Wynter's Horizon (31 page)

“Mother fucker,” she yelled.
How dare he!
Anger coursed through her, and she charged him, the wallet forgotten. He blocked her assault, flinging her to the wall. She bounced off.
How?
She tried again and he threw her down the other way. Stepping closer with only a foot apart, he smiled crookedly.

“Girl, we can do this all day. Give me my bloody wallet.”

She reached in her pocket and threw it at him as hard as she could, glaring. He caught it mid-throw, eyes firmly planted on her. She sucked her breath in. She knew how hard and fast she threw that. He opened it and glanced through.

“With the money.”

Lifting her chin, she brushed her deep red hair back from her face. He was better looking up close, light brown eyes, a nicely sculpted face. He could have been a model staring at her from a magazine. She didn’t care. She could beat this guy. He was the mark, not her.

“Forget it.”

He stepped forward, closing the space between them. The air between them almost sizzled.
Don’t get distracted
, she admonished herself.

“I will take it by force if I have to,” he warned. “It’s my money, and I want it.”

“I thought you didn’t fight girls, pretty boy,” she taunted.

He was on her in a second. Shrieking, she kicked him as hard as she could, following with a strong uppercut. He fell backward but then grabbed her and pushed her back against the wall, pinning her there with unbelievable strength as he fumbled through her pockets.
Fuck him.
Using all her might, she upended his legs. He hit the ground and she followed, pouncing on him to keep her advantage. He was quick, though, and they rolled there before he threw her off.

Grinning, he stood, the fifty pounds clutched in his hand. She raised herself up, smiling equally as triumphant. She held his watch up.
“Who are you?” He sounded awe struck and she smiled to herself.

“Lilly,” she answered, still dangling his watch from her fingers.

“I’m Beck.”

She nodded curtly at his outstretched hand. She didn’t trust anyone.

“You’re good.” He added.

“Yes,” she replied, staring through him.

“Do you work for someone?”

She shook her head.

“Train?”

“Huh?”

“For your abilities. You’re not the only one like you. There’s a bunch of us. We train.”

She shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“Are you sure? Come home with me.”

She thought about this for a moment. “I don’t do that. But you couldn’t afford me if I did.”

He laughed, “I don’t have to pay for sex.” Her anger boiled up. She turned quickly to leave, but he grabbed her arm. She felt the heat between them again.

“I’m sorry. Stop.”

“Why?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

“You’re better than this. I can get you in with us. Good food. Good place to live. You don’t have to be alone. There’s many who are … freaks like me and you.”

“I’m not a freak,” she answered coolly, straightening her jacket and smoothing the back of her wild hair. He just watched her, and then he smiled, slowly, one side of his mouth curling upward. Her knees turned to jelly.

***

Even now, ten years later, she wasn’t sure if she had gone because of her interest in him or because he’d said she’d be taken care of. She’d wanted to know what it felt like to have a bed and food and not worry about where it was coming from. Besides his lips were delicious looking, especially with that angular jaw and stubble.

But he had lied. In the beginning, she had gotten food and a warm place to sleep. They had even taught her new fighting techniques, trained her in the use of weapons, and exposed her to gifts she hadn’t known she had.

She’d stayed for a year and, in that time, had fallen hard for Beck. Every night they met. His kisses were soft and deep, stirring in her a passion like never before. She gave herself to him readily, knowing he felt that same electricity. And, afterward, naked and exposed and lying in each other’s arms, she had told him about her life—about losing her parents and living on the streets, evading the authorities that only wanted to put her in foster homes.

But then the problems came. She didn’t know why she started collecting the weapons and bombs. She just remembered sneaking off one day with one and after that she couldn’t stop. It was just protection. To make sure they didn’t control her. After a while, though, it became an obsession. She couldn’t stop taking them or thinking about her stash, of what she might do, of who she might punish for doing wrong to her. She was careful, very careful and then she had gone and told Beck. How stupid, but it had slipped out one night after sex as they lay together.

He’d betrayed her, telling their superiors. And then those damn men took her away. She’d fought them as hard as she could, but they were prepared with needles and cuffs. They strapped her to a bed for weeks, made her weak. She promised herself, lying there, that she would never love again.

***

The wind intensified, whipping her hair wildly as she lifted her face to savor its ferocity. Time was short now. They were going soon. She had obtained drugs to inject him with, make him feel what she had felt all those years. Make him suffer. She had killed others, and she would continue until they were all dead. Watson had botched murdering those two in London, but, with enough time, she’d find them again. How dare they call her crazy? She was more gifted than any of them, and she’d prove it. She would kill them all, then those men who had sent her away would have to turn to her for help. She would be the one. The only one.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Wynter—Memorial

I pushed open the apartment door and dropped my knapsack, then pawed through it frantically, trying to find my phone before it stopped ringing.
Please let it be Beck
, I begged silently. My stomach dropped when I saw the familiar number, the voice booming into my ear.

“Wynter, dear. It’s Mrs. Mackie,” she drawled in her Locust Valley lockjaw.

“Hi, Mrs. Mackie,” I replied as my memory flashed to Abby, long ago, donning her mother’s Lili Pulitzer pink skirt with blue whales and prancing about the house swinging a golf club. I’d laughed so hard, rolling on the floor at Abby’s imitation of her mother’s “dahling, we
must
go to the club.”

Mrs. Mackie’s next words crushed the memory and my smile. “Dear, the high school is planting a tree for Abigail and having a ceremony. I thought it would be nice if you were there.” I peered at the few stubborn leaves still clinging for dear life to the tree branches just outside. I wondered if she would have asked me if she knew the truth.

