He’d had one job; keep her at the restaurant. If Coppola’s men were trolling the neighborhood and caught up with her, there was a good chance she’d soon be dead like Charlie here. He glanced at the body, and the bloody mess on the floor and wall. Epic fail. Deming wasn’t gonna let him live this down.
Then he remembered the cook, and thought maybe Avery had gone to tend to him. Dead or alive, though, odds were she’d be calling out for help, maybe even screaming, but he wasn’t hearing anything like that from the kitchen, so Vincent jumped over the counter and landed next to Jim’s unconscious body. After tying him up with twine he found in a nook and cranny by the register, Vincent took a moment to notice Jim’s injuries. Broken nose. Clearly a fractured skull, because mother nature didn’t do that to a head on purpose, and he was covered in defensive knife wounds. Vincent lost count quickly, but the slices were shallow, non-life threatening, and covered Jim from face to calves, as if the druggie’s every blow or kick had been tapped off by a slice.
Shit. When the hell did this happen? Jim looked as if he’d had an epic battle with a multiarmed warrior, and Vincent didn’t remember Avery having a knife fight with anyone, least of all Jim. She’d disarmed the guy, yeah, but…then again, he’d been busy taking out Eric and the other dude. Still. Something was off here.
When his knots were secure, Vincent hurried through the swinging door leading into the kitchen and pulled his iPhone from his pocket. He dialed Benton. The line connected. “You won’t believe who just foiled a robbery and subdued a murderer.”
“What are you talking about? We’re almost done here,” Benton said.
“Avery Toner Coppola, with some help from little ole me.” Vincent stopped walking when he stood center kitchen, and glanced left and right. The grill area was empty. He pulled his gun, moving farther into the kitchen, looking for surprises. “Finish up at the apartment, because our girl is in the wind, and probably heading your way.” He turned a corner and found the cook, did a three-sixty scan and saw he was still alone, then allowed his gun to hang at his side. “Diner’s cook is dead. Do me a favor? Call an ambulance and local law enforcement. It’s a circus here.”
Benton swore so long he started repeating himself. “Find her.”
“Can’t.” Vincent crouched next to the cook, noting the GSW to the head. “I can’t leave the scene until the Sheriff arrives. Presently, I’ve got three perps tied up and waiting to be processed. Once the cops arrive, I’ll give them an excuse so I can slip away.” Benton hung up mid-expletive. “Then I’ll track her down,” he finished his thought aloud, though no one heard it but him. He peered out the back door and found it led to an alleyway. No Avery in sight.
So, she’d run. He wasn’t surprised, nor did he blame her. She was a woman with something to hide.
And he’d kissed her. What the hell was wrong with him?
* * * *
When the fetid vapors from the back alley hit Avery, she was in shock, and autopilot took over. Images of Sam with a bullet hole in his head tormented her. And Jim. If ever a man deserved to die, Jim did. Yet, when she’d brought her foot down for that last strike, she’d aimed for Jim’s head, not his neck. Sam deserved to be avenged. He did. But Avery couldn’t do it. Experience taught her though vengeance was sweet, it ate your soul. Nothing could bring Sam back. Not even killing Jim.
She scrubbed unwelcome tears from her cheeks and told herself to stop crying. When that didn’t work, she clenched her hands until her six rings cut painfully into her bruised and swollen skin. She’d been right to wear them all these years, instead of hiding them out of sight. They’d helped in the fight, helped her survive—gifts that kept on giving—but surviving had put her in a spotlight. Quiet waitress, winning a fight with a knife-wielding druggie? That was the headline, and it would go viral. People were looking for her, and this incident would help them find her. Find Millie.
She slipped her iPhone from her uniform’s pocket, and saw it was eleven in the morning. She dialed her little sister. When the line connected, Avery told herself to keep her voice calm.
“Millie, grab the go-bag. Meet me at the bus station, just like we practiced, yeah?”
No arguments, no hysterics, Millie whispered “right” and then hung up. The station was three blocks from their crappy apartment, and she was there within minutes. Millie was already waiting, giving no indication of upset. No tears fell from her green eyes, because a crying child would attract attention. She was ten, sporting a long, blond ponytail hanging down her back, and she held a go-bag filled with thirty thousand dollars, one toothbrush, a package of wipes, a bottle of water, Tylenol, and a few granola bars. Millie had to leave by herself, because if the contract killers came here looking for them, they’d track a pair. Two sisters.
Avery stepped past Millie without comment and entered the convenience store to buy a ticket for the Greyhound bus idling at the curb. Neither she nor Millie asked where it was going. They knew it didn’t matter. What mattered was Millie left this place. Avery handed her the ticket.
“Get off at the first station, and ask for a transfer ticket to Boston’s South Station. Use money from the bag only when necessary, but be careful no one sees what you have. You’re vulnerable, Millie. They’ll try to use that against you.” Millie nodded, looking at the blood on Avery’s uniform. That look—stark terror—had Avery second-guessing herself. Maybe she should risk leaving together, but… Avery couldn’t travel looking like this, and Millie had to leave now. It wasn’t safe here.
Millie touched her hand, drawing her thumb over Avery’s rings. “Maybe you could find a way to make him leave us alone.”
Him. Her ex-husband. “The damage is done. Dante has set something in motion, and now he can’t stop it even if he wanted to.” And she suspected Dante didn’t want to. The man was twisted, brutal, and without conscience. He wanted what he wanted, and Avery was a threat to his power. He wouldn’t stop trying to kill Avery until she was under his control or dead. They had to hide, or kill him, and Avery wasn’t a murderer. She wasn’t. So, that meant running.
She glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was paying attention to them. Jeremy, the college-kid clerk, was oblivious. She handed Millie her ticket and nudged her sister toward the exit. “Remember. Boston’s South Station. My contact, Jason Chadwick, will find you. Remember that name. Give him the bag. Only him, okay? I’ll meet up with you when it’s safe, as soon as possible.”
Millie nodded. “Yes.”
Then Millie stepped on the bus, not looking back. The moment felt final, as if Avery would never see her sister again, and that scared her to death, because this was her fault. Eight years ago, something horrific happened. They’d been helpless, and everything dear and necessary to them was taken in the space of a moment. They couldn’t recover, only react. Avery chose vengeance and was still paying the price. Millie, too. She was paying, too.
Trembling, drying blood made her arms and face itch, as Avery dialed her contact’s number. He was her backup plan, that she’d hoped never to use. When the line connected, she didn’t wait for Jason to say hello. “Millie will be at Boston’s South Station Greyhound terminal in four hours.”
“I’ll be there.” She believed him, because he knew Millie had the money, and he knew Avery would hunt him down otherwise. She hung up without comment, watching Millie’s bus pull away from the curb.
Time to make Patty Whitman disappear.
* * * *
Vincent found Avery by following the trail of people gossiping along Main Street. Apparently, a waitress covered in blood wasn’t a common sight hereabouts…and people noticed. Go figure.
“Patty?” It felt weird to use that name, but she’d never corrected him, so Patty it was. He held the storefront’s door open, more relieved than anything else to find her inside. She was alive, safe. He’d take that as a win.
She had her back to him, buying a bus ticket from the clerk. Vincent saw