The Red Ledger, Book 3 Page 6

  He doesn’t answer me. A few tense minutes pass before he picks up his sandwich and proceeds to eat, ignoring my plea and my plan. The thought that he’d want to keep on that path makes me too ill to touch the rest of my lunch. What if these breakthroughs in emotion have more to do with our animal attraction than an actual shift in his priorities?

  I can find it in my heart to forgive the killer Jay made him, but I don’t think I can forgive keeping that part of himself alive. Of course, I wish our enemies would disappear too. Days ago I held Tristan’s gun in my lap and, deep in my grief, fantasized about what it might be like to take an eye for an eye. In the same moment, I recognized I wasn’t capable of carrying through with anything so heinous. He knows it too. So does Noam. Apparently I have gun-shy innocence written all over my face.

  Several minutes pass in tense silence.

  “I’ll drive you back,” he says gruffly after we get the check.

  I pack up my picked-over meal and hope to have an appetite for it later. As Tristan takes us through the oak-lined streets toward Martine’s, I reflect on the total roller coaster this day has been. I went from hopeful to empowered to set ablaze to utterly defeated.

  As we drive, I worry the Tristan I have been falling in love with is still the Tristan who could kill me in the blink of an eye. Somehow he’s convinced me that he could be different. A man I could give my heart to again.

  He rolls in front of the house, slowing to a stop.

  “I’ll see you later,” I mutter, not sure when or if I want to see him again after today’s conversation.

  But when I reach for the handle, he reaches across for my hand, stopping me.

  “Don’t go yet.”

  That contact between us feels right, even when everything else between us feels wrong. The flickers of vulnerability where I saw hardened defiance before give me hope.

  “I didn’t choose this life.” His tenor is soft, but the heaviness of his words fills the small space.

  “I know you didn’t, Tristan.”

  “I’ve seen things and done things I wish I could forget. I’ve made a small fortune from it, and every cent of it is red with the blood of others. Good people, bad people. Doesn’t matter. It was all wrong. Until you, I never hesitated before. Couldn’t let myself fail. Somehow, contemplating a different kind of life felt just as scary as carrying on the way I was. How miserable is that?”

  I don’t answer him but clutch his hand tighter.

  “If I never write another name into that fucking notebook, I almost think I could forgive myself one day.”

  “Then don’t,” I whisper. Please don’t…

  “I can’t rule it out.”

  Disappointment rolls through me like a drowning wave. Our gazes lock, and I’m certain my heart falling to the floor can be seen on my face.

  “Isabel… I’ll never take another job again. But if someone gets in my way or if someone threatens you… If it’s a matter of eliminating someone else to save you, I’ll always make the right choice. I’ll always protect you. And if that makes me a killer that you can’t be with, all I can do is try to change your mind, try to convince you that sometimes it’s kill or be killed, and hope for your forgiveness if circumstances come to that.”

  The drowning wave ebbs away and is replaced with relief and a prevailing sadness that this life could be my life always. Running, fighting, and facing death over and over again until I’m numb to it. As naïve as I’ve been, I can’t deny that Tristan has killed people who would have otherwise killed me. How many, I don’t know, and I’m fearful to ask.

  Would I change that? Would I sacrifice my life for any of the monsters who would have killed me without regret? Who killed Brienne?

  No. I’d choose to live. To survive. But I worry permission to protect is not all Tristan is asking for.

  “I’m asking you to question your instinct to shoot first.”

  “And how am I supposed to ignore that instinct after all this time?”

  “You’re brilliant, Tristan. You always have been. You have tools at your disposal that aren’t served behind a gun. We can figure this out without anyone else dying.”

  He looks past the iron gates to the house. Martine is sitting on the front porch with Zeda. I can see them through the trees, but they likely can’t see us.

  “I know you think I’m being altruistic and naïve,” I say.

  “You understand why it’s hard for me to get behind this plan on multiple levels.”

  “I know. But what other options do we have? Keep running? Hiding? Never knowing if we need to be looking over our shoulders?”

  “There are other options.”

  “Tristan…”

  “That feeling you have that makes tears well up in your eyes at the thought of someone dying? I don’t have that feeling. It doesn’t exist in me. I can eliminate them until there’s no one left who would dare hurt you.”

  Even as he says the words, I find myself swallowing over emotion thick in my throat. I trust this reaction is normal and his isn’t. “It’s Kolt’s family. I would never wish that on him. Never.”

  “You don’t know he’s not involved.”

  I roll my eyes with a huff. “Jesus, Tristan, we’ve been over this.”

  “And we still don’t know, do we?”

  “And you don’t know who is involved, and you’re proposing that you, what, just fly up to Boston and start knocking people off until you get the one who ordered the hit?”

  “I saw Jay. Before I had any idea you left me, of course.” He smiles tightly. It’s a smile made of discontent. “She knows she has to give me the name or I’m coming for her. I’ll get it. Just…whatever plan you’re hatching with them…wait until I know more, okay?”

