Brightest As We Fall Page 3

  I change course slightly. Glance back. Look straight ahead and focus all my energy on running.

  Something to the side catches my eye. I look back. Then slow. Something buried, haphazardly hidden, under a piece of sod.

  Not your business.

  The air is silent and still. Everyone in the shack is probably dead.

  Panting from my short sprint, I double back, nudge the edge of the sod with a toe.

  Not your business.

  Chapter 3

  Jason lowered his gun.

  Dark red dripped down the wooden walls, along with small chunks of bone and brain. The reek of shit and blood filled the air.

  Bodies lay slumped over or torn apart by bullets. Four men, all dead. Jason had known them, had been working with them and other members of the Jack Rebels biker gang for over a year.

  It wasn’t Jason’s first time shooting a man, but he’d never enjoyed doing it. Not even scumbags like these guys.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. One second, Rattler had been talking about expanding their business dealings, saying Big Dax had authorized a trial shipment of weapons. And the next—

  Something moved, and Jason swung around, his weight balanced, his arm coming up reflexively.

  It was just Toby, now spitting strangled groans. Son of a bitch was really hanging in there. He’d lost too much blood to survive, but getting him to a hospital wasn’t Jason’s problem.

  Toby was barely conscious and probably wishing he were out completely. Most of his left leg was shredded, and the front of his shirt glistened darkly. He gurgled like a zombie in a bad horror film.

  Jason sighed, then wiped the butt of the gun on his shirt and pressed it into Toby’s limp hand. If he did this right, there wouldn’t be much of a gun left to find. But Jason hadn’t survived this long without always devising at least two backup plans.

  He crossed the room, trying to avoid tracking through the puddles of blood and gore. A heavyset man was slumped over a rigid duffel bag.

  “Cobra,” Jason muttered. Other than Big Dax, who was the outlaw motorcycle club’s founder and national president, the members all used snake nicknames. They probably thought it made them sound tough, but Jason found it comical, an opinion he kept to himself because the Jack Rebels were, in fact, tough.

  Jason used his heel to topple Cobra. The body landed on the wood floor with a heavy, wet sound.

  He unzipped the bag and found himself staring at reams of printer paper.

  He dumped it out.

  These men had died protecting trash. They hadn’t even bothered putting a layer of bills on top. Un-fucking-believable.

  Where the hell was the cash?

  They might not have brought it at all.

  Worry flared inside Jason. He snuffed it right out; only action mattered.

  These regular meetings with the bikers were part of Jason’s job. He’d worked his ass off to get it, proving himself reliable and trustworthy to AJ.

  If AJ needed a body disposed of at 3am, Jason was there within fifteen minutes.

  If dirty cops started complaining about the size of their cut, Jason helped them rediscover their gratitude.

  AJ controlled Rhodell Heights, but his territory extended far beyond New Jersey. Jason was his indispensable second-in-command.

  Then Toby had happened. Toby was AJ’s nephew.

  Toby had wheedled and whined, wanting more responsibility than managing a bunch of ragtag hookers. AJ didn’t even like Toby, yet he’d relented.

  Toby’s groans were fading.

  “If you didn’t want to die, you probably shouldn’t have pulled out your gun,” Jason growled at him. He’d thought he’d punched some sense into Toby outside of that shitty payday lender, but apparently he hadn’t made enough of an impression.

  Toby was a goddamn fool. AJ, too, for giving in. Ambition beyond one’s abilities—a form of greed in Jason’s opinion—had gotten plenty of men killed.

  Toby had started what should have been only minor trouble, waving his gun because someone complained that he stank. But the Jack Rebels had been on edge, and that was the beginning of the end.

  Why hadn’t they brought the money?

  It made Jason uneasy.

  After wasting a few minutes checking the shack, Jason walked outside. He didn’t expect the cash to be hidden in one of the motorcycle saddlebags, and it wasn’t.

  He glanced over at the pickup… and remembered the hooker.

  DeeAnn.

