The Token (#10): Shepard (4 page)

I must black out because when I wake, the gun is on the ground by me and Shepard is beating the guy I kicked in the nuts. He's super thorough about it, pounding the shit out of him.

I blink and reach for the gun.

And Shepard kicks it just out of reach.

I blink again.

When I wake next, I'm not at the depot. I'm in a place I don't know. Cold sinks its teeth into my bones as I survey my unfamiliar environment.

My backpack sits on a chair not too far from where I find myself lying on a couch. My neck and head hurt like hell, but my eyes move to my pack, where my whole life is. My ID, my wallet, my keys—everything.

Inhaling deeply, I sort of tip and roll myself off the couch and land in an ungraceful pile on the floor. The rough landing jars my head, and my eyeballs feel as if they're going to fall out of my skull.

I take more deep breaths. Zen ones.

I hiccup back my humor—there's no space in my brain for that. I can't afford it. I have to pee pretty bad and chance a glance at the windows, trying to gauge the time. Orient myself.

Solid-wood slatted shades are closed to the outside. A soft darkness fills the space. Okay. I crawl toward my pack. I'm getting out of wherever I am.

I know I'm not with Hugo because the memory of his death fills my skull. And the other guy got a taste of Shepard. I didn't see his end, but I don't even bother to guess.

I know.

There's a certain
finish
that this Shepard dude seemed to bring.

Finally I get to the chair that holds my pack. I wrap my shaking fingers around the straps and drag it to me. It's empty. Just a shell remains.

Fuck.
The first angry tear drains out of my eye.

“Do not,” a disembodied voice says from behind me.

I know that voice. Unforgettable. Shifting my body, I clutch the backpack against my chest while wet rage streams down my face. “I won't say anything, just let me go,” I state in a low, controlled voice.

I've never meant something more. If Shepard knew what I'd lived, he'd believe me.

He shakes his head, and I see him clearly for the first time. Without adrenaline. Without fear clouding the forward part of my brain.

Shepard is a beautiful man.

Deadly.

“Who are you?” I ask in a whisper, my palms damp.

He spreads his elegant and powerful hands away from his body. “The man who saved you.”

A terrible truth.

Shepard

My eyes dispassionately linger over the cherry.

I cannot help my automatic assessment. She is tall but not to the point of oddity. And exotic—even for an American. The countrymen—and women—of the United States are so diverse at this point that true exoticism is lost.

But not so with her.

La famille
thought to recruit me by setting up a meeting wherein I was placed in the position of acquisition of this cherry.

Not badly thought out, as plans go.

However poorly executed. On many occasions, I have made my stance known.

Roi, French for “king,” is no longer. A bullet from an American lawman ended his wretched existence forever, a fact that makes me most glad. Most.

The cherry and I stare at each other, her fetching slate-gray eyes glaring hard into my own.

She has a sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and large eyes. Eyes that crackle their hate at me.

I begin to smile, and she crosses her arms.

Her best feature may be the huge knot of kinky golden curls raked into a makeshift bun at the crown of her head.

I cannot decide which part of her I like the best.

She is lush. Vital. Combative.
A perfect cherry.

La famille
chose well. But they should not have chosen in my backyard. They were merely being greedy.

And at nearly thirty-two, I understand greed. Intimately.

My message of tolerance has been delivered. I will
not
tolerate. The man who accompanied their low-level handler will run back to
la famille
and tattle, bearing tales of how the legendary Shepard has killed two of theirs.

Lowering my chin, I steeple my fingers beneath my jaw. I see exactly what they want in this one.

She is fire incarnate. Her intellect shines in eyes like a storm that threatens. Lush curves distract a male's eye, while a temper is blood smoldering under skin.

I like her.

Perhaps too much.
Have I saved a cherry before Juliette? I know I have not.

Juliette reminded me of my mother. Now dead.

This female does not.

My mother was dark.

This young woman is light. If she smiled, I think she would be the angel so many religions around the world speak of. She has a lacy, light halo of hair and large, almond-shaped gray eyes. Smoke and gold. “Who are you?” I ask, turning her question back to her.

