Who Knows the Dark (3 page)

It was just a flicker of movement when Cade stepped close to the bed to get his boot; he realized Nox hadn’t been asleep at all. An act, pretending so he could… what? Watch Cade?

A knot formed in Cade’s stomach; he moved faster after that, eager to remove himself from scrutiny. He disappeared into the bathroom with his clothes and a tiny grooming kit, raced through a whore’s bath—enough water to clean off the come and layer of sweat permeating his skin—and dressed before he headed out to the main space.

For somewhere quiet and safe to freak the fuck out.

The galley of the yacht wasn’t huge, but it was sufficient and reasonably stocked with a few perishables and a great many cans; the first mate had showed Cade where everything was and how to operate the cooktop the night before, when they’d all wearily eaten lukewarm soup before tumbling into bed.

“It started with a letter,” he muttered to himself, as he made too much bacon and turned every slice of bread into overbuttered toast. “A stupid letter, because I couldn’t say no.”

He could regret it—saying yes to Mr. White’s request, going back again to confirm his suspicions about his mysterious client “Patrick Mullens”—but something about his involvement in this hot mess felt like…

Predestination.

It was a word he would never say aloud to anyone, but in his bones, he felt it. Whatever the outcome of this crazy ride—which would most likely end with him in an early grave—it felt meant to be.

A fucked-up fairy tale.

“Morning.”

Cade turned to find Rachel in the doorway, dressed uncharacteristically casual in black jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt, her long red hair in a braid over one shoulder. She was familiar—comforting in a way, even if Nox bristled and growled every time she breathed. Whatever her sins of the past, it was because of her they had been able to save Sam and get out of the Iron Butterfly alive.

“Hey. Please tell me you like bacon and carbs.”

“If there’s coffee, I’ll like anything.”

Cade gestured toward the oversized coffee machine currently chugging its way through the last stages of brewing.

“Far be it from me to minimize our current dire situation, but I already miss room service,” Rachel said lightly as she leaned against the counter to watch Cade put the last of the greasy bacon on the platter.

He snorted in response. “Room service, heat, my closet at the Butterfly.” His heart squeezed a little as he thought about Killian, his friend and dresser, and the other people he’d worked with for the past few years. How many of them were dead in the rubble of the casino back in the District?

Rachel seemed to recognize his frown, her own face softening in response. “Maybe we can ask Damian to access a list of who….”

Cade was already shaking his head. He didn’t want to know names, connect them to the faces of friends and coworkers. He could barely keep it together as it was.

“I just wish I knew where Alec disappeared to,” he murmured.

Rachel turned to unhook the pot from the coffee machine. “He left,” she said, her voice back to its usual cool take-no-prisoners tone. “He took off before everything went down.”

Cade picked up the platter and exhaled. “We both know that’s not true, Rachel.”

Resolutely Cade walked to the table to place their makeshift breakfast in the center. There was already a stack of small plates and napkins, and the small container of jam from the yacht’s refrigerator. It would have to do until they arrived in South Carolina.

Another thing he didn’t want to think about.

“What do you think happened, then?” Rachel asked from behind him. She came to the table, coffee mug in hand.

“You lied and said he was working when he wasn’t….”

“Trying to keep Zed off his back.”

Cade shook his head. “No one had seen him for over a week, he didn’t answer his phone, his apartment was cleared out.”

“Right. He left. I tried to cover for him, to see if he’d come back, but he didn’t. Not even a call.” Rachel sat down on one of the two padded benches flanking the table. If Cade closed his eyes, they were back in her office, Rachel strong and in control and Cade hoping to stay on her good side.

But his eyes were open, and gratitude didn’t mean obedience, not now.

“That’s not really your style, Rachel,” Cade murmured, looking her right in the eye.

She tilted her chin, defiant and poised, even as a fugitive, even plunked down in the middle of the ocean, sans makeup and security guards.

“I covered for you, my love, many times.” She exaggerated cocking her head to one side, as if examining him. “Alec had a big mouth, which tended to get him in trouble. He asked the wrong questions of the wrong people.”

Cade’s breath wavered.

