Chapter 9
Vincent’s phone rang as he was checking their six, making sure no one was following them out of town. “Benton, it’s about time you called me back. Is everyone else safe? No one is answering their phones.”
“We’re fine. Well, Gilroy got hit on the arm. A graze. He’s mad as hell on an ambulance heading to the nearest hospital, wherever that is. Deming? Do you know where they took Gilroy?”
Vincent frowned, thinking of all the other personnel that had been left in the building. “Anyone else hurt? I got as many out as I could, but then the shooting started, and I thought I was of better use on the roof, using a scope.”
“We got one dead, an assistant deputy, shot through drywall. Crap luck. A few other minor injuries. Where are you?”
“On the Kangamangus highway. Want to meet up?” Vincent glanced at Avery, and didn’t like the look of rebellion on her face. He suspected she was planning a coup.
“It’s not safe. Hole up somewhere,” Benton said.
“That was my thought.”
“At least for a few hours and I’ll call you when I’m ready for you. Coppola’s men have scattered, or are either dead, or in critical condition, heading to the hospital under guard, but I have one guy alive. Says his name is Pinnella.”
“We saw two more of Coppola’s cars drive into town as we were driving out.” Vincent felt no guilt about omitting that he’d been kissing Avery as he’d witnessed their arrival, nor did he regret the kissing. The woman revved his engines like no one had ever done before, and he wanted to kiss her again, preferably under more auspicious circumstances.
“Our agents are giving chase,” Benton said. “We’ll get them all, but until we do, we have Pinnella. I’ll call with an update after we interrogate him. You, make use of this time to make her give up the files, Modena. Make all this worth it.” Benton hung up.
Tall order. Vincent stared at the phone, frustrated, because he knew there was little in life that made senseless violence worth it. A man died today at the hands of a brutal killer, because another man wanted Avery dead. There was no making that balance out. He pointed ahead. “Take this turn.”
He led Avery down roads simply to prevent being followed. Back-tracking, turning left when they should turn right, it took longer to arrive than necessary. His late grandparents’ cabin was his “bug out” hiding place, deep in the woods, not even on the Feds’ radar. He wanted to keep it that way. He’d almost told his ex-wife about it, but she was a city girl, so it never came up. It felt weird bringing anyone here, but Coppola’s men were looking for her, and once word got out, every reporter looking for a scoop.
When the pavement turned into dirt road, and he knew the cabin was up ahead, Vincent felt his body release tension. Maybe it was the woods, its solitude, whatever, he needed this place now, and a glanced told him Avery felt it, too. Going into hiding with a hot, sexy, kickass woman wasn’t all that shabby, either. Just thinking about the mischief they could get into had his smile widening, pulling on his nose. He winced, sniffed ineffectually, and had to blink through the pain.
“You broke my nose,” he said.
“Yup.”
He arched a brow, glancing at her. Eyes fixed on the road, she seemed without regrets. He wondered how much of her attitude was bluster, because she was pale and seemed exhausted. It made him glad they were heading to the cabin. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it had an outhouse in the back and a water pump in the front. Plenty comfortable for their needs.
“A half mile more,” he said, “there’ll be an unmarked private drive on the left. I’ll point it out when we’re closer.” Soon, he was pointing. “There,” he said. “Take this turn.”
Pine, maple, and beech trees lined the private dirt drive, and dense, overgrown wild grass slashed at the Audi’s paint job as she barely slowed the car, despite the uneven surface. They arrived within minutes, and then Avery parked in front of the one room, cedar shake cabin. When she turned the engine off, she rested her forehead on the steering wheel, eyes shut, the image of dejection. Vincent felt bad for her, and didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t pretend everything would be okay, because he honestly didn’t know if it would. She’d agreed to help. That was something, but a lot about their circumstances depended on things beyond their control; Coppola’s reaction to his men’s failure to kill Avery today, the status of their RICO case, and any backlash over what happened at the sheriff’s office. These were variables neither he nor Avery could control, but they were effected by them. They’d just have to wait and see how things shook out.
