“You,” a deep, surly voice growls, and I swear to God it registers as familiar, but it’s not Papá. “Come.”
In the half second before he whips around to drag me out of the room, I see his face, and it also registers. I don’t know who he is, but I know I’ve seen him before. I can’t place where, but it’s inconsequential because I’m once again being dragged across cold marble and scraping, burning carpet, down the hall and down the stairs. Just like Papá did. Just like Malachi did.
But unlike them, this man is carrying a black rifle; a weapon of war; secured to his back with a thick, battered leather strap.
Mamá is screaming and crying somewhere in the belly of the house, her howls of terror ricocheting in Spanish against the hard floor and walls. Papá is shouting at someone and then barking orders at Malachi’s security team that was supposed to be guarding the grounds of the estate. But there’s no response from them, and only a sinister, chilling laugh and a flippant declaration.
“Ellos estan muertos.” Another icy chuckle. “Nadie te salvará.”
No one will save you.
The man I recognize but cannot place drags my faltering feet through the grand entryway and into the great room, and then throws me against the rug, and I land in a heap of scraped limbs. With wild, darting eyes, I look up to see my parents at one end of the room, one gun-wielding stranger on either side of them, barrels pointed at their faces. Mamá’s hands are lifted, her eyes spilling with terror, lips parted and gasping in horror. Papá’s bulldog jowls pulse as he clenches and releases his jaw, fire flashing in the russet brown eyes he gave to me and my siblings.
“I will never comply with what you ask,” he rumbles in Spanish. “You will have to kill me first.”
“We are not here to kill you,” another man says from behind me, and I snap my head around to look at him. I don’t know who he is other than quickly deducing that he’s one of Papá’s relatives involved in the cartel, but the two men at his sides are familiar in that same inarticulable way as the one who dragged me down the stairs and is now pointing a pistol at my head. “First, we will kill your first born, just like we promised. And then we will give you time to consider our proposal. If you refuse, we will go after your other two daughters, and finally your son. If you still refuse, we will kill your wife. And then…” He offers a casual hitch of one shoulder. “I would venture to guess you may not care about your empire of stolen family money as much as you do now.”
He nods at the man pointing the pistol at me, and the man grabs my arm again, yanking me up to my knees.
Since childhood, I have been well-acquainted with the sound of someone chambering a bullet in a gun; the sharp, scraping slide of metal against metal.
And now, at twenty-nine years old, it will be the last thing I hear.
Every other sound in the room fades to a static hum, and my sight zeroes in on the men in the room who are familiar in that way I can’t put my finger on. I refuse to let their faces be the last thing I see, so I close my eyes.
In my mind, a Beast lying on a bed of roses, tears of remorse spilling from his eyes, down his temples and into his midnight black hair. Slowly, his adult face morphs into that of a boy with eyes the color of steel, but that hold the same warmth of his voice that was always my refuge from a world riddled with fear.
In my mind, the voice speaks. “I vowed to keep you safe. I failed. I’m sorry.”
I’m not even in this room anymore, and I wordlessly respond from the depths of my heart and soul.
“I forgive you, Malachi.”
TWENTY
MALACHI
Present
ISLA’S PHONE HAS BEEN going straight to voicemail for hours. Ernesto’s rings a dozen times until it reaches voicemail. Same for each man on the security team assigned to patrol the Reyes estate.
Something is wrong.
I’m not even in Southampton yet, but I already know I’m too late.
I drive the gunmetal silver Alfa Romeo Giulia like a bat out of fucking hell, zipping down the winding highway as the evening fades to night, and call over and over and over again.
Every time, voicemail.
You’re too late, my mind tortures me on repeat, she’s dead. You failed her. Not today, but eleven years ago. You didn’t believe in her, and now she’s dead.
“Shut the fuck up,” I say to the emptiness of the car interior. “Just shut the fuck up.”
White knuckles on the steering wheel, fist gripping the gear shift, kicking the engine into higher performance, the speedometer topping 160, but still not going fast enough.
Finally whipping around the corner to the seaside boulevard where both of our families’ homes are seated, I drop the speed to a crawl and kill the headlights.
My parents are back in Corwick, so our estate is empty and dark, and I lurch into the long drive, a canopy of looming trees concealing me from anyone who might be watching from the Reyes property. I park in the shadows on the side of the house and shut off the car. Reaching into the bag on the passenger side floorboard, I pull out the chrome Desert Eagle with Familia inlaid with diamonds on the grip, and release the magazine only long enough to double check the rounds.
Nine bullets. God only knows how many men inside.
If Isla is already dead, I will take out nine men with me while I go down swinging.
If she’s not, I’ll probably have to do that anyway.
Wedging the pistol under my belt at my back, I open the door, step out, and silently close it behind me. I manage to creep across the drive to the fence without causing the gravel to crunch too loudly under my shoes, and then locate the broken portion of fence hidden by ivy—the same spot that Isla and I have slipped through hundreds of times since childhood, and I will kill every last one of these motherfuckers that I can, because I know now.
They did this to us.
They did this to her.
After I run out of rounds, I will start killing them with my bare hands wrapped around their throats and squeezing until their eyes burst out of the sockets. I might be leaving the Reyes house in a body bag in only a matter of minutes, but before I do that, at least nine of these fuckers are going to pay with their lives for what they did.
With one eye peering through the broken fence, I can already see a dozen outlines of still, lifeless bodies strewn across the long, oval drive of the Reyes estate. Men wearing uniforms of the Corwick Royal Guard, who were clearly ambushed from a distance. The windows of the house glow gold against the indigo night. The sheer drapes block me from making out any activity inside. No sound escapes. I don’t know where these people are inside. I don’t know where to enter that wouldn’t be walking into a firing squad… except possibly one place.
The iron lattice attached to the side of the house that I climbed up countless times in my childhood and teen years to sneak into Isla’s room.
Gripping the curling metal, I hold my breath to listen as I scale the side of the house. I’m faster now than I was even as a teen, such is the physical conditioning I’ve maintained in the years since my time in the Royal Navy. The sharpshooting skill I acquired then will also come in handy.
Nine bullets.
Nine lives.
Not anywhere close to the restitution warranted for such crimes, but it’ll have to do.