  Maybe she was on the floor, hiding.

  But she wasn’t. Not in the pickup’s bed, either. She was gone.

  Well, that was a nice fucking twist, wasn’t it?

  Jason shielded his eyes with his hand and looked over the field. If she was out there, she was hiding.

  Though it was possible she’d gone the other direction, on the other side of the dirt road, into the trees.

  “Hey, DeeAnn,” he yelled. “You can come out now, honey. It’s all right.”

  Nothing.

  She’d probably taken off. That’s what he would have done, but with these women, you never knew for sure. Most of them were on drugs.

  She was certainly slow enough. Slow to react, to process what he was saying.

  The only time she’d had anything close to a normal reaction was when Toby had touched her knee. That had been instantaneous. And rather surprising, even if she was new to the business. What the hell had she expected, Richard Gere in a limo?

  Jason found a bottle of warm water in the truck and used it to rinse the spots of blood off his hands. A look in the side mirror revealed his face and shirt had been spared.

  In the glove box, there were matches and a bottle of lighter fluid.

  That was a good start, and he could use the motorcycles for additional fuel. Burn this place to the ground, and those assholes inside along with it. And ensure any evidence that might incriminate him was destroyed. The video cameras, pointed outside, for example.

  Where the hell was that woman? She was a witness. He knew her type—chances were she wouldn’t be talking to anyone. Hell, she was probably halfway to the state line by now.

  Jason almost felt bad for her. What a way to commemorate her first day.

  He rolled the smallest of the motorcycles into the shack and leaned it haphazardly against the wall.

  It wobbled, crashed onto the wood floor, making Jason break into a smile. If these assholes were alive to see this… Now he had one regret. That he couldn’t bring them back to life, then force them to watch as he exploded their fucking babies to the sky.

  He went back out for the second bike. Looked around for DeeAnn.

  She had nice legs. He’d noticed that the second he walked into E-Z Cash.

  He’d always been a legs-and-ass man, and there was no denying she’d been blessed with a smoking hot body. The whole package. He should have let her flash her tits like she’d wanted.

  Too bad she’d run away. He wouldn’t have hurt her. Hell, he’d have given her a lift back downtown.

  He swung up onto the pickup’s bed, then climbed atop the cab. His loosely tied boots weren’t ideal for jumping around like a mountain goat. How fucking ironic would it be if he slipped and broke his neck? The cops would shit themselves trying to figure out who’d offed him.

  His eyes swept across the field.

  From this angle, he could see a clear trail of flattened grass. That was the path she’d taken in, and he could guess where she’d stopped, except there were two trampled areas.

  She must have been on her way back to the truck when the gunfight erupted.

  The route she’d taken out was more difficult to find. A running woman didn’t trample as much grass as a woman who was scouting for a place to pee.

  He should probably go looking for her.

  Jason frowned and leaned forward.

  Was that her there, all the way by the trees? But it looked too small.

  Whatever it was, her path led right to it. He squinted. It was bla
ck, and she’d been wearing that fuzzy pink outfit.

  Jason dropped down lightly to the side of the bed, then the ground. It didn’t take him long to reach the black thing he’d spotted.

  A folded tarp.

  He used the toe of his boot to shift it to the side.

  Underneath lay a stash of guns and ammo. He picked up one of the pistols, an M&P 9mm.

  Jason hefted it for a moment, considering. He preferred Glocks, but his real hesitation came from not knowing the origins of these firearms. No one wanted to get caught with a gun that had been used in a murder. Far as he could tell, though, the M&P was new. He shoved the handgun into his waistband and stuffed ammo into his pockets.

  He turned to stare at the building and tried to figure out what would have happened if Toby hadn’t started that bloodbath. The Jack Rebels had never planned to give them the money. That was clear.

  Had Rattler been planning to lure Jason and Toby outside?

  But why? These meetings were one-way transactions. One-ways were a safer method of doing business once trust had been established. Jason—and Toby, this time—were there only to pick up money. Sometimes they talked a little business. Jason didn’t have drugs on him, and Rattler would have known that.