“I'm Marissa, as I'm sure you're aware. I expect to be released. And I want my things back.”

I
did
know. I was to meet
la famille's
representative and give the pat answer of
non
. Yet again. Instead I have killed their liaison and will be sought even harder.

Marissa stands, and I say nothing of the fine tremble I caused. A hit like the one I executed would make a man tremble. This female is finely fashioned. Too bad she has been fingered by my former organization.

Once marked, always marked.

“I am Shepard.”

She frowns, a wrinkle marring the lovely perfection between her eyes.

“That's a weird name.”

Not for my role
, though I do not comment.

“You're not a chatty guy.”

“I speak when necessary.”

Marissa smirks. “I bet.” Her eyes drift around my sparse dwelling and come back to me. “Not a big decorator.”

I shake my head.

“Why did you kill that guy, Hugo?” she asks suddenly.

“He is a French mobster,” I reply in the most succinct way possible. They were not subtle in their acquisition attempt, so I see no reason to mince words.

Marissa laughs a guttural bark from her stomach.

My smile flashes to life again.

“What bullshit is
that
?”

My grin vanishes as fast as it appeared. “It is not bullshit.”

Marissa's eyes tighten, and her lovely, full lips pucker, then she rolls the bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing lightly.

My eyes track the gesture, uncomfortable tightness stretching my pants from the tiny, sultry maneuver. The gesture is unstudied, making it even more attractive.

I shift my weight. “Hugo is low on the totem pole but a useful scout for
la famille
.”

She snorts. “Was.”

I nod.

Her brow knots again. “A mobster—like mafia?”

I incline my head again.

Marissa slowly lowers herself on the couch. “Why do they want me? Why did he ask me if I knew other languages besides French and English?”

My jaw clenches, badly hiding my surprise. I did not know they were obtaining half-trained girls. And as old as this girl.

Roi would have never marked a girl older than sixteen or seventeen. Why a girl well over—I search her thoroughly once again—twenty would be of interest escapes me.

Delegates typically have a taste for very young flesh.

“I do not know why they have marked you,” I admit and pace away from her for a moment. With a flick of my wrists, I jerk the slatted blinds to half-mast. Bright sunlight streams inside in swordlike swaths of heat.

Marissa squints with the sudden illumination.

“You are too old, and training would be difficult, if not impossible. You
are
exotic—and a virgin?” My eyebrow rises in question.

Her rough exhale lifts a loose gold curl out of her face. “None of your fucking business.”

The heat of my temper fires off, and I find myself momentarily defaulting to my former role, making my hands into ready fists. “Your mouth is atrocious.”

She lifts a shoulder in cool dismissal, her eyes flicking to my hands.

I know a virgin when I see one. “You are untouched.
La famille
knew that fact through their own means. I know it by instinct.” I give a small hike of my chin.

“Right.” She rolls her pewter-colored eyes. “You're an arrogant man. Now, I won't lie, I
am
curious. But I want to
leave
more than I care.”

My patience is tenuous. “They will try for you again.”

Marissa stands, hooking a finger through her small black pack. “I want to go. Give me my things, and you don't have to deal with me anymore.”

Absolution,
my mind whispers. “You stay with me and you might be safe.”

Indignation sweeps her features. “I can take care of myself.”

Am I that repugnant?

I think briefly of all the harm I've accomplished against others and clasp my hands from the tight fists—switching tactics. “Like you took care before Hugo nearly laid his hands on you?”

Silence.

“You are an impressive specimen.”

A disgusted exhale shoots out of her, and her molten mercury gaze slices my face with her emotions.

“But you
are
female, and
la famille
maintains no scruples with regard to the fairer sex.” I sweep my palm toward the kitchen countertop to indicate the things she arrived with.

Marissa moves cautiously past me and gives the pack a yank of the zipper and sweeps inside of it a large book, glass bottle, and keys with a fob.

Her cell phone, which I've thoroughly hacked, she picks up last.

