Zephyr
My back and shoulders ache, and I drum my gloved fingers on the rickety, stained table. Six hours ago, I wiped down the entire apartment, intending to be gone by sunset. But hacking isn’t always fast—or easy—even for me, and my anxiety is on high alert now that it’s after midnight.
Everything I care about in this world is carefully arranged in my backpack. A picture of my brother and me when we were just five and eight—before Papa disappeared—the tiger’s eye ring he left on my pillow the day he vanished, my multi-tool, and three pairs of thick wool socks. When everything else in my world sucks ass, a warm, dry pair of socks are a godsend.
The rest of the items I acquired during my three-week stay in the Netherlands were tossed into the building incinerator this morning. Clothes, a couple of books, an extra pillow and blanket. Gone. Reduced to ashes. Like my reputation. And my life if I don’t get my ass moving.
I always travel light. One bag. Less than ten pounds—without my computer, anyway. Speed has saved me before, and I can’t risk being weighed down.
The code on the screen blurs with my exhaustion, and I double-check that my wool hat is still firmly in place. It stops me from leaving easily traceable DNA, but it also gives me a headache. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I breathe in while I count to four, hold for seven, and exhale for a full eight seconds. Amazingly, this little trick to drive stress away works every time, and some of the tension holding my head in a vise fades away.
Next to the laptop, my phone screen lights up.
Nora: He found me. Came to my office. I had to drive around for hours before I went home to make sure he wasn’t following me.
Fuck. Thumbing out a quick reply, I will the progress bar on the screen to move faster.
He’ll be in jail by morning. Don’t talk to anyone. Keep the doors locked. I’ll be there in an hour.
She doesn’t answer.
“I promise, babe. After tonight, you’ll never have to worry about him again.”
The next fifteen minutes feel like a century. Until the First Bank of Rotterdam’s firewalls crumble to digital dust.
Finding Sem Jassen’s accounts and employee records is a breeze now that I’m in. “You little twat. I knew you were dirty. But this? This is a freaking garbage dump of filth.”
I’d planned to make it look like Nora’s abusive ex was embezzling from his employer. Padding a few bank accounts, planting some rather incriminating emails? Piece of cake. Turns out, all I have to do is add a few embellishments to his actions before I send all the evidence to the General Intelligence and Security Service.
“You could have kept that Rolls Royce Phantom. And your freedom. But no. You had to beat your wife. In front of her kids. I hope you have fun in prison, asshole.”
If this were a movie, the dramatic background music would rise to a crescendo any second now. Instead, while I wait for the data to transfer, I grab the arms of the chair and twist, each vertebrae in my back popping in sweet, sweet relief. The progress bar taunts me, creeping along at a pace somewhere between geriatric snail and petrified turtle.
“Come on, come on. I was supposed to be long gone by now.”
The seconds tick by, and my knee bounces faster and faster. As soon as the zipped files land in my encrypted cloud storage, I sever the connection to the bank and send everything to Dante. He’s one of the only people I trust. I gave him a heads up this morning, and he emails me before I shut down the laptop.
Got everything, Zephyr. Jassen will be in custody before 9:00 a.m. Where are you off to next?
Snorting, I send a quick response.
You didn’t really think that would work, did you? Gotta go, D. Catch you next time.
Dante is one of the few people who believes I was set up for Jasper Yoden’s murder. But since the only family I had planted my blood and prints at the scene, I don’t have enough…credibility for the AIVD to do anything but put me away for life.
The laptop and power supply slide into a special, padded pocket in the backpack, and I take one last look around the apartment. I’m going to miss this place. The building’s half empty, slated to be torn down in a few weeks. The top two floors are deserted, but with five units still occupied, the owner hasn’t disconnected the internet hardline. A couple of calls to the right people at Fiber International, and I doubled the speed.
You’re welcome, neighbors I’ve never met and never will. I hope you enjoyed your unlimited Netflix binges.
With the hood of my jacket pulled low over the wool cap, I slip into the hall. As I close my gloved fingers around the handle of the stairwell door, tiny shards of plaster hit my cheek.
“The next one won’t miss,” Oliver calls. “Give it up, Zephyr. We have all the exits covered.”
Fear snakes cold fingers around my heart, squeezing so hard, I’m not sure I’m still breathing. From the sound of his voice, he’s at least a few yards away. I can make it.
“Did I ever tell you why I let you live three years ago?” I ask, turning slightly so he can’t see me twist the door handle.
