The Vigilante's Lover: A Romantic Suspense Thriller (The Vigilantes Book 1) (3 page)

Colette laughs, her dark bob bouncing against her cheeks. “It is good to see you, too, Jax.”

“You know how glad I am you’re here,” I say.

“Sam get stuck?” Concern crosses her brow, a crease forming below the short bangs.

“Employees can’t exit the front,” I say. “I warned him.”

“He thought he rerouted that badge.”

“Go around the corner,” I say. “He’ll be along.” I have utter faith in Sam’s ability to get out of a tight spot. Besides, he’s a legitimate Vigilante. Unless they tie him to me immediately, he’s golden.

Colette inches the car along the front of the compound, then pulls around to the side. We both scan the gates for openings, side exits, and vulnerable spots in case we have to make a hard getaway.

Minutes tick by.

“Where is he?” Her voice has an edge of fear. “We had to kill communication since we could be overheard.”

The door opens, but instead of Sam, Johnson comes out. He spots the black car and heads straight for us.

“Are we compromised?” Colette asks. “Should we go?” She reaches for the acceleration switch.

I hold out my arm to stop her. “I am not leaving Sam.”

Johnson comes right up to the blacked-out window to peer in. As soon as his nose is close to the glass, I open the door with enough force to break his nasal bone.

He falls back in a stagger, blood dripping down his face. I step out of the car and wait for him to look up.

“Shit,” he says. “You?”

“The one and only,” I say. I’m not interested in getting his blood on my new suit, so instead of hitting him again, I pinch the nerve in his neck that will drop him cleanly.

His knees buckle. I don’t bother to spare him from collapsing facedown on the asphalt.

Sam smashes through the door. “Get ready to roll,” he calls out. Behind him are two other guards.

I step back inside the car. “Impeccable timing,” I tell him.

“Go,” he says as he dives into the backseat.

Colette wheels us away. The guards give chase for a moment, but once Colette punches the nitrous acceleration, they fall behind. One stops to speak into his lapel radio. Won’t matter. In moments we are past the gate.

“Nice work, you two,” I say. “I owe you both a drink.”

“Cut it too close,” says Sam from the backseat, “so you can add that to our tab. Hope your money’s good.” He rolls down the window and tosses his guard badge out onto the asphalt.

“Always,” I say. Not that Sam needs money. Every Vigilante has access to any amount necessary, without question.

Sam claps my shoulder. “God damn, it’s good to have you back,” he says.

“It’s been too quiet without you around,” adds Colette. She downshifts the car back into normal drive mode. “What’s your plan now?”

I watch the scenery whip by out the window for a second. “I need to get to Klaus. I think Jovana’s on to him.”

“Still the thing with that woman?” Colette’s voice holds a laugh.

I frown. “I killed an innocent man because of her.”

“Not so innocent,” Colette says.

“Neither of them,” I say. My stomach burns just thinking of Jovana. I loved that woman. Stupidly. Foolishly. To my doom. She used me to kill one of her rivals, a fellow Vigilante. That act landed me in prison. Only Sam, Colette, and Klaus know the truth. Jovana vanished after getting my hands dirty.

“I think she has Klaus,” I say.

“He was lying low, no?” says Colette. “How do you know he’s been compromised?” I sense the worry in her voice.

“His letters. They weren’t right,” I say.

“You and your bondage,” Colette says, shaking her head. “Klaus probably got his knickers in a knot just trying to keep it all straight.”

I glance back at Sam, who stares out the window, his dark face clouded with concern. “Klaus is a smart man,” he says. “He can manage a little code.”

“I agree,” I say. “We need to get to the Tennessee safe house.”

“We can’t go with you,” says Sam. “We’ve taken enough risk with the syndicate for one day.”
 

He’s right. They jeopardized their positions as Vigilantes for me.

“Then drop me off. I need to check on him.”

“Already planned for,” Colette says. She glances in the rearview mirror at Sam. “Get out of that suit, Sam. It’s probably got some sort of sensor.”

“Nah. It’s civilian,” Sam says, but still he strips off the guard uniform. As we pass over a river, he rolls down the window and lets it fly.

“Sam! Litterbug!” Colette is indignant.

“Toss the suit! Don’t litter!” Sam tries to sound mad, but the Louisiana lilt to his voice belies the humor.

