12: Bolt Saga, Book 12 Page 6

  And sure enough, there’s Christmas Tree Cove to the north, Golden Cove to the south, and the exclusive strip of oceanfront mansions along one of Southern California’s most prime coastal bluffs. When I switch the view to a satellite overhead, I see the Consortium’s estate, with its sloped Mediterranean roof and an electric security fence along the perimeter. The designer pool is still in the backyard, with deck chairs as pristine as the last time I laid eyes on the place. The damn things have likely never been used.

  Because the place is still being used as a Consortium recruiting station?

  “Holy. Fuck.” One good repetition deserves another, right? Except when a guy has to focus on ionization containment and the words burst from a gut that’s grinding and roaring, powered by rockets with bile as their fuel.

  In the haze in my periphery, there’s mindful movement. “Richards.” I’ve suddenly never been more thankful for Foley and his ability to play Spec Ops Buddha when I need him the most. “Talk to me, man.”

  His posture is more tense than usual, as if he’s dropped into mental starting blocks and is simply waiting for me to fire the race gun. I hate thinking about how accurate that comparison might be.

  “The fuckers never left the place,” I finally grate. “They just pretended to close it all up. Covered the furniture and kept the lawn up, probably so the HOA wouldn’t hound them, and have continued using it with someone else’s name on the deed.”

  “Guy’s name is Roman Engrid.” The information comes courtesy of Alex, who’s tapping efficiently on another smart pad. “He’s the middle son of the Engrid Seafood dynasty.”

  Foley licks his lips. “I love their cod bites.”

  Fershan, the team’s adamant vegetarian, mumbles, “I shall tick your word for it.”

  Foley cocks his head. “You can take my word too, if you want.”

  “No.” Fersh waves a hand. “You can keep it.”

  Ignoring them both, Alex goes on. “Engrid was a small local outfit in Norway, until Roman had aspirations of taking the brand global. He did so by signing on with Meta Seafood Packaging…”

  “A known Scorpio cartel conglomerate,” Foley finishes for him, frowning.

  “Fuck,” I spit again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” My fingertips crackle with blue and gold sparks, which intensify as I yank open the storage closet under the stairs. Inside are at least three sets of mission leathers. I waste no time dropping my sweats and switching them out for the thickest black fighting pants I own.

  With one-two-three efficiency, Foley’s got his hoodie shucked without releasing his expectant stare on me. “So we are riding the same wavelength here, yeah?” he prompts, pulling out the leathers I had customized for him.

  “Depends.” I knife one arm and then the other into my jacket. “What’s on your wavelength?”

  “The fact that Angie looked a little strange during our drive back here yesterday, especially when we hit the area near RPV,” he asserts. “Maybe she was zoning out because the mental woo-woo stick was connecting to that pin”—he jogs a nod back at the phone as I return it to Lydia’s grip—“and that the feeling got worse as soon as Faline tried to hook up the link to you…”

  “And now Angie’s coerced Wade and Em to go back there with her.”

  “Probably selling them tickets for the ‘Retribution on Faline’ bandwagon.”

  As Foley zips his jacket to his neck, his jaw turns into a blade of tension. “Which may or may not be the truth.”

  “Does it really fucking matter?”

  He dips a terse nod. “Damn good point.”

  Why doesn’t that make anything feel better?

  As a matter of fact, why does it only rev the rocket blasts in my gut, melting everything from my waist down, including the ice cubes of my knees? Why did I think I could even get out the damn door before yearning to plummet to those knees and vomit from the most violent craving to kill I’ve ever known? And why is it now stacked on top of the most dreading fear I’ve ever endured?

  But why do I remain on my feet, picking up my pace out the front door and making my way to the Range Rover with wider, faster strides? Why do I hike myself into the passenger’s seat, knowing that if Foley drives, I can think more clearly about what has to happen once we get to that bitch’s mansion? And why do I already start narrowing down the list of possibilities, despite how that tops off the bile fuel tanks in my gut?

