Trust (21 page)

Saw that fierce snarl falter, those sunken eyes widen just a little, a twitch of those sparse, almost nonexistent, eyebrows.

Saw a spit of red arc out from the side of his head.

And then the tall Russian slumped, like a melting candle, subsiding to the floor.

The gunshot rang in Dean’s ears. He’d swear he felt the air movement as the bullet passed his head, the heat; heard the whistle of its passage.

For a moment there he’d thought Owen was shooting at
him
, then the shot had been fired, he was still standing, and he twisted at the waist to see Putin crumpling to the ground, a bullet-hole between the eyes.

And he still didn’t get it.

Not until he turned back and saw the look in his older brother’s eyes. The pain. The torment.

“I’m sorry, bro’,” said Owen. “I fucked up. I fucked up big time.”

And then, only then, did all the pieces slot into place.

The Russians had known every detail of their plan. They’d always been several steps ahead.

They’d known everything because Owen had told them.

Dean looked into his brother’s eyes, and he felt a brief twitch – of the shoulder, of the arm, the hand that was still holding his pistol down at his side.

Owen saw that movement, gave a brief nod. He clearly wouldn’t have been surprised if Dean had given in to reflex at that moment. Wouldn’t have argued.

He deserved it.

Deserved everything that was coming.

Then, when nothing happened, he nodded at the gun in his own hand, said, “It’s theirs. The one Maliakov used to kill Hristov. The one they were going to make you fire so it had your fingerprints and you’d have its gunshot residue on your hand.”

He smiled, shrugged. “I guess it’s got
me
written all over it now, not you. Guess they got their Bailey.”

“But–”

“Go. Now, Dean. Get out. Just look out for Lee, okay? Keep him out of trouble. I’ll stay here. I’ll take the fall for everything. Just go.”

Dean was struggling to keep up. Owen had betrayed them. Set them up. But now... he’d just saved Dean’s life, and now he was willing to pay the price for everything.

It only lasted a few seconds, that exchange. A pause in proceedings, as Putin lay dead, Lee turned on Maliakov, another guy lay wounded on the ground and the other lay cowering behind the white Transit, perhaps even now training a gun on the two...

Then – a flash of action once again – Owen’s eyes flickered beyond his brother, Dean turned again, saw that Jess had escaped the fight cage and Timoshenko was advancing on her, looming over her, a pistol aimed at her chest.

Dean raised his own pistol, took split-second aim, and fired.

He took the recoil in locked wrist and forearm, his ears rung once more, and the tall Russian seemed suspended in the air as Dean’s bullet entered his left temple and exited the right.

§

Jess stood, frozen to the spot. Staring at the fallen Russian.

Her face had gone pale, her mouth a little open, her eyes wide.

Dean went to her.

He could have told her it wasn’t going to be pretty. None of it. The Russians were brutal, ruthless, and the Bailey Boys weren’t exactly angels, either.

Arm across her shoulders, he ushered her back towards the shelter of the fight cage.

There were still at least two Russians alive by the van – one wounded, the other hiding – and Lee and Maliakov were busy re-enacting their fight from earlier in the week. This time Lee wasn’t holding back. Another fist landed with a meaty crunch, and Jess flinched in Dean’s arms.

“It’s okay,” Dean said, chin against the top of her head, very aware that his gun hand was resting between her shoulder blades, ready for use. “Everything’s going to be okay. Just give it a few... more... seconds...”

Movement, over by the white Transit.

At first he thought it was one of the Russians, but no: a door had opened and dark figures appeared, armed police in body armor covering each other as they burst through.

“Police!” a voice bellowed, amplified from outside.

Now more dark figures appeared in the passageway by the office, and others scrambled through the hole Dean’s Renault had made in the wall.

Jess was peering up at Dean now, question in her eyes.

Dean shrugged, then pointed towards the loading bay door which was now rolling up. DI Reuben Glover strolled through.

Dean smiled. “Old loyalties,” he said. “Reuben and I have had our differences, but he’s a good ’un. And he owes me. When I worked out that we’d been out-flanked, I gave him a call. Told him I was going after Putin. I knew he’d never let me do that alone.”