Avery lifted her head, blinked a few times, and then was out of the car, looking around. He got out, too, and joined her. She didn’t seem all that impressed with his grandparents’ cabin, and soon shifted her attention to the back seat’s cache of weapons. By the time she was done arming up, both her boots, her belt, and her waist had knife sheaths in place. She’d done it quickly, and efficiently, making him suspect he’d just witnessed her ritual. Which begged the question, why was a pampered mob wife turned waitress so versed in knives?
Nothing in her file suggested Avery was trained, but he was convinced it was true. He’d fought her on the ground. He’d seen her skills at the diner, and then later, at the federal building, she’d handled a gun like a pro. No, not a pro, because a professional killer—a murderer—wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot him in the car when she’d wanted him gone. So, she was trained, but for defense. He supposed it made sense. Though daughters and ex-wives of syndicate bosses didn’t usually need to see to their own defense, Avery’s family had been massacred. That meant she wasn’t like the rest.
He found it interesting that she preferred knives. They were messy, up close bloody. Vincent was a gun man, and this back seat treasure trove was like Christmas. He rubbed his hands together, wondering what goodies he’d find. “Will you look at this baby?” he said, picking up a small Smith & Wesson revolver from the pile. It even had a strappy ankle sheath. Vincent checked its cylinder, saw it was loaded, then strapped the sheath on his calf, just above his hiking boot. The revolver slipped inside snugly. Next, he chose a gorgeous, mouthwatering Ruger semiautomatic handgun. He checked the magazine, the chamber, and then donned its accompanying shoulder holster, before holstering it. His Glock was back at the bank, on the sidewalk, probably logged into evidence by now, so these babies were a welcome sight. He pulled another Ruger from the pile, checked the chamber, the magazine, and then held it out to Avery. “You might like to try this one.” He felt like a teenage boy, sharing his Magic Cards.
Avery dismissed the Ruger with a roll of her eyes, and patted the 9mm Glock already tucked in her waistband. “I like my guns to shoot.” Vincent tucked it into his waistband. Then she indicated the rest of the stash with a tilt of her head. “Is it safe to leaves these here, unattended? Any neighbors?”
“No neighbors. Not for miles. But let’s put everything into the trunk just in case I’m wrong.” Together they transferred the guns, knives, and accessories. It was distracting, because Vincent kept finding beautiful pieces he needed to admire, and Avery kept taking them from his hands and stacking them on top of the others in the trunk.
“How long are we staying?” Avery said.
“Benton will call when he’s ready for us. Your guess is as good as mine.” He picked up an HK semiautomatic handgun. Its serial number had been filed off. Totally illegal. He tossed it on the pile as Avery hauled a duffle bag from the back seat. She dropped it on the ground next to the trunk, at Vincent’s feet, then unzipped it. She pressed her palm to her chest, and gasped. “What?” he said.
Avery pulled out bundled money. “This is at least a hundred thousand dollars,” she said.
He agreed. “Payment? Half upfront, half when the job is complete?”
Avery threw him side eye, as if she thought he was being obtuse. “That’s not how it’s done. This is for incidentals, but wow, this would have come in handy these last few years. Just thinking of what I could have done with this money makes me weepy.” She used her thumb to flip through the bills. She looked like she’d won the lottery.
Back in the day, his wife had always been a big fan of telling him he didn’t make enough money. That was before, when he was a grunt in the Army. Now, he suspected she’d have no complaints with his income. “What?” He frowned at the bag. “You want expensive clothes, or a fancy car? There is more to life than things.”
She snorted, but kept her eyes on the money. “Food is “things.” Braces for Millie is “things.” Paying the gas bill. Is that “things?” Yeah, I want “things.” She zipped the bag up again and threw it in the trunk. “It’s blood money.”
