“I told you to sit the fuck down,” Danny barks, frustrated.

  Nolan moves a few paces and squeezes between Ringo and Otto, forcing them to shift and yank their jackets out from under Nolan’s ass.

  “Now.” Danny sits back at his desk. “Someone call Brad and tell him his pet’s alive and well.”

  “He’s not taken his phone,” Otto replies.

  “What?” James is across the room in the second, looking at Otto’s screen, which I expect shows Brad’s phone’s location. Here. “Why the fuck would he do that?”

  Danny goes straight to his cell. “Is Brad there?” he asks. Then he curses, giving us all the answer. “Where the fuck has he gone?”

  Nolan stands, panicked, and James approaches behind him, pushing into his shoulders, forcing him back down. “We’ll find him,” he says robotically, his face straight, looking at Danny, who looks plain furious.

  I feel like a fly on the wall, observing our men in their natural habitats. Being The Brit and The Enigma.

  My head is ping-ponging back and forth, watching, listening.

  Fascinated.

  James gets his cell out of his pocket and starts pacing, his attention on the screen, and Danny shakes his head to himself, still angry, but I know he’ll be more worried. “I haven’t got fucking time to go on a wild goose chase. Get me Len’s location. I want to know what the fuck happened to Fra—” His phone pings, and he growls, swiping it up, his eyes traveling across the screen. Then he looks at James. Thinks. And calmly puts his cell down and stands. “Find Brad,” he snaps, stomping out of the office, my eyes following his pent-up form. That’s it?

  “Come,” James says, ushering me out, and I go, despite being suspicious. Danny wasn’t finished with business.

  And then suddenly, he was.

  What the fuck’s going on?

  23

  JAMES

  “That was weird,” Beau says, looking up at me as I walk us down the corridor with absolutely no idea of where I’m taking her. Just away. From Danny. From the men. Anyone who might accidently blurt the latest news about Frazer Cartwright’s death. I need to think about this. Beau will be off around Miami trying to solve this mystery before I’ve had a chance to jump-start my brain. “Danny seemed like he wanted to say something and then didn’t.”

  I keep my attention forward. “He did?” Lame. So fucking lame. Everyone in the room sensed what Beau sensed, but I had no choice. I could see Danny was about to launch into one of his little recaps on all the shit going down, and that recap would have included the fact that Frazer Cartwright’s dead. So I sent him a quick text telling him to shut the fuck up. Luckily, he got my message before his mouth caused us more problems.

  “Yeah, he did.” Beau stops us walking and turns into me. Fuck. “What’s going on?”

  I laugh, and it’s natural. “What’s going on?” Where the fuck would I start? “You know what’s going on. You’re making a point of knowing what’s going on.”

  Her eyes narrow accusingly. I don’t shy away. “And what happened to my surprise?”

  Fuck.

  “It—”

  Her phone saves me, and Beau huffs, looking at me like a woman looks at a man when she’s communicating silently that she’s not done. “Hello,” she answers, sounding irritated. Then her face drops, and our previous discussion is forgotten. “Oh,” she breathes, making me cock my head in question. She inhales, as if bracing herself, and nods. “I’m sorry. Is it too late?” She covers her mobile with a hand and moves it away from her ear. “Can you take me somewhere?”

  “Anywhere,” I answer quickly, slightly surprised.

  She nods and goes back to her mobile. “I can be there in an hour.” A swallow. “Yes.” Her eyes close briefly. “Thank you.” Then she hangs up, and I stand before her waiting. Looking patient but not feeling it.

  “Where am I taking you, Beau?” I ask, after a long few seconds of silence.

  “To see my dad,” she finally says, shuddering, like ice could have just glided down her spine. “I want to see him before the funeral tomorrow.”

  I withdraw, taken aback. I can’t hide my surprise.

  “I was never able to see Mom.” She frowns as she toys with her phone.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, placing a hand on her shoulder, rubbing into it gently.

  She smiles. It’s weak. “No,” she admits, and I nod, understanding. “But I know I’ll regret it if I don’t.” Moving into me, she wraps her arms around my waist and . . . hides.

