Reborn Read online

  “Don’t,” I say loudly.

  She freezes but keeps the gun aimed at me.

  “I don’t want to hurt you.” I lie with my whole body, from the words on my lips to my unnaturally relaxed stance, even though I’m ready to duck and draw.

  Her jaw is tight. Her cheeks are flushed.

  I raise my hands in mock surrender. “Jay, I just want to talk.”

  I say her name like it means something. Like I’m glad she’s here. Truly, I am. I’m even more satisfied with how restless her hands are on the gun. She doesn’t want to kill me. Yet.

  “Should I call you Jude?”

  Her nostrils flare. “I should shoot you.”

  I smile a little. “Isn’t that below your pay grade?”

  “It is, in fact.”

  I take a slow step toward her.

  “Don’t. Just stay there, Tristan.”

  “How am I supposed to tell you what you need to know when you’ve got that thing pointed at me?”

  She lets out a nervous laugh. “Do you expect me to trust you now?”

  “I’m not pointing a gun at you. That’s a pretty good display of trust, don’t you think?”

  “This isn’t a fair fight, and you know it,” she utters.

  She’s right. I don’t care what training she has. I’m at an advantage. Physically outmatched, if she’s not willing to shoot me, she’s fucked. Of course, she may not want to shoot me, but I’m not ruling out the possibility.

  “I trusted you for three years, Jay. Never asked questions. Never said no.”

  A tense silence stretches between us. This twisted partnership between us weighs it down. The camaraderie that grew around succeeding and surviving her missions.

  “I’m aware of our track record, Tristan.”

  “So you’re saying it doesn’t count for anything?”

  She works her jaw. “You were paid to do a job.”

  “You were paid. I changed my mind. There’s a difference.”

  “Our credibility was at stake. It is still at stake.”

  My lips curl with a sneer. “Your credibility? Are you serious?”

  “You’ve been paid very well thanks to the credibility of the organization as a whole. You gave me no choice.”

  I take another step toward her. She flexes around the grip.

  “What about Crow?”

  “He was in the area,” she says flatly.

  I don’t believe her. “He was following me the whole fucking time.”

  “I often use fail-safes. You know this.”

  True enough, I’d been backup on a few particularly important assignments. Sometimes the first line botched the job. But this was different.

  “A twenty-five-year-old schoolteacher? You think I needed a fail-safe for her?”

  “It was important. The client was eager. I’ve told you all of this.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Who is it? Who’s this VIP client you need to please so badly?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  I laugh because she’s consistent to a fault. “I bet you’re employee of the month every damn month.”

  Then something changes in her countenance. I’ve hit a nerve. Touched on some truth.

  I come closer. She steps back, keeping steady on her black pumps.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” I say in a quiet, firm voice. A voice she can trust.

  “You kill people for a living, so you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t buy it.”

  I keep walking toward her. She raises the gun a fraction. I pause before continuing my advance. She’s flushed again, her hands shaking.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” I say again. “I just need to know.”

  “Red, just stop right there.”

  I slow to a stop. She can almost touch my chest with the muzzle. I don’t focus on that. I narrow my gaze to hers.

  “You saved me, you know.”

  Doubt has cast a pretty big shadow on that possibility recently, but I spent a long time believing Jay had a hand in giving me the only life I could have. I reach for gratitude and try to communicate it in the tense space between us.

  “I just want to talk… Without you pointing a gun at my heart,” I add gently.

  She’s only half-lowered the gun when I grab her wrist, duck to the side, and wrench it from her. She screams. The sound comes to an abrupt halt when I wrap my hand around the delicate column of her neck. Her eyes go wide when I grip hard enough to cut off her air supply.

  “Who wants her dead?” I growl with far less finesse. I am the monster she knows me to be.

  She tries to shake her head, but her skin is already rising from pink to purplish-red.

  “You going to tell me or not?”

  She closes her eyes. Damn. Employee of the month indeed. Her lips tremble, and the rest of her limbs do too as she claws at my grip. Then I realize she’s pulling the same card. Banking on some unspoken connection or sense of loyalty between us so I’ll stop.

  But, like she said, I kill people for a living. The prospect of ending her life doesn’t make me squeamish. I can win this round, even if it costs me information I badly need. Seconds pass. Precious life-saving seconds.

  Yes. Her lips mouth the word. A couple more seconds, and her now bloodshot eyes go wide again. The real panic is setting in.

  “Yes? Is that what you said?”

  She has a death grip on my forearm. Her nails dig into my flesh, but I don’t care. I hate her. The part of me that can watch her die without remorse is the part she made—the killer in me who she shaped and encouraged until I was barely human.

  When she starts to go weak, I snap out of my vengeful thoughts enough to loosen my hold on her throat. Just enough to let air flow. She drags in a desperate breath.

  “Tristan.”

  “Wrong name. Tell me who put the hit out on her.”

  “I don’t know.”

  I don’t waste a minute. I grip her throat again, more tightly than before.

  She’s clawing at me again like she wants to talk, so I give her a little space to. She sucks in a series of ragged breaths before speaking.

