Target 84 (15 page)

“Why be the lamb when you can be the lion?
”―
R.L. LaFevers
I expected to walk into a scene of sobbing, grief-stricken masses. I did not expect to be met with a mostly silent group. I expected cops, ATF, lights, bleats, and static from walkie-talkies. None of that is here. Clara, Dominic, Sawyer, and Pepper have had
hours
longer than I have to process this mess. Our drive, while aided by Bentley’s slap-on cruiser light, was an hour less than normal, still meant that the Napolis and Crowns had been living this hell for the better part of a day. Time was being wasted. Eyes are rimmed red. Noses sniffle yet everyone’s here, doing...nothing. Allie must be terrified right now. I roll my shoulders and let the thought go. I can’t think like that right now.

“I want her back,” Clara sobs. The vice grip constricting my heart tightens infinitely. Her hair is wild as if she’s been running her hands through it repeatedly. Her eyes are rimmed red with worry. Lips dry. Mouth in a tight line.

“Don't worry, we'll get her,” I offer. She stops pacing and turns to me.

“And I want him dead.” Her voice is sharp and fierce as she looks to Bentley behind me.

“That's understood, Clara,” Bentley chimes in.

“Good,” she clips before bursting. The floodgates open wide as her tears spill from her cheeks and into Dominic’s hands. I turn to Pepper and Sawyer. Sawyer is bent over, head in hands, cursing between sobs. Pepper is mute. Shocked I’m sure. These four people couldn’t love a single child more than they do Allie.

“Tell me everything,” I demand. Pepper’s eyes come to mine, then move to Bentley.

“It was ‘bring your daughter to work’ day,” she starts, voice muted and wobbly. “She’s with Clara and Sawyer all the time. Dom had meetings all day, so I took her to the club with me for rounds.” Her voice is weary and she’s still talking to Bentley. “She had to go to the bathroom. She never came back.” Pepper collapses to the couch, gripping her chest hard, ruining the fabric of her silk shirt. Mascara drips down her face, creating black streaks of self-hate.

“Tell me what happened next,” I prompt.

“Greta,” she sobs. “I’m trying. Where have you been? Why are you with Bentley? What the hell happened to your face!” she questions, finally noticing the oddity that is me and Bentley here together.

“Unimportant right now!” I shout, frustrated. “What. Happened. Next?” I try again. Bentley steps in between us.

“I can’t breathe.” She moans. Sawyer rushes from his spot to her.

“Baby, you have to. You have to stay calm.” His affection for her is endearing. His large hand softly caresses her tiny, pregnant belly. She nods at him. Silently, she counts to three, inhales, exhales, and counts again, repeating the process. She’s slipping into old patterns. My icy heart breaks for her.

“Greta, your bedside manner is seriously lacking,” Bentley quips. “Pepper, look at me.”

Her big, weepy, doe eyes turn to him. “I need every detail,” he softly urges, holding one of her hands.

“A letter caught my eye. It sat on top of the weeks’ worth of crap at my receptionist’s desk at the club office. Plain white envelope, my name and the address typed. Typed, not printed. I grabbed the envelope and tore it open, yanking out the note. Plain white stock paper, black ink. From a typewriter. Who the hell still has a typewriter these days? The words jumped off the page. ‘I will kill her. You can save her. You have forty-eight hours.’” Pepper’s voice crackles with tension. “I read the letter a hundred times, trying to chalk it up to a sick joke, some bastard playing games, but I couldn’t find Allie anywhere. Just outside the club on the sidewalk I found one shoe. Her
shoe
. She fought.” Her voice morphs into a sorrow-filled cry on the last word. Clara lets out a rage-filled scream. My insides grow cold. Hollow. I take a deep breath. My soul cries out at the injustice of it all. Bentley’s eyes darken in a way I’ve never witnessed before.

“Clint mentioned a cell phone,” Bentley says.

“Yeah. I gave her one for emergencies,” Sawyer answers, rolling his shoulders.

“Does it have GPS?” I ask.

“Christ. Fuck! Yes,” Sawyer yells. The room bursts into activity. Sawyer calls his carrier while Dominic fires up his laptop. Within ten minutes we’re able to see that Allie’s last location was Kentucky.

“They’ve crossed state lines.” Bentley sighs while texting his boss.

“They must have found the cell on her. The dot stopped moving just over the state line.”

“Oh God, she could be anywhere,” Clara screams.

“No. No, Clara, look at the map,” Dominic coos gently. “They’re headed for the new club. They left a note. They want Pepper. They want us to find them.”

I can’t sit and wait any longer. I cannot. I will not. I cannot stand by while Allie faces any similar atrocities to mine.

“I’m going to bring her home,” I state vehemently.