  * * *

  I can hear her mental war as I drive her to the funeral home. Guilt is driving her. Nothing but guilt. She’s spinning her ring on her finger, checking the GPS constantly to see how far away we are.

  When I park, I turn in my seat to face her. No typical words will suffice here. I can’t ask her if she’s sure she wants to do this. I can’t question whether she would prefer to remember her father as he was. Alive. Beau’s memories of him aren’t exactly fond. So instead, I say, “Okay?” and I feel like a useless sack of shit for it.

  On a nod, Beau unclips her seatbelt, takes a visible inhale, and gets out of the car, looking up at the front of the building as she does. I join her on the sidewalk. “Do you want me to come in?” I ask. She nods, so I hold my hand out for her to take and lead the way, hating this uncertainty on her. The door opens before we get there, an old fella who’s suited greeting us with a sympathetic smile.

  “You must be Miss Hayley,” he says, his voice loud, like he hopes to raise the dead in his care. He opens the way, allowing us to step into the reception area. It’s cozy in a sickly way. Full of florals—the paper, the prints, the carpet. But it reeks of death. “I’m Arnie Gluttenhiem.”

  “Thank you for keeping open so late,” Beau says, gazing around, moving into my side and clinging on to my arm.

  “What, dear?” he yells, leaning in.

  “I said—”

  “What was that?”

  “I was going to say—”

  “Damn hearing aid has broken again.” He taps his ear, where a wire hangs just below his lobe.

  “Thank you!” Beau yells, making me wince. “For staying open!”

  He waves off her appreciation. “Death isn’t a nine-to-five job,” he shouts, sweeping an arm out toward the back of the room where three doors are. “The one on the right. Your father’s ready for you.”

  Beau stares at the door, frozen, breathing heavily.

  Torn.

  “Take your time,” I say quietly. “Do you want to sit down for a moment?”

  She shakes her head, stepping forward. And again. And again. I follow her lead, until we’re at the door. She takes the handle. Stills. “Do you mind if I go in alone?” she asks, looking up at me, almost in apology. “I have some things I want to say to him.”

  “You do what you have to do.” I detach her from my side and drop a kiss onto her forehead. “I’ll be here.”

  I take a seat on one of the floral chairs and watch as she starts again to build the strength she needs to go inside and confront her father. Because that’s what she’ll do. Confront him. Have it all out. Tell him how he made her feel, how much she needed him. That he wasn’t there.

  Closure.

  I mentally will her on, encourage her, push her, my body tense in the seat. She takes the doorknob. Her shoulders raise with a confidence-hitting inhale.

  Then she drops her hold and moves back, exhaling. “I can’t,” she says to the door, forcing me to my feet. “I can’t do it.” She swings around, her eyes flooded with tears ready to fall, her head shaking, dislodging them, making them tumble down her pink cheeks.

  I don’t get the chance to go to her. She comes to me, crushing her body into mine, holding on. Needing me. And I fucking hate it. I envelop her in my arms. Safe. “I don’t want you to regret it,” I say, my nose in her hair, feeling her tears soaking through my T-shirt and finding my skin.

  Then she’s out of her hiding place again, roughly wiping at her cheeks, looking back at the door, the internal battle ongoing. “Okay,” she says to herself, going to the door again. I hate this. How she feels. Her inner turmoil. Because there is fuck all I can do to fix it. She takes the knob, turns it, pushes the door open a fraction, takes another deep breath.

  I’m watching her so closely, my eyes fixed, my mind focused, that I startle when my phone rings. Beau swings around to face me, watching me rummage through my pocket. I pull it out. Roll my eyes at the screen. “It’s just Goldie,” I say, letting it ring off, returning my attention to Beau. And so now we will begin the whole torturous, painstaking task of building the strength to enter again. “Go,” I say, soft but firm, nodding to the ajar door. She looks over her shoulder, contemplating the wood.

  My phone dings. Goldie. And what her message says sends chills down my spine.

  Incoming!

