Page 107 of Ricochet

On the right side, at least a dozen suits—pressed and pristine—hanging from wooden hangers. Crocodile shoes filled a second rack, and fedoras lined the top shelf.

As if two different men shared the same space.

A desk had been set up at the back wall of the closet. I stepped inside and toward a laptop left opened. As I twisted, my sights caught on something, and I turned back toward the door, closing it just enough to catch the object hanging on the inside. A black poster with white lettering: ‘Never Be Silenced.’

Achilleus X.

I pressed a key on the laptop, which brought up a password request.

The sound of breaking glass froze my limbs, and I rushed out of the closet.

On the nightstand, my gun lay atop of a large, sealed envelope with ‘Aubree’ written across the front.

For one brief moment, I forgot where I was, like time stood still, as my eyes focused on the cursive scrawled across the package. I traced it with my fingertips before tearing one end. Inside, was a key, a letter, a series of numbers jotted down on notepaper, and a black flash drive with ‘If you want to know the truth’ written in silver across it.

Truth?

The first part of the letter detailed instructions, something about a bank account, a house. I couldn’t do more than scan the words, as nothing so emotionless could possibly stick inside my head right then. I searched for Nick’s words, his heartfelt words. I found those on the second page.

The door of opportunity has opened, Aubree. You hold the key, and I’ll break your chains.

You were exactly what I needed, but I’m selfish. I wanted more for both of us. More retribution. You gave me a glimpse of what life could’ve been, but this suffering is my curse.

He can’t win, or we both lose. I have to finish this.

The ultimate revenge isn’t the murder of my enemy. It’s the whisper of truth on my last stolen breath.

I love you, Pistol Lips. Never miss another sunset again.

Nick

A thump from below popped my attention back to the present and the breaking glass that’d brought me back to the bedroom to begin.

My muscles juddered, hands trembling as I shoved the letter back into the envelope. Searching for a place it wouldn’t easily be found, I crossed the room to the old fireplace, slid it against the crumbling brick behind an old copper engraved fire-back, and buried it in the ash

Grabbing up the gun en route, I softly made my way toward the door that over looked the foyer.

Nothing.

No movement. Scrappers again? Maybe. There was that kid that’d gotten away. The one who’d screamed, alerting the men when I’d tried to steal their truck. Had he come back? Decided to seek revenge? He’d looked so young, though. Not much of a threat.

I lifted the gun, keeping it level with my eyes, and aimed at the staircase. Any motherfucker on his way up would get a dose of lead.

The sound of heavy footfalls on the lower level traipsed down my spine, spreading like ice crystals along my nerves. Closer, they advanced, and I backed into the shadows of Nick’s room, crouching low to stay out of sight.

A bald head appeared in the foyer, twisting side to side. A gun swung ahead of the guy, and as his gaze flicked upward, toward where I hid, I crouched lower.

Cox.

I’d seen him on rare occasions that Michael opted for meetings in his office. Hadn’t known his name until one of the house staff identified him as the Chief of Police—corrupt bastard. No doubt, he’d come to collect me on Michael’s behalf. The two of them were tight.

I lowered my pistol and aimed square at Cox’s cock, while he stood at the foot of the stairs. I’d never trusted the bastard from the moment I met him. He’d always come across as slimy and slick—one of those men you wouldn’t dare leave a small child with. Somehow, killing him felt like I’d be doing the world a favor.

He ascended the stairs, one at a time, his gun leading the way. I had the upper hand. I could kill him right then. Or wound him. Staying within the shadows, I kept a steady hand on the trigger. Aim Shoot Kill. Aim Shoot Kill. The words repeated over and over in my mind.

Aim Shoot Kill.

I steadied my hand, fingers curling the grip. Dryness climbed my throat, but I swallowed it back.