Justice Mine: a Base Branch Novel (10 page)

Inky corkscrews of hair hung to her bikini-covered breasts, which stood pert on a supermodel frame. One arm hung comfortably at her side near a high, tight ass while the other hugged around her middle. The small gesture revealed a hint of insecurity and Magdalena clung to that tiny assurance like a man overboard held tight to a lifebuoy. Because the seas she’d known would kill her just kicked up a squall of epic proportions.

Is this Nava Zegen?

The woman, whoever she was, held a deep and significant place in Law’s heart. Magdalena imagined him staring at the beauty for hours on end before finally relenting to sleep’s call. She rubbed a hand over her heart to ease the intense burn that settled around it. Jealousy never entered her world. If a guy had hang-ups about someone else, she moved on to the next. Sure, guys had cheated on her, but the indiscretions were more irritating than anything.

Where Lawrence Pierce was concerned, Mags had no reason to feel the bite of jealousy or the sting of betrayal. He owed her nothing, and, yet, he owned her every emotion. When Law stepped into the room she still stood, gawking at the photograph.

I
t was
a damn good thing Law stayed fit since this woman shocked his system more than the bastard in Columbia who’d strapped him to the parrilla and prodded him with two hundred volts for three days while the bullet hole in his leg festered. Maybe she wouldn’t leave a nasty scar. Lord knew he had enough already. But the sadness in her eyes didn’t give him any hope of escaping without injury.

The scarce London sunshine backlit her wild hair. The tresses maintained a disordered appearance, even in the pictures he’d seen of her at Baine’s house. But the thick mane hung straight here, frizzed there, and lumped with intermittent hints of curl for the fidgety work-over she’d given it while her eyes had been glued to the computer screen. He tried not to look then, just as he did now, failing time and again. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, her chin up, hiding nothing. Not even the picture pinched in her delicate fingers.

“Who is Nava Zegen?” she asked.

Law swallowed, not expecting that particular question. Of course, the little Nick Davies wanna-be would put two and two together like an investigative reporter should. He just hadn’t given her time to do research. So, she guessed. Not a bad assumption, but off the mark.

“My grandmother.”

She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment while he stood in the doorway. Her gaze roved his face then shot to the bag hanging from his index and middle fingers. The minute stretched into another and still she said not a word, only ground the gears in her head.

Law fell in love with Magdalena probably the instant he’d scraped her off the floor of her father’s house. All Baine’s stories about his little sister’s ability to wow the pants off a priest with her quick wit and good nature, combined with the drop-him-dead gorgeous pictures littering the old estate, had him primed to topple. Which is exactly why he avoided her like the devil. If only he could continue dodging the woman who rankled him like no other.

He stepped out of the doorway and placed their three boxes of sashimi, nigiri, and assorted rolls on the counter. The fact that he hadn’t closed the door didn’t pass her notice. Her gaze bounced from it to him several times, but again she held her tongue. He leapt first and hoped he didn’t need to use his escape hatch. “You want to ask me about the picture?”

Magdalena walked toward him, her gate leisurely, but bold. Her gaze never left his face and the uncertain chew of her lip vanished. Two lines wrinkled her forehead. The rose rounds of her cheek distended in an almost smile and those soft and terribly decadent pink lips ruffled.

“Yes.” She exhaled. “And no.”

Law waited, hoping she’d choose the latter.

She laid the picture on the white tiles then studied it. Law didn’t need to look. For the past decade, every time he’d closed his eyes, he’d seen Clara staring back at him. Only now, when he let the darkness come, Magdalena flipped him the bird, sashayed her legs, blew him a kiss. The killer was he didn’t know which hurt worse, losing Clara or the fear of losing Magdalena. Not that he had her in any real way. And not that he wanted her. Because he couldn’t handle another explosion in his world. It already resembled so many of the war-zones he’d traipsed through over the years. One more artillery blast and everything would crumble.