  “I don’t deal directly with the clients. I’m only the manager, Tristan.”

  “Who does?”

  “He’s a shadow, Tristan. You’ll never find him.”

  I bring my face close to hers. “Did you forget?” My voice is barely above a whisper. “I am a shadow, Jay. You killed me. I can see pretty well in the dark now.”

  Tenderly, I run my thumb over the place where the integrity of her windpipe would give with some focused pressure. “What’s his name? Your boss.”

  She swallows, wincing over the discomfort it brings her. “Soloman.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “Tell me more about Soloman.”

  “He’s got clients all over the world. There’s no amount of money you could offer that would turn this around. He only takes the most expensive jobs, or the most difficult. Governments, Forbes 500, well-funded militias, the deepest pockets.”

  “Then why Isabel?”

  She blinks. Tears gleam in her eyes. Tears of fear. Tears of impending death.

  “I don’t know, Tristan. I don’t know. He wanted you and said it was important, so I sent Crow as backup because he was close.”

  I drag my fingertips along the back of her neck. She starts talking rapidly again.

  “I can find out. I don’t know how, but I’ll try. Please, Tristan. Let me at least try.”

  “I’m not feeling merciful. Didn’t you talk to Crow? I thought I made it clear.”

  Her lips tremble. “I got your message.”

  “I was hoping you would. It took extra effort to keep him alive. You didn’t take it to heart, though. You killed Isabel’s friend, and now I’m really pissed off.”

  “It was supposed to be her.”

  I shake my head and tsk softly. “You’re lucky it wasn’t. You’d already be dead.”

  She exhales a ragged breath full of her ow
n fear. I look her over. She could intimidate Isabel from behind her desk, but now she’s nothing more than a twig I can’t wait to snap.

  “Who was it? The one who killed her friend?”

  She hesitates a second before nodding toward the hallway. “You’ve already been introduced.”

  I make a small sound of surprise. “I didn’t recognize him.”

  “He’s new. Like you were once.”

  I’m thoughtful a moment but can’t bring myself to get emotional over it. I made choices. So did he.

  Tires squeal outside. We both peer through the bay windows in the front. Two black SUVs park abruptly along the curb. She looks back to me.

  “They’re here for you.”

  “I guess I should get going,” I say casually, even though I’m more than aware of the clock ticking until I’m outnumbered.

  A furious tremble takes over her body. “Tristan, please. I’ll get you the name. I can’t get Soloman to stop looking for you, but I can get you the name. I know I can. You have to trust me.”

  The car doors shut, and several men start toward the apartment.

  “Tristan, please…”

  The itch to put a permanent end to her tearful pleas is strong, a reflex away. But something holds me back. Whatever exists between us was forged in blood and lies. I know that violence and betrayal begets more violence and betrayal.

  “I’ll find you again, Jay,” I promise, because the business between us is far from over.

  “I won’t give you a reason to. I’ll get you the name.”

  No matter what she says, I know I’ll be seeing her again.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Isabel

  I stand before the mirror, trying to decide how I feel about anything, let alone this new look.

  My mother smooths her hand over my hair, slick now from being stripped of its natural color and heavily conditioned. I run my hands through it experimentally, testing out how it feels and falls. My simple no-style length has been artfully chopped into an edgier bob. Bleached blond, a little wavy and messy, the overall look is dramatically different but satisfyingly on trend, which was nothing I ever cared about before. I tug at the clean-cut tips that fall just past my jawline.

  “Remember how you used to threaten me if I ever dyed my hair?”

  She smirks. “If J.Lo can pull it off, so can you. You’re beautiful, Isabel. I really like it. Do you?”

  I think I do.

  She puts her arm around me and tugs me against her side. “Are you ready?”

  Our eyes meet in the mirror.

  Am I ready?

  For this new life?

  For death?

  I’ll only be dying on paper, of course, but it’s enough to make me feel ill when I really take it in. People I know will mourn. They’ll remember the twenty-five years of my life and bemoan that I was taken too soon. Then they’ll forget me over time. I’ll be memories in photographs. No one will know I’ve started over except my parents and Papa, who’s using his contacts in South America to stage a death that will hopefully deter or at least delay the people who’ve been after me.

  Mom won’t tell me how he’ll do it or where the documents for my new identity came from. She assures me everything will make sense once I get to my destination. The important thing is getting there. Crossing this threshold as soon as possible.

  I fold my hands across my torso, running my fingers over the exposed ink peeking out from under my sports bra. One life… What if one life becomes two?

  I shake off the thought, because it doesn’t matter. If they want me dead, I’ll die. And then I’ll start anew.

  We go back to the suitcases. Mom has packed them with my new wardrobe and anything else I may need on the road. Everything’s brand-new with tags. Lots of black. Tight jeans and formfitting shirts. Boots and a pair of Converse just like the pair I left behind in Rio. She said she wanted me to feel strong and beautiful. A new me.

  I feel new. Beautiful, okay. Strong, working on it.