“Because you’re not cut out for this business, Zeph.” His cold blue eyes bore into me, the silenced pistol steady in his hands. “You made a mistake, and that mistake is going to bring you in. Back to your family. Back where you belong.”
“Family?” I laugh to cover the click as the latch bolt disengages from the strike plate. “François will torture me until he gets what he wants, then put a bullet in my brain. In what fucked-up world is that family?”
“Goddammit, Zephyr. Jessica’s dead because of you.”
“No. Jessica’s dead because she was a compassionate, decent human being and François’s a sadistic asshole,” I fire back.
Oliver’s eyes cloud over for a split second, and I yank the door open. Sprinting as fast as I can up the stairs—the exits below may be covered, but I always have multiple escape routes—I try not to panic as my brother’s pounding footsteps get closer and closer. He always could beat me in a foot race.
“Shit! She’s going up!” he shouts. I hope to all that’s holy his surprised tone means he and his team didn’t expect me to head this way.
The crisp night air slaps my cheeks as I burst onto the roof, but I don’t stop, my entire focus on the plywood ramp at the far end. The one I placed there a week ago. The one that should give me enough momentum to carry me to the next building over.
You can make it. It’s only two meters. Piece of cake.
Pain rips through my thigh mid-air, and when I land, my left knee buckles, sending me tumbling ass over elbow. I can’t stop. Can’t think about the fire licking its way down my leg or the sticky warmth plastering my pants to my skin.
Wrestling my gun from the holster, I fire a single, blind shot behind me once I’m on my feet and racing for the fire escape.
Without a silencer, the sound reverberates through the stillness of western Rotterdam after midnight.
Grabbing the railing, I vault from one set of stairs to the next. Each jump takes me lower, and the pain warns me my leg won’t last much longer without treatment. My toes make squishing sounds every time I land.
I’m not cold. Don’t feel weak or dizzy yet. If Oliver had hit a major artery, I’d be all of those things. If not dead.
Only sparing a quick glance skyward when I reach the ground, I don’t see him—or anyone—following me.
Run. Don’t look back. Just run.
* * *
In a dark alley a few blocks from Nora’s flat, I strip out of my bloody pants and toss them in the dumpster. “Shit.” The gash is deep, but thank God the bullet didn’t hit anything vital. It’s mostly stopped bleeding. A little clotting powder—even though it hurts like a motherfucker—takes care of the rest.
Voices come from the street, and I sink deeper into the darkness to fish a roll of gauze out of my backpack and wrap my leg tightly. Can’t stay here for long. I have to keep moving.
Pants. I need a clean pair of pants first. And shoes. Someone’s going to notice if I stroll down the sidewalk tracking blood with every step. Even at 2:00 a.m.
By the time I’ve put myself together, I’m exhausted. I probably need a blood transfusion but I’ll have to settle for a protein bar instead.
Shit. I’m out.
Of course. I was supposed to leave the Netherlands two days ago, but then I connected with Nora in an online chatroom, and I couldn’t run knowing she was in danger.
A few deep, centering breaths, and I test my weight on my left leg. A little pain, but as long as I concentrate, I can walk without a limp.
The city’s quiet this time of the morning. The traffic cameras still capture everything, though, so I keep my head down until I reach Nora’s back door.
My gloved hand leaves a red smudge on the wood when I knock, and I quickly scrub it off with my elbow and rub my palms on my thighs. What’s a little more blood to clean up once I’m safe?
The two hours I spent weaving through the city, bleeding, constantly looking over my shoulder? Worth it. In a few minutes, Nora will know she and her daughters never have to be afraid again.
“Who is it?” a lightly accented voice asks.
“Nora? It’s your guardian angel.”
“What’s the password?”
Good. She’s being smart. “Kansas.”
Three separate locks disengage, and the petite woman with straight blond hair peers into the alley. “You’re alone?”
“Yes. Can I come in for five minutes? I can’t stay. Had a little run in with my former employers a couple of hours ago.”
“Yes. Yes, come.” Nora steps back into the light and cradles her arm gently.
“Did he hurt you?” My question comes out harsher than I intend, and the woman shrinks back against her sink. “Dammit. I’m sorry. I…I should have been faster. AIVD will have him in custody by 9:00 a.m. tomorrow, and he’ll never bother you or the girls again.”
Nora angles a glance up the stairs. The two teenagers—from her first marriage—had to witness their stepfather’s abuse on more than one occasion, but thank God he never laid a hand on them.