Sweat gathered across his back and dripped between his shoulder blades. His palms slicked. Magdalene didn’t appear to be in much better shape. Her hands rung in overlapping succession. Street, though too cavalier for anyone’s own good, was right about Magdalena. She needed comfort, not just protection, and he could only give her one.

“You don’t owe me anything,” she began. “Are you still…in love with her?” Her hair swooshed about as her head shook. “I mean…obviously you are. I’m just curious, I guess.” Magdalena’s floral-covered chest heaved. “What happened? Youthful idealism didn’t prevail? She cheat on you? Break your heart?”

Three slightly shaking fingers fastened over her mouth like she had to stem the flow of words before she drowned in them. And he was glad because he sank in them too. The pressure of inquiry and the memories they wrought restrained his airflow.

Clara lay in his arms. Her gaunt form only a shadow of the vibrant young woman she’d been. The chill of her lifeless body seeped into his bones and refused to leave. Hot tears stung his cheek and he jarred back to the present, which hurt only a fraction less.

Law wiped the moisture dripping off his nose with the back of his hands. “She broke me…when she died.”

Magdalena’s tears fell in earnest and suddenly it was all too much. He lurched toward the door. She called out behind him, “I’m sorry.”

The words barely registered over the thuds of his running feet. He grabbed the rail with one hand and leaped, clearing each flight of stairs in a desperate effort to get away. Law’s boots pounded the pavement as he made his way across the street and down the sidewalk. He aimed for his old running route, maintaining a frantic pace, which matched his mental state perfectly.

Was Magdalena right? Was he still in love with Clara? No. He loved her dearly, but he’d released her long ago for his own sanity. But the wounds she left remained. Festered and obscene like the scar on his leg. He’d wished that either of the two would kill him, but, fuck it all, they hadn’t.

A block from his flat he bounded off the sidewalk and into the beaten path at the back of the wooded park. The heat clung to his body, coaxing sweat from his pores. His shirt suctioned to his body as it gathered perspiration.

Law had known he was quick to fall. He met Clara the first day of his second semester junior year. By the third day not another woman in the world existed. So, after she died, he created a false front. The flirting jokester everyone knew and loved. Only they didn’t know a thing about him. Baine knew torment when he saw it, but he was a good enough friend never to question it.

Women had become non-entities like waiting room magazines and vending machine candy. He didn’t acknowledge their existence. Which cast him into a slim demographic of heterosexual men practicing celibacy. It had been a choice made in desperation for the good of his stability. But the moment he saw Magdalena he knew he should have been banging every bird that looked his way. Maybe then, he wouldn’t have screwed himself so royally by reacting to her on such a visceral level.

Law stopped at the apex of the small footbridge marking five miles and braced his forearms on the wooden banister. He spit the mix of snot and tears into the slender stream below and let his lungs rock his body in an easy rhythm. He welcomed the burn of physical exertion. His head hung between his shoulders, and he watched a bug skip across the water’s surface onto the tufts of grass at the bank.

He wondered how Baine could love Sloan after nearly losing her in a pool of blood, knowing the pain of it, that it could happen at any moment. How could he bring himself to care about someone else with the same possibility looming over his head?

T
he doorknob twisted
and so did the hold on Magdalena’s heart. She hadn’t meant to cause him pain, but sometimes talking about things helped. In the Congo she’d had nothing but time, in between stories, and Owen had been an objective third party. He’d listened for hours on end and only gave advice when asked. The process had been cleansing and gave her perspective on healthy relationships. Even if Owen’s was one of the same sex. It was rock solid, had overcome familial rancor, college debt, and distance.

When the knob jiggled again, Mags stood from her perch on the mattress and headed for the door. Though her hands shook, she refused to hide from Law and the drama she’d created. About the time she came even with the bar, her brain caught up, slowing her steps.

