Love and Wargames: A Bad Boy Hacker Romance Page 9

  “She’ll be fine…”

  “Box.”

  I sigh. “All right. I will return to my wife.”

  “Well, that sounds weird.”

  “I don’t know,” I smile. “I kinda like the sound of it.”

  Chapter 12

  Caleb

  Los Angeles

  Present Day

  My husband is fucking idiot.

  God, I hate the sound of that…

  ILOVEYOU? I-fucking-LOVEYOU? Since when did we ever say that each other? Even on our wedding night, the L-word didn’t come up once and I liked it that way. Not that I never felt it for him but I don’t waste time on redundancy. It goes against my training. Every second counts during times of war. One second wasted could mean your death and the deaths of everyone around you. If something is a given, you don’t take the time to express it because the ones that matter should already know and the ones that don’t probably aren’t worth the effort.

  Then again, he’s right. We’re not out in the desert anymore.

  The L-word doesn’t matter when nothing else works. I came from a family that looked perfect on the outside. Love this. Love that. But there was darkness lurking around every corner waiting to remind you it exists. For years, I thought that’s how the world worked. Then I met Fox. He had his own bit of darkness following him around and for the first time in my life, I knew what it was like to have a friend.

  Then Boxcar crashed into my life, along with the L-word.

  Damn son-of-a-bitch.

  I stare across the room at my television but I haven’t managed to turn it on yet. I still can’t get past the way he said it. Head down, eyes just barely open. He couldn’t even look at me but I could tell he wanted to.

  I love you.

  I love you.

  I love you.

  Why is that so hard for me to say?

  I push off the couch, grab my phone, and slide on my shoes. It’s far too quiet up here and I’m starting to get tinnitus in my ears. My fingers are also twitching with restlessness. There’s only one thing that’s always managed to calm me down and luckily, I’ve got a whole arsenal of weapons stashed downstairs in need of cleaning.

  I bounce down the stairs, tying my hair back into a loose ponytail as I go. The back room of my shop is a little-known secret — one that I’ve managed to keep quiet for the most part. I have a few elite clients that pop in now and again to pick up the latest tactical gear and weaponry (the most recent being the newly resurrected Fox Fitzpatrick). It’s not the most legitimate of black market business practices but when you’re in as much debt as I am, you play to your strengths and my military expertise makes me a hell of a lot more trusting than the teenage street gangs around here.

  I step into my shop and squeeze behind the counter, headed towards the back room with a dusting cloth wrapped in my hand when the hairs stand up on my neck. I pause, sensing the slow, quiet movement across the room — smack dab in the middle of my very closed pawn shop.

  “Hello, Ms. Fawn.”

  I size the woman up before I even turn around. My eyes dart left and right, scanning every reflective surface around me. She’s petite like me but, also like me, not the kind you want to fuck with. Tight jeans, even tighter black shirt. Sporty hair the color of spilled fruit juice on white carpet. And her eyes. Knowing, experienced.

  Deadly.

  I turn around and she grins at me. “We’re closed on Sundays.”

  “I know.”

  “Come back tomorrow.” I toss the cleaning cloth onto the counter between us.

  “I’m not here for…” she points a finger and draws a line across the nearest shelf, “whatever the hell this stuff is.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  She wipes her finger on her jeans. “I’m looking for your husband.”

  This must be Lilah Hart. My brain works in the background, calculating how fast it would take for me to secure a reasonable weapon. I’ll need five seconds minimum to get to the back room but she could easily scale the counter in less than three. “I don’t have a husband.”

  “The state of California seems to think otherwise.”

  I shrug. “We separated years ago. I haven’t seen him since.”

  Her little cartoony eyes squint at me. “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “He flew into L.A. early this morning,” she says. “He didn’t stop by?”

  “Nope.”

  “Bummer.” She heaves a tiny, defeated breath. “Any idea where he’d go?”

