Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three (13 page)

Rox smiled slowly. “It’s the not knowing that makes it a little more fun, don’t you think?”

Would the money be enough?
She wasn’t certain, but Avi was smart, resourceful, and used to playing for multiple teams simultaneously. That kind of fluid duplicity made him versatile and endlessly resourceful. Like her, he traded in secrets. Information was their gold mine. Naturally, he’d want to know who she was, friend or foe. But only a handful of people knew her true identity. It was going to remain that way.

“Do you know how Lightner managed to get out of London?” he finally asked.

“On a container ship,” she answered readily. “But he was in a bad way when he left the UK”

“How’s that?” Avi asked curiously.

“I may have shot him a couple times.” Rox shrugged.

His brows raised. “I thought Sam wanted him alive.”

“She did.”

“So then why did you shoot him,
neshama?”

“To amuse myself, mainly,” Rox responded blithely, not bothering to mention the fact that she’d done it to protect Jack and ultimately, herself.

“Remind me not to anger you, then.”

“I think you’re smart enough to know better,” she remarked before continuing. “Lightner was aboard a Dutch boat manned by a Belgian captain. I’ll tell you more if you agree to help me.”

Avi turned toward the coffee maker, filling both mugs with a rich, aromatic brew. He placed her coffee in front of her on the counter before sipping his own.

“Thank you,” she murmured, blowing the heat gently before taking a tentative sip. It was hot as hell, but delicious. She held the thick stoneware mug in her hands, warming them.

“Alright,
neshama
. We have a deal,” Avi told her after a moment. “So where did Lightner end up?”

“He only got as far as Malta on that ship, but his fever was too bad to continue without medical attention at that point,” she explained. “He was put under the protection of a Catholic monastery until he recovered.”

“I’m surprised he wasn’t struck dead upon entering a church,” Avi commented dryly. “I assume Lightner is no longer in Malta?”

“No.” She shook her head. “When he was well enough, he boarded a second ship. A commercial fishing vessel.”

“Bound for?”

Rox smiled. “Tel Aviv.”

His brows shot up. “No kidding?”

“Why else would I darken your doorway, Avi?” she asked reasonably.

“You darkened my doorway a few months ago in Paris,” Avi pointed out. “Except you were a brunette then, I believe.”

“You noticed, huh?” she remarked, impressed.

“Why did you follow me then?”

“Sam likes to know who she’s getting into business with.”

“Do you work exclusively for her?”

“Until Lightner’s ten feet under, I do.”

He tilted his head. “So you intend to kill him.”

“Well, I’m not going to go on a date with him.”

He smiled into his coffee mug. “I’d be heartbroken if you did.”

Rox smirked in spite of herself.

“So how can I help you,
neshama
?”

“I know he’s here, and I’m pretty certain what his next move is, but I don’t know all the players here. That’s where you come in.”

“And why do you think he picked Tel Aviv to go underground?” Avi asked. “What makes you think he’s even still here?”

“Because if I were him, I’d be looking for exceptionally talented mercenaries for protection and a safe place to undergo extensive plastic surgery. Both of which are exceptionally easy to attain here in Israel,” she reasoned.

Avi considered her for a long moment. “There are hundreds of qualified plastic surgeons in Tel Aviv,
neshama
. Not to mention practically every Israeli and Palestinian male has the potential to provide Lightner with protection. We all serve in the military at some point.”

“But only a handful of those surgeons have both the skill to do a complete facial reconstruction and are unethical and greedy enough to never report it, and I’m willing to bet you have a very good idea of the exact kind of mercenary Lightner would go for. He’ll only want the best and brightest if he’s going after Sam,” Rox pointed out.

“He could just be going to ground.”

“Doubtful,” she responded. “Between her and Jack, Lightner’s had nearly everything taken from him. A man with that kind of pride won’t let it go. He’ll want his revenge. He won’t wait for the satisfaction.”

Avi poured himself more coffee. “I’ll help you on adjusted terms.”