Law had keys to his own flat. She’d seen him stuff them into his pants while he hovered in the doorway earlier. The hairs stood razor sharp on her arm and she froze, gaze riveted on the door’s small silver handle. Fear vibrated through her body.

She couldn’t climb out of the window. The building didn’t have a fire escape that she’d noticed. Mags eyed the closet, but that was the first place the bad guys looked in the movies, followed by underneath the bed. Not that the second location was even a possibility. The bathroom didn’t even provide enough privacy for a poop, much less a hideaway from villains.

Magdalena grabbed the drive from the computer and winced as the thing honked at her for improper device removal. Everything went dead silent for a beat then the knob shook with greater vehemence. She shoved the drive between her breasts and grabbed the computer and stack of papers lying next to it. Running as quietly as she could manage, she slipped into the closet then closed herself in darkness. Her fingers felt along the back wall until she felt the raise of the vault seam. Working from memory and touch, she levered the panel back and shoved the computer, papers, and drive in the tiny gap between the carved plaster wall and metal safe. Her prayers to become paper thin, so she could slide into the crevice, worked about as well as the ones when she’d wished her mother back to life.

She righted the wall and hanging clothes, held her breath, closed her eyes, and listened. The skin of her palms stung as fists clenched so tightly her nails cut her skin. A loud crack reverberated through the flat, followed by a crack as the door smacked against the wall. Only a tiny click sounded as he, or they, closed the door.

Magdalena could practically feel the intruder’s amusement as he sauntered with deliberate and even footfalls straight toward the closet. Again she prayed herself invisible, but it helped none.

“Come on out, Ms. Wells,” a smooth, even British accent commanded. “No need to make this any harder than it has to be.”

The cool affect of his voice chilled her to the bone, even more so than Davis and his thugs. They had been brash and brutish. This guy seemed professional. Cold. Detached. Like he’d put a bullet in her head and go grab a frothy mug at O’Henry’s around the corner.

She opened her eyes and found her assessment spot on. Hollowness settled in her gut, placed there by the dark dead stare before her. His ghostly-white skin cracked into a smile that missed his eyes altogether.

“That’s it,” he crooned, opening the door wider. “I’ll make it painless, if you’ll allow me.” The artifice fell away in a blink. “And I’ll make it more horrible than your worst nightmares, if you fight. Which I’ve heard you’re quite adept at. I must say, I’m a bit torn about how I want this to play out.”

Magdalena breathed deeply through her nose then out through her mouth, willing away the quiver in her nerves. This was no time to fall trap to head games. She stepped out from the closet and, though she tried to train her gaze on the menace, her line of sight shifted to the door.

“Don’t worry. We won’t be interrupted.”

Oh my God. What did he do to Law?

He nodded. “Yes, he’ll be dispatched momentarily.”

Relief she had no right to feel at the moment showered over her. Law wasn’t dead. And no matter how confident this guy was that he or anyone else could eliminate Law Pierce, she was certain they would fail. Miserably. Not that it did her well-being any good. But just like she wouldn’t give up on Law, neither would she discount herself. No matter what Mr. Doom wanted.

What worked once might work again. And even if it didn’t, it was damn worth a try. Mags focused on his throat, even as he pulled a gun from the small of his back and held it by his side. The long barrel tapped against the leg of his slacks.

Deliberately, she moved her gaze to the gun, held her body slack, and hoped, instead of prayed, that her memory would serve her well. She drew a shaky breath and punched at his throat as quickly as her body could move.

He pivoted and her fist glanced the clammy skin of his neck. The
umph
of impact didn’t have time to translate into triumph as something knocked her against the head, snapping it back. The sound rattled in her ears. Another blow landed in her middle, expelling the air from her lungs. She met the ground and the room tilted and twirled.

Black suffocated her, moving in and blotting out every bit of light in the room. Magdalena heaved for breath, but none came. Weight pushed against her chest. Her hands flailed, trying to shove at the burden. Her fingers found cotton and solid muscle underneath it. She struggled to shift it, but the casing remained tight about her face, constricting on her chest.