I sit back in the seat, savoring the sights. One year in that hellhole. The only view was the straight-up look at the sky while out on the grounds. Now Chicago stretches out in all directions. Pubs. Restaurants. Long rows of houses fitted close together. The El.

“I’m taking you as far as the suburbs,” Colette says. “There we meet up with our clone IDs.”

“I was wondering how you went off grid,” I say.

Sam pulls a knit shirt down over his chest. “You’ve been in the clink, boss. Been a lot of tech upgrades in the syndicate while you were out of commission.” He taps a leather suitcase beside him on the backseat. “Inside here are all the tools we predicted you might need while you avoid the network. There’s an audio rundown on them for you to listen to on the drive.”

I nod appreciatively. Sam is the gadget man, even if he can be old school about it. He often chooses a hammer over a retina scan, but he always knows the latest Vigilante tech. His ability to circumvent it with no more than a loose wire and a pair of pliers has saved us more times than I can count.

Colette has always been our getaway girl. She can maneuver anything with wheels, wings, sails, or engine.

“This Lexus is stolen, and the identifier chip is attached to a jelly brick in the trunk to give it some mass,” Colette says. “I’d say you’ve got three days on this ID before he surfaces.”

I don’t ask about the status of the man whose identity I’ll be borrowing. When Colette says “surfaces,” it could mean anything, and it’s probably better I don’t know.

Sam points at the front dash. “I’ve set up a countdown on the ID.” A red display projects seventy hours onto the windshield.

“I think you should give up on the woman,” Colette says, a bitter edge to her voice.

I try to sound cool and impassive, not that it fools her. “The syndicate is going to come after me,” I say. “Jovana’s the only shot I have at clearing my name.”

I have zero future if the Vigilantes don’t back me on this, and they all know it.

Sam leans forward. “Jovana’s been off grid the whole year. Nobody can track her, not even the syndicate.”

“That’s impossible,” I say.

“She’s obviously got friends in high-tech places,” Sam says.

Colette reaches over to squeeze my arm. “We’ll help as we can,” she says. “All the letters are scanned and in the system.”

“Thanks,” I say. Colette does always remember every last detail.

“We’re approaching our rendezvous with our clones.” Colette touches a yellow button on the screen in the dash. “You can play the letters back here. Perhaps get more ideas.”

I doubt I will learn much more than I did in prison, with nothing else to do but study the strange rearrangement of my code in handwriting that does not match any of the styles Klaus adopted.

“I know what a risk you two took to get me out,” I say to Colette. “I won’t forget it.”

“We won’t let you forget it,” Sam says with a laugh.

Colette exits the freeway and approaches a small gas station. This Lexus is electric, but as we approach, a hybrid Mustang wheels out from behind the pumps.

“That’s our ride,” Sam says. “You’re letting me drive this one.”

Colette rolls her eyes. “I’ll try not to get bored.” She leans over and kisses my cheek. “Be safe, Jax. We’ll catch up with you again in three days.”

“Be careful out there,” Sam says. “There’s a blackout phone in the bag. It’s a rare bird. Don’t use it unless you have to.”

I nod. Colette and Sam walk away toward the Mustang. Two other people get out of the car and head into the station.

I open the passenger door slowly, breathing in the smell of gasoline and autumn. Leaves skitter across the broken pavement.

I walk around to the front of the car, fingers lightly grazing the smooth glossy surface of the hood. It is an excellent vehicle and well equipped. I am out of prison, and on my way to clearing up this little matter that made the Vigilantes overreact so abominably. Time to head to the Tennessee safe house and see who is impersonating Klaus, or holding him as some sort of hostage.

Whoever it is, they’d better be ready for me.

6: Mia

Another long empty night has arrived. I feel disjointed and unsettled. Maybe it’s the letters. Maybe it’s the change of seasons.

I wonder how Aunt Bea ended up here all her life, never married, alone in this rambling old house.

I have to be careful or it could happen to me.

I check both doors. Locked tight. Not that it matters. This small town has all the danger of a potted plant.

But for some reason Aunt Bea has enough deadbolts for Fort Knox. I run my fingers over the cold steel. It takes six different keys to open them all. Maybe the first thing to do now that she’s gone is to have all but one of them removed. I will be fearless, like my mother. I won’t stay locked away.