“You don’t spend money with bad juju?”
She looked at him as if he were crazy. “That money doesn’t care if it’s used to finance my death, or my sister’s dentist. That money doesn’t care at all, but I care. Finders keepers, that’s what I say.”
He almost laughed, but then realized she was dead serious, and it didn’t seem the moment to explain the concept of government asset forfeiture, so he let it slide. That discussion could happen later, when things became…less dicey.
Vincent locked the car and then opened the cabin. There was always a risk of break-ins when you had a cabin in the woods, either by desperate hikers, looters, or kids looking for a place to drink or get laid. It looked much the same as when he’d left it a month ago. Musty, but clean.
Avery didn’t hide her trepidation about entering. He wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but from the look on her face, it wasn’t what she found; a one-room, hardwood-floored studio, outfitted with bed, dinette set, and wood-stove. The cabin had never been intended for anything beyond a hunting lodge, but his grandmother had insisted on a few niceties.
“It’s kinda nice,” she said, sounding surprised.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“We’re safe here. That’s what counts.” Then she pulled her Glock from her waistband. He tensed, only to feel foolish when she lay on the bed, and then rested it on her chest. He wasn’t sure what he should think about assuming Avery was always a heartbeat away from pulling a gun on him. He supposed that episode in the car with her gun to his knee would take some time to move on from. She lay on the bed, ankles crossed, and stared at the knotty pine ceiling as if it might reveal some answers. “I need to think,” she said.
He closed the screen door, and then opened the four windows, hoping to air the cabin out. “This place is good for that. That and hunting.” She grimaced. “What did I say?”
“We’re being hunted, Vincent.”
He thought about that for a moment, and then decided she was splitting hairs. “It’s temporary. We’ll get you to a safehouse—”
“And live happily ever after.” Avery grimaced again. “Cue the canned laughter.”
Vincent pulled the Ruger from his waistband and lay next to her, resting the gun on his chest. “Can you imagine someone stumbling into this cabin right now and catching us like this? Armed to the teeth. They’d think they’d walked into a horror film.”
Avery chuckled, weakly, and then groaned. “They wouldn’t be far from the truth. What’s wrong with us?”
Us? Vincent didn’t marry a monster and runaway with incriminating files. “What do you mean?” He turned his head to the side, admiring her profile. She was…arresting to look at. Not a conventional beauty, by any means, and the bruise on her jaw had swelled and turned blue, challenging even that claim, and there was a definite look about her eyes that always seemed to be saying fuck you without even trying, but he liked her face. Her eyes…so green, with the speckles of gold. Her soft red hair. Yeah. Arresting.
Avery turned her head and met his gaze, causing their breath to intermingle. “Somehow,” she said, “we’ve both made life decisions that resulted in us landing in this bed. Right here, right now, guns on our chest in a remote cabin in North Conway, New Hampshire. It’s insane.” When she put it like that, their situation did sound crazy.
“My wife left me,” he said. “That nudged me here.” He was embarrassed as soon as the words left his mouth, but it was true. Madeline leaving him made his career take an abrupt left turn back to the states. “I had some misguided hope I could win her back.” He looked at the ceiling again. There was something about Avery that prompted him to confess, apparently, because that’s all he seemed to do with her. She kept him off-balance, whether because he wanted to kiss her or protect her, he wasn’t sure, but he was positive he wasn’t thinking straight. “If Madeline had been faithful, I might still be in the Army, maybe dead, but not here.”
“Sniper. You killed for a living.”
“This We’ll Defend.” The sniper motto. He glanced at her, saw her eyes were closed, and thought maybe she was on the verge of nodding off, but then she took a deep breath and opened them again.
“Why did your wife leaving make you discharge from the Army?” she said. “Most people would cling to the familiar.”
“It was time.” It was only later, when he’d gotten therapy for his PTSD that things started making sense.
“And you didn’t win her back.”