  “It’s a big city. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have some work to do and you’re trespassing so if there’s nothing else…”

  Lilah’s lips twitch to the side but she doesn’t move. “Actually, I didn’t just come here looking for Bartholomew Carson. There’s a much bigger fish I’m after.”

  I point behind her. “In that case, I have a decent selection of antique fishing lures in the corner. Take your pick.”

  Impatience coats her painted eyes but it’s gone just as soon as it appears. “Caleb, where is Fox Fitzpatrick?”

  I tilt my head, feigning confusion. “He’s dead.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Try again, honey.”

  “No, really,” I chuckle. “Two years ago. He was killed in action overseas. I was there.”

  Lilah inhales all the way to the bottom of her lungs and takes a short step closer to the counter. She lays her fingers against the glass, leaning over in a decent attempt at intimidating me. “I know that’s bullshit, Caleb. I know he’s alive and I know your husband made contact with him in Colorado a few weeks ago. Now, I’m tired and I’m cranky and I’m getting really bored of this shit…”

  “Sounds awful,” I quip.

  “Tell me where he is and I’ll let you walk away.”

  “Glendale Avenue,” I say. “Forest Lawn Memorial. That’s where you can find Fox — his empty box, anyway. From what I remember, there wasn’t much left of him to ship back home.”

  Her hand falls to her side and she reaches behind her, obviously to rest her hand on the weapon she’s got stashed behind her back. “You’re not doing yourself any favors protecting him, Caleb.”

  I brace my toes, ready to move. “Feels pretty good though, Lilah.”

  She pauses and her white teeth drag across her bottom lip. “You know, I’m curious… Just between us girls.” Her brow crinkles. “Why Carson? Don’t take this the wrong way but you could seriously do better—”

  “Boxcar.”

  “What?”

  “His name is Boxcar,” I say, “and you picked the wrong morning to mess with me, Gidget.”

  Her bicep flexes and I know she’s starting her draw. I reach forward quickly to snatch her shoulder and force her down against the glass but she’s much faster than that brutish man last night. Lilah twists out of my grasp and draws her pistol to point it at my face.

  I dodge behind the counter, reaching beneath it to grab the baseball bat hidden out of sight as two bullets strike the wall behind me, followed closely by another that shatters the glass counter and pierces the floor near my head.

  I grip the bat and push off the floor, swinging quickly to strike her outstretched hand before she can pull off another shot. It connects with her knuckles and she growls with pain as the pistol slips from her fingers and flings across the room to the other side.

  Instead of charging after it, Lilah leaps over the busted counter, swinging her trained feet in front of her to kick me hard in the chest. I fall off balance and she plants herself between me and my back room.

  I fall back, keeping a white-knuckle grip on my bat as she charges forward and lands a solid punch against my jaw. Pain radiates through my face. It’s the first time I’ve felt pain like this in years and it instantly ignites all adrenaline in my body.

  This fucking bitch is going down.

  Lilah pulls back her arm, preparing for a second, even harder, punch. As time slows down, I wait for the perfect moment to bloc
k her attack, leaning forward to snatch her wrist out of the air and dropping the bat so I can wrap my other hand around her little neck.

  Surprise flashes in her eyes, along with a coy amusement, as she lets me shove her backward against a shelf. A set of novelty mugs tumble to our feet, shattering into pieces as she raises her knee and bashes it against my ribs. I keep my composure until she juts forward and hits me in the nose with a firm head butt.

  My grip loosens and she slips out of it, rounding around to deliver a hard backhand against my cheek. I slip off balance again but scoop the baseball bat off the floor as I move.

  Lilah raises her hands to block my swing but misses and the bat’s tip connects against her right eye. Her body twists and she falls to the linoleum, no doubt temporarily blinded by pain and white lights dancing along her vision.

  I step forward and kick her hard in the torso, knocking the wind out of her lungs. She wheezes for air as she tries to claw her way out of my reach.

