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Celeste belongs to me now.
So, I gave her a half hour with the douchebag to appease Grandpa Carver and texted, informing her I was waiting, and she should hurry. I expected a quippy response, but nothing came.
Not after five minutes, which is when I jumped out of the car and hacked into the security camera feed.
After ten minutes and no response, I’m on the asshole’s floor, Rex hot on my heels.
He explains their procedure, and I inform him I’m not fucking waiting another twenty minutes. The judicious man that he is, he brooks no argument as I draw my HK Mark 23 pistol and insert the housekeeper’s key card that I swiped on the way up here.
Before the door is even fully open, it’s evident I’m entering a battlefield. My gut wrenches with awareness as the humid air and plodding drone of running water engulfs me. Stark-white light and steam billow out from a bathroom, so I’m there in a stride.
“Wait, Liam!” Celeste screams, spotting me, hand up in caution as I take in the scene unfolding before me.
Rage boils and blisters and ravages my veins. My bones. Every single organ.
Her cheek is bruised and bloody. Lip cracked. Hair disheveled. Eyes petrified and haunted. “I think I …” she stammers while unplugging the cord of a hairdryer. “I think I killed him.”
She sure as fuck did. My girl is brutal and brilliant. I’m so goddamn proud.
And apocalyptic with fury, but first things first.
“You saved yourself, baby,” I say, noting the way she seems detached, seconds away from going into shock now that I’m here and survival mode is no longer necessary. Her breathing is rapid, labored, so I keep my tone steady, hoping she’ll latch on to the rhythm. “You did so good. So good.”
Knowing Rex is sweeping the rest of the premises, I reholster my gun. Celeste shakes violently as I creep into the bathroom, wading through the several inches of water and stepping around the motherfucker’s body. Unable to help myself, I stomp on his worthless skull, reveling in the crushing bones.
Again. And again.
“Now, he’s dead, Ace.” I splosh through the bathroom, switch off the shower, bathtub faucet, and sinks, twisting the nozzles in their proper direction, and finally square myself to her.
Shrugging out of my jacket, I drape it around her shoulders, but she keeps her arms fastened across her knees and tips herself forward like she’s unwilling to uncoil from her fetal perch, tumbling into my embrace.
“I’ve got you, baby girl. You’re okay.” Cradling her, I continue murmuring soothing praises into her hair and carry her out of the bathroom, directing my attention to Rex. “You’ll accompany Celeste and me back to the house. Dante and Keith will wait for the cleaners. We leave in three minutes.”
He nods and sets to work updating the guys while I pull out my burner phone and dial my contact for the cleaners. York is on retainer. He has no idea who we really are—anonymity in our dealings is a plus to the government wiping us from existence, and we’ve masterminded multiple convoluted rabbit holes should anyone attempt facial recognition or the like. None of that matters to York though. He’s happy to fulfill whatever we throw at him because we’ve set him up for life. And the deranged bastard enjoys what he does.
“Go,” York answers after one ring on our private line.
“NOLA. Wisteria Suites. Junior Presidential. Room twelve-zero-five.”
“How many?” Bodies?
“One.”
“Requirements?” Specifics of cleanup needed?
“Flooding.”
“Plotting?” Elaborate cover needed?
“Yes,” I respond, with a fleshed-out plan in mind. “He has a helicopter at the local hangar.”
I conducted an extensive investigation into all things Scott Filmore. Not thorough enough since he appeared squeaky clean—other than his penchant for easy women and an old cocaine habit—but he’s actually a motherfucking woman beater. That research will serve our damage control well though.
“Fine. Send details. Arrival will be in twenty-seven minutes. Diversion?”
“Handled,” I reply, hanging up and dialing Wells’s Murphy line—like Murphy’s law, whatever can go wrong will go wrong. It’s only used for that.
While it rings, I curl Celeste closer. She winces, alerting me to the fact that she’s hurt somewhere other than her face, but Wells picks up before I can check her.
