Author: Lisa Phillips
Category: Christian
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Nadia nodded. That was the only concession she gave the woman, and it was purely out of respect.
“Is it this man of yours?”
Nadia nodded.
“Is he hurting you?”
“No.”
“Are you safe?”
Nadia shook her head. “No.”
Melanie sighed. “What can I do for you?”
“You’re already doing it.”
“I don’t believe that. It’s like he has this hold on you, and you can’t escape, but you can. Gather your things and walk away from him.”
“We’re safer together than we would be apart.” They were his words, but Nadia believed them more than anything else he’d said to her. “Part of it is that he needs my help with mobility, and part of it is…”
“You love him?”
Nadia wanted to cry, she’d held her feelings in so long. “I have for years, and it hasn’t turned out the way I’d hoped but I don’t believe that what I should be doing is walking away. He…he needs me now, maybe more than ever.”
“Oh, hon.”
“He needs me, but he doesn’t love me.” It was fine. It had to be fine. Now that he’d found a surgeon, the clock was ticking. Then they would be over for good.
Melanie touched her hand.
“I didn’t know who he was, not really.” She still didn’t, but there were some big clues. Bolton Farrera had never been a DEA agent, despite the rumor that had been so prevalent in Sanctuary. Nadia was almost convinced that, if anything, he’d actually been the one the DEA was hunting. “I know more now. Enough. He doesn’t do anything a person in love does.”
“That isn’t what your life should have been, Nadia.”
The sound of her own name brought tears to her eyes. Nadia Marie squeezed them shut. “I can’t tell you what happened between that picture and when I showed up here. Please don’t ask me about it.”
The part of her that created masterpieces on canvas was dead. She had been allowed to paint in Sanctuary, she’d just never done it. She’d lost faith in herself and in her ability to craft anything more than an attractive haircut. In a lot of ways, it felt like Bolton was also losing faith. In himself. In the world. Maybe even in her as well. All he ever talked about—when he did speak—was Dante, and how he was so sure the man was coming for them. One step behind. Forever at their backs.
“What do you need?”
Nadia Marie thought about Melanie’s question. Was it the time now for her to make a move, to try and get her life back?
She looked at the clock. There was time before she got off, before Bolton showed up in the van to pick her up. He was keeping the broken-down vehicle going when by all rights it should have been scrapped years ago. The man had mechanical skills—maybe that was what he was doing for work. But how could he work on cars when he could barely move?
“Can I use your computer and the phone in your office?”
“Yes, hon. Of course.” Perhaps she saw the hope in Nadia’s eyes, but whatever it was it convinced her to allow Nadia to do something no other employee was allowed to do. Nadia followed her boss into the manager’s office. Melanie logged the computer on and then walked to the door. “I’ll close this, but come and get me if you need anything.”
Nadia sat at the desk, opened the search engine and found the website for the US Marshals. She snapped up the phone and dialed the number. When a receptionist answered, Nadia said, “Grant Mason, please. It’s very important.”
The director would be able to help her. He was the one who offered witnesses the opportunity to start over in Sanctuary, and his brother was the sheriff of the town.
“I’m sorry. Grant Mason retired. He no longer works here.”
Grant wasn’t the director of the marshals anymore? The phone fell from her hand and dropped on the desk.
She typed in the website for her email provider, the one assigned to her by the US Marshals.
Page Not Found.
She tried again and got the same message. Nadia ran her hands down her face. What was going on? She didn’t know her brother’s cell phone number—she’d had no reason to have it, given she couldn’t call from Sanctuary. Only email. She’d been cut off living there, and now that she lived in the real world she was still cut off from any semblance of help.
Bolton knew how to stay under the radar. It was how they’d stayed alive this long. But she wasn’t going to rely on him to protect her—that was up to Nadia.
The only other person she knew of that might be able to help somehow was the one person she never thought she’d speak to ever again. Her mom. Nadia lifted the phone, dialed her childhood phone number, and prayed it would work.
It rang.
The door swung open, and Bolton wheeled in, his eyes dark. “Time to go.”
Chapter 4
Bolton swam to the surface of consciousness. He sucked in a deep breath, coughed it out, and cracked open gritty eyes. In that split second between dream and reality he could still feel the heat of the flames. Dante’s gun at his back. The boom as he pulled the trigger and fired that round into Bolton to secure his death. But this time Bolton didn’t move.
And Dante wasn’t here.
Bolton lay in a hospital bed. An IV bag dripped into his arm on one side and a monitor beeped on the other. All debris from the surgery had been cleaned away. Plastic hung from the walls of the three-car garage where the procedure had taken place. Plastic covered the floor. Plastic covered the door.
Pain had been with him every minute for weeks now. To wake up with nothing but a warm, numb sensation in his body made him want to leap from the bed just because it might be possible.
He fisted his hand.
He’d told the doctor he didn’t want any pain medication. That was a road Bolton had no intention of travelling down. Anesthetic was one thing, morphine was a whole different animal—one that liked to take up residence in Bolton’s life like a stray dog. That demanded to be fed and fed until there was nothing left of Bolton’s life but where he could get more. Being an addict wasn’t something he was prepared to allow to happen again, and he certainly had no intention of explaining any of that to Nadia.
