Vengeful (Villains #2)(104)
Syd: thank you
June: of course ;)
Syd got up and wandered out of her room, found Mitch at the table twisting a pair of wires and fitting them into a small black box. Sydney was always amazed that such big hands could do such precise work.
“What’s that?” she asked.
Mitch smiled. “Just a precaution,” he said, holding up the device. She realized she’d seen it before, or something like it, spotted them in the corners of doorways wherever she and Mitch and Victor played house.
“Have you heard from him?”
Mitch nodded. “This morning,” he said. “And as soon as he gets back, we’re leaving.”
Sydney’s chest tightened. She couldn’t leave Merit. Not yet. Not before she tried— She ducked back into her room and got dressed, pulled on the boots and the bomber jacket, and then went to the dresser, where she’d hidden the small red tin. She tucked the box deep in her pocket and started out into the apartment and toward the front door.
“Come on, Dol,” she called.
The dog drew up his lazy head.
“Syd,” said Mitch. “We need to stay inside.”
“And he needs a walk,” protested Sydney.
Dol, for his part, didn’t seem excited.
“I took him out earlier on the rooftop,” said Mitch. “The building’s gardener won’t be happy, but it’ll have to do. I’m sorry, kiddo. I don’t like being cooped up either, but it isn’t safe—”
Sydney shook her head. “If EON knew where we were, they would have already come for us.”
Mitch sighed. “Maybe. But I’m not willing to take the chance.”
There was a steadiness to his words, a stern resolve. Sydney chewed her lip, considering. Mitch had never prevented her from leaving before, not physically. She wondered if he would.
She didn’t want to make him do that. She sighed, shrugging out of her coat.
“Fine.”
Mitch relaxed, visibly relieved. “All right. I’ll start lunch. You hungry?”
Syd smiled. “Always,” she said. “I’m going to take a shower first.”
Mitch was already in the kitchen, turning on the stove, as she slipped down the hall, tugging the coat back on. She went straight past the bathroom and into Mitch’s bedroom, sliding the window open as Dol padded into the room behind her.
“Stay,” she whispered.
The dog opened his mouth, as if to bark, but his tongue simply lolled.
“Good boy,” she said, swinging her leg over the sill. “Keep Mitch safe.”
Syd was about to climb down the fire escape, but then she hesitated, digging out the playing card she always kept with her—the one Victor had plucked from the fallen deck so long ago, and then slipped like a secret into her palm.
The king of spades.
It was battered now, edges worn from five years of back pockets, a rough crease along the middle.
In their game, a face card meant freedom.
Syd told herself she wasn’t breaking the rules—and if she was, well, she wasn’t the only one.
She dropped the card on the floor, and tugged the window shut behind her.
VII
THE LAST MORNING
DOWNTOWN MERIT
VICTOR stood on the street, the stolen paperback open in his hand.
He’d lingered in the bar until just after midnight before checking into a nearby motel, the kind that clearly wasn’t eager to draw police attention. After a few restless hours on creaking springs, he’d gotten up again, and walked the thirty-four blocks through the waking heart of Merit to the address June had scribbled inside the battered front cover.
119 Alexander Place. 12 p.m.
It was, of all things, an art gallery. Large glass windows looked out onto the curb, revealing glimpses of the paintings inside. It was almost noon, and Victor hadn’t decided yet if he was going in.
He weighed the options in his mind, along with June’s words.
It could simply be another kind of trap. Or it could be an opportunity. But in the end, it was sheer curiosity that propelled him forward. For the EO who had managed to evade EON’s net. For the woman who had held her ground instead of running.
Victor crossed the street, climbed the three short steps, and stepped into the White Hall Gallery.
It was larger than it looked from the street—a series of broad, blank rooms, linked together by archways. Abstract paintings dotted the walls, blotches of color against the white. In his black attire, Victor felt like an ink spill. Ideal for slipping through crowds on the street, but far more conspicuous in such a stark environment. So he didn’t bother trying to blend in, didn’t pretend to admire the art, simply set off to find Marcella.
A handful of men and women stood scattered through the rooms, but none of them were real patrons. Victor glimpsed holsters beneath fitted suits, fingers resting on the open mouths of handbags. Hired guns, he thought, wondering if June was hidden among them. He didn’t spot anyone with her tells.
But he did find Marcella.
She was in the largest gallery, facing away from him, her black hair pulled up, a silk blouse dipping low between her shoulder blades. Still, he knew it was her. Not because he’d seen a photograph, but because of the way she stood, with all the casual grace of a predator. Victor was used to being the strongest person in the room, and it was both familiar and unsettling to see that confidence on someone else.