  My bold, brave, selfless, dauntless woman actually thinks the princess can save the prince now by slaying the fucking dragon.

  But killing the dragon isn’t the solution to the quest. There’s only one way to do that, and I’ve figured out that secret already.

  Winning this quest means becoming the dragon.

  Chapter Four

  Emma

  Why don’t the movies ever go over this part of secret missions?

  Or the fact that it has to be endured with a nonstop loop of French profanities in the background?

  Or the fact that answering nature’s it-won’t-wait call is a hell of a lot harder to finish on a time limit than picking a lock, cracking a safe, or stealing through a garden under full moonlight?

  The fact that we haven’t done any of those things yet, even after sneaking inside a mansion that should have its own zip code, isn’t the point.

  Or maybe it’s exactly the point—because I’m sure that if the Sneaky Spy Shit instruction manual really existed, all that other stuff would obviously be included, complete with pretty chapter headings, detailed line drawings, and even a few step-by-step instructions.

  What they wouldn’t include is what Angie, Wade, and I have figured out minus the manual. Thanks to our friendly neighborhood tech hunk, who hacked the city’s database and downloaded the mansion’s blueprints during the drive down from the ridge, we easily found the laundry room. After that, Angie became the mission’s stud operative. Her ability to size up a person at first glance, as well as her knowledge of the secret dressing room behind the laundry racks, got our camos successfully stowed and our new personas in place: executive housekeepers for Angelique and me and sous chef’s whites for Wade. I even lent some confidence-building tips, courtesy of too many PR courses to count, helping us act like said “official” staffers in walking past two sets of security guards just to find one damn bathroom.

  Relatively speaking.

  If this palace inside a palace is really a bathroom, then I’m the goddess Aphrodite and all this luxury shouldn’t be making my eyes pop out of my head. But I continue to bulge my gaze at the pool-sized tub, multi-head shower, and toilet stall in which two thoroughbred stallions could easily fit—which, of course, makes it impossible to even think once I’ve plunked down for the “business” I’ve insisted on getting in here for.

  Holy shit, shit, shit.

  “Mon dieu. Any chance of hurrying things along, darling? S’il vous plait?”

  I toss a glower at Angelique through the mullioned glass partition. “Make you a deal,” I growl back. “I’ll attempt to get this done tout suite, and you let go of the pee whisperer duties, okay?”

  “Hmmph.” She stops and stamps now. Even through the textured glass, I watch her long blond waves fall back into perfect place. “You would prefer I trade places with Wade? I am sure he would like to get out of pretending he is still on his way to the kitchen.”

  “Are you freaking kidding?”

  She has to be freaking kidding. But when there’s no answer from the other side of the wall, I wonder if she’s gone and utilized her mighty French girl balls to make good on the threat. And that yikes me out even more than having to take care of business in this marble sepulcher of a bathroom.

  But this bathroom, and the concept of Wade’s presence in it, shouldn’t even be making my list of qualms about what we decided to come here to do. Qualms that began the second Wade hacked into the mansion’s security system, rebooted this place’s gazillion super-secret cameras, and showed the feeds to Angie and me. Qualms that were amplified when I saw Fali
ne through those cold lenses. Not because of the doubts about killing her—because there have never been any doubts, nor are there now—but because I don’t have those misgivings. Not a single damn one. A revelation, of course, that does cause me doubts.

  Ugh.

  I never considered killing another person prior to a few hours ago. Is it possible to be so certain that I’m ready to do this…now? Shouldn’t I be on some kind of spirit quest, debating about this? Taking a figurative, if not literal, hike into the woods to talk to the Big Spirit in the Sky about this?

  Remarkably—or again, maybe not—all those quandaries are resolved when I return to a single word.

  Faline.

  Since talking with Angie back at the ridge, I know the enemy better than ever. She’s a years-in-the-making psychopath. A damaged creature, genuinely convinced that she’s been ordained by the universe to mess with the lives—and deaths—of others. Her thinking’s as whacked as images in carnival mirrors, but those mirrors have become her reality. She’s dived fully into the glass, creating her own demented court and kingdom from all the broken shards.