Though it would probably settle her if he did tell her the reason he’d been so grumpy the past few weeks: his pain level. And that there was nothing he was prepared to do about it. Among other things. He wasn’t an easy man to live with. There were others who’d learned the same thing. She was on edge, ready to quit trusting him, if that phone call she’d almost made was anything to go by. But everything he’d done was to keep both of them alive. One day she would realize that.
Plastic swished, and the doctor strode in. Mid-thirties, a little younger than Bolton. Styled hair and pristine clothes, he charged more than twice what Bolton had expected to pay. But it had been a tricky, experimental procedure that essentially shored up four vertebrae ready to crumble into nothingness. The muscles back there were another story. As was the gnarled skin the doctor had wanted more money to do a graft on.
The doctor smiled. “Everything is looking good.”
Which probably meant he’d counted the money, and it was all there.
“Where’s Nadia?” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. Started to sit up. The doctor pushed the pillows down behind his lower back, and Bolton eased back onto them.
“I thought her name was Marie?”
Bolton just glared, even though it was his mistake. Her name had slipped out. “Whatever. Where is she?”
The doctor sneered. “She’s pretty hot, whatever her name is.”
Bolton’s insides turned to ice. “You touch her, and I’ll kill you.”
The doctor laughed, but it rang false. He probably thought Bolton would do it. So long as the man didn’t put his manicured digits on Nadia, then Bolton wouldn’t have to keep his word.
“Couple hours the IV will be done. You’ll feel each incision in all its perfect glory as per your instructions.” Cripes, this guy liked the sound of his
own voice. “The polymer should have hardened by then, and you’ll be able to start walking around. Though take it slow. There’s a lot of swelling, and moving will jar the adhesive. It won’t heal right.”
Bolton nodded.
“Your girlfriend is getting some air. I’ll let her know you’re awake.” The doctor didn’t leave. “Take it easy, let your body adjust to the surgery, and give it the time it needs to heal. If you do that, a full recovery can be expected.”
Another nod.
That was all he wanted. To be upright and fighting. Then it would be time to turn the tables on Dante once and for all. Bolton’s testimony had bought him the time he’d needed to heal while he lived in Sanctuary. Now was the time to gather arms and fight. Otherwise he would never be free of Dante. There was nothing Bolton wanted in all the world the way he wanted Dante to know what payback felt like. It burned in him with every waking moment until there was nothing else, not even what was right in front of him.
No matter how much he might wish things were different.
The doctor was gone. Bolton took a breath, longing to see Nadia. To know she was safe and make sure she’d eaten. The woman would get so focused on all the stress, she’d forget and he’d have to remind her.
The plastic rustled. Bolton opened his mouth to ask the doctor what he wanted, but it wasn’t him.
This man he’d never met before.
“Who are you?”
“So it’s true.” Dark features, dark stubble, the man had a heavy Hispanic accent. “Dante sends his regards.” The man lifted a gun.
Bolton dove left before the first shot went off. He rolled and landed on the floor on one knee. He grabbed the gun he’d stashed between the mattress and the bed and lifted his body up like dead weight. Squeezed off two shots. The man grunted. Bolton crawled to the end of the bed and peered around. He’d dropped the gun and now clutched his shoulder.
Bolton moved forward without straightening. He was never going to heal if he was dead.
Before the man could regain his gun, Bolton pointed his piece in the man’s face. “Where is Dante?”
Cold air brushed the skin on his body save for the boxers he wore. The doctor had left him that dignity at least. The rest of him was a bruised and bloody mess, and the spot where the IV had ripped out was open. Bolton pressed it against the bandages wrapped around his middle.
The man grinned bloody teeth. “Kill me. That’s better than what he’ll do to me for failing.”
Bolton wanted to laugh. “Guess he didn’t tell you who I am.” He pressed the gun to the man’s throat. A round would pass through his mouth and pop out the top of his head. Bolton had seen it before.
“Let me guess,” Bolton said. “He called you, told you he’d give you half up front—left in your mailbox—and the rest will be delivered when I’m dead.”
“So what?”
“He won’t pay the second half. He’ll send someone to kill you. Then he’ll take everything you have so whatever family you have is left with nothing. Unless he wants them, too.” Bolton let that sink in. “Now tell me where I can find him.”
“All I have is a number.” He motioned with his hairy chin to his jacket pocket. “There’s only one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re a cripple. And he sent me to kill you.” His hands snapped up, grabbed Bolton’s forearm and twisted.
Bolton cried out, tried to keep his hold on the gun. It fired. Bolton fought the man’s grasp, lifted his free hand, and punched him in the jaw. It was his weak hand, and he was losing strength. The man barely flinched.
Bolton renewed his attack. He punched as the man continued to twist Bolton’s arm. It felt like the bone was about to fracture as every tendon in his wrist tore. His fingers contracted in a spasm, and the gun fell onto the floor between them.
“Bolton! Bolton, are you in there?” Nadia’s desperate voice preceded the swish of the curtain. He didn’t turn his head but continued to grapple with the man. “The doctor—” She gasped.
