Revenge: A Bad Boy Romance (11 page)

The Barton brothers were famous for their preference for knives over guns. Chicago almost had as many guns as people, so the Bartons thought they were cool for not needing them. From what I’d heard, they had a massive collection of them and they used them to slowly torture victims before putting them out of their misery.

Fortunately for me, the Bartons were only used to using their knives in controlled torture situations; they didn’t have much experience using the knives in combat. They stood with the knives held out in front of them, as if they’d learned how to fight solely by watching movies.  

Movies didn’t do a great job depicting real-life street violence. The heavily choreographed displays looked nice on screen, but on the streets people fought dirty and did what they needed to do to survive.  

I was the better fighter. This wouldn’t be easy--it was still two against one and they had weapons--but I could definitely get out of this.

Kevin stood in front of me while Eli moved around behind me. I kept flicking my head back and forth between the two of them. Kevin looked a little less sure of himself now after his previous failed attempt, but Eli still had a wicked grin on his face.  

They’d planned all this. They knew I was coming and they’d set a trap. Good thing the Bartons weren’t all that smart.

I could try and make a run for it, but the corridor was narrow and I’d have to push past Eli to get back out. He could easily stick the knife in me as I passed.  

Instead, I decided to spring a trap of my own. I started turning in a circle to keep both of them in my vision, and then I took a tiny step to the side as if I were considering trying to bolt passed them.

I pretended to stumble, as if I were about to fall over. The brothers took the bait. They both lunged for me, thinking I was there for the taking. Eli reached me first so I grabbed hold of him, let myself fall to the ground, and used my momentum to throw him in the direction of his brother.  

They collapsed on top of each other, and Kevin took a cut to the face in the process. Nothing life threatening, but it was nice to see them bleeding.  

I quickly stood up while they were still getting untangled and then slammed the hammer down on Eli’s wrist. To my surprise, he didn’t drop the knife, but I’d broken enough bones that he easily let go when I pulled it from his hand.

Now
this was nearly a fair fight.  

Eli got to his feet first, but he was now unarmed. I could take him, but I didn’t want to risk leaving myself open to attack from Kevin.  

Eli made the decision for me. He ran, leaving his younger brother still winded and struggling to get to his feet. So much for brotherly love.

Kevin had a knife. I had a knife and a hammer. And I was pissed.  

He didn’t stand a chance and he knew it.  

The second I made a move towards him he ran, following his brother down the corridor and towards the exit. I’d been having doubts about killing these two, but those doubts had long since evaporated.

I chased after them. They spent a lot of time in the gym, but they only worked on building muscle, neglecting to do much in the way of cardio. They were bulky and slow, physically as well as emotionally, so I knew I’d catch up to them.

The gap closed to merely ten feet when suddenly I screamed and doubled over in pain. I’d torn some of the stitches the doctor had used on my wound. I clasped my hand against my side to try to stem the bleeding, but that just made the pain worse.

If the Bartons had turned around and seen me bent over on the floor, they’d be able to come back and finish me off. Fortunately, they were too concerned with running away, and must have interpreted my scream as one of aggression and not mind-blowing pain.  

The Bartons fled through the front door. I’d missed my chance. They hadn’t managed to kill me, but Dad just might finish the job for them.  

I slumped back against the wall, and kept the pressure on my side until the bleeding finally seemed to stop.  

The Bartons had been expecting me. But how? The obvious answer was that Dad had a mole in his operation, but that didn’t seem likely. Dad regularly made an example of anyone who was suspected of double crossing him, and made his thugs watch. That was enough to keep anyone on the straight and narrow.

I used my legs to push myself up the wall until I was in something vaguely resembling a standing position. Chloe was going to give me hell for this.  

I laughed to myself as I realized I was probably more scared of what she was going to say than I was of my father. Dad would be angry. I wouldn’t put anything past him, but I feared Chloe. Well, I feared disappointing her.  

I managed to walk--barely--and made it over to the office that Eli had been hiding in before Kevin had leapt out at me with the knife. The office had long since been cleared away of any valuable computer equipment, but there was still a load of furniture and filing cabinets.  

And a cellphone. Lying on the floor was a phone at least four years old. I initially dismissed it as something that had been left behind from when the factory was still in use, but then I saw a light on it flash.

For a brief second, I got my hopes up and thought that Eli had left his phone behind, but there was no way someone as flash as him would have an old phone. He was the sort of man who would pay for specially made diamond encrusted ones if they were available.

I discovered who owned the phone before I’d even picked it up. As I bent down, I saw the owner of the phone under the desk, laying in a pool of his own blood. Deep gashes ran down his thighs where the Bartons had had their fun with him before slitting his throat. Lovely.  

The dead guy was one of dad’s men. I’d seen him around Dad’s restaurants a few times. The Bartons must have tortured him until he made the call to Dad, knowing he would send me here to deal with them.  

There was nothing I could do for him now. I’d call the police at some point and tell them where to find the body, but first I needed to get the hell out of here in case the Bartons had done the same.  

Alan should have the car outside the factory by now.

I ignored the pain in my side and ran as fast as I could towards the entrance. It might have been more sensible to find a back way out, but at least this way I knew where I was going.  