  And dragging her bleeding army through the carnage behind her.

  It’s time for Queen Faline to fall.

  Before she turns my man into her casualty.

  A purpose I’m able to reclaim in full as Angie’s heavy sigh fills the bathroom. Oh, thank God. I’ve been granted a pass on the Wade retrieval threat, and taking care of business is finally easy.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I mutter once I’ve smoothed my “borrowed” uniform back into place—only to be hauled back by the woman now grabbing my elbow and spewing a string of disgruntled French. But just when I think she’s about to give me a lecture about letting nerves drive me to chug a whole liter of water between the ridge and here, she jerks up her head. Then swings around a stare with anxiety that visibly matches my pre-mission water-chugging levels. “Angie? What the—”

  But then I hear it too. No. Not “it.” Her. The queen of the crazies herself, heels clunking louder and louder in the long, tiled hallway.

  “Merde!” Angie rasps, instantly whumping the air with the force of her stress. Her energy bears a similar jolt to Reece’s, but instead of flashing lightning, hers is like the whoosh of a comet. Brilliant and blinding, leaving only faint trails behind, until once more flashing the atmosphere.

  The cycle keeps up as she whips out her phone and taps in a two-digit text. Before she hits Send, I know what the message means. It’s the emergencies-only code she’s preestablished with Wade.

  I definitely think this qualifies as an emergency.

  Faline’s bootsteps come with an accompaniment now. She’s rattling off orders to her minions. I can’t make out anything specific, soon realizing it’s because she’s speaking fluid Spanish. Every few seconds, there’s a soft, “Sí, maestra,” in a quiet male tone, interjected between her orders.

  “Holy shit,” I blurt.

  “Holy fuck.” The response nearly overlaps me. But just when I think I’ve really lost it and am hearing voices, Wade’s rough bark becomes tangible on the air—as the man himself breaks into the bathroom. Literally, he’s broken in. Angie and I didn’t notice the door on the other side of the vanity, since there’s no knob on this side and the seam is totally plastered over. But thank God—again—for those blueprints, allowing him to kick through the rubble he’s created, one hand extended, already shouting, “Come on! This hall dumps back out into the other one. We can circle around and take her and her goons by surprise!”

  By the time he’s done, his yell has become a full roar. By necessity.

  Because of the alarms that start wailing throughout the entire building. But not just any peals. These are the we’re-all-going-to-die kind, straight out of duck-and-cover reels from the last century. I honestly suspect we’re going to burst out of the secret passage and find ourselves face-to-face with aliens, terrorists, or biologically restored dinosaurs.

  What awaits us is worse.

  Or better, depending how we choose to perceive it.

  Because technically, finding Faline Garand is exactly why we came here.

  Just maybe not looking so dewy and fabulous, even while jogging up on the heels of the henchmen who have summoned her to our exit point. And especially not being so damn prepared, despite having swapped out her sleek catsuit for a dark-red sheath she probably poured herself into, joined with black suede hip boots that take the term “statement shoe” to a new stratosphere. But at the moment, it’s not her boots I’m fixated on. It’s the gleaming daggers in her hands that catch the light as she twirls them with practiced ease.

  Crap, crap, crap.

  I hold myself back from saying it, no matter how hard the words gurgle and push at the base of my throat. Could have something to do with the moisture causing me problems elsewhere: whopping beads of perspiration, dripping past my eyebrows and collecting on my lashes, start fuzzing out my vision. I compel myself to take the valuable seconds and attempt to shake the fog free, but everything’s still a blur even as I haul my Glock out of my uniform’s other pocket. But my periphery is still fully functional, and it gives me the welcome notification of Wade brandishing a similar pistol, along with a Bowie that makes Faline’s knives look like fast food plasticware. I send up a fast prayer that Angelique has taken precaution to come equally prepared.

  Only to realize, in the next moment, that she would have been wasting the time and effort.