  There was no reason for Rattler to want to double-cross him. If the cash didn’t change hands now, the pills wouldn’t change hands later.

  Unless the four of them were planning to run off with the cash. But that didn’t make sense, either. Three million bucks was a lot, but split four ways? And knowing you’d be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life? Jason didn’t buy it.

  He hunted around and eventually found himself standing over a partial answer to his question in the form of a hole. Nearby was a second tarp, covered in sod. He estimated the hole at three feet wide and five feet deep. Probably dug out a couple of days ago, from the look of the sod. The neat cuts in the earth told him a machine had been used.

  This was supposed to have been an execution. One carefully planned.

  Insects buzzed, and the wind blew through the trees, stirring up the musty scent of decaying plant material. Jason swore and squeezed his fingers in his hair and tried to figure it out. But he couldn’t.

  Why the hell would Big Dax have ordered this? Because it was bigger than Rattler. Obviously, the Jack Rebels had been planning to hide their treachery. If they’d wanted to start a war with AJ, they’d have dumped Jason somewhere public.

  Not just him. Toby, too. The size of the hole said so.

  Jason let his head drop, his chin touching his chest while he stared at the churned dirt.

  There was another possibility, one that made him queasy. AJ had been saddled with Toby. His brother’s kid. Now that Renald was dead, stabbed in a prison fight, there wasn’t any reason for AJ to keep Toby on.

  AJ was definitely capable of plotting to have his nephew killed.

  But in that case, why Jason? Jason never screwed anything up, never asked for more money, never caused any trouble. He was loyal, fast, and efficient, and he kept his ambitions in check.

  Jason had always been the perfect soldier.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face and caught the reek of gunpowder, metal, and blood. He’d only been standing there a few seconds, his thoughts racing, but he couldn’t lose more time. He’d have to reason through this mess later.

  First, wrap up loose ends here, cover his ass.

  The girl, DeeAnn, must have seen the weapons stash and the grave. If that didn’t scare her into keeping her mouth shut, then she deserved whatever happened to her.

  Jason thought about filling in the hole, to fuck with the Jack Rebels when they came out to investigate their missing brethren. He could throw their stockpile of weapons down there first.

  You should call AJ. If you trust him.

  Jason decided to act alone for now. AJ would have him doing most of the cleanup, anyway. He needed to take care of the building, in case the police showed up before the bikers did.

  He took a different route back and almost stumbled over a rigid duffel bag identical to the one inside the building.

  His heart began to hammer wildly against his ribs. If the money was in there…

  The bag contained only a worn paperback novel.

  Now, that didn’t make any sense.

  Jason conducted a methodical search, widening the radius. It took every bit of twenty minutes, but when he found the ugly sandals, the blanks filled themselves in. DeeAnn had the money.

  “Goddamn,” he muttered.

  Empty-headed bitch should have taken the duffel bag as it was. But then, maybe she’d made the right decision. These duffels were perfect for discreetly hauling cash but were inconvenient to carry, and she was on foot.

  No. She was about as smart as a box of jockstraps. She should have taken the duffel and dumped it somewhere else. Jason now knew she was running around with a purse full of cash. Not a purse… He frowned, trying to remember her bag. Something big and flashy and obnoxious. It probably matched the ugly outfit she was wearing. She must have kicked off her impractical shoes so she could run faster. She’d have gone deeper into the woods.

  Well, that made Jason’s day more interesting, and not in a good way. He didn’t have time for this bullshit, didn’t have time to track her down and take that money back. He didn’t have time to not do it, either. Should be easy, her dressed the way she was. And her a genius the way she was.

  Did no one on the planet have any fucking common sense?

  Jason wanted to go for her immediately, but he couldn’t.

  First, he had to hide out for a bit, see who came looking for that money. If more Jack Rebels showed up, then they’d clean up the mess from the gunfight.

  And if they didn’t come, Jason would start the fire, then go find that woman.

