The Token (#10): Shepard Page 2

  He is centered.

  Ready.

  It has been two days since he visited Juliette in her new place of business, which was a sordid establishment and beneath the caliber of who she is.

  Though she ran drugs within her, though she fucked delegates and clients alike, Juliette was sold from her family to pay a debt that was not hers. A family she was torn from like common currency.

  Shepard's spies have whispered that Roi has entered the country, though the king did not send word to his most trusted advisor.

  Me.

  Shepard jerks open the cooler that holds everything he could desire and palms a bottle of water entombed in icy glass. He uncaps the top and upends the cold water, working it down his throat as he thinks about what it means that Roi has entered America—Seattle—without telling him.

  The lack of communication can mean only one thing—that Shepard has been betrayed. But by whom?

  At the end of the day, as the English say, it does not matter. It only is.

  He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, sets the empty glass bottle on the slab of quartz countertop inside his penthouse suite, and walks to the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows. They peer out over the raw beauty of Puget Sound. Gray waves erupt into creamy foam, reflecting the dimly lit skyline.

  The far-off lights of ferries twinkle like captured fireflies in the shroud of coming night. Shepard presses his forearm against the glass, leaning his head against his chilling flesh.

  Thinking.

  With a disgusted exhale, he walks to his satchel and paws through the contents. Finally retrieving his cell phone, he taps out Roi's encrypted number. A chime sounds like a droning fly with hiccups.

  A voice answers. “Salut.”

  Roi knows it is Shepard.

  The silence has weight. Shepard could almost press his hand against it, as if the night's darkness oppressively huddles against the windows.

  Roi breaks it. “I have come to retrieve your wife, Shepard. Our lost fruit.”

  Shepard's fist tightens at his side. “As have I.”

  Neither speaks a word about Roi's duplicity or Shepard's similar goal. They race against each other. One seeking to discipline her—one to save her.

  “Ah, I did not think so. I rather thought you would protect Juliette from her just end.”

  He is right, of course. Shepard's heart is a trapped animal in his chest, attempting to beat its way out of him. “She is no longer my wife,” he says truthfully.

  “Really?” Roi drawls.

  “Yes.”

  “You do not care that I will fuck her until I erase her pussy from this world? That I will cut off her nose? That I will mail the pieces of what remains to her family in Nigeria?”

  Not discipline—murder.

  Shepard's stomach performs a sick somersault. “She has forgotten her loyalties, my Roi.” The pause between them feels like eons.

  It's seconds.

  “Then if you know she deserves this, for her betrayal, her murder, and for shaming la famille, what would you have of me—ask of me?”

  Shepard thinks quickly. “I would ask to be there when you end Juliette. She deserves that from me.”

  He intuits Roi's thoughts through the phone connection. “That would be excellent. I placed my trust in you. Juliette broke that trust when she took justice in her own hands then fled. You will have to suffer with her as you watch what I must do. I cannot afford for others to think they may do anything against la famille and there is no repercussion.”

  You'll never get that far. Out loud, Shepard says, “I accept my part in her deception. Her running—from taking things into her own hands.”

  “She cost the organization a lot of money, Shepard. And trust. What man wants to partake in our spoils if their cock will be cut off, non?”

  “They raped a cherry.” He manages to keep all the defensiveness out of his tone. But the words must be said. The delegates were well aware that Colette was a delicacy for later, not crude pussy plunder.

  “On your watch,” Roi says so softly it's a whisper between them.

  Shepard will never forget that. The girl required surgery. He does not shoulder all the blame. If Roi's associates were not as horrible as he, the girl would have been safe.

  “Fine.”

  “You will watch justice meted for Juliette?”

  Shepard grits his teeth. “I know what my duty is.”

  “I was unsure that you still did, my Shepard.”

  Shepard does not reply.

  Roi tells him the name of the private airport where they will intercept Juliette. How her new lover is a local law enforcement officer. That bit of information surprises Shepard. He caught no whiff of romance between them and had taken Thorn for a thug.