“I told him he might reconsider his working and living arrangements and not leave a forwarding address.”

“He wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye to me,” Cade said softly. “We were too good friends.”

Rachel dropped her gaze to her coffee mug and gripped the white porcelain sides. “Cade, you have a great deal to learn about loyalty.”

Before Cade could respond, he heard shuffled footsteps behind him.

“God, is that coffee?” Damian moaned.

Once upon a time, Cade would have been dodging Damian and his angry scowl, afraid of the consequences of a bad night or complaining customer. Now, he poured a cup of coffee for a middle-aged, round-shouldered Korean man who was just as homeless as he was.

They sat around the little table, picking at the bacon and toast in between cups of coffee. It felt like old times—if old times didn’t include Damian existing three feet away from Zed, or Rachel in one of her sexy get-ups, slinking all over the floor like the administrative siren of hell.

“What happened at the Butterfly?” Cade finally asked when he couldn’t manage one more piece of greasy, singed meat. He threw a crust of bread on his used napkin, then looked at his two former supervisors in turn.

Neither would meet his gaze.

“Alec
left
.” Cade emphasized the second word sarcastically. “Those men showed up with Sam…. I’m not so naive to think there wasn’t organized crime in the District, but at the Butterfly—that wasn’t how we operated, at least not out in the open.” He exhaled loudly even as he dropped his voice. “They killed Zed. Why? We all knew he had less than savory connections—did he suddenly change his opinions on working with fellow criminals?”

Rachel and Damian had a wordless conversation, one that left Damian ruthlessly shredding his napkin onto the tabletop.

“About a year ago, some men showed up to talk to Zed. He wasn’t very happy to see them,” Damian muttered. “They wanted a larger cut, for protection and….” He darted a brown-eyed gaze to Rachel, then Cade. “They wanted him to start distributing from the casino.”

Cade frowned. “Distributing what?”

“Drugs, darling. More specifically Dead Bolt. Make it available to the guests.” Rachel lifted and dropped her shoulders. “Add it to the menu, as it were.”

“Are you kidding me?” Cade tried to imagine their clients high on that crap, euphoric, and then the ugly fallout—well, at the very least he’d heard the stories and seen the results, usually under a tarp in the alleys around the less stringently controlled casinos. “And he said no?”

“He said maybe—and show me my cut of the money,” Rachel repeated the man’s quip. “They balked, he refused, and then all of a sudden….”

“Bomb threats,” Cade said suddenly, as things clicked into place.

“Bomb threats. A lack of the police protection we previously enjoyed. Zed agreed to a smaller cut to get his security back, but he didn’t want the drugs
in
his casino. Not around his people.” Rachel leaned back, then ran her fingers through the ends of her pale red braid, and twisted the hairs almost absentmindedly. “He knew where it would lead and, well, I don’t think he wanted the temptation for himself.”

With a sharp sound of frustration, Cade finished the dregs of his cold coffee. “So they killed him, took over the Butterfly, and blew it up? Why bother? They could have just kept it. Done what they wanted after he was dead.”

“It’s the—was also the—smallest casino on the strip.” Damian stroked his temple as if to soothe a headache. “Maybe they made it an example. This is what happens when you don’t do what we say. We aren’t afraid to do what we want.” He shrugged. “That’s my guess at least.”

“I still wonder…,” Rachel began, then stopped, lips pursed.

“What?” Cade eyed her shrewdly. Rachel didn’t wonder anything—she knew, and if you were lucky she shared the information.

“The text I got, to send us to the restaurant. We wouldn’t have found you otherwise.”

Damian piped up immediately. “I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe it was one of the employees—you know there had to be spies. Someone afforded us the same courtesy you gave Alec.” He gestured toward Cade. “And him.”

“Hmmm” was all Rachel contributed to that scenario.

“Convenient,” Cade muttered. The information flooded his already overwhelmed brain as he tried in vain to make the right connections.

His nerve endings jangled with too much everything—stress and adrenaline and memories and threats yet to come. He stood up abruptly, plates clattering.

“I’m going to… uh… I’m going to talk to the captain. See what’s happening,” he said.