  I raise the bat, ready to bring it down on her when a strong hand grips the back of my neck, followed closely by a sharp stab deep in the flesh above my collarbone. I spin around to see a man standing behind me with a depressed syringe held tight in his surgical-gloved hand.

  It hits me quickly and I lose all feeling in my shoulders, all the way down to my fingers and toes. The man swings an arm behind me and another beneath my legs to raise me up as gravity descends on me. I try to hold on but I can’t keep the numbness from invading me and the paralysis takes me. I close my eyes, expecting to lose consciousness but my mind stays alert and ready.

  The man looks down at Lilah and sighs. “Quit fooling around,” he says, his voice echoing through my ears. “You said you had this covered.”

  Lilah lurches off the floor. “I had it under control,” she argues, tapping the fresh bruise taking over her face around her right eye. She winces as she pushes against it and fires an angry look down at me.

  “Apparently not,” he says, jolting me up to get a better hold on me.

  I try to roll free of him but I can’t move a muscle. Everything feels rock solid and cold but my brain is still warm and lucid. Fear overwhelms me.

  I’m trapped in my own body. “You…”

  Lilah jumps in surprise. “I thought you knocked her out…”

  “No,” he says. “She’s still in there. We need her talking, remember?”

  She rolls her eyes and grabs her gun off the floor. “Whatever — where’s the car?”

  “It’s out back.”

  I stare up at him as he carries me through the back hallway to the alleyway, taking in the familiar features of his face. He shares the same eyes as Lilah, along with the same cheekbones and nose. His hair is ash brown and a little too long with bangs hanging down over his eyes. He must be the other Hart twin, Elijah.

  My vision blurs as he drops me in the backseat of their car, just barely cradling my head to keep it from jerking around. I can’t feel it right now but I’m guessing I’ll have a twisted neck for weeks after this. Bastards.

  Elijah slides into the back with me and sits me up as Lilah climbs into the driver’s seat. “Caleb,” he says, leaning into my line of sight. “Say something.”

  I open my mouth — or, at least, I think I do. My throat tingles, the muscles clenching open and closed. “Fuck you…”

  He smiles. “Colorful girl.”

  “Pfft, please,” Lilah spits from the front seat.

  “Lilah…” he says, glancing forward. “You had your shot with her. Now, it’s my turn.” She spins around with rolling eyes and turns the keys, firing the engine with life.

  Elijah looks at me. His attentions wander my numb features with scientific intent and I feel the gentle pressure of his fingers against my face, holding my head steady as the car shakes back and forth on the street.

  “Caleb, you managed to beat up my sister, and for that, you have earned my respect. You’ve proven to be a very impressive young woman. However, if you don’t start telling me something useful, I’m going to have to hurt you and I don’t like doing that as much as my twin does.”

  “You gonna torture me?” I slur with curling lips.

  He tilts his head. “I mean… I could, but with your training, you probably know a little something about withstanding interrogation and we’re on a bit of a time crunch.”

  I take a deep breath. “Then I guess we’re done here…”

  “Not necessarily…” Elijah squints. “Caleb, when I say I’m going to have to hurt you, I don’t mean physically. You see, torture might not work on you, but… I get the feeling it might work just fine on that husband of yours. Something tells me he’s not great at putting up with pain for very long.”

  “You’d be surprised, actually…”

  “Either way, we will find Fox Fitzpatrick,” he says. “You can either put us on the right track now or you can watch while my sister rips off his thumbnails.”

  Rage burns in my chest but I can’t do a damn thing about it in this state. “You won’t lay a hand on him.”

  “That’s certainly up to you, Caleb.”

  “No… you won’t even get close.” I chuckle softly and he stares back at me with amusement. “Trust me.”

  Elijah drops my head, letting it fall forward and I glare down at my unmoving hands in my lap. “Damn.”

  “He couldn’t have gone far,” Lilah says, her shifty eyes studying me in her rearview mirror. “We’ll find him.”