“Which are?”

“I’d like to know your name—your real name,” he amended with a look that made her want to agree to anything. And she was sure many had. Avi was the kind of man who made you forget to breathe. A tricky weapon in an already impressive arsenal.

“Tell you what—we’ll split the bounty, and I’ll let you see me—
all
of me—for one night,” she finally offered, a little frisson of excitement strumming through her veins. “What you call me before, after, and during is up to you.”

“And how do I know you’ll make good on that promise?” he asked after a moment, his gaze intent.

“You don’t, Avi.” She smiled. “Wondering what it’ll be like if it ever happens is just half the fun.”

*

March—Evening

Austin, Texas

W E S L E Y

Seven o’clock rolled
around. Wes silenced the alarm he’d programmed into his phone before dialing.

“Wyatt Residence.”

“Hey there, Hannah.” Wes smiled. “How’s the prettiest woman in Texas doing tonight?”

A chuff of laughter came from Hannah Nelson, the closest thing to a mother that Sammy had ever known. “You’re one brick shy of a load if you think I’m buying that line, Wesley Elliott.”

“Jesus strike me down if I’m a liar,” Wes declared before pausing a beat. “See? I’m still here, so I ain’t lyin’.”

“You’re an incorrigible flirt and slicker than a boiled onion,” Hannah scolded, though he could hear the smile in her voice.

“So… How’s our girl?” Wes asked, pushing his notes across his desk as he leaned back in his chair and put his feet up. “Physio go alright today?”

“She overdid it again,” Hannah said with a frustrated sigh. “Her back cramped up so bad, Alejandro had to carry her upstairs while she cussed up a storm. The therapist kept telling her to slow it down, and she wouldn’t listen.”

Wes shook his head. “When is that therapist gonna realize he’ll be more successful getting socks on a rooster than telling Sam Wyatt what to do?”

“She gets it from her daddy,” Hannah replied tartly. “Reminds me of Rob more every day.”

“Don’t tell
her
that,” he remarked.

“Oh, I know better.”

Wes paused, hoping Hannah would have some good news for him tonight. “So you think she’ll talk to me?”

“Why don’t you call her and see?”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing now?”

“Her cell phone, silly.”

Wes looked up at the ceiling, the familiar frustration running through him. “She hasn’t answered any of my calls or texts in nearly three months.”

“Well, Sam’s been busy yelling at the therapist and telling off poor Alejandro.”

“
Poor
Alejandro?” he scoffed. “You’d be chasing that bastard around the kitchen with a wooden spoon if you knew how mean he was to Sammy during ROTC. Besides, I’m sure he tells her off right back.”

“Yeah, well he does, but Sam’s meaner than a striped snake right now. Won’t take any of her painkillers and insists on trying to do everything by herself.”

He smiled. “Sounds like her.”

“Wes, give me a sec.” He heard the muffled sound of the phone being covered as Hannah spoke to someone. When she came back on the line, he knew what she’d say before she said it.

“Tonight’s not good, Wes. I’m sorry,” Hannah told him, her voice tinged with regret. “Why don’t you try her again later? Better yet, let her call you…”

It was just a variation of the same thing Hannah had said to him every day the past month he’d called, asking for Sam. Wes tried not to let it eat away at him. He knew what it meant. He knew what Sam was hoping that by avoiding him, he’d take the hint and leave her be.

But he wouldn’t—not again. Even though it killed him to know she was just a few hours away from him at the ranch and struggling through recovery, Wes resolved to be patient. Forcing her to see him and talk to him when she wasn’t ready was the surest way to shut her down. Sam didn’t cotton to being backed into corners, and if she was ever going to forgive him for the past, she had to come to that realization on her own.

“You’ll tell her I love her?” Wes asked, voice low.

Hannah sighed, sympathetic. “She knows, Wes,” she told him gently. “Every time you call, she knows. She’s just not ready to do anything about it yet.”