I head back to my small bedroom. There’s nothing to stop me from taking over my aunt’s larger one, but it doesn’t feel quite right. Not yet.

I flip on the light. My room is tidy with its smooth crocheted bedspread, small dresser, and wicker nightstand. A bit of high school memorabilia still hangs on a bulletin board. I was president of the chess club.

Yes, the dullest life ever.

Except…the letters. I have placed the older ones in a wooden box on my nightstand. I run my finger over the carvings on the lid of the box, wondering if I should read through them again. So unusual, talking about all that bondage and using nautical terms. So intriguing and sexy and strange.

I lay back on the bed, imagining in my mind the person who writes them. Jax De Luca.

Does he hunch over a metal desk scattered with paper and pens? I wonder if he has a book of knots that he refers to as he writes, or if, like me, he has knowledge of them from years of study.

The letters are always addressed to “Klaus” on the envelope. Inside, each begins with a broad-stroked “K.” Whoever K. Klaus is, this Jax guy is really into her. Kate? Kathryn? Karen?

When I found the first one in my aunt’s unsorted mail, I set it aside, planning to return it. But weeks passed, and one day in a flurry of going through letters to find a missing bill, I accidentally opened the envelope.

By the time I read the first line, I was hooked. I searched through a newer stack, and sure enough, a second one was buried in the pile.

I read them, again and again. The knots made them so personal, like they were meant for me.

And they were so sexy. I’d never read anything like it. It’s as though they unlocked some secret part of me. Forbidden. Hot. Exciting.

On one of my quiet days, I drove out to the local library, and hidden behind a fern, opened up that popular bondage book
Fifty Shades of Grey
to see if maybe the letter writer was just copying passages from it. I had gleaned from bits of news that filtered in from neighbors that this scandalous novel had the same sort of subject matter.

But no, the words were all his own.

I would never have written him back, except I kept passing that picture in the hallway. Mother, so beautiful and brave, fearless and full of adventure. How much harm could come from a letter? And wasn’t it a kindness? I would be easing the plight of some poor incarcerated soul.

Obviously his K. Klaus lied to him about her whereabouts, as this address has been owned by my aunt for decades. She probably distanced herself after his trial.

I tried looking up the prisoner’s name. I found very little. No arrest. No crime. Just a small notice about his arrival at Ridley Prison. No picture. Just his age, 37, and birth city, Atlanta. Also a Southerner. He would serve fifteen years of a sixty-year sentence. Only a year had passed.

Surely if he did something truly terrible, there would be news about it. Probably he was some white-collar criminal who evaded taxes or laundered funds, and the company kept it quiet to avoid upsetting the shareholders.

Or so I told myself.

My first attempts to write him fell flat. I couldn’t quite bring the sexy into the knots. So I began to copy his letters word for word, then slowly rearrange the sentences and switch out the knots. But the time I managed a draft I was pleased with, my urge to share it was strong.

So I mailed it.

Shirley’s dog howls in the night, a long terrible wail. I sit straight up in my bed. Rowdy never makes any noise, not that I can hear down the road. The howl is followed by a series of barks, then he goes quiet. He must have tried to relieve himself in the yard, and it wasn’t pleasant for him after his snipping. Poor dog.

I relax back against the headboard.

I turn to the box of letters, wondering if I can handle reading one more before I go to sleep. Maybe my dreams will be full of Jax De Luca and his slipknots. I lift my hand in the air, the long cotton sleeve of the old-fashioned nightgown sliding to my elbow. I giggle, imagining my wrist tethered to the bedpost. I shift my ankles apart beneath the comforter. They don’t quite make the width of the bed to reach the knobs on the corners. The long skirt of the gown keeps me from spreading very wide.

I’m just not the sort of girl made for BDSM novels.

But Jax doesn’t know that.

I pick up a pencil and jot down one new idea that has just come to me with my movements on the bed.

You jerk my ankles apart with such strength that my gown disintegrates into tattered shreds around my naked hips.

I shudder at the thought of it. Now it will be hard to go to sleep. I set the pencil and paper back on the nightstand and flip off the light. In the dark, the night is quiet, a silence I am used to. Tomorrow I will try to sort through my life, figure out my next step. Somewhere out there is a future for me. I just never thought to plan for it.