  I hesitate. I’m eager to move our plan into motion and be free of this invisible prison, but I can’t deny that without knowing the true target, we run the risk of failure and nothing will have changed.

  “I’ll wait if you promise to help us.”

  He slides his gaze to me. Attraction and hope and fear that everything could come crumbling down around us at any moment fills the air between us.

  “Is this an ultimatum?”

  I squeeze his hand. “No… It’s an invitation to show me the kind of man you can be.”

  TRISTAN

  I let Isabel out of my sight for what feels like the hundredth time. I miss her and ache for her. Yet when I walk through the door of my rental, I’m relieved to be alone with the fucked-up person I’ve become and not have to spend another minute trying to convince her I’m worth being in her life.

  She makes me feel things, and worse, she makes me see. She shows me the broken person I buried when I went to Rio and the savage I replaced him with. She touches scars I learned to ignore. She’s ready to absolve me of all my crimes if it means I can change. How much blood on a person’s hands is too much? At what point does redemption matter?

  Of course, if I had a pinch of faith, I could try to talk myself into a place of hope. I could contemplate my soul. Figure out ways to stop the bleeding when life as I’ve known it has been a nonstop hemorrhage of murder and sin.

  I don’t especially want to kill people, but I can’t deny that sometimes it’s the easiest way to solve a problem. I don’t trust Halo or her budding friendships in the organization or her plan. But massacring Kolt’s family doesn’t end the chaos. It would likely breed more. I still have the Company to deal with. And despite Lucia’s connections—the extent of which I’m still trying to figure out—Isabel’s family is at risk the longer this goes unresolved too.

  I open my laptop, bring up the chat window, and type a message for Jay. I don’t have much to threaten her with, especially since I failed to kill her once. I don’t know what I could possibly offer her, so I go into the communication with no strategy other than trying not to show how I’m emotionally beating myself to death right now.

  RED: Time’s up.

  I start with a threat and hope for the best. M
inutes pass. Nothing. I get up and pace around the house. It’s a cute house. Almost cottage-like, except most of the blinds are drawn, making it dark and depressing. If Isabel were here, she’d make it moody and seductive and we could fuck for hours and I could pretend I didn’t have this enormous mess to clean up. At least for a little while.

  JAY: I can disclose the details whenever you’re ready.

  There has to be a catch. Asking opens the door for her demand, though. So I wait.

  JAY: One condition.

  RED: I’m not in the mood to negotiate.

  JAY: You’re not in a position not to.

  I refuse to acknowledge that I owe her anything. I could kill her. That doesn’t guarantee I’ll get the information I need, though. Of course she’ll have plenty more people guarding her place—if she’d even risk showing up there again. Then again, maybe I have an ace.

  RED: I already know about Chalys.

  JAY: I know more.

  Tempting. I’m tired and pissed off, so I finally do it. I ask.

  RED: What do you want?

  JAY: We want you to come back to Company Eleven.

  Dread roils my normally iron stomach.

  RED: Not happening.

  JAY: Sharing this information with you means there will be losses for us. You’ll have a debt.

  But I’ll have my life. The only way to keep my secrets safe is for them to keep me. I’ve known this for a long time. It’s why I kept the ledger. I can remember every name and number on it, but once I’m dead, it’s gone forever. The trail of blood. The map of all my offenses.

  RED: The girl?

  JAY: You can bring her back to life when you’re ready.

  Minutes go by. I need a drink. I wish I’d never initiated the chat and invited the demand I knew would come. Why ask a question when you don’t want to hear the answer?

  JAY: You’re important to us. Soloman wants you back. You’re the best we have.

  RED: Flattery will get you everywhere.

  JAY: I’d have told you before if you didn’t already know it.

  Jay spews lies, so the compliment does nothing for me. She’s dictated my life for the past three years. I despise her. I despise the person I’ve become. The only patch of beauty in this bloody existence has been Isabel. Her inexplicable love for me. I have no authority on what’s healthy in a relationship, but a cold-blooded killer falling hard and fast for a beautiful mark probably isn’t anywhere in the realm of healthy.

  I mull over Jay’s proposition. If I accept—regardless of whether I intend to follow through—we could trap the right people and employ Isabel’s developing blackmail plan, with my willingness to extinguish Boswell as a solid backup.

  If I did follow through and let Jay bring me back into the fold of Company Eleven… My instincts scream no, but my brain keeps spinning despite the reluctance I feel in my bones.

  With the Chalys feud neutralized, Isabel could get her life back, though. Maybe not the same life but one that could be normal given time. Maybe letting her go would break her heart all over again, but she’d be alive. Teaching. Putting her saint heart to work in the best ways she could. Not wasting her time in a rootless existence with me.

  Then I could scratch Isabel Foster’s name out of my book, and she could scratch my name out of her life.