  Two more goons rush onto the scene, obediently bracketing Angie with nothing but a commanding jerk of Faline’s head. Before they’re fully in place, Angie’s eyes pop wide, her predictive psychic hearing going to work…

  Giving her the heads-up that her handlers are going to clamp bright-red glow ropes around her ankles and wrists.

  Glow ropes?

  Only…they’re not.

  These shackles are worse. A terrifying whole bunch of worse.

  At once, as Wade and I watch with widening gapes, Angelique’s energy changes. While it’s still clear her vital organs and mental functions are intact, those glaring shackles have immobilized every muscle up and down her arms and legs.

  “Holy. Shit,” Wade grits out—a shock I share but feel as paralyzed as Angie about expressing. If I repeat those words, I have to face the reality that’s brought them. That just like that, Faline has used our own damn tactic against us and hijacked the surprise party we were bringing for her.

  My pulse triples, beating what is left of my nerves to a pulp. I whip a glance Wade’s way, taking in his pumping chest, flexing fists, and throbbing veins in the sides of his neck. Ohhhh, shit. The bitch has flipped the tables on us, but my friend looks ready to take a try at flipping them back.

  Damn it, Wade. Don’t do anything crazy. Don’t do anything crazy!

  And I’ve given myself permission to say that…why? Because I hadn’t made one of the craziest calls of my life when I decided to break in here and do this? Because I’m not standing here in front of Reece’s hugest nemesis, still telling myself not to feel like a geek in a maid’s costume while she’s approaching with the serenity of a practiced geisha? Because I’m not still struggling in vain against the invisible strands around my arms and legs, frantically thinking—violently praying—the bonds will somehow give way just because we’re the good guys?

  That’s the movies, you dumb shit.

  The good guys only get to win in the movies.

  But they get to move in the movies too.

  “You bitch!” Wade seethes.

  “Salope.” Angie’s version, while rasped like a title of a poem, carries ten times the insulting intent. But if the witch notices or cares about either version, she doesn’t show it by one iota.

  “Well, well, well. Angelique, my old friend.” Faline pivots to slide the back of a finger down the side of Angie’s face, though her steady scrutiny doesn’t falter from Wade and me. “You certainly took your time, darling. I expected you hours ago, amiga. And you really did not
have to bring apology gifts…though I am most grateful for the kind gesture.”

  Shit.

  By gifts, the woman isn’t referring to a couple of potted plants or some scented candles. Though at the moment, I wish I felt more like a pillar candle than a fern in a pot, the roots of my balance hopelessly knotted while just a breeze would knock me over.

  In contrast to my stupefied silence, Angie breaks into hissing French profanity. But Faline is much more interested in Wade and me, appraising us from head to toe. My heart thunders faster, wondering what will happen once she’s done.

  And dreading the unnatural stillness she takes on when she is.

  And flinching when she finally does move, flicking just the tip of one twiggy finger.

  And watching, unable to hide my incredulity, as that tiny move rips the golden waves off Angelique’s head and sends them flying down the corridor. With another finger tick, Angie is driven to her knees, the lattice of electricity across her skull transforming into furious purple pulses. She drops her head. Hunches her shoulders. Curls her fingers in, scrabbling so hard at the floor that her nails audibly screech. Everything about her form screams in humiliation and mortification.

  “Ahhh, well, look at that,” the bitch purrs. “You are not the only ‘special’ one in the room anymore, amiga.” Then rocks back on one heel, hands hitching to her hips. “But what was it that Sister Anais always said to us? Ah, yes. Everyone is special in God’s eyes.”

  Wade bares his teeth. Raises his gun. “Yeah? Well, guess what? The dude down in hell also saves special places for people. I think yours is already engraved and waiting, baby.”

  Faline lifts a smooth smile. She still looks like she’s tolerating a fly, only now it’s as if the insect has done a backflip and awaits her approval. “And you are going to be the one to show me the way?” she drawls. “Is that it?”

  As she’s getting coy with Wade, a tormented whimper falls out of Angelique—spurring me to stomp forward and align the Glock with the center of the woman’s smirking face. “If he doesn’t, I will.”