  For him to fool Shepard so thoroughly means this one is practiced in acting.

  Shepard will save Juliette one last time. Then he will be free. Free of obligations.

  Free of Roi.

  Liberté.

  *

  False summer has breathed life into the day.

  It is autumn in the Pacific Northwest, but heat-like summer warms Shepard's face. The ankle strap of his small handgun chafes, and he shifts the necessary burden once again.

  “You seem anxious, Shepard,” Roi remarks in an amused tone.

  His hate for the king is a bitter taste on his tongue, and he assumes a more casual stance, shrugging off his custom-made Italian suit coat. He folds it carefully over the back of one of six chairs that line a curved bar.

  “I am hot. This place should be full of rain and gray clouds,” Shepard begins, purposefully distracting Roi from the original question, “yet it is a bright and sunny labyrinth of rude Americans and their ilk.”

  Roi twirls his finger like a flesh swizzle stick inside a low ball glass filled with fine whiskey and cubed ice. He acts as though he is waiting to meet a friend rather than preparing himself for the torture of a twenty-one-year-old mule of the French mob.

  “You are American,” Roi comments in a low voice.

  Shepard lifts a shoulder, stretching the fitted linen-blend, button-down shirt he wears with the gesture. “I am French first.”

  Roi lifts his glass, a drink he fixed himself before noon. “Touché. To the Americans of worth—and those without.” The king chuckles as his bright azure eyes glitter at Shepard.

  He feels the warning in that gaze—the threat. Of course, he always has.

  Shepard feigns nonchalance, leaning back against the high-backed barstool that rims the beautifully carved and polished bar top. The waiting lounge is for those with enough money to own private jets and who possess sufficient idle time to enjoy such respite.

  He and Roi gaze at each other like silent chess pieces on top of a board of their own making.

  A guard bursts inside the room, shattering the unspoken standoff.

  “She is here.”

  Roi sets the glass down, and all coy pretense vanishes. “Tell the old man.”

  The guard moves toward the door where he entered.

  “Wait,” Roi calls out, and the guard turns.

  Shepard's heart seizes.

  “I will take a quick leak and be back to enjoy the festivities. She is dangerous, and my presence is required. ” Roi winks.

  The guard smirks. “What is one female against all of us?” His palm sweeps out to encompass another guard in the shadows, Roi, and himself.

  Much, I reply inside my head, but I say nothing.

  They chuckle together.

  *

  When the old man enters the lounge with his hand on Juliette's elbow, Shepard witnesses her animal instincts surface like dark ink in water.

  Juliette catches sight of Shepard and reacts instantly, taking measures to extract herself from the old man. He wrenches her elbow as she attempts to twist from his hold.

  Her lips flatten as she uses the same limb to jab his throat. That is easily done.

  Next Juliette works her way through the pair of
guards. First, she silences the one who voiced that she was just a female.

  He hits the floor, soundly foot swept and now wearing a crêpe of ruined, bloodied flesh instead of a nose.

  Juliette takes down the next guard, and Shepard moves forward.

  He expects to take her easily, before Roi can return from the washroom. Instead, she fights him before he can speak. Explain.

  He kisses her, one last time—feeding off her mouth like a man who arrives at an oasis.

  Juliette bites him.

  Shepard rears back, and she hangs onto the flesh of his lower lip like a pit bull.

  He slaps her, though he has not harmed her in years.

  She flies backward, and pivoting, she sprints to the door.

  Blood trails down his jaw. No, he mouths—knowing Roi will enter where she attempts to exit.

  And he does, swinging open the door just as Juliette intercepts him. He doesn't check his swing or appear to hesitate about what level of violence to bring. He smashes his fist into her face.

  Juliette staggers backward—falling. But Shepard is there to catch her, though she bloodied him.

  Roi jerks her from his arms.

  Shepard allows this. He understands the timing must be perfect, but the waiting is the purest agony.

