Retaliation: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (18 page)

A
game
. This sociopathic fucker wants to play a game? I'm too terrified to move though, and I can feel the edge of Orloff's razor pressed against my throat, not enough to cut, but I can feel the scrape with every heaving breath.

“What sort of game are you talking about?” Carson asks, his pistol not moving at all. Looking at it, I mentally kick myself. Orloff left my pistol on the kitchenette counter, and I should have grabbed it. Instead, I grabbed the empty water pitcher by the sink and charged like a damn fool, panicked when I saw him on top of Carson, the knife that he had in his hand most likely poisoned like he'd done to Nathan.

Well, at least I got one good shot in, although how I didn't knock him out I have no damn clue. Guess I can console myself with that thought after this asshole slices my throat from side to side.

“I love to have talking games,” Orloff says, and I can hear the smile in this asshole's voice. “In prison, we didn't have a lot of things to entertain ourselves. We worked, and for entertainment we talked. The guards didn’t allow us to have radios or other distractions, so we talked when we could.”

“Should have spent the time educating yourself,” Carson replies, his voice level and calm. It's reassuring, and I believe him when he says that he's got it under control. “Could have made something of yourself.”

“But I have. Prison taught me a very lucrative job skill,” Orloff replies with a laugh. “I've made millions of dollars plying my trade, and even before the chump change I get from this job, I will have enough to be a very, very rich man.”

“You could have been more than this though,” Carson says, and Orloff laughs. “What?”

“I like who I am, Yankee. By the way, what is your name?”

“Carson Sands. It's my house that you fucked up earlier today.”

Orloff takes a step, and we're circling, every step Orloff takes to his left mirrored by Carson. “I could have done worse. However, that artist... your sister?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t want to leave her homeless. I limited the damage. A fresh coat of paint, a new window and some wall patch, and you’ll be able to live there again,” Orloff replies. “So tell me, Carson Sands, what is it that makes you tick?”

“I don't know what you mean,” Carson says, and Orloff chuckles.

“Andrea, is this the man you were telling me about earlier, the one you didn't have a chance to say something important to. It seems that fate has delivered that chance to you. As I said, you fought with passion and honor, and I still appreciate your verbal castration of Peter. So... here is your chance,” Orloff says, teasing us both. “I suggest you take the opportunity.”

“Andrea?” Carson says, and for the first time the barrel of his pistol wavers slightly. “What's this asshole talking about?”

“He asked me if I had any regrets about dying,” I explain, letting my arms drop. “I told him I had one. I regret not knowing if we had a future.”

“Andrea,” Carson says, his gun barrel steadying. “Now, my dove, I want you to live. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I immediately reply. I can see it in his eyes, the knowledge that I trust him with my life, now and forever. He understands, oh thank God, he understands!

Orloff, on the other hand, doesn't. “You're both going to die, Carson Sands. It’s a shame Peter will not give me more money for your corpse as well.”

“Too bad,” Carson says. His eyes find mine, and I can see what he wants to tell me. Am I ready? He doesn't even need to ask, I trust him with my life already, and he nods slightly before his eyes fix on Orloff again. “Now!”

There's advantages to being only a few inches over five feet tall. Right now, the only thing I'm happy for is that as I twist my head away from Orloff's razor, is that the man is about eight inches taller than me. With his hurt leg bleeding, he's not squatting down as deep behind me, and there's just enough relaxation in his arm that while his razor cuts, it's not deep.

I hear two pops, a lot less than I thought there'd be after the echoing crashes of the pistol shots inside the house earlier today or even when Carson shot him a few minutes ago. Still, a red rain splatters down on me and Orloff's body goes limp, falling backward as Carson fires again. I tumble to the dirt, and Carson's there, helping me up. “Andrea... are you all right?”

He stands me up, his eyes going to my neck. “We've got to stop...”

“I'm okay,” I reply, holding my hand to my neck. “It's not deep.”

“Let me see,” Carson says, taking my hand away. He looks, then pulls off his t-shirt, holding it to my neck. “For now. Go inside, I need to get rid of the body.”

