I jerk awake, gasping for air. My massively dilated eyes shift around the unfamiliar room as I suck in deep pants of air. It takes me several moments to realize where I have awoken. I’m not in my apartment, my childhood home, or Regan’s penthouse. I'm in the guest room of Jorgie’s home. Ava’s bedroom. Gratitude envelopes me when I discover the bed is empty. Catching sight of the alarm clock on the bedside table, I see it is a little after seven AM. Ava and Joel will most likely be in the kitchen getting ready to starttheirday.
Kicking my legs, I break free of the sheets wrapped around me and run my trembling hand over the top of my head. My body is cool from the combination of sweat and the remnants of my nightmare still clinging to me. A new type of fear clutches my heart when my surveillance of the room stumbles upon Ava crouched on the ground halfway across the floor space. She has her hand covering her mouth and fresh tears staining hercheeks.
“Ava.”
I scramble off the bed and kneel in front of her. Grief and despair smack into me when I see the terrified haze clouding herbeautifuleyes.
“Did I hurt you?” I ask, panicked as my eyes rake every inch of her, seeking any injuries from the brutality I can display in mydreams.
Ava shakes her head. “No,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. “I remembered what Dr. Avery told me about ensuring I'm at a safe distance beforewakingyou.”
I peer into her eyes, seeking any untruth in them. I inwardly sigh when nothing but honesty reflects back at me. Wrapping my arms around her quivering shoulders, I slump onto my bottom and lean my back against the bed. The pain twinging my heart weakens when Ava presses her cheek onto the sweat-drenched skin on my chest and nuzzles in close, not the slightest bit concerned about the dampness. She sobs quietly. She is so discreet, if her tears weren’t adding to the wetness of my chest, I wouldn’t be aware she iscrying.
I gather her hair off her cheeks and lift her tear-stained face to me. Her lips twitch, itching to speak, but no words spill from her mouth. I already know what she is going to ask without her needing to speak. Ava’s eyes have always been expressive, revealing way more than her mouth ever could. Today is no different. But even if I couldn’t read her eyes, she knows me well, better than anyone. She would have determined what my nightmare were about the instant she heard my tormented screams begging for Col not tohurtJoel.
My voice shakes as I begin to speak. “I tried, Ava. I swear to you, I tried every legal avenue available. When that failed, I took matters into my own hands. I couldn’t let him get away with it. He killed Jorgie and Malcolm, but was free to live his life how he saw fit. He didn’t suffer at all. I’d already seen Gemma endure the injustice of the courts. I wasn’t going to let the same thing happen toJorgie.”
Ava’s moisture-swamped eyes stare into mine, but she doesn’t speak; she doesn’t need to. The understanding in her eyes is all I need to see to ease my concern about revealing a secret only a handful ofpeopleknow.
“I wanted him dead. I wanted him to suffer the way Jorgie suffered. The waywesuffered.” I peer into Ava’s forgiving eyes as my chest rises and falls with every inhalation I take. “I wanted to makehimpay.”
Ava takes a quick breath as her pupils dilate, but remains as quiet as a churchmouse……
I load .38 caliber bullets into the magazine of my gun before clicking it back into the chamber. After sliding across the safety mechanism, I house my gun into the back of my jeans, swing open my truck door, and walk towards the compound I’ve been surveying the past two weeks. I have one plan on my mind: exact revenge on the man responsible for killing my sister and unbornnephew.
I tried to follow the necessary legal channels. I spoke to the DA, the detectives assigned to Jorgie’s case, and I even pleaded with the media. No one listened. Jorgie’s killer was a free man, exonerated of all charges.That is about tochange.
A sense of calm settles over me as I pace towards the warehouse surrounded by a six-foot steel wire fence. A Rottweiler charges out of a kennel at the back of the compound, barking and growling. His fang-baring snarl only lasts as long as it takes for me to throw a juicy bone over the fence. He gnaws on the half frozen turkey leg as I cut a hole in the mesh wire with a pair of bolt cutters. After returning the bolt cutters to my duffle bag, I conceal it in a bush at my side and climb throughthehole.