Wes rubbed his temple, knowing Hannah was right. “You get the series I sent over to auction for the Wyatt Foundation gala this year?” he asked, changing subjects.

“You didn’t!” Hannah replied, pleasure in her voice.

“I did,” he responded, glad to have made her happy.

“You know you didn’t have to do that,” Hannah chided, but Wes knew better. There were a few choice things Hannah Nelson loved dearly in this world: her husband, her children, the ranch, her Master Gardner’s Club, and the Wyatt Foundation charity she started in Rob and Ryland’s honor. Proceeds were usually divided between the Texas Children’s Hospital and the Veterans’ Association. Every year, she held a gala event. This year, it’d be at the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston where they’d be auctioning off works of art to raise money. He’d sent over a few of his favorite photos to help with the cause and to get an invitation to the event.

“Are you kidding, Hannah?” Wes replied. “You kept me better fed than my own mama when I was in college. I’d go fold napkins into swans for that gala if you told me to.”

“You’d probably be the first Pulitzer Prize winner to do that,” she teased, her voice warm.

“Well, I’m looking forward to the auction,” he told her sincerely. “If you need me to do any interviews or shake any hands, you just tell me when and where, and I’m there.”

“You’re a good man, Wes.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Tell Sammy that, would ya?”

Hannah was silent a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was lowered, like she didn’t want anyone else to hear. “Have you ever read
The Odyssey
, Wes?”

What the heck did that have to do with price of tea in China?
He didn’t say anything, waiting for her to elaborate.

“Odysseus may have spent a decade at war, but the hardest test—his
most difficult
trial—was returning home,” Hannah continued. “Did you know that?”

Hell, Wes knew that struggle all too well, the way he’d felt staying put in Austin recently, feeling like he was flying a holding pattern, just waiting to touchdown to safety, though the wind kept pulling at him.
It’d be so much easier to fly away
. Wes shook off the temptation.

“You’re a wise woman, Hannah.”

“I keep telling everyone that,” she responded. “You get some rest, Wes. Sounds like you could do with it.”

“You know what they say, Hannah—no rest for the wicked.”

“None, indeed.” She chuckled. “Talk to you later, Wes.”

“ ’Night, Hannah.” Wes hung up, fingering Samantha’s dog tags absently as he listened to the sounds and chatter of people still working downstairs. The Elliott Perry Fields Agency occupied a historic brick print house in the middle of Austin’s tree-lined downtown. Because he was so rarely in town, Wes’d set up his office in the refurbished loft space amid the wooden rafters and exposed brick façade. High up and out of the way, Wes had plenty of natural light coming in from the skylights he’d had installed. He’d covered the polished wooden floors with Turkish and Himalayan rugs he’d collected on his travels, so he could wander around barefoot if he liked. For inspiration, a few of his favorite photos hung here and there—stark and stunning black-and-whites by the greats like Robert Capa, Henri Cartier-Bresson, and Margaret Bourke-White.

When he felt like it, he could glimpse down the stairs at the bustling agency filled with writers and photojournalists capturing and disseminating the world’s most interesting stories, chasing the hottest leads, planning the biggest exposés. The agency he and his partner and best friend began half a dozen years ago represented the epitome of a dream fulfilled. The day he and Chris Fields put down the money to buy the building was one of the happiest of Wes’s life. To be able to travel the world, take pictures, tell stories, and impact the way generations viewed the world was a dream come to life. And to be able to help other journalists and photographers do the same while retaining the rights to their work was the cherry on top of the cake.

A couple years later, Martin Perry joined the agency, completing their little trifecta. Wes had worked with the Aussie journalist in Kosovo, during his first assignment with Reuters, and found that Perry had a particular talent for managing irascible magazine and newspapers editors. While Chris managed the office and most of the sports-oriented stories, thanks to his history with the NFL and his connections to the sports world, Martin managed major accounts and worked closely with the editors-in-chief of the world’s greatest newspapers and magazines. That freed Wes up to stay in the field, chasing leads and following stories—his greatest passions.