Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
42
JAMES
The stairs are a blur as I fly up them, my legs numb. All I can see is Beau’s mum’s car in the parking lot. Beau approaching warily. The fireball rising, touching the nighttime sky. I race down the corridor, the thumps of my boots and many more following me shaking the house.
I skid to a stop at our room, grabbing the door jamb to stop my body overshooting the entrance. I see Rose standing in the middle of the bedroom with a tray of tea in her hands before I see the empty bed where I just left Beau snoozing. I don’t bother checking the bathroom, the terrace, any other rooms in the house.
All blood drains from my body, leaving it cold. Emotionless.
“Talk, James,” Danny orders from the door, needing confirmation of the fucking crazy running amok in my head. I can’t speak. Can’t form the words.
“James,” Rose begs, the china on the tray starting to clang together from her shakes.
My head a mess, I walk through the people behind me, down the stairs, across the lobby, out the front door, and into the driveway. My Range Rover is missing. I look down the driveway to the gates. They’re open and Bud is stomping back to the gatehouse.
I go to the first Mercedes and get behind the wheel. It doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t make any fucking sense! I reach for my temple, applying pressure, forcing the relentless flashbacks away. They’re unstoppable.
She hangs up, and I see Beau standing in front of the car. Frozen. No! I sprint across the car park, my heart booming, and round the front of the car, charging at her, taking her down.
We both hit the tarmac with force. She yelps, startled, as I jump up to get to Jaz.
Break out in a run.
And get blown back by the explosion.
43
BEAU
The clouds are being kind today. They roll and tumble through the sky, blending and molding into various shapes. I see a Union Jack. Handcuffs. A gun. A flame.
A face.
The ground is wet and cold beneath my back, the mud in my closed fists squelching. My heart hurts. My mind is twisted. I’ve never needed James so much. But never been so scared of him either. I close my eyes, escaping the cruel clouds.
I see Mom’s eyes widen. See her fear as I near the car.
The impact from my side is brutal, taking me down, and I crash to the ground. I drag myself up, disorientated. The spark. The boom. I raise my arm protectively, feeling the heat hit me, take me, and my body leaves the ground, the force flinging me skyward.
“Beau Bear,” she says from beside me. I keep my eyes closed, waiting for the endless darkness to swallow me. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Neither can I.
I open my eyes and drop my head. Funny. The emotions I expected to kill me are . . . absent. “Why?” I just need answers. I just need to move on and make the life I deserve with James. I need to stop living for the ghosts.
Here she is. My mom. A ghost.
“All I had to do was take down Spencer James.” Her voice. Like in the bank, it’s a comfort and a complete mindfuck. My heart is racing as fast now as it did when I read the letter my dad left for me. A letter apologizing for not being there for me. For keeping me in the dark. For trying to protect me from the unbelievable truth.
“Your father wasn’t so flush back then, and us weak women not as handsomely compensated for our service.” Mom shrugs, quite nonchalant. “It was the payday we needed toward our retirements.” She looks at me, and her eyes on mine hit me like a brick to my face. It’s like she’s here but not, like my brain can’t compute her presence. “Spencer James didn’t just front the biggest cocaine syndicate in the UK. His last deal involved the U.S. I had enough drug runners to deal with. He was a greedy fucker. Sold everything, was happy to slip into retirement and leave the rest of the world to deal with the consequences of his shit. No. I saw an opportunity, I took it. The Irish wanted him dead. I wanted him dead. I made it worth their while, they made it worth mine. I really wasn’t expecting the backlash. No one on the estate was supposed to be left alive.”
James. She’s talking about James. Kellen James, the boy she turned into The Enigma.
She returns her eyes to the sky, and I’m so grateful. “It spiraled from there. I spent five years after the Irish ended Spencer James trying to scratch back my conscience and be the best cop. But your father started making money, and with his success came the ego. And extramarital activities. I knew I had to look out for myself. Taking backhanders was easy money.” Her head tilts, almost reminiscent. “Being bent was easy. Being in control was easy. Then The Enigma showed up.”