I look down at Orloff's corpse, and for the first time see just how deadly Carson's shooting can be. There's two holes in the body, one in Orloff's right eye, the other just under his chin, and the ground behind him is covered in blood. “What do you have planned?”

“Peter's coming, let's leave him a present and a warning,” Carson says, stepping back and grabbing Orloff's ankles. “Go, clean that up, and then maybe you can help me.”

There's no tenderness in his voice, but there's no hardness either, he's commanding and not expecting any disagreement. There is love there though, and I can see it in his eyes when he looks at me after grunting, tugging Orloff's body past me. “Come on, Andrea. Get cleaned, and then I need your help.”

I nod and go into the RV, cleaning myself up in the half-bathroom that is in the back. There's tepid water at least, and as I clean my face, the fear starts to cause my hands to tremble, and I can feel my control slipping. The first tear is hot, burning on my cheek, and I can't help it anymore, I'm sobbing, not able to hold back the terror and fear of the past few hours any longer.

Carson's here, his hands on my shoulders, turning me to him and holding me, his voice soft and tender in my ear. “It's okay, Andrea. It's okay... you're safe.”

“We're never going to be safe,” I sob, shuddering. “He's always going to have another
Orloff
to send, another gun or knife or something.”

“That's why we need to try and end it now,” Carson says, stroking my hair. “I promise you Andrea, I'll always protect you, for the rest of your life.”

“Carson...,” I sob in reply. “But how?”

“I don't know, but we'll figure that out later. First, help me with this. Can you do that?”

He pushes me back a little bit, and I look up into his eyes. The silver-gray is slightly clouded, he's just as scared as I am, but he's determined, and I can see the love there as he searches my soul. I find the strength, and nod, sniffling back the tears. “What do you need?”

He smiles, stroking my face. “Come on, I saw this on TV once.”

“What?”

Carson laughs, nodding. “If it works, we'll have quite a surprise for Peter when he gets here. But let's work quickly, I don't know how much time we have.”

* * *

T
he first step
is making the trigger. We try a matchbook in the door, but it's not effective, the paper matches bending and breaking without catching. Then, under the kitchen sink, I find something that both chills me and gives us our trigger.

“What about this?” I ask, pulling out the butane torch, the type that you might use to light a barbecue or maybe do some quick soldering if you're an electronics geek... or use to torture someone if you're a sociopathic hitman.

Carson, who's been positioning Orloff's body and trying to make sure we've sealed as many cracks as we can in the RV, turns and nods. “Perfect. Here, and bring the tape we found.”

Using the ropes that Orloff had originally intended for me, we tie his corpse to the metal chair, and then tape the torch to the arm of the chair. “I don't like this part, but it's a risk either way,” Carson says as he wraps loop after loop of tape around the canister. “This is about the best I can think of.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. I found some more rope under the counter with the torch, and have been quickly unwrapping the three strands to get something thinner and easier to use for our purposes.

“The flame's going to be far from the source, but if we put this torch near the stove, I don't know if the rope will pull in the right direction to trigger the thing. Best guess here.”

“I trust your best guesses,” I tell him, giving him a look. “It'll work.”

“You know how to be romantic, you know that?” Carson wisecracks, grinning. He snaps the tape and squeezes the trigger, watching in satisfaction as a harsh yellow flame pops out. “Best we're gonna get. How's the string?”

“Got it,” I tell him, pulling out the tangled mess. “I think.”

Carson laughs, and helps me tie one end to the door handle before stretching it to the trigger and wrapping it, taping it for extra security. “Okay, give it a shot.”

The string stretches a little bit, but still the torch lights when the door's open about six inches, still narrow enough that whoever opens it can't see what's going on inside. “Looks good.”

Carson undoes the knot on the door handle and nods, humming. “Wish we had some time to throw some gas around in here. But I don't know how to siphon the gas tank.”

“I'm sure it'll be enough,” I tell him, rubbing his shoulder. I reset the safety catch on the torch before I stand up, ready. “Come on. I've got skinnier arms, this is my part.”

Carson nods and goes outside, waiting anxiously for me while I go over to the kitchenette area. Twisting the back knobs, I make sure the propane tank is open before I cut the rubber tubes that run to the cooktop with Orloff's own razor, the rotten egg stench immediately assaulting my nostrils. I rush to the door and slip out, reaching in a small crack and reattaching the string to the door handle on the inside, cinching the slipknot tight before closing the door shut. “Let's go.”