  While Juliette hangs on to consciousness by the slimmest thread, the cop from the Black Rose crashes inside the room like an enraged bull.

  “Thorn,” Juliette says in a slurred voice.

  The cop's eyes flick back to her after a quick survey of the lounge, his gaze briefly taking in the fallen men.

  Shepard sees much in their visual exchange.

  “You have no jurisdiction here, cop.” Roi's smug voice rings in the suddenly tight space, Juliette trapped within his embrace.

  Thorn does not seem like the kind of male who will abide teasing.

  “Diplomatic immunity—there is nothing you can do.” Roi forcefully cranks Juliette's jaw, licking the side of her face that he abused.

  Shepard tenses, biding his time. His chest is a bulging knot of anxiety.

  Juliette struggles as Roi’s eyes find Thorn again. “However, you may watch as I break one of my whores.”

  “I don't think so, Dad,” Thorn says.

  Roi's body stiffens.

  Shepard freezes. There is no stopping his shock.

  Decades before, he'd heard the rumors of the exploits of Roi in this region. But his abuses to people had not been something Shepard could contemplate. He had been surviving the horror of the orphanage and cared not for whispered gossip.

  Now—now Shepard gazes at Roi and the American, the man who resembles Roi like a dark ghost. The coincidence of Juliette finding a bastard of Roi's only confirms what Shepard has always thought: there are no coincidences.

  Roi and Thorn look at each other for a bloated minute. Roi's face is fixed in his normal expression of absolute arrogance, and he yanks Juliette's face toward Thorn and the other cop to showcase her abused face. “She is beautiful, even wounded, non?”

  Thorn charges. “She is mine!”

  “Thorn! No—fuck!” A second cop bellows through the open door and lurches after him.

  Roi squeezes Juliette, and she gasps.

  Timing. Shepard moves forward.

  “I will break her neck. This fragile bird so many men care about.” His sharp eyes skate between Shepard, Thorn, and the other cop, who hovers at the door.

  Roi will break her neck. But not before Shepard puts an end to the vilest man alive.

  Roi seems to pause thoughtfully as Thorn circles them. He is a coiled snake of readiness, his muscles tightly wound and stark.

  “Or—we can share in the breaking of this one,” Roi offers with a rueful half smile.

  “You're a sick fuck,” Thorn says in French.

  Roi's surprise is a sharp bark of laughter. “I know who you are. I've always known.”

  The silence deafens them as Shepard inches closer to Roi while keeping his eyes on Thorn and the other cop.

  “Your mother was a good lay,” Roi clucks.

  Thorn gives a deep grunt of disgust.

  Roi watches his son carefully, but the American doesn't rise to the challenge. He tilts his face, his hold on Juliette tightening like a vise. “I see your face go soft when you look at our Juliette. You love her.”

  Roi strokes her cheek absently, like an apology to an unworthy pet.

  Thorn is silent.

  Roi nods. “You might love her less if you understand she belongs to another.”

  Let Roi bear tales. He is a lover of drama. It will serve as the distraction I need.

  Thorn and Shepard both move forward as Juliette bites Roi's face.

  He wails, dropping Juliette.

  Shepard stands immobile as she stumbles into Thorn's arms. He drags her against him protectively.

  In that singular moment, Shepard knows. Juliette is safe. Safe as long as she is with the son of Roi. A prince. The irony is not lost on Shepard.

  Roi fingers his jaw, blood running freely from the bite. “Shepard?”

  The other cop trains his weapon on Roi.

  “Tell the good policeman and my wayward relative who Juliette belongs to.”

  Shepard raises his chin and shoots his gaze at Thorn like a laser.

  Juliette's grief at the coming revelation is etched on her face.

  It is not what he had planned. But if the confession of truth adds time—prolongs the inevitable so Shepard might dispatch Roi—it will be worth it. “Juliette is my bride.” A small lie.

  Thorn's hands tighten around Juliette. They do not fall away but catch her head as it tips back.