I have all her information. I downloaded her birth and driving records. I know where Marissa Augustine lives—works.

I've not studied the information yet to find the pattern of what makes her a mark. A cherry on American soil.

I will find out.

It is too much a coincidence that
la famille
has marked someone in America, of all places, and that mark happens to live in the same city as myself.
Oui.

“Where am I?”

“Kent.”

Marissa folds her arms beneath her ample breasts. “Duh. Where
inside
of Kent am I?”

I evade the question. “I will blindfold you and take you to your home.”

“No.”

My brows sweep together. I remember hitting cherries for speaking unless permission was given. Instead, my voice comes out like a low purr. “Do you wish to leave?”

She frowns. “Of course.”

Marissa speaks as though I am a coarse fool.

“You're most ungrateful. I have saved your life.”

“And murdered someone—”

“—who deserved not to live.”

Marissa's frown becomes a scowl.

A difficult point to refute.

“Fine. I can't argue that.”

Précisément.
“I will explain as I take you to your home.”

She retreats a step.

My lips curl at her unconscious withdrawal. Somewhere, in the depths of Marissa, the primal part of self-preservation is finally taking notice of me. Good, that is good.

“How do you know where I live?” Her voice is soft.

I lift my shoulder while maintaining my intense eye contact. I've found direct staring to be more effective than any spoken words. “I know everything about you.”

“I don't trust you.”

Smart girl.
“That is wise. However, I have no reason to bring you to harm.”

“Okay,” she says with obvious suspicion.

We leave the way we came.

*

“Hugo takes girls to make them mules for
la famille,
” I explain needlessly. Though for reasons unknown, I feel an almost irresistible compulsion to connect with this woman.

I turn to look at Marissa, and she seems to sense my movement and her head swivels to face me, though the blindfold hides her expressive eyes.

“What's a mule?”

She cannot see the tension that sings through my body. Perhaps she feels the pause before my words. “It is a woman who runs drugs by inserting the product inside her vagina.”

I sense the disgust coming off her in waves.

“I would never put
anything
in me for anyone.”

My lips curl. “If they threatened your family, perhaps?”

“I don't have a family,” she admits in a low voice.

Ah.
We are finally getting somewhere.

She tilts her head. “Is it because I can speak French?”

“That must be part of it. However, all mules will transport, kill, and sex the clients. They must also know the etiquette and languages of the men they will serve in any of those capacities.”

“I—I'm not the right girl for that.”

I chuckle. She appears to be exactly the right girl.
La famille
does not choose randomly.

“This isn't funny. You killed this guy who was sent to kidnap me. And you're telling me they were going to groom me to be this multilingual badass assassin chick who carries drugs and screws whoever? Here? In America.
Pfft
.” Her fingers spread against her chest, and my eyes linger on the pulse that thrums in the hollow of her throat.

A place I always wanted to kiss on a woman and could never allow myself to. Too tender.

I force my glance away at a street sign, see the one that marks her street, and use it. I find a stall and turn the engine off.

The ticking of the motor cooling is like clinking ice inside shared cocktails.

I do not wish to alarm her but to warn. It is a fine line. “I am troubled about the American component.”

Her hand falls on the door handle. “What do you mean?”

“When I was part of
la famille
, we took girls who would not be missed, in countries that were blind to such practices.”

Marissa lifts the edge of the blindfold, sees that we are inside her parking area, and tosses the dark cloth at me. Golden curls with the barest kink cascade around her shoulders and down her back.

I have never fucked a blond,
I muse indifferently. Or an American. I find I very much want to. The novelty appeals.

I catch the blindfold easily, the corners of my lips twitching with my thoughts.

“Nice reflexes.”

I shrug. Sometimes my speed has been all that saved me from death.

“You say
you
took girls.”

I nod, my chest tight, as my erotic thoughts instantly fade.
So many girls.

“So you're as bad as them?” Marissa manages to ask through her shock.

I hesitate for a few seconds. “Yes.”

“That's why you told me I was wise not to trust you.”