We run to the edge of the clearing, not a minute too soon as we hear a car approaching in the distance. “He's going to pass my car,” Carson says, concerned. “What if he suspects something?”

“Nothing we can do about that now,” I reply, kneeling. “But I doubt he'll think about it. He's too arrogant. Come on, I don't need to see this.”

Carson nods, and we turn away, walking quickly through the woods in the direction of Carson's car. We're about two hundred yards away when a massive explosion rocks the air behind us.

“
S
o you remembered
to police up all your shell casings?” Katrina asks in appreciation as Andrea winces, the surgical adhesive stinging. I hiss in sympathy, but there's not really much we can do. It's a four inch long cut that, while not deadly, needs to be treated if Andrea doesn't want a scar along her jawbone for the rest of her life.

“That was Andrea's idea,” I admit, holding her hand and letting her squeeze. The nurse, who listens the whole time without saying anything, finishes his glue job and steps back. “So?”

“So keep a bandage on it for the next four to five days to help keep it clean, but it'll heal well,” he says, wiping gently. “Also, you can't get it wet for a couple of days. This is superglue, not stitches, so you'll have to be a bit more careful. I'm not a plastic surgeon, we can't stitch that well.”

“That's fine,” Andrea says, trying not to move her mouth as much as possible. “Guess I'm going to be eating through a straw for the next few days.”

“I've done that, great for bikini season,” Katrina quips, a tense smile on her face. She and Andrea lock gazes, and I see that they need a moment together. There's fear and tension that Andrea can relieve with me, but right now, she needs a sister, and Katrina is her sister as much as Melissa is.

“I think I'll go check on 'Lissa and Nathan,” I say quietly, giving Andrea a kiss on the top of her head. “You two have a good talk.”

“Thanks, Carson,” Katrina says, giving me a grateful smile. “If you get a chance, think you can tell Jackson to bring BA in here too? My shoulder's feeling good enough to at least hold my daughter.”

“Sure,” I reply, leaving the treatment room. I go down the hall and turn the corner, going past the staff waiting area. There's only one staffer on duty, the same guy who just finished Andrea's treatment.

“How's it going?” the guy asks, putting away the last of his things. “She need something?”

I shake my head, and the guy relaxes, taking a seat in his chair. “No, the girls are having a talk. I wanted to come by and say thanks for the car, and for lending me a scrub top. Also, just curious though, why're you doing this gig instead of working legit medical stuff?”

The staffer, I can't call him a nurse but he's not a doctor, who the hell knows what to call him, leans back in the chair, putting his feet up on the cabinet in front of him. “We've all got our reasons. Stick around us blue pills long enough, you'll get wise to it.”

“Blue pills? You're a
Matrix
fan, I take it.”

The man shakes his head, laughing softly. “No, but it's the term that I was taught when I first came into all this. Guy who owns this place is big into the whole series though. Anyway, your question. Simple, really. I chose this over legit work.”

“Why?”

The guy folds his hands over his stomach, shaking his head sadly. “After high school, I spent four years in the Navy as a corpsman. Got pretty good at it, too. Anyway, after I got out, I went to school, using my GI Bill, was all ready to be a physician's assistant, but as I approached the end of my courses, I just didn't want to put up with the bad side of the medical world. Insurance companies, corporate bullshit, all of it. So, I knew a couple of guys, they made the right introductions, and after I finished I started off working at a free clinic that helped out in some of the bad neighborhoods. They've got just as much bullshit to deal with as regular hospitals do though, but it led me to meeting the guy who runs this place. Now I work with people who need our help, and I don't worry about the rest. Still help out at the free clinic sometimes, too.”

“I gotcha. Well, thanks for your work so far, I know you don't get too many overnight visitors.”

The man laughs and shrugs. “Not a problem. We know y'all are good for any charges.”

“What?”

“Coup De Grace, the woman with you guys. Not the one I just treated, the tall one, total hottie but married?”