“When?” I dragged my eyes to the calendar on the fridge, hoping it held some conflict so I couldn’t go.

“This Saturday at noon.” Awesome. My only excuse would be a hangover.

“Okay. I’ll see you there.”

“Wonderful, thank you, dear,” She hung up.

I just stared at my phone. I wished, hopelessly, for Beck to miraculously appear, to be there with me Saturday. It had been more than three weeks since I’d heard from him.

***

It rained Saturday, not a downpour, but on and off so that, when it wasn’t actually raining, the air was still full of water. The damp cold soaked through my clothes and penetrated my core—a typical, dreary northeastern fall day.

I wore a black raincoat over my gray suit and still wound up shivering by the end of the ceremony. They planted the tree near the path between the athletic building and the lacrosse field—a tribute to Abby’s legacy. She had broken all the school lacrosse records. The crowd mingled after the headmaster finished his speech. My mother and Mrs. Mackie huddled together, deep in conversation. Abby’s twin sisters argued over who would drive home.

I drifted away to my favorite bench at the corner between the field house and the middle school. When Abby and I had different classes, we’d used it as a spot to leave notes for each other, taping them to the bottom of the bench. I reached under. It was empty.

Mrs. Wells, Abby’s grandmother, sat down next to me. She placed her hand on mine and I lost it, the tears running freely.

“Not much to say, is there?”

I shrugged, looking away toward the fields. The lump wedged in my throat kept me from answering. She couldn’t begin to know how much I had to say but couldn’t.

She leaned closer, nudging me with her elbow. “Of course, you wouldn’t know it by that windbag going on and on.” I grunted, still crying. Mr. Hutchinson, the headmaster, had been making long-winded speeches for twenty years, but today’s had been more than I could bear.

“I miss her. I know you do, too.”

I nodded as she patted my hand gently.

Mrs. Wells was my favorite member of Abby’s family. Way more down to earth than anyone else and lots more fun.

She’d always sit and gossip with Abby and me when we were young. She gave us our first drink. We were fifteen, in Abby’s backyard by the pool. Winking, she’d poured the clear liquid from a flask into our plastic cups, and we’d promptly gotten bombed. Abby’s mother had been less than thrilled, especially after Abby puked on the Persian rug in the living room.

I studied her now, taking in how much she’d changed. Her hair, shoulder length and auburn years ago, was now the color of my parents’ slate walk, cut short in a bob, but she had the same beautiful, olive eyes—kind and clear but still so discerning. She was tall, stately, and I could see a glimpse of how beautiful she must have been young, just like Abby.

Mrs. Wells smiled sadly. “I’ve lost a lot of people in my life, Wynter. It never gets easier. With Abby, so young, it’s even worse. It kind of breaks your faith in the universe. Or maybe God. I’ve been so angry with Him.” She squeezed my fingers then let go to brush a tear away.

I wiped my own tears with the back of my hand and speculated how she should be angry with me.

She pulled a small, silver flask from her raincoat pocket, and I almost slid off the bench. Abby would have loved that. She offered it to me, but I declined then watched as she tipped it into her mouth, an ironic image combined with her Chanel suit and Burberry raincoat.

“Your grandmother tells me you’re dating a nice young man.”

My forced laugh came out as more of a choke, imagining the two of them, one old Italian lady and one old Irish conferring about the status of my love life over Bridge.

“Not really.”

“Not nice or not dating?”

Was this appropriate at a memorial service? “Not dating.”

She took my hand. “Why ever not?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Oh, blahooey. Don’t give me that, Wynter Elizabeth.”

I turned, surprised by her tone and the anger in her eyes.

“You listen to me. There is nothing complicated about men. They want one thing, maybe two but usually just one. It’s all that motivates them.” I wondered if that theory applied to SAS officers with superhuman powers. “That man didn’t spend all summer visiting you because he wanted to be your friend. If you want him, go show him those legs and ass, and I guarantee he’ll be in your lap in no time.”

I stared at her blankly.

“Oh, wipe that innocent look off your face. I caught you and Abby playing Spin the Bottle with the Davis boys years ago in that tree house.”

I laughed.

“That’s a nice sound. Your laughter.” She smiled wide and, for the first time all day, I could breathe, the weight on my chest finally gone.

Mrs. Mackie started calling for her.

“Oh, geez. She thinks I wandered away and got lost. She doesn’t realize I’m trying to lose her.” She got up, exasperated, swiping at the raindrops on her coat. I stood up, too, and she hugged me, pulling me close in a surprisingly strong embrace, then released me, pinning me with her gaze.

“Sweetie, this is not a dress rehearsal. You don’t get another chance to go through life. Look at me. I’m eighty. I still feel twenty inside, but it doesn’t matter. I’m eighty, and my turn is over. Don’t waste yours.”

Mrs. Mackie spotted us and started our way, still calling out. Mrs. Wells waved half-heartedly then turned back to me. “Listen to me, Wynter. You won’t lose her if you let her go. In fact, I bet you’ll remember her better. You might even remember you.” She took another sip from the flask then tucked it back into her coat pocket. “And don’t forget an old lady. Come by and visit. I miss you.”

I thought of what she said as I made toast in our tiny apartment kitchen at four a.m., unable to sleep, staring at my phone on the counter. I picked it up and put it down three times.
Screw it.
I was the girl who took the shot, even when my shot sucked.
I pressed the send button.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Beck—One Last Time

I glanced at the clock as I picked up the phone, busy weeding through a detailed report that Drew had sent relating to some new hostage rescue he was thinking of taking on. Since Wynter had left, my nightmares had gotten even worse. I gave up trying to sleep at night.