  I look over my shoulder to the door as I draw my gun, seeing shadows of men approaching through the frosted glass. “Fuck,” I hiss, scanning the reception area, noting the old boy at the desk lost in paperwork, the cameras, all the doors. Beau’s attention is back on me when I find her, eyes questioning but knowing. She starts scanning the place too, and she’s off across the carpet fast, heading for a door in the corner. I go after her, looking back, seeing the shadows closer, motionless on the other side of the door. Checking their weapons.

  Beau pushes into the door and I follow her through, closing it quietly behind me, taking a moment to reassess where we are. The metal drainage channels on the floor tell me before I have a chance to look up and see the dead body on the slab. Ice-cold air radiates from the corpse, making me shudder, and Beau stares at the old woman, as still as her.

  “Beau,” I say, taking her arm and pushing her toward a door on the other side of the room with an illuminated EMERGENCY EXIT sign above it. I believe this might be an emergency. I push into the metal handle and break out into a yard. The metal gate on the other side is chained and padlocked. “Fuck it,” I mutter, grabbing one of the many industrial trashcans and pushing it up against the wall as something flies past me. I freeze and look up, seeing Beau on top of the wall. She looks down at me halfway to positioning the trash can to use as a lift.

  “Take your time,” she says casually, turning and falling to the ground on the other side.

  “Beau,” I hiss, livid, as I haul my big body up the wall on a few grunts, my muscles yelling for a break. She didn’t even check if the fucking coast is clear.

  I drop down the other side. “Don’t ev—”

  “The coast was clear,” she says tiredly, motioning to the empty alleyway, just as a thud sounds behind us. She looks back, and I just know what she’s thinking. “The old man.”

  “We can’t be sentimental, Beau.” We’re running for our fucking lives.

  “But—”

  I move onward, my gun in one hand, Beau in the other, practically manhandling her. “He’ll be fine.” I don’t know that at all.

  “What if—”

  “Beau, I haven’t got time for this,” I hiss, poking my head around the corner, seeing my Range Rover up the street. A BMW is directly outside the funeral home, a driver at the wheel. Where the fuck is Goldie?”

  And like she’s heard me, she appears at the back of the BMW, armed, and walks down the side of the car. The whooshing of a bullet leaving a chamber sounds and blood splatters the screen.

  Goldie looks at the door to the funeral home, and I whistle to get her attention, just as a thud sounds behind us, accompanied by a rush of foreign words. Polish.

  I release Beau, giving her a look to suggest that if she moves, she’ll be getting it, and she holds her hand out. I’m not a stupid man. I give her my gun and arm myself with the other in the back of my jeans as I lift a trash can and gently place it down by the wall, stepping up and plastering my back to the bricks. I’m about to tell Beau to get in position by the gates, but she’s already there, poised, ready. I hate the sense of unstoppable pride I feel. Hate that she knows what she’s doing.

  A head appears over the wall, and before he has a chance to spot me, I grab his jacket and haul him over. He hits the floor with a splat and Beau has a bullet in him before I’ve even aimed.

  “Three more,” Goldie says, joining us.

  Bang!

  “Two.” Beau moves back against the wall and looks at me. There’s no amusement on her face. No smugness. She’s just doing what needs to be done, and I fucking detest that she does it so fucking well.

  “Concentrate,” I order, peeking up as another head appears. I reach back, straining, gritting my teeth through the pull of my muscles, and yank the fucker over. His gun fires while he’s sailing through the air, and I see Beau lean back, her eyes widening. “Beau,” I yell, a million unwanted memories flooding back as I jump down off the trash can and run to her.

  More bullets fire, one after the other, pinging off the metal rods of the gate. I flinch and duck, feeling one graze the back of my arm. I make it to Beau, slightly confused when I find her still standing, dread squeezing every one of my internal organs.

  She looks at me, lifting her arm. I see a hole in the sleeve of her shirt and flat-out panic, yanking it up her scarred arm. Nothing. I turn her arm over, checking every inch of it. No holes. No blood. “Jesus,” I whisper, pushing her against the wall with my body, effectively hiding her. Being a human shield.

  “One more,” Goldie says, standing above the motionless body of my latest victim and pulling the trigger.

  “Where’s the girl?” a thick Polish accent says.