  I wouldn’t have to spend my days protecting her with my life. But I could offer what’s left of it to make sure no one ever tries to hurt her again.

  Wouldn’t that be simpler? Would it be worth it?

  No, because selfishly I can’t give her up. I’ll never be able to bring myself to do it.

  Regardless, I want whatever Jay knows. So I press her.

  RED: Time to disclose.

  JAY: Do I have your word, then?

  RED: My word isn’t worth anything anymore.

  A long pause.

  JAY: There will be consequences if you don’t follow through. Don’t make me regret this.

  RED: I know how this works.

  JAY: Vince Boswell.

  Isabel is on target. I’ll give her that. But I’m not getting roped into Jay’s bullshit deal for a name I already know.

  RED: Tell me something I don’t know, or this conversation is over.

  JAY: They sent his nephew to Rio to get close to her and collect intel. He got too close, so they enlisted us.

  He fell for her. I knew it. I fucking knew it. I type hard on the keys with my next question.

  RED: Why is she so important to them?

  JAY: Ask her mother. She’s been meddling in their affairs. Causing problems for quite some time.

  Been there. Done that.

  RED: Anything else?

  JAY: They know she’s alive. This isn’t over until one of us ends it.

  So much for buying time. The only thing faking her death did was get the case off the Feds’ radar, which I admit is one less concern since they’d be useless in bringing her justice. At least the kind of justice I’m after. The longer Isabel’s name is in the media circuit, the more likely she is to be recognized, but her death is already old news.

  RED: Give me a couple weeks.

  JAY: Don’t screw this up.

  We’re negotiating, always maneuvering, because that’s the dance we know. But underneath it all, the real tension in our exchange exists because this is the last straw. Turning on a client simply isn’t done, but if they want me back, they’ll have to suffer the consequences. And if I don’t go back, they’ll be merciless in finding me.

  I shouldn’t have agreed without knowing if I could go through with it. The prospect of going back to my old life is both tortuous and comforting at once. Like Isabel, I’ve been tossed out of my comfort zone with all of this. But maybe it’s a means to another end. A better way through this mess. Find Soloman. Root out the threat from the inside.

  If I let them reel me back in, that’s what I’ll do. Of course, they’ll expect that too.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Isabel

  I spend another morning at Noam’s. I’m sore from the past couple of days’ exertions and using my muscles more intensely than I’m used to. Today’s lessons are more pragmatic than physical, though. He talks about using weapons of opportunity. Keys, pens, belts. Anything within reach in an emergency. He shows me how to disarm him of a fake gun and knife with fast, strategic movements. It takes me several tries, but I feel more confident with each iteration.

  We review soft points and incorporate those offensives into the sequence, which is only loosely structured. Everything can change. Noam comes at me differently each time, and each time I have to react first. He never gives me time to think.

  These lessons resonate maybe more than any of the others. I’m not worried about bar fights. I’m worried about the people who want me dead, and they won’t come at me with their fists.

  I walk back to the house feeling taxed but stronger. More capable. Like maybe one day soon I could hope to defend myself against the white-collar devil who wants me dead.

  Vince Boswell is that devil.

  Tristan texted me last night. Kolt’s uncle is our mark. Putting a face and a name to the threat might feel better if I didn’t have to find the nerve to seduce him. Tristan’s not the only one tentative about that part of the plan. Skye insists I have it in me. A part of me does, sure. I know how to get a man’s attention. But this one is the head of a billion-dollar corporate powerhouse and probably intimidating even in the most casual situations. That and he paid someone to kill me.

  Still, I’m not sure I can trust anyone else to the task.

  I shower and hurry to get dressed, knowing Tristan will be here soon. Martine gave her blessing when he requested a meeting. We’re hurtling forward into this plan faster than I anticipated. Skye’s not the only driving force, but her energy makes me nervous. She’s hungry for justice, which I get. But I’m having a hard time catching up to her.

  I clean up and head downstairs. Martine has an office in the back of the house. Murmurs of
voices carry to the front when there’s a hard rap at the front door.

  I open it to find Tristan.

  “Oh, hi. How’d you get past the gate?”

  A coy grin. “I memorized the key tones when I dropped you off yesterday.”

  I lean against the jamb and cross my arms. “Aren’t you tricky?”

  He braces his hands on either side of the door, leaning in so I can smell him. That familiar scent—earth and spice and the love of my life—emanating off the man who’s overwhelmed my senses for as long as I can remember.

  “You didn’t think I was going to let a fancy iron gate get between us, did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  I don’t think he’ll let anything stand between us unless that’s exactly what he wants.

  “You going to let me in or what?” His tone is low, a threatening little tease.

  I look him over because I can’t help myself.

  He’s wearing his usual black T-shirt and jeans, both contouring attractively over his muscular frame. His dark-brown hair is messily parted and hangs over his forehead a little. He’s clean-shaven—a rarity, because who has time for that when you’re Tristan Red? I run my finger along the smooth edge of his jaw.