I laugh, recognizing Katrina. I guess she doesn't give her real name out often. “Gotcha. Thanks.”

I go down the hall to Nathan's room, where Jackson, BA, and Melissa are still watching over the sleeping Nathan. “Hey guys.”

“Jesus, you need another ice pack,” Jackson jokes, looking me over. “You go ten rounds with Foreman or something?”

“Very funny,” I quip back, taking a seat. “I take a few more shots to the face, you might have a chance to actually look better than me. No, the girls needed some sister time, you know how it is. No boys allowed, sisterhood of the traveling pants, all that. How goes it in here?”

“Nathan was just telling us some gripping tales of his adventures in the Army,” Jackson jokes, smiling. “You should have heard about him and the General's daughter. Then he heard you coming and promptly fell asleep again. Guess he thinks you're boring.”

“Oh yeah? All right buddy, that's it. You, me, outside. I'm challenging you to a hundred meter dash.”

That one even gets a chuckle from Melissa, who looks over and shakes her head. “You two... I'm glad BA is here, at least someone acts their age.”

I laugh, and pick up BA, giving her a kiss. “You are a cutie, you know that? Actually, your Mommy wants to give you a kiss and a hug, you wanna go see her?”

BA gurgles, and I set her down in Jackson's lap. He's moved to a wheelchair, although I have no clue how he's moving around, I guess the ribs aren't all that bad. “I think your wife would like it to be a DeLaCoeur thing, honestly. You mind?”

“Nah, I can get down there pretty easy. If not, I'll have Igor at the desk give me a push,” Jackson says, unlocking his chair and pushing slowly. “I may not set any land speed records, but I'll get there!”

I help Jackson along, pushing him to the door and into the hallway, where he nods gratefully. “Thanks, bro. Hey, if Igor lets us all go, you wanna grab dinner out afterward? Can't walk, but I can eat.”

“Andrea can't, but we'll see what happens,” I tell him, patting him on the shoulder. “Sure you can make it?”

Jackson looks down the hall, then nods. “What, twenty yards? I can crawl that if I have to. Heck, Andrea here would probably love the idea, her and Daddy having a race.”

I look at BA, who coos and waves her arms happily in her Daddy's lap. “She doesn't really crawl yet.”

“Then it'll be a fair race,” Jackson says with a grunt, pushing off. “Enjoy your talk with 'Lissa and Nathan.”

I go back into the room, where Melissa is still sitting next to Nathan, a small smile on her face. “Well?”

“He's immature, an overgrown kid, and I think he's a great addition to the family,” I tell her, holding out my arms. Melissa stands, and I wrap my sister up in a hug, squeezing her tightly. “We did it.”

“You did it,” Melissa reminds me, hugging me tighter. “And without too many scratches too, I might add.”

“Someone's gotta be able to walk besides you,” I chuckle, holding her tight. “I'll be honest 'Lissa, I was scared shitless out there.”

“But you did it anyway. Because you're a good man, little brother. Let's be happy about that, and we can heal.”

I let go, and sit down in the chair next to her as she resumes her seat next to Nathan's bed. “How is he?”

“It's going to be slow,” Melissa says, but there's no fear in her voice. “But he's a strong man, he'll make it. He just needs rest, and after that... I was wondering if you'd be upset if we offered him a place to recover once he wakes up?”

I shake my head, knowing exactly what Melissa is saying, but that's a conversation for another time. “I think we can find a bedroom for him somewhere. Actually, I need to check in with some people on that. Our house is a total fucking mess. And... I know Nathan would prefer to do it himself, but I need to go bury Maverick.”

* * *

T
he dirt is
soft but heavy, rich with clay. I thought about moving him, but in the end, I decided that the tree was a fitting resting place for a good dog. I've already been digging for an hour, and my back muscles ache after the abuse I've put my body through today, but I'm nearly there.

I hear footsteps approaching, and I drop my shovel, my Glock in my hand pointing into the inky darkness of the Louisiana night. “Who is it?”

“Just me,” Katrina says, emerging into the light of the lantern I've set up. “When we couldn't find you in the house, Andrea got worried. I saw the light, figured I'd check it out.”