When I enter the unsecured grounds at the edge of the warehouse, I take a sharp left. I’ve witnessed the same routine every day the past two weeks at this compound. Three men enter the complex at nine AM, two guards, and one asset – my target. One armed man stands at the front entrance of the warehouse while the other follows the asset inside. Within ten minutes of entering, the second armed guard cranks open a door on the left hand side of building, his nicotine habit too strong from him to overcome the desire for a quick hit. Within twenty minutes of arriving, my target leaves the warehouse flanked by the two guards and carrying a black briefcase in each hand. Their routine hasn’t altered the past two weeks I’ve been watching them.Their complacency is about to cost themdearly.
When I reach the edge of the warehouse, I slow my pace, ensuring my heavy stomps don’t cause the gravel under my feet to crunch. I lean my back against the sun-heated outer wall of the warehouse, vying for a prime opportunity to react. When the door next to me cracks open not even five minutes later, Ipounce.
Grabbing the handle, I yank the metal door forward before slamming it back with brutal force. A grunted noise echoes in the quiet, closely followed by a hard thud. Gliding my hand into the back of my jeans, I retrieve my revolver before peering around the door. A man easily six feet tall lays sprawled on the dirty concrete floor. A nasty bump is forming on his forehead, his eyes are closed, and his half-lit cigarette is dangling from his mouth. My eyes scan the inside of the warehouse as I crouch down to remove the two semi-automatic weapons strapped to his hip and a knife wrapped around histhigh.
Housing his Glock and Bulpap into the back of my jeans, I brace my gun in front of my body and move through the warehouse. The smell of freshly printed Benjamin Franklins filters through my nose the closer I amble to an office on my right. Years of sniper training ensure my fast pace goes undetected. I push open a heavily weighted wooden door and sweep my eyes over the room. Roberto’s suit-covered back faces me as he piles bundles of money from a black safe bolted to the floor into an open suitcase sitting on a polishedwoodendesk.
“Give me another five minutes, and I’ll be ready to go,” Roberto instructs when he senses mypresence.
“How about we leave now,” I reply, aiming the barrel of my gun at the back ofhishead.
Roberto freezes. “Do you have any idea who you are robbing? Leave now and this matter will remain between us.” His tone is authoritative with an edgeoffear.
“I’m not here for your money. The only asset I want to secure is you,” I reply, lifting my eyes to the flashing red light in the corner oftheroom.
Roberto spins on his heels, his movements steady and alert. A V grooves into the middle of his forehead as his rich brown eyes roam over my face. His expression remains stagnant until he registers the similarities between Jorgie and me: same nose, same eyes, same smile. No one could deny we were siblings. Roberto’s throat works hard to swallow before his lips spasm, preparing tospeak.
“Move,” I say, gesturing my head to the door, not giving him the chance toprotest.
He had his chance to speak up when he was arrested at the scene of Jorgie’s accident for driving under the influence. If he’d pled guilty, I wouldn’t be standingbeforehim.
I follow Roberto out of the warehouse with the butt of my gun aimed at a patch of gray hairs in his dark, clipped hair. When we exit the frosted glass door at the front of the compound, the armed guard spins around, clearly shocked by Roberto’s early arrival. When he notices me standing behind Roberto, with a gun pointed at his head, his hand slips into his suit jacket, no doubt to reach the gun he has holstered on hiswaist.
“Roberto will be dead before you even remove your gun,” I warn, my words rough, like they were dragged through a whole heap of gravel before spilling frommylips.
The guard’s dark eyes shift between Roberto and me. His gaze is vehement, fueling myagitation.
“Unless you want splatters of Roberto’s brain on your fancy suit, unclip the Seven Eagle strapped to your hip, remove the bullets, and throw it into the bush,” I instruct, motioning my head to the thick bush at the sideofus.