“No. She was the one person in the world who I’d thought loved me, supported me, sacrificed with me, and she betrayed me. Even if she’d agreed to try again, the marriage would have failed, because I stopped trusting in people.”
“In your judgment, you mean.”
“Maybe. I’m stronger for the experience.” Now he knew not to trust anyone, so when they didn’t screw him, it was a nice surprise.
She gave a little nod, staring at the ceiling. “I left my husband and he’s been trying to kill me ever since. Trust issues don’t seem like the worst reaction a man could have to divorce.”
He grinned. “Good point. Compared to your psychopathic ex, my damage seems junior varsity.”
She smiled a sad smile. “I understood why Dante did it. I didn’t like it, but I understood.” She opened her mouth, working her jaw with her palm, making him think the bruising and swelling bothered her. “No one likes to be left behind. No one likes to be alone.”
He studied her profile again, and wished she’d look at him, maybe let him kiss her again. As unprofessional as his desire was, it was consuming him. “I’m here with you. You’re not alone.”
She didn’t turn her head toward him, but her smile lost its sadness. “Have you met me? I’m the ex-wife of a crime boss. You should be afraid, not turned on.” Then she did turn her head, and he shared her amusement.
“Stop defining yourself by the worst attribute of your ex-husband. You’re a lot of things, Avery. A lot of things that most people admire. A hardworking waitress. A doting sister. A phenomenal martial artist, sharpshooter, and knife thrower.”
She blushed, looking away. “I’m a horrible cook.”
“That’s what restaurants are for.” He knew he was embarrassing her, but couldn’t stop smiling.
“Can’t do laundry to save my life.”
“I send mine out to be cleaned,” he said.
She glanced at him, and he saw her shyness. It was new. He’d never seen Avery shy. Ever. And he’d been studying her photos and available videos for a year now. She was feeling shy, and it made him feel funny inside, as if her insecurity was now his.
She licked her lips, speaking barely above a whisper. “I can drive most anything that has an engine, though.”
“That’s impressive,” he whispered back. “I can’t wait to see you in action.”
“Yeah?” She bit her lower lip, peeking at his eyes, and then looking away quickly.
“I have a friend who owns a Model T, pre-1919. Now that is a hard car to drive.”
Her smile widened, and though she didn’t laugh, she looked as if she were on the precipice of happiness. The sight floored him, and emptied his mind of all but her beauty. “Challenge accepted,” she said.
His gaze dropped to her lips, and try as he might, he couldn’t make them politely look elsewhere. “I want to kiss you.”
She did laugh, then, and put her Glock on the side table before turning on her side, facing him, hand pressed between her cheek and the pillow. “You are such a flirt. How many girlfriends do you juggle back wherever you come from?”
He put his gun on the side table and turned to face her, forcing himself to keep a half foot between their faces, rather than risk her backing away. “Boston. And none. No girlfriends. I work too much to romance anyone.”
“Who are you kidding?” She laughed deep in her throat. “All you have to do is walk in a room, and women swoon. I know. I was one of them.”
“I’m serious. No relationships since my ex-wife tossed me to the curb.”
She lifted her brows. “Gun shy?”
“Guns seems to be the only thing I’m not shy of. All work, no play, until you.” Her expression told him she did not in fact believe him at all, but it was the truth. He propped himself on his elbow. “Now all I can think about is you, Mrs. Coppola.” As soon as that name crossed his lips, he winced, hating that he’d slipped up so badly when her mood had finally lightened.
“Don’t call me that.” A shadow crossed her expression.
“I’m sorry.”
“I divorced him. I started over. I don’t even want that part of him touching me.” She pressed her face into the pillow for a moment. When she’d readjusted her head on the pillow, she’d composed herself, but she looked at him with sadness now.