The man roared.
Nadia snapped up the man’s gun and pressed it to his forehead. “Let go of him.”
He released Bolton’s arm. Bolton scrambled to his feet. It was strange, being upright after weeks in a wheelchair. He could collapse at any second, but he pulled Nadia back two steps with him as she released a breathy exhale. “The doctor is in the kitchen. He’s dead.”
“This guy probably killed him on his way in.” Bolton motioned to him. Defeat. Dead eyes.
“What are we going to do with him?”
“Give me the gun, and go find the doctor’s keys. We’ll need his car.” He heard the edge in his voice, so foreign to her. But she didn’t know anything about his world. Nadia didn’t understand who he was or the things that had happened that made him this way. The man he’d been in Sanctuary was a white-washed version of Bolton Farrera, one who lived in a town that was no more than a cushy jail cell. One he’d imposed on himself.
He’d woken up every day in that town, wondering if that would be the day he would leave to get his revenge on Dante.
He heard the hesitation in her steps. “Bolton.”
“The gun, Nadia. Now.”
She placed it in his outstretched hand. The one he could still lift. Who knew how he would defeat Dante with one working hand and a healing back, but Bolton would find a way. His whole life had been leading to this, and now it was here.
“What are you going to do to him?”
“He can’t follow us,” Bolton said. “We already have giant targets on our backs. They found us here, where no one should have. I’m not messing around, Nadia. Go. I’ll deal with this.”
The man’s gaze flicked over Bolton’s shoulder. While he watched Nadia leave, Bolton marveled. He was actually standing. His body was a smorgasbord of aches and pains, and some abstract numbness. But his feet were planted, and he wasn’t going down.
The surgery worked.
The door shut behind her, and he lifted the gun. “Give me your phone.”
“You’re going to kill me?”
“I won’t need to. Not when Dante finds out you failed.”
**
Bang. Nadia jumped and glanced back toward the garage. The keys were in a bronze dish on an end table, in a hall that led to the garage. She grabbed them. The house was giant and expensive, just the kind she’d always thought she would live in. Except for the blood in the kitchen, surrounding the body. Doctor Martin Palkin was dead. A nice man killed because she and Bolton were there.
“Nadia.”
She jerked and spun around. Her voice came out a breathy whisper, “You’re standing.” This was what they’d been working toward. What she’d wanted for him since they had left Sanctuary in that helicopter.
“Not for long. Let’s move.” He strode to her and grabbed the keys. “The fire will spread quickly.
His arm wrapped around her shoulders, and Nadia grunted at the weight he transferred to her. He wasn’t as able-bodied as he was making out. “Fire?”
He said nothing, but the distant odor of smoke hit her nostrils. Nadia glanced back, over his shoulder. Flames. “Did you kill that man?”
Bolton shook his head. “I was content to send Dante a message, but his friend grabbed the gun. He killed himself.”
“So you set the house on fire?” Was she supposed to understand what was happening?
He shoved the front door open, and they raced to the drive, where the doctor’s Mustang was parked. “The police will have debris to sift through, which means Dante and his men won’t find us so fast if that’s where they’re getting their information. We can take the doctor’s car, but only to leave a false trail. We’ll need a new vehicle.”
“Where are we going?” She held the door open while he got in the driver’s seat.
“To get something that will buy our way out of this.”
He pulled the door shut and fired up the Mustang. Nadia ran for the passenger side. Did she even want to
ask about the man? He couldn’t be burning alive, could he? Bolton wouldn’t do that, whoever he had been before Sanctuary.
He’d committed numerous felonies since the helicopter had exploded. He claimed the police were the ones they were running from, but his assertions that it was all for her—to keep them safe—rang in her head. He had seemed so much like everything she’d ever wanted in Sanctuary. Now that they were in the real world, Bolton was so much different.
“Buckle up.”
Jolted from her thoughts, Nadia clipped in. Bolton sped away then parked at the far end of a store, and they walked three blocks. He hot-wired a car no one would ever report stolen because it wasn’t worth that much money. Nadia felt as though she was swimming beside him. If this carried on, she was going to lose her strength. And then she would drown.
The stolen car revved. Bolton leaned across the passenger seat to where she still stood in the alleyway. “Get in.”
She stepped back.
“Nadia, get in.”
He shouldn’t lean like that, or stretch his back. He was going to hurt himself.
Bolton grimaced and climbed out of the car. “I shouldn’t even be out of bed. I’m not asking, Nadia. I’m telling you. Get in the car.”
“Don’t talk to me like that.” The words came out as a whisper while something in Nadia caught fire like that house—from one tiny flame to a conflagration that engulfed her.
He tugged on her arm. Nadia yanked it from his grip. “Don’t touch me.”
“You want to do this now? What if someone sees us? We have to go.”
“Where? I want to go back to Sanctuary, Bolton.” She lifted her hands and let them fall back to her sides. “When is that going to happen?”
“Please, say my name louder so people can hear you.” His eyes had darkened until it was like night enveloped them, and he leaned closer to speak right in her face. “Wake up. You’re never going back, Nadia. Sanctuary is over, and so are our lives there.”