  She crouches over one full bag and zips it up tight and then the other. I’m leaving before it gets dark. Nervous energy courses through me. I can’t believe I’m doing this. But it feels like Rio. Like Tristan. The thing I need to do…

  Mom stands and lifts the heaviest bag to rest on its rollers. The manila folder with my new identification is on the couch where we left it, along with a debit card loaded with all the money I’ll need to get set up someplace new and keys to the car that’ll take me there.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to wait for Tristan?”

  This is your new life. You decide who you want in it, she said when we went through all the documents and mapped out the plan.

  Ten days ago, Tristan crash-landed back into my world. Ten days ago, I stepped out of the safety and security of my life and blindly ran with him into another chapter, not truly understanding what I’d be leaving behind. I’ve been careening through it all, clinging to Tristan to anchor me and make sense of it.

  Of course I want to wait for him. I’m undeniably in love with him. I’d be content to curl up with him in this hotel room for the rest of my days and forget the rest of the world exists. When he touches me, my pain goes someplace else. When he leaves, I’m a mess. I’m scared to death of everything. And this is why I can’t wait.

  Facing the unknown future is terrifying, but it’s the only way forward. Wishing for things to be the way they once were would be a futile waste of energy with danger on my heels and a band of faceless enemies committed to securing my destruction.

  This truth is fortifying in its own way. I’m choosing the point where my old life ends and my new life begins on my own terms, in my own way. I’m drawing this mark on the timeline of my life alone.

  I love Tristan, and I trust he’ll find me when he’s meant to.

  TRISTAN

  I managed to escape Jay’s apartment without clashing with the men outside. I had to steal a car to do it, but I managed. I’m relieved and unsure. Motivated by the information I now have—a stack of folders with all the hit men who are a leash tug away from carrying out Jay’s, or Soloman’s, bidding.

  I never really considered the hierarchy of things before. Jay was God. The gauzy vision in the sky that ruled my world. Knowing someone wields power above her, someone who sought me out for this hit, unnerves me.

  Jay’s semblant commitment to help has me knotted up too. I should have killed her, but I let her go with a bruised neck and mercy I swore I’d never give her.

  I’m not used to hesitating. But ever since I decided not to pull the trigger on Isabel, I’ve been doing a lot more of that.

  Still, I killed a man back there. Doing so evened the score, except I’m not celebrating it. I won’t come home to Isabel a hero tonight. She’ll think of the notebook and carry the weight of my decision and blame herself for the words she spoke in the depths of her misery.

  On my way to our floor, I decide I won’t tell her. God knows, she’s dealing with enough gravity right now. I hover the key card over the sensor and walk inside, expecting to see her with her mother, maybe watching TV or talking over room service and a stiff drink. But the room is dark.

  I flip on the lights. The room’s been cleaned. It’s bare of any signs of her. My heart’s in my throat as I walk the three rooms, confirming she’s gone. I double back to the bedroom and look around frantically, when something catches my eye.

  In two long strides I’m at the bedside table. I pick up the notebook. Its worn leather slides against my fingertips.

  She’s gone. Really gone.

  An icy fear works its way through me when I think of her out in the world, alone, when she’s just now begun to understand what a savage place it can be.

  “Fuck!”

  I hurl the notebook across the room. It bounces off the wall and drops to the floor, both dull sounds that do nothing to represent my current frustration.

  I walk over to retrieve it, noting how the leather straps come loose along with one of
the pages. I open it and pull free the torn-out paper. Scrawled with someone else’s handwriting, it’s not like the others. I know it’s Isabel’s instantly by the feminine swoop of the letters.

  St. Joan of Arc, New Orleans

  The loose page was wedged above the last entry I’d made several weeks ago. A narco in Miami who very likely had it coming. Below his name is another. One I didn’t write. One that’s been etched into my brain since she called out my name…

  Isabel Foster

  A short dash takes the place where I’d have logged my fee had I gone through with it.

  Seeing her name written among the dead sends my anxiety into overload. Worry spikes through my gut until I’m pacing along the bed, trying to figure out how the fuck this went down. What does this mean? Where the fuck is she?

  Why… Why is her name here? Written in the same feminine script.

  I stop in place. As I drag my thumb over the ink, the fury in my veins lowers to a simmer. The rage and the worry turn into something else.

  Hope.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Isabel

  New Orleans

  Ribbons of passion and song seep through the closed doors of St. Joan of Arc Catholic Church into the empty street. A woman inside is singing, the soulful sound lifted up by the accompanying piano and drums. Making my post my pew, I hum the familiar hymn until the lyrics to the refrain come back to me.

  All that we have and all that we offer

  Comes from a heart both frightened and free.

  I briefly consider going inside, but for now I’m content to wait where I am, a block off the Mississippi River. The immediate neighborhood is unremarkable—modest houses, an adjacent school, and a warehouse with commercial space a few feet down the street where I’m now parked.

  After an all-night drive from DC, I traveled the long stretch of highway that took me over Lake Pontchartrain and into the city at dawn. Already the sultry spring air is a welcome change from the chilly capital. I close my eyes and melt into the supple leather seat of the blue SUV that’s been my home since my mother pushed the keys into my hand and we said our tearful goodbyes. Only goodbye for now, I think, as I feel exhaustion tug at me.