With a wince, I drop to one knee and start digging through the backpack for my oilskin bag. Waterproof, practically indestructible, it’s the only place I trust for my most important paperwork.
Unzipping the pouch, I spread the contents over Nora’s counter. Three new passports and a prepaid credit card. “You said he refused to return your passports when you separated? Well, these are all completely legit, ready for you to move back to England—if you want.”
“How did you get these?” Nora asks. “You didn’t break into his house, did you?”
“No.” Chuckling, I ease myself down onto one of her kitchen chairs and finally, blissfully, remove the tight wool cap over my purple-streaked hair. “Just made friends with a guy in the passport office and had him reissue them.”
“And the bank card?” Nora reaches for the plastic rectangle, and her sweater rides up. Fingertip bruises surround her wrist, and I wish I’d been able to confront the jerk myself.
Despite her hesitancy, Nora manages that “mom” stare with ease, and my heart aches. No one’s looked at me like that for as long as I can remember. I had a mom once. I think. But hell if I can call up her face. Her voice. Anything about her.
“That’s linked to the account I gave you when you hired me. I’m waiving my fee. It’s all there. Every one of the ten thousand euros you paid me. That should be enough for you and the girls to make a fresh start. AIVD is probably going to want to interview you once they arrest Sem. So keep that hidden somewhere safe until he’s sentenced. But after? Be happy, Nora. You deserve it.”
Tears tumble down Nora’s cheeks, and she reaches out like she wants to hug me, but I don’t do touch. Not like that. “Gotta go. Just promise me you’ll take care of the girls and…I don’t know…” I back toward her door and grin. “Do something fun. I hear dying your hair can really change your whole personality.” Tucking a lock of bright purple behind my ear, I give her a little wave before I slip out into the night.
The exhaustion makes every step feel like I’m walking through wet sand, but I can’t rest. Not until I’ve put at least two hundred kilometers between me and François’s men—including my brother. I don’t know how they tracked me, but once I’ve found a new safe house, I need to find out.
My life could have ended tonight, and while I’ve lived with the constant threat of capture, torture, and death for almost four years, I’m not ready to die. Not until I find the only other person in the world with evidence against the Strauss Cartel.
And stop them from hurting anyone else, ever again.
* * *
Ronan
Rapping four times on Dax’s door, I glance around Second Sight’s offices. The halls are quiet three days before Thanksgiving. Marjorie hung lights in the break room, and every day this week, baskets of pumpkin muffins have appeared next to the coffee machine.
“Come in, Ronan,” Dax calls.
I’ll never get used to the emptiness of Dax’s space. All the other offices have at least some kind of personal touch. A photograph, a plant…even Ella keeps a Totoro plush toy next to her monitor and she’s about the least sentimental person I’ve ever met.
Dax? Nothing.
Closing the door behind me, I try to control my heart rate. My boss is the most observant man on the planet, despite being mostly blind, and showing fear? That’s not going to help me. As soon as I take a seat in one of his visitor chairs, my palms turn clammy, and I rub them on my thighs.
“Are you expecting a firing squad?” he asks, staring right at me.
How does he do that?
“Maybe.”
His dry laugh isn’t reassuring in the least. Skimming his fingers over the top of the desk, he finds a beige envelope and holds it out to me. “Your bonus check.”
Bonus check?
“Since when did you start givin’ out bonuses?” I don’t open the thing. Not with the way he’s looking at me. Like he can see right through me.
“Always have. Once we promote someone from junior investigator to full associate.”
My mouth goes dry, and the envelope slips from my hand, floating to the ground. Grateful for the moment to get myself together, I retrieve it, then swallow hard. I should have brought a cup of tea with me. Water. Whiskey. Anything to distract me from this envelope in my hand.
“Nothin’ to say?” Dax asks, the hint of a Southern drawl not softening his tone a bit.
Get yourself together, mate. You’re making an idiot of yourself.
“Thank you? I wasn’t sure—after what happened in Edgewater—if you were going to keep me on.”
His brows shoot up, true surprise obvious in his expression. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Ronan, you took a bullet from a professional mercenary and survived.”
“I let a group of civilians take me down first. Did you forget about that part? Mik was in trouble, and I couldn’t get past a security guard and five guys waitin’ for a tour of the Smithsonian.”
“Six against one?” Dax shakes his head. “No one in this office could count on beating those odds. You kept your cool, let Austin know what was goin’ on, and stalled long enough for him and Trev to get there.”
