Ava Gray - Skin Game

Monroe had an ego and a taste for comfort that didn’t echo in his work ethic. Reyes had always found his laissez faire attitude toward life refreshing. Not anymore. It was weakness, pure and simple.

It became obvious where he was hiding by the shiny new locks. Reyes kicked the door with all his strength; new locks could only do so much good when the door was flimsy and half rotten. When Reyes burst in, Monroe was using his laptop to steal signal from some business nearby. Likely he was working for somebody, stealing info he wasn’t supposed to have, as he’d done so many times for Reyes.

Monroe had turned an abandoned office into a decent apartment. He had a mattress and some furniture, tables and chairs with hardware set up. At any given time he could be cloning credit cards from stolen receipts, pirating DVDs, or something even less reputable, such as creating incriminating blackmail videos out of personal photos uploaded to private Flickr accounts.

Reyes had always known the guy wasn’t exactly humanitarian-of-the-year material, but he’d never thought Monroe would roll, not after he’d saved his life in Prague. He’d thought they were friends, or as close as guys like them got. He looked younger than he was, a boyish thirty, with fair hair and blue eyes. If he had to shave once a week, it was a miracle.

“Shit,” Monroe said, freezing.

“Weren’t you expecting me?”

His throat worked, and he clutched his laptop as if it could shield him from what was coming. “Not this fast.”

“No? See, word got out. That you worked for me, and then you turned. People were eager to give you up. In my line of work, we can’t afford to trust people who turn out to be unreliable.”

“He threatened to kill me, man. He rousted me in Phoenix. I had him in my house, ice pick in my eye. You know Van Zant; he’s a crazy son of a bitch.” Then he seemed to stop and think. “Was, I guess. Was a crazy son of a bitch. Anyway, I knew you could take him. I’m sorry, but I’m not dying for you, dude. It wasn’t just the money.”

“But you took it, didn’t you?”

And Kyra might’ve died because you’re a spineless prick. Because I trusted you. An icy rage took hold of him. This much he could do for her. Would do. He’d make things right, even if she never knew.

Monroe hunched his shoulders defensively. “Yeah. I needed the cash. It’s getting harder to make a living like this, and security online gets better every day.”

“Lucky, you don’t have to worry about that anymore.” The numbness threatened again, washing in like fog on a rocky beach. It eclipsed the cold fury. Maybe on some level, it should have bothered him to snip this last loose end. He’d felt something for this guy once. Now he didn’t seem to feel anything at all, as if he were in a boat washing farther and farther from shore.

His expression became bewildered. “What, online security?”

“No.” Reyes smiled. “Living.” He picked up a pillow from the mattress, covered the barrel of the HK, and shot Monroe in the head.

In the future, he’d have to find another hacker, someone else to access classified information. Maybe Apex could step up. Reyes would make sure there were no personal connections, going forward. And he wouldn’t turn to that person when he was in trouble. At least he’d learned a valuable lesson over the past months: you could only ever rely on yourself. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

He wiped the gun and left it on Monroe’s body. It was never smart to carry a murder weapon with you. Reyes retraced his steps through the squat.

“There’s a bunch of good stuff upstairs,” he said to the homeless in Hungarian.

Soon Monroe’s stuff would be stolen, including IDs. If he knew anything about such places, all the evidence would be compromised long before the cops were alerted.

By some miracle, the bike was still where he’d left it. He fired it up and spun away from the last connection to the mess he’d made. There was nothing left to do.

He stopped at a petrol station just before returning the bike. Gassing up didn’t cost much; the tank was small. Afterward, he went into the restroom and washed his hands, scrubbing diligently. Prolonged immersion with simple soap and water would defeat a gunshot residue test. He knew these things because he was careful and precise. He knew what he needed to do to survive. Now he just had to get back to it.

It was over. Everything. Over. He’d never see her again. Never go looking. Because that was what she wanted, and the best thing he could do for her was leave. He’d always known it would end that way, no matter how sweet it seemed. Reyes wouldn’t grieve for something that had never belonged to him.

It was time to get back to work, back to his life. Time to do what he did best. Time to forget there had ever been a woman who held him because she wanted to.

He had nothing but time, spread out before him like a wasteland.

It had been a week since they left Las Vegas.

And she’d crashed hard once she got them to safety. Mia told her they’d spent a whole day hiding in a hotel off the strip, but she couldn’t remember it. Since then, Mia had been moody and uncommunicative, totally unlike herself. Focusing on her friend’s problems distracted Kyra from thinking about her own, but she didn’t want to push. After leaving the rental house, she’d found Mia shivering outside despite the relative warmness of the air.

Kyra had taken her hand, despite the pain, and led her to the Marquis. She didn’t want to stick around in case one of the neighbors called the police. The other woman roused only long enough to request they pick up her things, and then she closed her eyes. Kyra had no choice but to hang tough, despite the pain spiking through her brain. She’d overloaded her circuits, and there was no help for it but medication and rest.

That set the tone for the next several days. They drove in near silence, both nursing private grief.

In Colorado, she had the Marquis painted white on the off chance anyone was still looking for her. The switched plates should do some good as well, as long as she drove within the speed limits and didn’t attract police attention. Mia huddled against the door, head against the window. Kyra had never seen her like this: so small and scared.

Just what the hell had happened? But any attempt to find out met with a wall of silence. Her friend wasn’t ready to talk, and Kyra had to respect that.

A rest stop where they used the bathroom had a small visitor’s center, and Kyra picked up a brochure for a gorgeous hotel called Chateau on the Lake. It promised soothing tranquility set amid pastoral beauty, lush gardens, in-house spa, massage therapy, tennis courts—pure luxury. Somewhere to rest sounded wonderful.

As they walked back to the Marquis, she asked, “What do you think?” and passed the flyer to her friend.

Mia read it over as she climbed into the passenger seat. “I could use it.”

They didn’t need a vacation as much as a place to lick their wounds. While Kyra didn’t know exactly what had happened between Mia and Foster, she recognized the wreckage in her eyes. God, she felt more or less the same, as if she’d been hit by a car, the scars too deep for anyone else to see.

She drove. The Marquis responded like a familiar friend, comfortable beneath her hands. Kyra focused on breathing, and tried to tell herself she didn’t hurt. She’d give anything if that wasn’t true of Mia.

By the end of the seventh day, they reached Branson, Missouri. Mia used her cell to call the hotel on the flyer to find out if they had a room. They did, and she reserved it.

Chateau on the Lake lay some four miles from the thea ters and eight miles from downtown, but Kyra didn’t imagine they’d want to explore the homey attractions. At least she didn’t. She intended to hole up, order room service, and try to forget.