  “Or…” Elijah raises a brow. “We’ll just let him come to us.” He reaches around me and finds my phone stashed in the back pocket of my jeans. “What did you say he called himself? Boxcar?”

  I don’t answer as his gloved thumbs tap away at my phone.

  Chapter 13

  Boxcar

  Afghanistan

  Two Years Ago

  “Caleb.”

  I whisper her name so softly even I can barely hear it. It’s a necessary measure as I’m surrounded by highly-trained U.S. soldiers and each one sleeps with one eye open — but for good reasons. Hopefully, sneaking out with Caleb in the middle of the night isn’t on that list.

  I lean over her a little more, lowering my lips as close to her ear as possible. “Caleb—”

  Her eyes fling open and she shoots up in her cot. I lay my hand over her mouth and put a finger against my lips with my other hand, silently urging her to keep quiet.

  “Shh…” I whisper.

  She mimics my soft volume. “Carson, what are you doing?”

  I nudge my head back, signaling for her to follow me outside. She stares at me for several moments, blinking with confusion, until finally nodding and reaching down to grab her boots from underneath the cot. I slide back and wait for her to stand up before grabbing my messenger bag and we silently drift between the sleeping soldiers into the darkness outside.

  Caleb follows me through the camp. I keep to the shadows, avoiding the paths of the patrol guards.

  “We don’t have to slink around like this,” she says at normal volume. “This isn’t a prison.”

  “I know… but it’s fun.” We reach the jeeps parked at the far side and I open the backseat door to the last one in line — the one farthest away from prying lights. “Also there’s something I want to show you and I’d rather do it privately.”

  She pauses, her bright eyes flicking between me and the backseat. Finally, she climbs inside and I follow her in after doing a quick scan of the area to make sure no one sees us.

  I sit down in the seat next to her and pull out my laptop. She slides away from me on purpose, putting as much distance as she can between us until her back hits the door on the other side.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “I’ve been looking into that house,” I begin. “You know, the one in France?” She nods. “It’s weird, but… it’s like it doesn’t exist at all.”

  Caleb tilts her neck to get a better look at the map on my laptop screen. “How so?”

  “I mean, there’
s nothing in public records. There’s no documented history of it ever being built. Even satellites show an empty lot.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “It’s not,” I answer. “Which means that someone very powerful went through a lot of trouble to keep it hidden… and I think I know who.” I scroll through my notes, flying by various bits of information and saved photographs. “The only mention of that land’s ownership is in a very redacted document buried deep in the Parisian archives. A man named Marlow Black bought the land in 1952 and that’s where the history ends. However—”

  “Carson.”

  Her eyes go soft on me but I keep going. “I dug through the Black family tree and found out that he had a daughter in 1965—”

  “What are you doing?”

  I stop scrolling on her face and turn the computer in Caleb’s direction. “Marilyn Black. Born in 1965. Died young in 1988. But I met her last month at that house in Paris.”

  Caleb pauses and her eyes linger on the woman’s photo for a few moments before she shakes her head. “She could have had a daughter…”

  I shake my head. “No, I checked that. Marilyn Black didn’t have a daughter but she did have a son. He died in 2004 at age nineteen — but how much you want to bet he’s still walking around out there, too? And get this—”

  “Carson…” she sighs. “You need to let this go.”

  “Why?” Adrenaline pounds in my chest. My nose twitches like a dog who’s caught the scent of a lifetime. “There’s something going on here — something bad.”

  “And you escaped it,” she says. “The last thing you should be doing is digging back in. This obsession is just going to get you killed.”

  “I’m not obsessed. I’m curious,” I argue. “And you should be, too, considering the fact that they probably have a file on you right now… and that’s my fault.”

  Caleb sits back in her seat and gazes out the window at the pitch black night. She shows no expression to tell me whether or not she agrees with that last part but I didn’t say it to gain sympathy. If something happens to anyone out here because of those files, then I’m going to feel responsible for it — gun to my head or not.