Page 1 of The Winter Kissed Kings

Chapter 1

Callie

It’s definitely going to sound like I’m trying to rap the theme song toFresh Prince of Bel Air.The song kind of fits, though, so… This is the story all about how my life got flipped and turned upside down. I’d like to take a minute so just sit right there (or you know, stand) and I’ll tell you how I became a 28-year-old woman on the run from her 72-year-old crime boss Nan! Okay, not the same as Mr Smith, but infinitely more interesting.

The reason I have decided to start a written record of what has happened and what is happening is because I’m pretty sure I’m going to die soon.Dramatic, I hear you say. Maybe, maybe not, but I have been on the run long enough to know that when my Spidey sense is tingling, I should listen. Right now, my Spidey sense is doing a flamenco dance with castanets through my body. The hairs on the back of my neck are at attention and that, my friends, is worrying. That hasn’t happened ever, not in the whole six years I’ve been running.

I should probably back up a bit first.Why are you on the run, Callie?Good question, thanks for asking. Cast your mind back to the days of headbands, scrunchies, tube tops, and chained wallets. That’s right, I’m referring to the 90s, actually ‘98 to be precise. Now picture an eight-year-old Callie, red pigtails, mucky dungarees, drawing unintelligible pictures—because I have zero artistic ability—in the dining room of a typical English cottage. Can you see me? Good.

Okay, now the story starts to head down a dark path (sorry). There I am happy as a pig in shit giving Van Gogh—on his craziest day—a run for his money when in pops good old Nan. Betty Compton, of Crosby Ravensworth in Yorkshire. 52, hair styled like Queen Elizabeth II (God rest her soul), sporting comfy old lady slacks and a nice fitted blouse. Church attendee, avid knitter, and host of several village clubs and committees—the woman has been an old lady since her 40s.

Anyway, Nan wastes no time dropping into the chair next to me and telling me that my mum—who works for the family business—is dead. Just like that. “Callie, love, your mum is dead.” What the hell do you say to that?Oh, cheers, Nan. Thanks for letting me know!She gave no more explanation. She just dropped the bomb and left me to it.

My mum was often absent. She was constantly travelling for work, but that didn’t stop my world from crumbling when I found out she was gone for good. Nan gave me two whole days to grieve before she swooped in and began her work.

Obviously, as an eight-year-old, I didn’t know she was grooming me for a life of crime. The days she spent playing dress up were the best days of my life. Every day without fail, Nan would set up imaginary scenarios and have me play a multitude of different characters, it was awesome.

At the age of sixteen, I did start to get a tad suspicious. Playing make-believe as a teen didn’t feel normal. The first thing I thought was that Nan was just super supportive, pushing me into the performing arts. Then I wondered if she was getting early-onset dementia.ThenI was sent on my first job and it all clicked into place.

Now, let’s fast forward to 2008. I’d just turned eighteen and Nan finally decided to bring me fully into the fold. My “jobs” up to that point had all been observational, gathering information on people. Nan told me the people I was spying on were competitors and that I was helping her keep the family business in the black by listening in on their conversations. I earned the name Callie the Chameleon because I was so good at blending in. I could play any character Nan needed me to play perfectly.

Two days after the big one eight, Nan sits me down in the kitchen, she pours me a cup of tea and then proceeds to tell me that she is the head of the biggest crime family in the UK. I’m talking drugs, weapons, extortion. You name it, she did it. I laughed my ass off for ten minutes until I nearly choked on my own spit when I saw her face crease with anger at my disbelief.

The laughing fit earned me my first slap in the face. Shit really changed after that. Gone was my sweet Nan, who played with me and settled my tummy when I was ill. The woman I knew and loved died that day and from the ashes rose Betty Compton, or as she was known by everyone in “The Family”—a little tooGodfather-y I know but that’s how she described the business and all the people under her employ—as Queen B. Ego much! She seriously ordained herself a queen.

I learned very fast to toe the line, but Nan didn’t raise an idiot. I played the game; I did the jobs given to me. They ranged from observation to theft for nearly four years. In those four years, I put every penny I had into a secure account out of my Nan’s reach. I prepared myself mentally and physically for the biggest job of all: my disappearance.

No one knew my plan. The two friends I had were kept in the dark. I couldn’t risk Nan extracting information from them. Because she would have. The one thing I was certain of was that my Nan was—and still is—a sociopath. I would never have been allowed to leave, not alive anyway.