“It slipped out.” Dante Coppola was twenty years Avery’s senior, at seventeen she must have been very desperate to marry the syndicate boss. “I’m assuming you didn’t know he was behind your family’s massacre.” Otherwise, Vincent couldn’t fathom her decision to marry him, no matter how desperate she’d been.
He saw a flash of temper, but it didn’t leech into her tone. “Remember when I said you don’t know anything? Well, this is one of the things you don’t know.” He thought for a moment that she was going to leave it at that, but instead, she sighed. “Dante had nothing to do with it. It was a coup within the ranks of my father’s people. Dante found out soon after it happened, but didn’t have the power to do much beyond rebuild the businesses by then. The contract killers didn’t like that my father was pulling the syndicate out of illegal activities and going into legitimate business. He was essentially putting them out of a job.”
“Who needs contract killers if you’re not a criminal enterprise?”
Her eyes lost focus, and whatever thoughts tormented her, they were familiar enough to shrug off. “My father should have foreseen what eventually happened, and taken steps to prevent it. He didn’t, and now my family is dead. All but me and Millie.”
“So how does Dante fit in?”
Her eyes focused on Vincent’s face, and she frowned. “He took over because he was the only one left who could without creating a range war, so people got behind him. I married him. He protected me and Millie.” She seemed defensive.
“And hired The Stinger?”
“Stop. If you won’t believe what I tell you, why do you keep asking me questions? I told you. The Stinger doesn’t exist.”
“Hmm.” She was lying. He could tell. She had a tick on her right eyelid that gave her away every time. “Okay. Fine. I’ll back off.”
“I don’t want to talk about Dante. I’m tired.” She curled up, bumping knees with him. “Let’s talk about you. What do you do for fun?”
Vincent couldn’t repress his smile. “I could show you.” Then he nudged a curl behind her ear.
Avery laughed and pushed his hand away. “I thought you don’t have time for romance.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t have fun.” He flopped onto his back, tucking his hands behind his head. The afternoon was getting old, and the sun was dropping. This deep in the woods, it got dark sooner because of tree cover, so he’d light a fire soon, if only to see by. “I read. I run, go to the gym, and there’s poker night every Thursday with the team.” He glanced at her, expecting a smirk, or some level of derision. He saw interest.
“That sounds like a nice life. Lonely, though.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Reading. Done alone. Running. Alone. Gym? Maybe that could be considered a group sport, but I don’t see you as the guy that works out with friends. You probably do your sets with earbuds on and head home an hour later.”
That was about right. “Poker is a group activity.”
“With coworkers makes it an extension of work.” He must have revealed a bit of irritation, because she pressed her hand on his arm. “Don’t get me wrong. I understand. You have poker and I have Millie. Having a ten-year-old forces you to do things. School activities. Playdates. I’m around people all the time, but I’d rather be reading.”
He frowned. “You work out. I know you do. I saw your moves at the diner. The meth head—”
She covered her jaw with her palm. “I thought I was dead six times, at least.”
“You’ve trained with some seriously skilled people, Avery. You are seriously skilled.”
“I don’t deny it. After what happened to my family, I felt vulnerable and didn’t like it. It crippled me, actually, so I trained.”
“With who?”
She bit her lower lip, and for a moment, he thought she wouldn’t tell him. “Dante’s contract killers.”
Vincent sat, staring down at her. He didn’t know what he’d expected her to say, but that wasn’t it. “Tell me the six that killed your family weren’t involved in your training.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze, and seemed unwilling to answer, so he nudged her.
“Well, obviously, I didn’t know what they’d done,” she said. “Not when they were training me.”
Obviously? He didn’t know what to say. A person couldn’t be that mind-fucked and survive, could they? “And I thought my ex was Satan.”
She covered her face with her hands. “I shouldn’t have told you. I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
He pulled her hands off her face. “Make me understand.”
She flopped on her back, then she grabbed her Glock, resting it on her chest again. He took it as a sign that she was feeling threatened.