“How'd you guys get a ride home?” I ask, turning and starting to dig again. “And sorry about pulling the gun on you, I'm still a bit jumpy.”

“Understandably so. I'd be more worried about you if you weren't jumpy,” Katrina says, kneeling down next to the hole. Maverick's body is a few feet away, right now covered with a big painter's canvas, part of a roll that Melissa keeps upstairs in her painting studio that allows her to make custom-sized paintings whenever she wants. It's not enough, but at least it keeps the worst of the flies off of him.

I go back to digging, careful not to throw dirt in Katrina's direction, and we're silent for a little while. “It's a good grave,” she finally says, looking at the hole. “Four feet?”

“Almost five, I think. I can't go down much farther without hitting the groundwater, but Maverick deserves better than a shallow scraping of dirt. He was a good dog,” I say, sticking the shovel in again. This time, the clay comes out soaking wet, a thick sucking sound with it, and I know I was right. I drop the dirt back down and tamp it, turning around and boosting myself out of the hole. “How's the shoulder?”

“Give it a couple of days, it'll be fine,” Katrina says, moving it carefully in a circle. “Aches like hell though. I'm surprised he didn't break my shoulder blade.”

“All that training and martial arts, gives you stronger bones,” I comment, putting what I have to do next out of my mind for a moment while I catch my breath. “Saw it on National Geographic Channel once. So how did you guys get back? Igor's car isn't big enough for everyone, especially with Jackson in a cast.”

“Actually, Melissa insisted on staying with Nathan,” Katrina says, holding up a hand when I look alarmed. “Don't worry, I have a good friend watching and protecting her.”

“Oh? Who, you know Jason Bourne or something?”

Katrina shakes her head, chuckling. “No, but I am best friends with a woman whose husband is a detective for the NOPD. He happens to have the night off, and is currently sitting in the clinic next to Nathan and Melissa, fully armed with a vest and shotgun, and ready to handle business. Jeff's a good cop.”

“You sure we need good cops?” I ask. “Not enough of them in this town, but can you trust them?”

Katrina nods. “Jeff's more than a good cop, he's a moral cop. He won't say a thing to the department about this one. Meantime, Darcy gave us a ride here in her minivan after we stopped at Home Depot for some supplies.”

“Supplies? Like what?”

“Scrub brushes, cleaners, drywall patch, and twenty gallons of interior latex paint along with a power sprayer,” Katrina says. “We can do the glass tomorrow or something, but Andrea and I talked and we decided that when 'Lissa comes home, it'll be as close to perfect as we can get it.”

I nod, my emotions thick in my chest. “Thank you. You mind if we get to work on it as soon as I finish here?”

Katrina nods, and pats me on the shoulder. “Knowing Andrea, she's probably already started the scrubbing. She thinks you're pretty special, Carson.”

I nod, and look over at Katrina. “The feeling's mutual.”

Katrina hums, then gives me a smile. “Okay then. When you're finished, come on in. I know Darcy would enjoy meeting you, and she's got some good news. Actually, would you like some help?”

I shake my head, wiping the sweat from my forehead. “I've got it. You guys go ahead and start the cleaning, I'll be back to help out in maybe an hour or so. Filling in the hole is the easy part.”

“Sometimes it is. Not always,” Katrina says sadly, turning to go. “Oh, last thing. Good speed on the Glock, just remember that we're home now, okay? Look before you shoot.”

I go over to Maverick's body, using his own bulk to start to roll him up. “I know. Thanks, Katrina.”

Katrina leaves, and I finish wrapping up Maverick, making sure he's covered from head to toe before using the rope from the barn to bind the whole bundle together. Dammit, he deserved better than this. I only got to know him a few weeks, and I know this dog deserves better than this.

“I promise you boy, you'll be remembered,” I tell the lump in the shadowed grave, then let my tears flow for a little while longer. There's just been too much horror, too much blood, too much danger for the day, and I'm not ashamed to cry over it. When I can gather myself, I stand up, dusting off my hands, and go over to my shovel. There's still work to be done, and I get the first scoop of dirt up, covering Maverick's body. I go carefully at first, sprinkling the body, but once the canvas isn't visible anymore I work faster, more efficiently. The night is still young, and I still have work to do.