Atone (Recovered Innocence #2)(70)

“Do we trust him?” Beau asks.

I shake my head. “He’s not using my right name.”

Beau motions with his head toward the window. “Just a minute!” he answers Carter.

This isn’t right. Something is very wrong here. I go to the window and look out a crack in the blinds. We’re two stories up, so I have a good view of the street. One of Javier’s men waits by a car. He’s here. He’s come for me. I shake my head like crazy for Beau not to open the door. My heart is hammering double-time. He’s come for his revenge. I tighten my grip on the table leg. Sweat drips in a slick line down my back.

The doorknob turns, but the table keeps the door from opening.

Someone pounds on the door. “Eeeeden. It’s meee,” Javier taunts. “Let me in, precious. I’ve missed yooouu.”

That voice crawls out of my worst nightmares. He’s talked me into and out of so many things with that voice.

Beau swings his gaze away from me and toward the door. He knows who’s on the other side, and now he knows my other name. My past and my future stand on either side of the door. Javier will kill Beau. What he does with me after that I don’t care. There won’t be anything left of me to matter.

Something solid hits the door, shaking the whole wall. There’s no way out. There’s only Javier coming in. The door is slammed again. This time the table makes a terrible noise. Beau hunkers down next to the door, balancing on the balls of his feet. I take up my position on the other side. He squeezes my arm briefly as I pass. The door is hit again and again. The table gives way and a guy in black breaks through the door. Debris flies at me. I’m hit with chucks of wood and knocked to the floor.

The guy turns toward Beau, gun drawn. I whack him in the back of the knees and he goes down, howling in pain. His head hits the bed frame with a sickening thunk. His gun clatters against the wood floor and disappears under the bed. Beau rears up, going for the guy. He doesn’t see Javier coming in through the door, but I do. I leap between them. My back explodes in pain. I fall…





Chapter 37


Beau


Javier swings the gun toward where Vera is on the floor. I charge, catching him around the waist, and push him back through the door. We hit the floor with me on top. He strikes me in the head hard enough that my vision darkens. I reach out blindly, wrapping my hand around metal. We grapple for the gun. Behind me, another fight breaks out. All I can think about is Vera. This *’s strong, but I’m stronger. I straddle him, gaining the upper hand, and twist his hands toward his face.

Vera’s moan from the other room is all the boost I need. Pushing hard, I jam the gun under his chin. For a split second I see the terror he inflicted on so many innocents reflected in his black eyes, then BOOM. The top of his head blows off, splattering the wall behind him. I twist the gun from his hand and go back for Vera. The guy Vera hit is down, his head bleeding. Carter leans over Vera. She’s sprawled on her stomach. There’s a black mark on the back of her shirt. Blood oozes out around her.

I aim the gun at Carter. “Get the f*ck away from her!”

He puts his palms up and backs away from Vera. “She needs an ambulance.”

“Call one!”

He reaches into his coat pocket. I pull the trigger before I know what I mean to do. Carter spins back. The gun he pulled drops with him. I look around. The marshal is on the floor next the couch. I didn’t see him before. I need a f*cking phone. Digging in Carter’s pockets, I find his, but it’s f*cking password-protected. I toss it and search the other guy. His lights up. I punch in 911 and go to Vera. She’s out. It’s bad. It’s so f*cking bad.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

“She’s shot. I need an ambulance.”

“Sir, where are you?”

I glance around the apartment. “I don’t f*cking know!”

“Can you find an address?”

“I can’t leave her.”

“Sir, I can’t help her if I don’t know where you are. Can you help me?”

I stagger to my feet and out the front door. A guy is coming up the stairs.

I point my gun at him. “Not another f*cking step.”

He puts his hands up.

“Where the f*ck are we?”

“No hablo Ingles.”

I search below, looking for something I can give the dispatcher. A small crowd of neighbors gathers. They shrink back when they see the gun in my hand. The guy on the stairs goes for the back of his waistband. I fire. He tumbles down the stairs. The neighbors scream and scatter.

“Sir!” the dispatcher demands. “Where are you?”

“I don’t f*cking know. He was going for his gun. I had to shoot him.”

There’s some mumbling on the other line.

“Can’t you f*cking trace my call?”

“We’re trying to find you.”

Sirens scream, but they sound too far away. There’s a number on the door, but it’s only the apartment number. I don’t know what the f*ck street we’re on or even what city we’re in. I go back into the apartment, looking for something—some mail, a flier, anything—that will tell me where the f*ck we are. There’s no landline. No f*cking papers or notepads. Nothing.

Vera moans. I go to her. I’m shaking so f*cking bad. There’s so much goddamned blood.