As they watched, Owen stepped forward, hands up. “It’s me you want, Reuben,” he said. “It’s me who’s responsible for all this.”

Jess had softened in Dean’s arms, melding against him. “What now?” she said.

“Like I always say, you have to know when to walk away,” said Dean. He stepped back, taking Jess’s hand, and added, “And right now I reckon is a very good time to walk.”

§

The three emerged into bright sunlight. Dean, Jess, Lee.

It was uncanny.

After a brief exchange with Reuben it was as if they no longer existed.

Ghosts.

It was amazing what old favors and a van full of untraceable cash could buy. As Dean’s old man had always told him, you could get an awfully long way on loyalty and other people’s greed.

All around, the police scurried about, marching the surviving Russians out in cuffs, searching the Bluebell gym, bagging the money.

And Dean, Jess and Lee simply walked clear.

Out into the yard, the bins still lined up against one wall, the rubbish drifted like autumn leaves.

Out into an alleyway that ran along the back of the row of shops.

Out into the street. Just a normal day, with people milling about, traffic crawling past, a ragged pigeon pecking in the gutter.

They walked.

“Will you just give me a hand?” Jess said, after a short time.

Dean glanced across at her.

She was lagging behind, struggling to keep up. Had he really been walking that fast?

And then he saw the bag slung across her shoulder.

She followed his look, smiled, said, “You going to give a girl a hand? This stuff’s surprisingly heavy, you know.”

And so he reached for the bag of money, a grin stealing over his face and transforming his features. Taking the strap, he drew her towards him, and finally he felt free.

I lay in a tangle of sheets, hot and aching for all the right reasons.

A couple of weeks had passed and things had begun to settle. The heist had been reported in the press as an internal feud in an East European gang, and a certain Detective Inspector Reuben Glover had been praised for raiding the gang’s East London headquarters and making some key arrests. The Bailey Boys had ducked out of sight, and even Owen had managed to avoid getting rounded up – it appeared that Reuben’s loyalties had held true through all this, after all.

The cash from that hold-all I’d lifted from the Bluebell gym was now safely distributed among a set of new bank accounts, accompanied by some of the money I’d taken from the family property business before handing what remained over to Maureen. She’d been running it for years, anyway.

In fact, Dean and I had become proper little Robin Hoods, handing over the reins to our various business interests, giving it all back to the people who actually ran them, and just making sure we had enough left for a bit of security for the two of us and Lee.

We were, as Dean so succinctly put it, sorted.

I opened my eyes and Dean was standing beside the bed, looking down at me and smiling. It was perhaps the most contented look I’d seen on his face, and it suited him well.

He was naked, just come back from the en suite bathroom in this chain hotel that could have been anywhere.

Like that smile, naked wasn’t a bad look on him either.

I let my gaze roam down his body, spare and lean, tough and sculpted.

He was responding again, so soon. Lengthening, filling out, becoming hard.

I met his look.

“So where’s it to be?” he asked. “Paris? Monte Carlo? Spain? The West Indies? Vegas, baby? We’re going to be all right, you and me. Trust me.”

I raised an eyebrow at that, allowed the pause to draw itself out, before finally saying, “Never trust a man who says ‘trust me’.”

His smile broadened.

“Maybe,” he said. “But you’ll at least give me a chance, right?”

§

There was one more thing to do before we left.

We pulled up in the graveled parking area to the side of the big red-brick house. Dean wasn’t used to traveling passenger-seat in my Mini yet, and he’d spent most of the journey reminding me of that, but it was a lot lower profile than his BMW and if there was one thing that was important right now it was keeping a low profile.

I was nervous. Not convinced this was a good thing at all, but Granddad had wanted to see us both before we left.

I should have known it would be okay, though.

Should have known Dean would work his charm.

We found them sitting out in the garden, enjoying the late spring warmth.

Granddad leapt to his feet immediately, sprightly as ever. He came across, hugged me hard and I knew all along he was eyeing up Dean.