Tiny shooting stars whizzed past her as everything tunneled. Desperate for air, she did the thing that always moved Baine when they wrestled as kids. Magdalena followed the line of his back to his pit, rammed her fingers into the bowled flesh and pinched with every last drop of muster she possessed.

“You cunt!” he screamed.

He grabbed her attacking arm, and air flooded her starved lungs in a gasp. If she’d had enough air, she would have cried out as he twisted it, slammed it to the ground, and pinned it with a knee. All too soon, his arm clamped down on her throat and his weight doubled on her sternum.

Mags held tight to the air she’d stored and focused lower. Her legs wheeled around, but found no body part to decimate. She sought purchase against the floor to bar her hips and tumble him off, but her shoes slipped with each effort. Again her lungs ached for air. They tried to pull in breath after breath, but none came.

A mighty roar echoed in her ears and she thought it her own cry for freedom. For justice.

The man rolled off her, and she choked and gagged on the air she so seriously needed. She watched in helpless horror as the man landed on his feet in a crouch and raised his gun. From across the room her justice barreled like a ferocious beast. Law’s mouth opened wide on a thunderous cry. Sweat dripped from his chin. His teeth bared for attack.

He didn’t acknowledge the gun as he ran headlong toward its lifting barrel. The long tube spat and chunks of the floor flew into the air in tiny explosions. He didn't seem to notice the gash in his shirt by his ribs or the blood that stained the area around it. As the bullets neared Law’s charge, Magdalena stilled, forgoing air for the outcome of the clash.

Law tackled the man with his shoulders. The gun fell to the floor, but Law didn’t stop powering his legs. He wrapped his arms around the black shirt, which would have been her final view of her life, and hoisted it and the man inside into the air.

Law’s battle cry continued as he accelerated to the window and crashed into the large pane. The crack of shattering glass fractured the overwrought air. Her heart stopped as Law and Mr. Doom careened through the fissures. Law’s hands released the man in mid-air and his white knuckles banded the window frame, halting his momentum. The man’s scream picked up where Law’s fell away.

Magdalena collapsed, utterly spent. She stared at Law’s back. The wet shirt clung to the topography of his sculpted muscles. His torso heaved air, much like hers. A sickening
whack
punctuated the intruder’s death. Law turned away, plunged his hand between the wall and mattress, and recovered the holster and pistols she hadn’t seen since the previous day. He shrugged on the weapons then scrambled toward her.

His hot palm cupped her face and lifted her head from the floor. “Are you okay? Where do you hurt?” The pads of his fingers skimmed the column of her neck then ran the length of each arm in a frantic search.

Finally able to breathe without hacking, Magdalena encircled his hand in her own. “I’m fine,” she rasped. “Are you okay? Your side, did he shoot you?”

“It’s just a scratch from his buddy I met in the park. Now, tell me, where are you hurt?”

“Really, I’m fine. Just let me lie here for a few hours.”

The muscles in Law’s jaw bunched. “Sorry, tart. We have to go.” Before the words were out of his mouth he looped an arm under her back and pulled her to stand. For the briefest of seconds, she nested against his wet chest, happy for the melt of her fear-frozen core. Too soon, he stepped back and motioned just behind her with his chin. “Grab your bag.”

Law opened the closet and pulled on his jacket, despite the heat of the day. While she grabbed the satchel and swung it gingerly over one arm, careful not to jar her sore ribs, he snagged one from the closet and stuffed it with his own clothes.

“Where’s the computer,” he asked without slowing.

“Behind the panel, between the safe and wall.”

He regarded her with a balled shirt hanging from his fist. “You are bloody amazing.”