  Roi reaches for the gun that he keeps in the waistband of his slacks. Shepard knows what Roi will do, and he bends, grabbing his own weapon.

  An explosion booms from behind.

  Shepard instinctively ducks as Roi spins in a graceful spiral, spraying the arterial blood from his body like a fountain. The scarlet rain slaps Shepard's face in a bath of warm gore.

  Shepard looks at Juliette a last time, his work here done. Retribution has been served but not by him.

  By fate.

  “Stop where you are!” the cop who put the first nail in Roi's coffin bellows at Shepard.

  Sirens sing as he ignores the yelled command, sliding out the back door to the waiting car and leaving the dead king behind forever.

  A sliver of view remains before the door latches.

  Shepard catches a last glimpse of Juliette inside the cradle of Thorn's arms. He can't smile or feel happiness at the loss of her.

  But for the first time in Shepard's wretched life, he feels something he never has before.

  Right.

  THREE

  Marissa

  One year later

  My feet ache.

  They ache every night. Being a waitress at a premier restaurant in downtown Seattle has a lot of perks. Free food.

  Great tips. Nice environment and local color.

  Hell, Pike Place Market is so close I can hear the fish land on the market’s tile floor. It’s a place where you could pay a few hundred dollars back in the ’80s and get somebody's name engraved on a tile so people walk on you all day long.

  I laugh at the thought, my hand traveling to the nape of my neck, kneading the tired muscles.

  This is a young woman's job. Of course, I am a young woman. Not even twenty-four, last time I gave shits enough to care.

  Tonight I feel old. It's Sunday, which is technically my Friday, and I'm taking the train back home to Kent Station for the fifth time this week, and I'm so ready.

  I have a book calling me—the kind that will give me a hangover after I’m through reading it—and a great big glass of merlot. I feel a contemplative frown line my forehead. Maybe two.

  I groan softly, tipping my head back against the seat. I have my French class tomorrow morning.

  I've been gaining eighteen credits per year. At that rate, I should have my French languag
e degree at around... sixty-five years old. Actually, I'm on the eight-year plan.

  Only three more to go.

  I began in my high school's Running Start program, so I'm ahead of the game. It just doesn't feel as though I am.

  I sigh. Our sister restaurant is located in France. Paris, specifically. I have to be tested for fluency before my boss will transfer me.

  I'm not quite there yet, but my heart already is. My grand-mère was French, but she passed away before I could learn the language from a native speaker.

  But my ears are “tuned up,” which is an expression meaning “French sounds familiar, but I can't speak that hot.”

  So I trudge through my foreign-language degree while working as a waitress in expensive Seattle.

  Where I can't live.

  Instead, I live in Kent, fifteen minutes from downtown by Sound Transit. It's not an idle commute. I look at my French. Study. Read.

  Sigh a lot.

  Tonight I take a rare night off. Finals are in the bag. I don't even really need to go in tomorrow. I just want to. The semester ends this week, and I'm dreaming in French.

  That's a good sign, right?

  I give myself license to be a veggie right now. My head’s tipped back, my eyes are closed, and my ears are stuffed with buds. I'm listening to an Italian composer. His ethereal, melancholy notes spread and float in my brain like flakes of gold.

  Inch by inch, my tired body relaxes. I slip the front of my clogs off and keep only my toes inside. I spread them, and they throb angrily.

  Worked overtime tonight. Body's pissed.

  A small sound pierces my headphone euphoria. I lift my head, my eyelids rising halfway like sleepy hoods, and take a look around at the mainly empty train.

  On Sunday night, it’s typically bare of passengers. I love not having weekends off. I earn more tips than on any other day, and I don't fight other people on their days off because they have the weekend. Works.

  What was that noise? I search the lit screen above the sliding doors of the train. Words scroll across the surface like a colorful rainbow of letters. Kent, ETA five minutes.

  I gaze out the window, pressing my hand to the cold glass as the growing darkness presses back against the pane.