  I inhale, feeling Beau moving ever so slightly, her eyes pointing downward, like she’s gaging something. She is. Fuck me, I need to stop underestimating her. Worry is natural. She lines her legs up with mine and stills, slowly lifting her head and looking up at me. Her eyes tell me what to do. I follow the sound of the voice, looking behind me, seeing a gun aimed at Goldie, another at me.

  Goldie immediately drops her weapon, and I follow suit, keeping my arms by my side, making myself as wide as possible as I return my attention to the wall. And to Beau. “One o’clock,” I mouth.

  If I wasn’t body to body against her, I wouldn’t know she’d moved.

  Bang.

  “Fuck me!” Goldie yelps, as I fly around, seeing The Shark hit the deck, his eyes open, a bullet hole placed precisely in between his eyes. Beau’s soon pushing her way past me, going to the body and standing over it. She considers him for a few moments, then pokes his thigh with the toe of her converse, like she needs to check he’s really dead.

  I look at Goldie. She’s staring at Beau, somewhere between awe and shock. Jesus fucking Christ.

  I go to her, taking the gun. “Stay,” I order seriously, before going to the gates and peering through. A bin labelled INCINERATOR is by the door. “Bolt croppers?” I look back at Goldie, who nods sharply and jogs off, returning a few seconds later. She takes care of the thick chain raveled around the gate with ease, the metal pinging loose with one cut, and I pull the huge trash can out onto the alleyway and flip the lid open. Beau takes the initiative to hold it, stopping it from rolling away, while Goldie and I start collecting up the bodies and dumping them inside one by one, my muscles getting another punishing. We leave the biggest for last, Goldie and I considering The Shark for a moment, also taking a quick breather, before moving in. I take his arms, she takes his legs.

  “Jesus,” she grunts, going a little blue in the face. “They should have called him Megalodon.”

  I have to agree. The guy is a ton weight. “Ready,” I heave, bracing myself to hoist him up.

  “Yep.”

  We both strain under the weight of him and slowly but surely ease him up to the trash can, getting him on the edge and nudging him in on top of his men. Beau flips the lid and frowns when she tries to push it back into the yard of the funeral home.

  I give her a hand, ignoring her indignant look when I push it along with relative ease. “Don’t even think about lifting more weights,” I warn, knowing she would, just to prove a point. I love her petite, athletic frame.

  “Arnie,” she says, taking off around the front.

  “God damn it, Beau,” I breathe, going after her.

  “She’s a constant flight risk,” Goldie moans, following. “Why can’t she be like all the other women at home?”

  “Because then she wouldn’t be Beau,” I say to myself as Beau pushes her way through the door, coming to an abrupt halt. I make it to her and look past her, to the old boy who’s just coming out of the room where Beau’s dad is laid. The confusion he’s sporting is quite endearing. Then he spots us and that confusion multiplies. He looks back to the door, then to us again.

  “I think I need a vacation.”

  I look around the place. Nothing is touched. There’s no blood, no evidence that anyone was here. Gentle, calming music plays, and I wonder what the fucking point is. Old Arnie here can’t possibly hear it. “Are you okay?” Beau asks.

  “What’s that, dear?” he yells.

  My God, his lack of hearing may have saved his life. “I said, are you okay?” Beau shouts.

  “No need to shout, dear.” He thumbs to the door behind him. “I have to close sometime this evening.”

  “Yes, of course.” She steps forward. Then stops abruptly and reverses, her back meeting my chest. “I’m good,” she says, forcing her body into me so I walk back too.

  “You don’t want to?”

  “No.” She shakes her head vehemently. “I’ve seen enough dead bodies for today. Thank you, Mr. Gluttenhiem,” she calls, but of course the old man just puts a hand up, not hearing. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait.” I stop her, taking the tops of her arms and hunkering down. “Are you sure?”

  She nods, swallows, and that’s all I need. I put an arm around her and lead her back to the car. “You were following us,” I say to Goldie, who completely ignores me. “Did you know they’d be tailing me?”

  “No, but I wasn’t taking any chances after Brad’s place was blown up.”