I breathed a sigh of relief--mixed with a heavy dose of pain--when I saw the car out the front. I could always count on Alan to get me out of a tight spot. That’s why he earned six figures a year just to drive a car. You couldn’t put a price on men you could trust to have your back.

The Bartons would try to frame me for that murder, but even if they didn’t, I knew I needed to get out of town for a bit. Things were too hot right now.

The streets of Chicago often contained the sound of sirens, but for now there was nothing. I opened the car door and half jumped, half fell into the back seat.  

“To the airport, Alan,” I said, wincing in pain as I felt my side open wider with the impact as I hit the seat. “It’s time for a short vacation.”

“Oh, where are we going?”  

The question didn’t come from Alan and it didn’t come from the driver’s seat.

I turned to my left to look at the girl sat next next to me.

“Chloe, what the hell are you doing here?”

“You told me to have the car pick you up,” I said innocently, as if I didn’t know why he was angry.

“And I told you to stay at the office,” Denton replied.

“Technically, you just told me to go back to the office and call Alan. You never told me I couldn’t be in the car too.”

Alan ignored our arguing, and pulled the car away from the factory. Denton was in a rush to get away from there, and given the blood coating his hands I could see why. I’d wanted to go into the factory to find out what was going on, but Alan insisted I stay put and I didn’t want to arouse suspicion by being too eager.

“You could be assisting in a crime,” Denton replied. “Aiding and abetting, or whatever they call it.” 

I shrugged casually. “I was already doing that by making the call to Alan. Might as well double down on it.” 

Denton shook his head, but I saw his lips creep up into a quick smile. “You need to be more careful. I don’t want you mixed up in the parts of my affairs that are not one hundred percent legal.” 

“What percentage legal are they?” I asked cheekily. “Anyway, you’re the one who needs to be more careful. What happened to you?” I motioned to the blood coating his hands, with patches on his face as well. 

“Oh, that,” he replied, as if he’d only just noticed. “I broke some of my stitches. Nothing to worry about. Look, I need to get out of the country for a bit to clear my head. Where do you live? I’ll drop you off at your place first.”

I couldn’t let him go out of the country without me, but then I couldn’t go out of the country at all. To do that, you needed a passport, and the FBI hadn’t provided me with a fake one. 

“I want to stay with you,” I insisted. 

“No, you’re staying here.”

He found it worryingly easy to leave me behind, which wasn’t good for my job here, or my ego. I guess I hadn’t made as much of an impression as I’d hoped.

“What’s the point in having an assistant if she’s not around when you actually need her. Do you know how to get on the firm’s intranet system remotely?”

“No, but--”

“And do you know how to dial into conference calls and webinars?”

“You make me sound like an idiot,” Denton replied.

“No, I make you sound like someone who’s too important to deal with mundane things that can be handled by those on lower pay. Wanting to go to the airport when you’re covered in blood is what makes you sound like an idiot.”

“I should fire you for talking to me like that.” 

“Probably. Now, enough arguing, I’m going with you.”

“I guess I should get cleaned up first, huh? We’ll need to stop by your place to pick up your passport. Can I wash up there?”

“No,” I replied immediately. Denton frowned, and looked taken aback by my reaction. “I mean, you can wash up, but I don’t have a passport.”

“You don’t have a passport?” Denton asked, as if he thought everyone was born with them.

“Hey, we can’t all be international jet setters like you. How about, instead of going abroad, we just drive out of town and hang out there for a few days? Leaving the country seems like a really bad idea if you want to look innocent. Not that I’m saying you’re guilty of anything...”

I let the words hang in the air long enough for Denton to consider them and come to the same conclusion. 

“Fine. I suppose you could be right.” 

“It happens occasionally.”

Denton had Alan drive to his house where he washed up and got changed before coming back downstairs. While I was waiting, I hopped out to pick up some medical supplies to treat Denton’s wound as best I could, together with any additional ones he might have picked up. 

He refused to tell me what had happened in the factory, but the blood did appear to be from the old wound being reopened. Something bad must have gone down though, or he wouldn’t have wanted to get out of the country.

I considered putting in a call to Lois to let her know what I was doing, but I didn’t want her number on my call log if I could help it. Besides, there was a tracker on my phone so she’d soon figure out where I was.

We stopped by my place so I could pick up some clothes and then Alan drove us out-of-town to a large house that Denton owned. He mentioned it nonchalantly, as if he’d almost forgotten about it. The FBI’s file on Denton hadn’t contained any reference to this property so he had it well hidden. Until now, I suppose. 

It wasn’t until Alan left that I realized what a big risk I’d taken in coming here. Being with Denton at work or in a packed nightclub was one thing, but here I was in a large, but secluded, house with an alleged murderer. 

Lois would be going mental right now trying to work out what was going on. I just hoped she didn’t send agents up here to check it out. Perhaps I should have phoned her after all. 

How dangerous could Denton really be? Would a killer make me a cup of tea while I unpacked my clothes in the spare room? If Denton was as bad as everyone said, he was doing a damn good job of hiding it in front of me.