June 12, 2012. I worked my magic for the last time. I played the part of the dutiful and loyal granddaughter beautifully. Nan was ecstatic that I was so enthusiastic about my position in the business. She was so happy that she didn’t think twice about letting me take a holiday for a week in Devon. Trips abroad were forbidden and for once, that rule played in my favour. I kissed her goodbye, jumped in my Ford Focus and set off. That was the last time I saw Betty Compton.

My trusty car was dumped, swapped out for a motorcycle that was registered under one of my aliases. As well as stashing cash, I also built a cache of identities—none of which were known to my Nan or any of her cronies. Duffle bag strapped to the bike, I headed in the opposite direction to Devon. I have fond memories of the Outer Hebrides. Those cold as fuck islands were my first stop.

I spent a lovely time tucked away in a shack with Shelly the sheep as my only companion for three months. God, those were the days. Ha, I’m pulling your leg, it was bullshit!

As much as I’d planned the perfect getaway, it was still rough making it on my own. Knowing I had the full weight of Betty’s crew hunting me didn’t help with my Zen, but I learned to tune the fear out after a couple of weeks.

Number one rule of being on the lam: don’t stay in one place too long. Callie Compton was gone, buried in the back garden of that picturesque English Cottage in the Yorkshire Dales. Long live Sarah Hay, Becky Smith, Holly Pace, and Jane White. Those are just a few of the names I’ve used over the years. My identities are air tight. I can travel without the authorities being any the wiser, which should really beg the question; How am I able to fool the world’s authorities so easily? Scary right.

Anyway, after my delightful time in the Scottish isles, I moved around Europe. Norway to Spain, Italy to The Netherlands. You name a place in Europe and I’ve probably been there.

A massive downside to that way of life is the loneliness. Hey, listen, I was never the most social of kids, but I was always surrounded by people. Even the ones I didn’t want to be around gave me some level of comfort. Travelling left me alone with no backup. I find solace in one-night stands, but that’s as far as I can ever take a relationship. I make acquaintances in each country I visit, but they never get close enough to know what my situation is.

Now, my situation as it stands: me, sitting at a small table in a café I have frequented a handful of times in Sweden. The hairs on the back of my neck are still pinging with anxiety. Someone has caught my trail, I can feel it. Now I need to decide how to handle it. I thought that if Betty’s moronic henchmen ever found me, they wouldn’t be subtle. I envisioned getting jumped and then dragged into the back of one of those sketchy ass Ford vans that scream serial killer to everyone in the world. It makes me wonder if Betty has trained her guys a little better than I’d anticipated.

Oh, one thing I forgot to mention. When I scarpered that day, I took something as a kind of insurance. Betty’s little black book. Sheactuallykept a physical copy of all her operations and employees. Fuck me, the UK’s lawmen would cream their pants if they ever got hold of it. Betty knows that, too.

By taking it, I was telling her that she had to think very carefully about her next move. Being rash could be her undoing. Making her stop and think gave me some extra breathing room to escape. She taught me to always have a back-up plan, and that book was mine. But now, after six years, maybe my time is up, maybe Betty has finally come up with a plan to get her book and me!

My coffee is cold. I’m purposefully taking my time, pretending to read a book as my eyes scan my surroundings, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing. It doesn’t matter, Sweden is burned. I have to move on, I can’t risk staying. Pity, I really like it here.

Oh well. I pull out my little pocket map of Europe. I pause. Maybe it’s time to fly farther afield? America, Mexico, Australia, or New Zealand. Even though I detest Betty Compton and everything she is, she’s still my family. Fucked up, right? Leaving Europe feels so final, even though I know my connection to my family was destroyed a long time ago.

I shake my head. No point going down that rabbit hole. I need to get moving. With my eyes squeezed shut, I jab my finger at the map. Southern Spain. Peering a little closer, I pick a small town outside of Ma´laga. It’s go time.

The hard part is to come, though. I need to evade my hunter, get to my get-away car and then drive the hell out of here, all without being caught by someone I haven’t spotted yet! It would be easier to flag a cab and go to the closest airport or train station, but that would be stupid. I have no control over planes and trains.

A thrill courses through my body as my adrenaline spikes. God, it’s been years since I felt this kind of rush. Is it wrong that I kind of like it? Don’t answer that. With money left on the table for the pretty waitress that I was hoping to bed at some point this week, I head for the toilets. I already know there is a window that I can fit through. Bag first, then me. I probably could have stuck the landing better if I’m honest. But I didn't land on my face so, win!

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