“Granddad – Dean.”

The two shook hands.

“You’re going to look after her, aren’t you?” he said.

Dean nodded. “Always.”

And Granddad nodded, satisfied.

“Eddie? That you, love?”

Dean went across to her, sat in the seat Granddad had vacated, took her hand in both of his.

He shook his head. “No, darling. Not Eddie. I’m Dean. Eddie’s grandson. You knew Eddie a long, long time ago, didn’t you?”

She looked briefly puzzled, then smiled, said, “Eddie and me. We were engaged. We were... You’re his grandson? Where’s Eddie?”

“Eddie’s not with us any more. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” The word was like a sigh.

This time tomorrow – Hell, maybe even in ten minutes – she might not remember this, but for now she understood.

“Was he happy?”

Dean nodded again. “Very,” he told her. “Lived to seventy-six. A son and a daughter. Three grandsons: me, Owen and Lee. He was a good man, my granddad.”

At that point,
my
granddad leaned closer to me as we stood watching, and said, “She gets it. She’s happy. I knew this was the right thing.”

I slipped an arm around his waist and squeezed.

“You all sorted, love?”

I nodded. “I am,” I said. “We are.”

Would I ever get used to talking in the plural like that?

Us
.

We
.

“You know where you’re going? No, don’t tell me. I don’t need to know. I’ve always liked Spain, myself, but maybe that’s too old school. All the old villains end up in Spain. The Costa Del Crime.”

“Dean’s old school,” I said. “He’s a gentleman, underneath it all.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

They were chatting away now, Dean and Grandma. Thick as thieves.

“You got the passports, okay?”

I nodded again. “Thanks for that.” Sometimes it was handy having a grandfather who still had one or two underworld contacts. Fake passports and papers to go with those nicely stuffed bank accounts.

“I’ve got the passports,” I said. “I’ve got the cash. And I’ve got the kind-of-reformed gangster to run away with.”

Granddad looked at me, smiled, and said, “Well what you waiting for, eh?”

I nodded towards Dean, and said, “Him. If he’ll ever stop talking.”

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www.pollyjadams.com/about.php

Writing under other names, PJ Adams is a successful novelist, with several novels published by major publishing houses and optioned for movies. As PJ Adams, she writes in the genre closest to her heart, erotic romance – love stories with that added heat, including the international bestsellers
Black Widow
,
Winner Takes All
and
The Object of His Desire
. Working as Polly J Adams, she writes best-selling erotica, relationship stories crammed full of explicit sex. Among Polly's most popular stories are the Girls’ Club series, and
Wings of Desire
, the story of a young woman's relationship with the wealthy owner of a New England sex club.

You can find out more about Polly and her writing on
her website
, on
http://www.facebook.com/pollyjadamswriter
and on Twitter
as @PollyJAdams
.

Two years ago Eleanor Dryton lost her husband, her job and her friends.
She lost everything about her old life that ever mattered to her.
All she had left were her will and a burning desire for revenge.
Now, El has served her time for being an unknowing partner in her murdered husband's crimes. Her prison sentence has toughened her up and she's learned that she can be
bad
.
But when her search for revenge leads her to a man who takes bad to a completely different level just how far is she willing to go? If prison has hardened her, what effect will the man who killed her husband have? And does she even have any control over what happens next?
A dark and disturbing romantic thriller from the bestselling author of
Winner Takes All
and
The Object Of His Desire
.
--Author's Note--
This is a dark romance novel. It contains themes of violence and mature situations that could make readers uncomfortable.
Goodreads reviews:
"This story is dark and twisted. I liked it."
"My fave part is the ending. Not because the book was over, but because of the huge twist. I won't give it away, but BRAVA Ms. Adams."
"I had a hard time putting this one down..."
"Wow... Just wow! It was 'dark & twisty', kept me hooked and had plot twists that keep you guessing! Kudos to PJ Adams, I loved this book & would definitely recommend!"

Black Widow
is available from:
Amazon.com
,
Amazon.co.uk
and other Amazon stores.