Vigilante 01 - Who Knows the Storm (16 page)

Now he knows he’s not going anywhere.

They walk to his house. Ninety-First Street is less busy than the other streets, as most of the people have already left. Some National Guard jeeps rumble past.

He watches them go with a heavy heart.

Jenny stands behind him, cuddling the baby against her chest. She doesn’t look like a murderer like this, doesn’t seem like a person who would shoot a teenager in the head.

“Are we going to the ferry?” he whispers, fumbling with the key in the lock.

“Not yet,” Jenny says.

Inside, Jenny gives the baby back to Nox, telling him to change and feed him.

She has a gun, so he does what she says.

In the kitchen, he takes care of his little brother, musing that he needs a name. Nothing comes to mind until he remembers his mother’s favorite painter was Samuel Palmer, a British guy
who did these pictures that looked like weird cartoons. Nox never saw the point, but his mother always lit up when she got to talk about his work.

“How about Samuel? You like that?” Nox asks the baby, who just lies there, his skinny arms and legs twitching. “Okay. I’m going to call you Sam.”

The baby doesn’t care. Nox changes his diaper, keenly aware of Jenny prowling around the house. She’s in his father’s study now, going through his desk.

Sam is clean and dry. Nox uses one of the formula bottles the people at the medical tent gave him—mostly he’s avoiding moving from the kitchen. He sits at the counter, Sam in the curve of his arm, sucking down the thick liquid.

Jenny appears in the doorway.

There are papers in her hand and a smile on her face.

Nox’s skin crawls.

“So let’s you and me talk about what’s going to happen,” Jenny says as she sits down at one of the stools.

“Are you going to kill us?” he asks, blunt because he has nothing to lose at this point.

Jenny cocks her head to one side. She’d be pretty if her eyes weren’t so hard and angry. “No. I’m not. I’m sorry for scaring you on the road back there, but….” She looks uncomfortable for the first time since he’s met her. “Things got a little out of hand. But now? Now I’m in a better place to make some decisions for myself.”

“I don’t understand—” he starts to say, but Jenny cuts him off.

“Your father was murdered.”

Nox takes a deep breath, looks down at Sam, who’s fallen asleep with the bottle in his mouth. “I know.”

“No, you don’t. You think it was a mugging or a robbery, but it wasn’t. He pissed off some people who then decided to kill him.” Her voice is relentless, all momentary softness disappearing from her face. “And they decided to get rid of you as well.”

“What?” Nox shakes his head. Crazy, stupid, sounds like a spy movie. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

The sheaf of papers in Jenny’s hand—she puts them on her lap, then knits her fingers together and rests her chin against them. “I worked for the same people your father did. He made some unfortunate mistakes with their money, and they punished him.” She doesn’t look sorry Nox’s father is dead.

Nox looks at his sleeping brother.

“Did they tell you to get rid of me?”

“No, honey, I was at the hospital to take care of your mom. You weren’t supposed to be there.”

He swallows hard.

“Get her out of there, that’s what I meant,” Jenny says, but something in her tone makes Nox shiver. “And now you and me and that sweet little baby are going to get the hell off this island.”

Chapter Twenty-three

“I
EXPECTED
better from you” was all Rachel said to him as Cade stood in front of her ridiculous desk.

“Rachel—”

She held up one hand to silence him. “The only reason your ass isn’t on the street is the ridiculously obscene tip Mr. Mullens deposited in your account—which is now, by the way, in my account,” she said sharply. “Mr. White is waiting for you in Yellow Seven.”

Cade shook his head. “It’s not his regular day—”

“Seriously, Cade? Shut up and get over to the room now. If he tells you to crawl over and suck his dick, you better do it. If he tells you to lick his shoes? Guess what you’re going to be doing? Go. Now.”

The anger in her voice couldn’t be charmed away, he knew that well enough. He’d seen more than one model thrown out—literally—weeping on the sidewalk while Rachel verbally eviscerated them.