“I was desperate,” she said. “I’d stopped sleeping. I thought whoever killed my family would come after me and Millie.” She wiggled on the bed, adjusting herself. “You can’t imagine, Vincent. The level of fear I lived with.” She shook her head. “My family was massacred at a family reunion, where I should have been completely safe. I would have been dead, too, if I hadn’t gone upstairs to check on my sister. We spent an hour cowering in a closet. Millie kept crying, and I knew if she was heard, we’d both die. Ever since then, my life has been centered on keeping Millie safe.”
He’d seen the pictures. He knew what happened that day, and knew what she’d found when she’d left that closet. “I’m sorry, Avery.”
“I didn’t know it was them. That the people that killed my family were training me. I didn’t. I just knew I needed to be more, be stronger.” Her chin quivered and tears spilled over her lashes. “Being vulnerable is intolerable.”
“But Coppola married you, promising protection.”
“I knew it wouldn’t be enough. I’d had my father’s protection. That didn’t save anyone, so I made Dante promise to have his men train me. That way, if anyone tried to hurt me or Millie, I’d be prepared this time. I would never have to cower in a closet again. I would be in control. They’d cower before me.”
Vincent couldn’t even imagine what the undercurrents in those training classes must have been like. “You might not have known, but they knew. Why did they train you?”
She shrugged. “Dante told them to.”
“But they killed the last boss.”
Sniffing, she gave him an impatient glance. “I explained that.”
“Job retention?” Hard to believe.
She shook her head. “It’s about power. Control. Most things are.”
He wasn’t sure he bought that story, but she seemed to. “I just can’t visualize you training with those killers.”
“For five years. I began the day after I married Dante.” Avery rubbed her thumbs against her rings. “They beat the crap out of me three times a week and called it “training.” It would have been more frequent, but Dante feared the pace would kill me. I think they believed if they were brutal enough, I’d give up. They underestimated my fear, and I had no idea they’d killed my family, so there was that. If I’d known, I would have been too afraid, but I learned, persisted, became better. When I won sparring matches, more often than not, and could shoot and throw knives as well as them, my “training” ended. I ran with Millie soon after.”
“When did Dante tell you they’d killed your family?” He saw her surprise, as if she hadn’t seen that question coming. It surprised him in turn, because it seemed the most important question.
“After they were dead.” She pursed her lips, and her eyes lost focus.
Vincent couldn’t wait to put the whole damn lot of them behind bars. “I’m sorry,” was all he could force past his lips.
She sniffed, blinking. “Dante had to know if I’d found out, I would have left him, so he kept it from me. No way I could have stayed with them around all the time.”
“So, he killed them for you? Trying to keep you there?”
Her eyes slowly focused, and her expression hardened. “Nice try, but no dice. I don’t know who killed them.” She sighed. “Anyway, Dante isn’t so romantic. They were his men. Why would he kill them? They had their uses, and it takes a long time to train one. I should know.”
“That means The Stinger must be from a rival syndicate.” He saw she wanted to deny it, so stopped her before she could speak. “Someone killed those six men, Avery, and our forensics people say it was one person, same time of death, so one after the other. Do you know someone skilled enough to do that? You trained with those killers. You’d know if one of Coppola’s people were capable.” She shook her head, denying any knowledge of such a person. “The Stinger has to be from a rival syndicate.”
“I can’t think about this anymore. It’s too much.” Curled up, she grabbed the pillow and hugged it, seeming more a little girl, than an exhausted warrior. When she closed her eyes, he told himself to allow her to rest. It didn’t matter that what he needed was to take her in his arms and make everything better. That was his burden, and not his job. He gave himself a mental shake and then he rolled off the bed, afraid if he stayed there, lying next to her, he’d kiss her and set in motion events that he wouldn’t be able to take back.
Like making love with her. Like growing more attached to her. Like losing his last shred of objectivity, which was already shaky, at best. Instead, he set about building a fire, determined to pretend he had everything under control.