“Greta, what the hell are you talking about?” Dominic asks, genuine terror lacing his tone. And rightly so, for all he knows is that I’m a consultant. How on Earth would I be able to bring her home? I don’t care, though. All my secrets can be exposed if I save her innocence.

“Greta!” Bentley shouts as I strut to the door. I stop and turn to everyone in the room.

“I’m not who you think. I will bring her home. I will
kill
anyone in my way. Do you understand?” I say, my declaration firm.

I'm going to kill him. I will impale the son-of-a-bitch with a sharp blade through the heart. I'll strangle him with a sash cord. Torren Delanti is a dead man. I’m met with wide eyes, shocked expressions, and silence. Bentley whispers something in Clara’s ear. She nods and he jogs out the door behind me.

“You’re not prepared,” he yells as I rip open the car door. I pause, taking stock of his words. I’m not. Emotion is ruling me. I inhale slowly, deeply.

“I don’t care, Bentley. That little girl actually wormed her way inside my heart. My black, filthy heart. I will get her. I will not wait for protocol from your boss. I will not think about the questions I’ll have to answer afterwards from my
friends
. I will only think about Allie. She needs us. We’re capable. I’m going in.”

“Fuck, Greta, you’ll just put yourself between a bullet and a target! We need a plan,” he bellows.

“No. You need a plan.
I’m
getting in your car and leaving.”

“Might be hard with no keys,” he calls, dangling his keys in the air.

Hah. Fool.

I crawl into the driver’s seat and get to work. Under four minutes later the rental is purring and Bentley looks devilishly irritated with me.

“Maybe all one can do is hope to end up with the right regrets.
”―
Arthur Miller,
The Ride Down Mt. Morgan
“There are two brands of people in the world, people who chase after pleasure and people who run from pain. Pleasure aids forgetting. But pain forces you to have hope,” Greta rambles.

It’s adorable.

She’s unused to having deep, visceral responses to life situations. Her coping mechanism is anger, avoidance, and chatter. I remember those days. I remember not knowing fully how to properly relate to the outside world. I want Allie returned unharmed just as much as she does but I know we need a
plan
. We need to think this through. If we don’t, if anything happened to Allie because of her barging in, guns blazing, no one would emerge unscathed.

“Nobody gets to escape pain,” I answer. “It's there when you brush your teeth. It's there before your morning coffee. It attacks fiercely. You tell yourself it can't last.
The pain.
That today could be different. Today something just might change. It’s a lie, Greta. There is no such thing as miracles. Fate does not exist. There is no grand design your life follows. Hope is for the weak,” I say. For a moment, she’s silent.

“So what’s your motto then?” she asks.

“Pray for the best, but prepare for the worst,” I say, voice dripping with sarcasm. Her laugh fills the car, the kind of laugh that is as cynical as the words I just spouted at her.

“What do you have for weapons in the bag?” She changes the subject.

“Not enough for a full-blown gun fight. A couple Glocks, a flash grenade, stun gun. I think that’s it.”

“That’s plenty. Ammo?” she questions.

“All fully loaded. I might have a scope and rifle in the trunk still come to think of it.”

“Good. You know the club layout well right?” she asks.

“Yes. And can you access the cameras you installed?”

“How in the hell do you know about those?” I ask.

“I was watching you, remember?”

I ought to smack that coy grin right off her face but in all honesty, that coy grin makes me hard. She’s all business. Face set. Concentration on lockdown. Silently going over details.

It’s hot.

“We need to stop soon. Pick a hotel off the highway,” I command from the passenger seat. We’ve been driving for two hours now at least. My phone has been receiving text messages and phone calls at an alarming rate, yet I’ve ignored them all.

“No. We go straight through,” she states adamantly.

“Greta. I admire your determination but be the smart, calculating bitch I know you are. We need to plan this out. We need to strike when they aren’t expecting it,” I say. She huffs and focuses on the road.

“I don’t know how to sit on this. It’s not the same as my targets,” she admits after a few beats of silence.

“There was never a time you showed mercy to one? Never a time you
felt
?” I ask.

“Once. This one guy begged, ‘My wife. She has no idea. Please. Please, can you just make it look like an accident?’ he pleaded. Something in his eyes that I wasn’t familiar with made me want to appeal to some form of humanity. ‘Look out at the water,’ I told him. I wrapped a plastic bag over his head and granted his wish. Suffocation. No marks. No holes. No blood. An accident. An accident his wife could make sense of.” She finishes with a far-off look in her eyes. Her story isn’t exactly what I was going for.

“Greta,” I groan.

“What, Bent? Sometimes evil finds you no matter how idyllic your life seems.”