She was practically being nice to him.

Without another word, Cade fled the office and immediately made his way down to one of the small rooms. Yellow Seven was nothing more than two chairs and basket of condoms—it was literally a fuck-and-suck space for the clients who were cheap and fast.

Cade checked his face and hair in the hall mirror before tentatively knocking. He looked like shit. His only hope was Mr. White thinking the client before him had a rough streak.

“Come in, dear boy,” Mr. White called.

Inside, Mr. White was seated in one of the leather wingbacks. He smiled brightly when he saw Cade, patting the seat next to him.

Cade put on his best dimpled grin and perched on the edge of the chair. “This is a lovely surprise,” he said softly as Mr. White touched his cheek.

“I couldn’t wait until our regular meeting. Did you deliver my letter?” Mr. White asked, leaning forward in anticipation. His rheumy eyes were out of focus. He didn’t seem to notice the rumpled state of Cade’s clothes or his marked-up face.

“Yes, I did. Everything went fine,” he said, smooth and charming as ever. Cade’s mind went to Sam’s sweet smile and his wistful words about finding his parents. Then he thought about the kid’s father and, well, it was hard to drag his attention back to Mr. White.

“Marvelous,” the man was saying, his hands wandering over Cade’s knees and thighs. “Absolutely marvelous—can you take something else to him?”

“Of course,” Cade purred, demure as he moved subtly away from Mr. White’s wandering hands. “Anything you need me to do. I’m sure he’s waiting to hear from you again.”

Mr. White practically giggled with delight as he reached into his pocket.

It was another envelope, drawn out of the man’s expensive Italian suit. Cade tucked it into his back pocket before being drawn into Mr. White’s lap.

He steeled himself for more, but Mr. White just wanted to pet him like a beloved dog. “You don’t understand how wonderful this is, my dear. How I’ve been waiting so long for this.”

Curiosity lapped at Cade; he wanted to ask questions, to read the letter. Anything to help that kid. But he played it cool, the pretty messenger for Mr. White.

And maybe, just maybe, a hero for Sam.

C
ADE
GOT
home almost forty-eight hours after leaving. Serendipity Towers was the most ridiculous name, but the twenty-five-story high-rise was only a few blocks from the casino, which made his commute to work easy. Alec lived on the first floor, Cade on the tenth.

He dialed his friend’s number as he flashed his ID at the front gate. It went right to voice mail.

“I’m home. Come up when you’re done,” he said before getting into the elevator.

The view was the best part. Cade could lie in bed and stare out at the East Side of the District, where fewer high-rises meant he could actually see the night sky. The bright lights of the casinos obliterated the stars, but it was enough, that little square of darkness.

Two rooms were all he needed—an enormous front room with a kitchenette, a leather couch, and a chest that doubled as a table; and his bedroom with the adjoining bath. No television, no music, no electronics. His phone was his alarm clock. Here, he wanted silence and peace.

Cade took a hot shower, trying to ease his aches and bruised back. He stayed long enough for the water to go cold, and let his mind wander.

It kept wandering back to the enigmatic Nox Mullens.

He’d known a lot of men in his twenty-five years—literally and figuratively. He’d fucked them for work and pleasure, punched them in bar fights, and fled South Carolina to get away from one’s quiet disapproval of his life.

Nox was a beast unto himself.

Chilled from his shower, Cade stepped out and grabbed a towel from the rack. There was something intriguing about someone who couldn’t be figured out in five minutes. And seduced in ten.

Naked, Cade slipped under the covers of his bed, pulling the blankets over his head until only his eyes peeked out. He angled himself so he could see his little patch of sky, a sliver of gray blue over the gleaming tower of 21.

Maybe it would take an hour to figure out Mr. Mullens.

And half as long to seduce him.

Chapter Twenty-four

N
OX
WALKED
down to the hospital two nights later, his leg healed enough for him to manage. Sam made noises about going with him, but Nox found an alternative to that—he sent Sam to the boat basin for some “recon.”