  Chapter 4

  On this cursed afternoon, the forest is bright and sunny, but I can’t help seeing bogeymen lurking behind every tree trunk.

  That’s what pushes me to keep going, despite the stabbing pain in my right ankle. I tripped over a tree root and twisted it. It hurts more than the damned blisters.

  The reason I tripped is because my duffel must weigh over a hundred pounds and is stuffed to bursting. The only way to carry it is hugged to my chest, taking some of the weight off the shoulder strap. I’ve got my oversized towel wrapped around the strap as makeshift padding.

  Thank heaven I had the presence of mind to change into my sneakers and normal clothing. I’d only packed that outfit to wear after my “audition” so I wouldn’t have to look like a tart one minute longer than necessary. If I’d tripped in the sandals, I’d probably have broken my neck.

  I read somewhere that when you can’t reach a decision, going for a walk or a run is a great way to clear the mind, and often the correct answer will just come to you, like magic.

  Well, I’ve been walking a lot. And I’ve got no answers.

  Did I make the right decision in running? I’m pretty sure I did. Even though Toby doesn’t really see me as human, he wouldn’t have intentionally brought me to a gunfight.

  Therefore, something unexpected must have happened.

  It could be that I’m wrong. Or that no one died, and it was just some masculine dick-measuring. Boys being boys.

  I don’t know. I can’t know.

  Should I have taken that cash?

  I guess that depends on the answer to my first question. Whoever put it there might be dead. In which case, lucky me.

  It’s a lot of money. I’m afraid to estimate how much. When I saw it, I started grinning even though I had this sick feeling in my stomach.

  Stealing from criminals is a bad idea.

  But here’s where the math gets tricky. What if the person who left it was working with Toby?

  In that scenario, Toby—or Jason, funny how I keep trying to censor him out of these already gut-clenching scenarios—knows I was there. The person who stashed the money knows it’s gone.

  In which
case they’re looking for me.

  That was a lot of shooting, though. If anyone survived, surely they would have come running out after. But maybe I should have checked.

  The thought makes me laugh aloud. Hello, my name is DeeAnn Carmach and I’m just wondering how you all are doing with your new piercings.

  Oh, but beautiful Jesus, it’s a lot of money. Stacks and stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Crisp. I admit I sniffed them, and for a moment I felt higher than if I’d snorted a line of coke.

  Not that I have experience with anything stronger than the seedy marijuana Dad kept in the back of his T-shirt drawer. The pills in my bag don’t count; they were prescribed to Dad and I’ve never taken one. Though I might have, to get through sex with Toby.

  I’m approaching a hill. Not a large one, but I’m exhausted and injured, so it might as well be Kilimanjaro covered in ice.

  Ice sounds so good right now. Cold and wet.

  Wiping a hand over my parched lips, I stop, take a look behind me.

  No one.

  So maybe I have a few minutes to think. Immediate problem: I have no idea where I am. Eventually, I’m sure to find a road, or a trail leading down to a road, but then what? Hitch a ride somewhere, I guess.

  And what if I’m standing on the side of a road, my thumb sticking out like a twit when Toby—or Jason, can’t forget about him—comes rolling by in the pickup?

  Triage. That’s what I should be doing.

  Except I don’t know what’s most important. If I’m being chased, then I need to disappear ASAP. If I’m not being chased, I need to take a minute, plan things out. Like where to disappear to.

  Even if I wanted to go home, how do I know when it’s safe?

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I readjust the weight to my other shoulder and begin climbing the hill.

  Fifteen minutes later, I reach a forest service road. Unpaved, uneven from tire ruts, but it might as well be Fifth Avenue. It’s the first sign of civilization I’ve come across. Down around where it bends out of sight is a messy patch of recently cleared forest.

  I ponder the odds of finding a vehicle left behind by a logger or a hiker. I’ve never stolen anything, though my high school boyfriend once showed me how to remove theft prevention devices from electronics. He thought it was a skill every woman should know. That, and how to give a good blow job.