“Is that how you see yourself, as evil?” I push. She slams on the brakes and veers towards the exit. I jolt before slumping back in my seat.

“Don’t self-help me. You are not a therapist,” she snaps, pulling into a Wal-Mart parking lot.

“I’m going in there with you. I’m getting that little girl back and I’m making sure Pepper never has another damn thing to worry about outside of what to make for dinner, ever again.”

“What’s your deal with her?” she asks heatedly.

“What’s yours?” I fire back. An expression of disgust distorts her features.

She’s jealous. Greta Billings is jealous. I almost laugh.

“I need clothes,” she says matter-of-factly while putting the car in park.

“Right.”

The parking lot is a ghost town. It’s well past eleven at night. The store is scarce of people outside of employees. Greta walks with determination to the clothing section. Picking things seemingly randomly, she makes quick work of the store.

“Grab rope, zip ties, and a tarp,” she instructs.

“Why?” I ask.

“Why do you think, Bent, because for the time being I’m measuring my wealth in slain souls.” Cue my dick becoming painfully hard. All this time I wasted on women who were broken or soft when all I really wanted was someone who knew death, fear, and courage. Her skin flushes under my scrutiny of her. I look away, knowing the timing is way off.

I wander in the appropriate direction, wondering if this trip will be the one that ends my career.

Thirty minutes later we’re outside the car, trunk popped, inspecting our options. Missions usually don't involve personal feelings. This is different. It is my fault that a little girl is in danger of losing her life. I’ve been distracted by Greta.

I’ve abandoned my job.

I’ve let Pepper down.

The cold tip of a revolver kisses the back of my neck.
Hello
.

Greta smiles, but it fades slightly, her expression becoming pained.

“Bird?” I ask tentatively.

“Don't ‘bird’ me. You’re distracted. No matter what unjust, messed-up things you’re experiencing, self-pity is a dead-end road, Bentley. Stop taking on all the blame. I can see it in your eyes,” she says, dropping the gun to her side.

Anger and lust rush my system. She has no right to tell me how to feel. How to process this situation. Turning on her, I shove her until her back is pressed against the car door. She pushes back against me. Wrapping my arm around her lower back, I slide the fingers on my left hand through her hair at the nape of her neck while pulling her head toward mine. Her nostrils flare and her eyes flash irritation and desire. I have to have her. I physically need to taste her.

My anger dissipates, lust taking over fully. I kiss her. My fingers slide down her back, over her supple ass, and between her legs where I start caressing her. Her moans are lost in my mouth. Grabbing her new black jacket, I tear it from her shoulders.

My hand comes to her neck, wrapping my fingers and thumb around its slight form, pinning her head back to the car in a possessive chokehold. Taking a moment, I look into her eyes and see the hunger there. Lips crash, heavy breaths ensue, all the while keeping her in a firm grip. She grabs on to my shirt, clenching the fabric. Sinking my tongue into her mouth, I revel in her taste.

“Tell me how you feel,” I demand. She shakes her head, denying me. The tips of my fingers increase the pressure at her neck. “Because, bird, right now I think you’re being reactive rather than proactive. I think you need something to distract
you
from the situation at hand.” I crush my lips against hers again, swallowing her guilty scream.

The helplessness she feels rolls off her in thick waves. I let my hand drop between her breasts, trailing my finger lower and lower until the fire in her eyes is burning so brightly that I can’t contain myself a moment longer.

“In the back seat,” I growl into her luscious mouth. She scoffs but I won’t have it.

Turning her, I yank the door open and bend her in half. Her hands hit the back seat with a dull slap. Her perfect ass is begging me to touch it. With speed I didn’t know I possess, I unbuckle her jeans, letting them drop to her ankles and do the same to mine before slamming into her. Her cries of pleasure spur me on. Fisting her hair, I tug, using it as leverage along with a hand gripping her hip tightly enough to bruise. Her lips, hair, smile, touch, her kiss, that stare.
Damn
. This woman.

She has a little mole on her ass cheek that is instantly my favorite place on her body. Something I can see, know about, yet that’s hidden from everyone else.

“Bentley,” she screams into the leather seat. I explode inside her, feeling her walls clamp down on me like a vice grip. She keeps sliding up and down me as she comes, meeting me thrust for thrust. My cock pulses inside her until I feel my come spilling out and dripping down between our legs.

“Shit,” I mutter. “Hang tight.”

Angling myself over her, hand between her shoulder blades, I pull a handful of napkins from the center armrest. Pulling out fully, she shudders and I wipe her clean before cleaning myself and hauling my pants up my legs. Her face is flushed an intoxicating pink shade as she zips and buttons her pants, turning to face me.

Her hand strikes like lightning, slapping me hard across the cheek.