To visit the weeds, but Sam didn’t need to know that.

101st Street was not a residential zone. The city couldn’t decide what to do with it, so it festered as an eyesore and drug den that wouldn’t be dealt with until some casino needed a better view.

He skirted through the shadows until he reached the block over, then climbed the fire escape of an old apartment building. The roof provided an excellent view of old Mount Sinai’s loading dock.

And the white panel truck currently idling in front of it.

Nox settled in. There were binoculars in his pack, and a thermos of coffee. The Sig sat in his waistband, a knife in his boot. For now, he’d watch.

D
EAD
B
OLT
.

He’d recognize those small white boxes anywhere. Two years before, Nox had interrupted a larger sale near the old Central Park Zoo. Dozens of slender white boxes filled with pool-blue powder.

This was at least a hundred times that big a potential bust.

Nox chewed his lower lip as he dropped the binoculars. Eight men total, no one he recognized from the neighborhood. They each brought out at least twenty boxes in the hour he watched. The idea that the old hospital held that much poison turned his stomach sour. So close to the neighborhoods. There was a tiny school just opened up, only four blocks to the south.

He wanted them out.

One of the men got into the driver’s seat and put the truck into reverse.

Nox gathered his things. Time to follow.

T
HE
WHITE
panel truck wound its way through the Old City—bless the shitty streets so Nox could keep up, even with his bad leg. It pulled into a small abandoned parking garage on the East Side, near the border of the District.

Nox hid behind a pile of concrete.

The man jumped out and went inside, leaving the truck unattended.

Perfect.

Nox waited, creeping closer as he watched the door the man disappeared into. After ten minutes, he ran to the truck and stepped into the cab.

Keys—how thoughtful.

He started it up, slammed it into reverse, and drove away with a squeal of tires.

The Dead Bolt floated on the surface of the Hudson for a few moments before sinking under the rays of the sunrise. Behind him, the panel truck burned.

All in all, it was a good night.

Until he got home and realized Sam wasn’t there.

Chapter Twenty-five

T
HERE
WAS
nothing at the old boat basin, nothing but weeds and silence and clumps of dirty snow that hadn’t melted yet, obscured by the copse of trees. Sam trudged around in circles, not even running across a deal to break up.

Boring.

He knew his father had sent him here for the express purpose of doing nothing—yet another attempt to keep him sheltered like a child.

A motor caught his attention. Sam tucked himself into the trees and watched as a white panel van just like the one he’d seen the other night wound its way through the rough streets, heading up toward the construction zone above the Old City.

Sam had a second to make his decision: Call his dad? Let him know? Or just follow the van to see where it was going?

He was jogging up the road, the red taillights his guide, before he finished his last thought.

S
AM
HEADED
for the zone above the Old City, where casinos and high-rises were slowly being built. He wondered what would happen to their neighborhood when the city planners decided the real estate could be sold. Would they lose their house? Where would they go?

The truck was parked in front of a high-rise, the future home of gamblers who didn’t want to leave the bright lights of the island for their more mundane lives on the mainland. Sam crept closer, trying to see how many men were in the vehicle.

He didn’t realize there was someone else standing there, cloaked in the shadows, until he was right up on him. Sam stumbled back as the figure turned around. He didn’t have enough time to run; Sam could do nothing but fall to the ground as the tall man leaned down and grabbed him by the collar.

“Oh, you’re in some trouble now,” he said, pulling Sam up off the pavement.

B
ATHED
IN
the headlights of the white truck, Sam sat on a concrete barrier, handcuffed and shaking with fear. The man had a shield and a gun, and he kept asking Sam about the explosives he might have been carrying. No amount of pleading and apologizing and confusion over “bombs” made any difference. He’d left Sam there to go make a phone call several minutes ago—Sam contemplated running off, but that big gun at the cop’s waist kept him riveted to the spot.