“Shouldn’t our great protector be doing that?” Rachel asked, all big eyes and faux frown.

“He’s sleeping,” Cade said. “And he earned it.”

Desperate for some fresh air, he left them sitting at the table.

C
ADE
SAT
on the cold deck, regretting wearing only a sweater as the wind whipped by. The captain assured him everything was fine. There might be an edge of a storm to get through farther out to sea, but they were on point to arrive sometime after midnight.

And no, no one seemed to be following them.

Instead of going back downstairs, Cade settled in and watched the increasingly choppy gray water.

“Hey, Cade?”

He turned to find Mason Todd standing behind him, smartly dressed for the weather in a heavy jacket and knit cap, hands shoved in his pockets, pale and looking like a frightened teenager.

“Yeah. Hi.” Cade shaded his eyes as the sun burned behind Mason’s broad-shouldered form. “What do you need?”

“I talked to the captain….”

Cade smirked. “Me too. He must be really enjoying all the paranoid cops and nosy hookers on board.”

Mason shrugged. “I’m sure he doesn’t care so long as the cash is in his pocket.”

Cade’s neck was starting to hurt, so he patted the deck next to him. “Have a seat.”

Mason settled down beside him, folding his long body next to Cade’s. They sat in silence until Mason coughed awkwardly.

“So—quite a ride,” Mason said while Cade leaned back on his elbows. It was a yacht; maybe he’d just pretend he was on a vacation and not fleeing from prosecution and people trying to kill him.

“You could say that.”

Mason wrapped his arms around his knees; sometimes Cade forgot the rookie was barely twenty years old and clearly fueled by White Knight Syndrome.

“Regrets?” Cade asked, because he was curious. And because he didn’t assume everyone was as crazy as he was.

When Mason didn’t speak for a few long moments, Cade worried that the answer would be yes, and while Nox would be delighted, Sam would be heartbroken. And frankly Cade didn’t want that kid any sadder or more disappointed.

“No,” Mason murmured finally. “I took a solemn oath to uphold the law and I… I don’t think that’s what I was doing in the city. I was just allowing the wrong people to stay in power.”

Cade felt the motion of the boat under his body; it was strangely relaxing. He watched the squalls on the water and felt the bite of the wind against his skin, stinging from the cold water, the briny smell of the ocean. “And now? What do you think you’re going to do?”

A tiny shrug was all he got.

I feel ya, kid
, Cade thought.

N
OX
WOKE
up with a start.

He remembered falling asleep for what felt like a moment after the distraction of Cade’s body and his own orgasm, but it hadn’t lasted long.

Now he lay awake with his eyes shut, trying to find a place to rest his mind. When Cade woke up, Nox hid behind the illusion of sleeping, hoping to avoid conversation.

Whatever Cade wanted to know, it was fairly certain Nox didn’t have an answer for him.

Blankets tangled around his waist, Nox pulled himself upright, blinking in the light streaming through the high round window of the cabin wall.

The moment of hazy respite ended as his panic spiked back into action. How long had he slept? Gripping the sheets, Nox listened. The boat continued to move, albeit a bit rougher than last night, and there was neither silence nor chaos above deck. The smell of coffee and slightly burned bacon wafted in from under the door, and voices were heard moving close and then far away. A wash of something—shame? Embarrassment?—drove him to move quickly. Sleeping so late and so soundly was at complete odds with his usual habits.

Nox tumbled out of bed, skin pebbling from the coolness. He found a stack of clothes that weren’t his—jeans, a black turtleneck, socks—on top of his boots, and everything else he’d been wearing before bed gone. His other weapons were tucked into his shoes, his gun unmoved from the mattress.

Cade had apparently done some housekeeping.

Cade.

The young man’s presence in his life had been necessary these past few weeks. He couldn’t have ever imagined needing help, but Cade was there—getting Sam out of jail and then helping Nox rescue him from the Iron Butterfly.

And the rest….

He didn’t have any excuse for how far he had dropped his guard since he first laid eyes on Cade Creel.

Dressed after a quick washup in the adjoining bathroom, where a tiny men’s grooming kit had awaited him, Nox breathed in and settled his jangling nerves as he opened the door.