A silly smile stretched her mouth. Law shook his head and turned away. Sirens blared in the distance, stealing her respite from the emotional turmoil. Law maintained a steady pace as he secured the files, computer, and drive from their hiding spot. When he finished, he slung the bag over his shoulders and reached for her hand.

“Can you run?”

His calm assurance and tender touch gave her a sudden spike in adrenaline. “Yes.”

“Good, don’t stop until I tell you.”

They ran from the wrecked room. In the corridor, Law surprised her, taking the stairs up, instead of down. Her legs wobbled like noodles, but somehow she managed to keep them beneath her body. Five stories later they exited onto the gravel topped roof. Law continued to pound one foot before the other. Sucking breath after breath and still not getting all the air she desired, Magdalena pushed herself as hard as she ever had.

When they reached the edge, Mags tempered her speed, but Law urged her on with an unrelenting tug. She ground to a halt and her insides turned to mush as he jumped onto the ledge then stepped into nothingness.

In that second, Magdalena knew exactly what people meant when they said, “Mind fucked.” Because two and two didn’t make four and gravity didn’t plummet the man gripping her hand to the pavement below.

“It’s all right,” Law said. “It’s a metal plank about two feet wide.”

“Why the fuck can’t I see it?”

“I painted it so no one would know it was here.”

“Oh my God. Really? Who do you work for?”

Law’s lips thinned and in a flash he hopped down from the ledge then banded his arms around her legs. His shoulder pushed in at her waist and her world flipped. The backpack slung over her arm slammed into the base of her skull. All thirty-two of her teeth slapped together. The coppery hint of blood tickled her tongue. She would have complained about his manhandling, but the pack continued tumbling down her arm.

Magdalena caught the strap just as Law’s jean-covered boots stepped onto the ledge. “Don’t scream.” Then he walked out into thin-fucking-air. Her breast smashed into the bag strapped to his back. She accepted the discomfort, loathe to move the slightest muscle that she might throw him off balance.

Her gaze riveted on the alley below. From this height the trashcans looked like thimbles. The row of cars on the streets seemed to belong in a child’s toy collection and the lines on the street appeared to be his wandering doodles on a page. God, she hoped he didn’t use red, in the form of their splattered corpses. This vantage point didn’t allow her the view from the front of the building or the one already represented.

I’m going to be sick.

After several terrifying strides Law leaped onto the tar top of the next building. She grabbed his belt with her free hand, bracing for impact. Her shoulders relaxed, only to tighten again as his quick gate continued across the roof and onto another blasted plank. By the time he set her to right, they were four buildings away from his flat.

She shoved at his middle. “You scared five years off my life.”

“Well, you scared ten off mine. So, we’re not even, yet.”

“How did
I
scare
you
?”

He grabbed her hand and she glared at his back as he guided them through the building’s stairwell and out onto a narrow side street. They walked north five blocks, away from the scene. All the while his gaze scanned their surroundings. When they came to a main street, Law’s grip tightened. He pulled her into the alcove of a storefront and thrust himself against her.

A wide thigh parted her legs, nuzzling her suddenly aching femininity. His free hand tilted her chin. On instinct Magdalena’s lips parted for him, but his mouth hovered near her lobe. His whiskers rasped like sandpaper on her cheek.

“Take it,” he growled.

The words, “Anytime. Anywhere,” hovered in her mind, but were scared away by the cold metal he thrust into her palm. “What!” She tried to retract her hand and found she had nowhere to go.

“I need to get the information off the body I left in the park.”

“Body?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to let him kill me. And I didn’t take the time to search him after.” His hot breath fanned on her neck. “I barely got to you in time as it was. If anything happens to me, I want you to be able to defend yourself.”

Magdalena rested her cheek against Law’s, soaking in his heat. She wished so many things were different. How they met. When they’d met. Who they were. “I don’t even know how to use the thing. I’ll probably shot myself in the bloody foot.”

His hand guided hers over the handle. The contrast between its chill and his warmth perfectly encapsulated her warring desires.