Page 22 of Risky Passion

The first man spun toward it, his jerky movements betraying his fear. “Pakyu ka.”

The other man laughed. He was enjoying this too much.

The spider swayed, its leg brushing my arm. Fuck.

"Tumahimik kayong mga gago," the first guy snapped. He tightened his grip on the rifle and took a cautious step toward the noise, his gaze sweeping the shadows.

The man at the back of the pack stepped close enough that I could see the sweat on his temple and the tension in his jaw.

They all paused at once. Silence swallowed the swamp, broken only by the buzz of insects and the distant croak of a bullfrog.

The spider darted to my shoulder.

CHAPTER 8

B

I skiddedto a stop inside the abandoned warehouse, well away from the entrance, and got out. The large rusty doors screeched like I was torturing the metal as I forced them shut. Not that I worried about noise or witnesses. Nobody ventured near Rosebud’s crumbling wharf anymore. I'd made sure of that years ago.

I yanked off the wig, grabbed my phone from my purse, and shoved it into my pocket, then pausing at the trunk of the stolen Camry, I scanned the shadowy corners of the cavernous warehouse. As expected, other than random pieces of dusty furniture and rusty remnants from the boat service business that ceased operating here over forty years ago, the place was deserted. High in the cobwebbed rafters, pigeons shuffled and cooed, and the sound tugged at a memory I could never quite bury . . . my boy, Thomas.

He’d loved those damn pigeons. Every time we came here, he brought scraps of bread and tossed them out with that wide-eyed grin of his, then he would chase after them like some kind of pint-sized animal whisperer. He was obsessed with catching one, swearing he would keep it as a pet. He was such an innocent kid back then, so full of life and wonder.

Until he got tangled in my bullshit.

“Move,” I muttered to myself.

I heaved a breath, popped the Camry trunk, leaned into the cramped space and as I fumbled for a better grip on Grant’s limp body, my damn back twinged. Why didn’t I steal a bigger car? This piece of junk was going to be the death of me. Hooking my hands under Grant’s arms, I heaved him upward. My head slammed against the edge of the trunk lid.

“Fucking hell!” I hissed, rubbing the side of my skull.

Leaning against the car, I took a moment to ease my lower back. Through the broken louvers high on the walls, the early afternoon sun slashed through the gloom, spearing light between the massive support beams overhead. A pair of pigeons burst from their roost, scattering dust motes in a swirling cloud as their feathers glinted in the golden light. For a fleeting moment, it felt like Thomas’ ghost was here with me, suggesting that I wasn’t alone.

But I was fucking alone.

Everyone I loved was gone, and it was just me now. Me and my fury to finish off the hell that had started over forty years ago.

I leaned into the trunk again, and moaning like an old woman, I hauled Grant’s limp body free. I let him fall onto the weathered planks, and the bandaged stumps of his amputated legs thudded onto the floor.

He moaned.

My heart jumped.

No. Don’t you wake up yet, you stupid bastard.

Adjusting my grip, I dragged him backward across the dirty boards, which groaned beneath us. His head lolled limply against my arm, and his body sagged like a bag of dirt. He wasn’t as big as some of the bastards I’d killed, but dead weight always felt heavier.

Or maybe I was just getting weak. Sweat trickled down my spine, soaking into the waistband of the nurse’s uniform. My arms trembled with each pull, and my damn back was letting me know it was not happy. Ten years ago, I could’ve done this without breaking a sweat. Hell, back then, I wouldn’t have been doing this at all. I had people for this kind of shit.

But those days were long gone. My allies were dropping like flies, and the ones who weren’t dead had either gone into hiding or were too scared to answer my calls. Fucking cowards.

The air in the old wharf was thick with the stink of rotting wood, sea salt, and rust, bringing back memories of my boys laughing and playing in this area and Thomas chasing his precious pigeons. But the memories twisted, like they always did, spiraling down to that one I couldn't escape: Thomas and Fraser’s bullet-riddled bodies laid out in secret at the morgue, cold and lifeless under harsh fluorescent lights.

As that image burned into my mind, rage sliced through me like a jagged blade.

Grinding my teeth, I fed off the smoldering fury that kept me moving. One agonizing step at a time, I dragged Grant toward the rusted chains and chair I had set up in the center of the warehouse. Every inch felt like a mile. My legs burned, my back ached, and my patience was wearing thin.

Grant moaned.

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