berm, the ATV wove through the tree line and reached the highway. She released the throttle and it rolled to a stop next to her SUV. Reaching into her pocket, she pressed the button on the fob and popped open the rear hatch. She crouched beside the back rack and carefully maneuvered Bell Hartley’s limp body over her shoulder. Using her legs, she straightened, carrying her, fireman-style, to the back of the SUV and unloading her into the back of it. Closing the trunk, she abandoned the ATV and stepped into the vehicle.

Thirty seconds later, they were on the road and heading to the warehouse.

DARIO

She was his world. If something happened, if she was harmed … his chest constricted at the possibilities. He jabbed at the screen of his phone, calling 9-1-1 and staring up at the berm, the tracks from the ATV fresh on the grass. Fuck these rich prick rentals with their house full of toys. And fuck him for driving the Lambo. That car would go ten feet across grass and get stuck. He listened to the phone ring and jerked at the minivan handle, the car locked, a useless option anyway.

The emergency operator answered, and he barked out the situation.

His mind warred between storming up the berm, chasing the ATV tracks, and breaking down the front door to see if Bell was inside. She might be there, hurt, scared, needing him.

The other possibility made his eyes close, his face muscles tensing as he fought for control. She could be in there, dead. Whoever this bitch was, whatever had just happened, he had to fix this. He had to fix everything and he couldn’t even fucking decide which path to take. The berm or the house. He looked back and forth and spat out directions to the operator, ordering a roadblock on the highway, something that would probably happen ten minutes too late. If she had a vehicle there, hidden in the trees, just off the interstate… she could be inside it by now. She could be driving away and laughing, with Bell’s blood on her hands.

The image had him striding to the front door, the handle locked, his foot lifting and stomping at the jam. It took three kicks and the wood splintered. Another two and he was inside, his breath coming in spurts, his fear almost crushing in its intensity.

Dread hit when he heard the silence in the home. No screams of pain, no calls for help. If she was here... If she wasn’t here, he was wasting time and risking her life. He forced his feet to move, his voice to work, his call of her name wobbly and weak. He pushed through the arched doorway and ran down the hall and into the master bedroom.

He stopped short, the room pristine, his gaze scanning over everything in an instance. He moved to the bathroom, pushing open the door, almost paralyzed with the thought of what might lay behind it.

She was his everything. His heart. His soul. His future. His life.

He stepped inside and saw her sandal, lying on its side, alone on a stretch of empty white tile. No. No. No. Not again.