“And then I got shot.” Rubbing my side, the wound not completely healed, I shiver at the memories. Burning pain. Blood cooling on my skin. Fear that the bullet had hit something vital. Something that couldn’t be fixed with a few stitches, a pint of O Positive, and a handful of painkillers.
Dax leans back in his chair, pulls off his glasses, and pinches the bridge of his nose. I’m about to ask him if he’s all right when he sets the dark frames on his desk. “Every single person in this office with the exception of Vasquez and Marjorie has been shot, stabbed, beaten up, or tortured.” He shakes his head and laughs. Actually laughs. “I should probably arrange for some more advanced hand-to-hand combat and evasion classes. That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement for my leadership.”
“No class would have stopped me from taking a bullet at the Smithsonian. Fucker drew down on me half a second after I came around the corner.”
He stares at me—not that I have any idea how he can possibly know right where my eyes are—and I curse under my breath. “Fine. I didn’t fuck up as badly as I thought.”
“No. You didn’t. Goin’ to open that envelope? Or just crush it to death?”
I’m clutching the damn thing so hard, my fingers ache, and the paper crinkles softly. Forcing myself to relax, I lift the flap and pull out the check. “Fuck me. Dax, this is too much.”
“It’s been a good year,” he says. “Ripper made a few investments that paid off twenty times over, we split a tidy sum with Pritchard after the mess in Zurich, and now that we’ve finished the merger with Hidden Agenda…” Dax shrugs. “Second Sight is a family, Ronan. We take care of our own.”
I don’t have a response. Not one Dax will accept anyway. I don’t fit in here. Never have. Probably why I’ve spent three years as backup. The job with Pritchard was the closest I’ve come to my own assignment, and even if I didn’t completely fuck it up, no one would call it a brilliant success.
“Evianna and I are headed to Seattle tomorrow,” Dax says, saving me from the awkward silence. “Cara and West are teaming up to cook a feast for Thanksgiving. There’s plenty of room on the plane.”
Is he…inviting me to Thanksgiving dinner? “Dax—“
“You don’t have to socialize. Much,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching into what might almost be a smile.
“I’m still knackered from my brother’s wedding. Haven’t had a full night sleep since I got back.”
In truth, I’ve slept like a feckin’ baby since I returned from Ireland. But Thanksgiving in Seattle? Pretending to be part of this family? I can’t do it. Not now.
“I’m still on Zurich time. So’s Austin. Got an excuse that isn’t total bullshit?” Dax crosses his arms over his chest and arches his brows. “If you don’t want to go, that’s your choice, Ronan. But don’t lie and make me regret giving you that promotion.”
Fuck me.
Trying not to twist the envelope so hard I tear the check in half, I look Dax in the eyes. I know he can’t see me, but the man’s echolocation skills are brilliant, and if I stare down at the floor like I want to, he’ll know. “I never fit in back home.”
“I remember. It’s why you came to me askin’ for a job.” Dax rubs the back of his neck. “I also know you didn’t want to go to Dublin for your brother’s wedding. What I don’t know is why that has any bearin’ on you comin’ to Seattle.”
“The trip was a bloody disaster. I’d be a crap addition to Thanksgiving dinner.” Licking my wounds with a pint of whiskey and a large pizza? That sounds a hell of a lot better than trying to make small talk. Or worse. Finding out no one wants to make small talk with me.
“No one’s forcing you.” Donning his glasses once more, Dax reaches for his cell phone. “Voice Assist: Text Clive. Message reads: ‘Ronan’s staying in town. We’re wheels up at 10:00 a.m. Don’t burn the place down while we’re gone and take care of your mom and cousin.’ Send message.”
“So, it’s just me and Clive and Ella?” I ask, smoothing the envelope out on my thigh.
“Second Sight’s closed until Monday unless someone calls with an emergency. Ella’s flying to Cancun in the morning. Clive is bringing his mom home for a couple of days. You want to be alone for the holiday, that’s your choice. I spent six Thanksgivings with a bottle of scotch before I met Evianna. But that’s no way to live. So if you change your mind, be at Beverly Municipal Airport by 9:30 tomorrow morning.”
The dismissal in his tone? Clear as day. Pushing to my feet, I tuck the check into my pocket. “Have a good holiday, Dax. And thanks. You won’t regret promotin’ me.”
“I’d better not.”
As I shut the door, a brief pang of regret twists my heart into a knot. Spending Thanksgiving with a family who wants me? It’s the stuff of my dreams. But I’d do something to screw it up, and then? I’d have nothing left but the shattered pieces of too many dreams that will never come true.