Burn (Indigo) Page 26

  That wouldn’t stop him from kicking Karl’s ass again, given the chance. Or maybe I’ll let Cinder do it. Gian amused himself with that thought as he opened a bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out the AT&T Business Directory. He sat on the edge of his desk, the phone book propped against his belly, and leafed through the WINDOWS section.

  “Custom, Supplies, Repair . . .” He read the various categories. “Here we go. Board-up services.” To his surprise, there were dozens, most of them offering twenty-four hour service. Gian choose the one in Maplewood for its proximity to Webster Groves.

  A very friendly woman answered when he called. Her friendliness intensified after Gian offered to pay in cash with a bonus for the repairman if he arrived within the hour. Gian wanted to finish up and get back to Cinder as soon as possible.

  After his call, he replaced the phone book and started back into the studio, dialing Cinder’s phone number on his cell as he went.

  “Hello, Mr. Piasanti.”

  Gian froze.

  In the archway between the studio and the back corridor, he looked up to see a man standing near the broken glass at the far end of the mat.

  “Sorry, I’m closed . . .” Gian started. The stranger looked familiar. He was tall and broad through the chest and shoulders. He wore a denim jacket with a black T-shirt underneath it. His black trousers were a size too big and threadbare at the knees. Straight black hair fell to his shoulders, and deep-set black eyes glittered above his long, thin nose. His eyes were distinctly Asian in shape. Most revealing was the ugly bruise on his left cheekbone, and Gian recalled where he’d seen the stranger’s face.

  “Cinder has a standing order of protection against you,” Gian said. “You aren’t to be within—”

  “Five hundred feet, I know,” Sumchai Wyatt said. “But Cinder’s not here. She lives a quarter of a mile away, so I’m in no danger of violating the court order. Yet.”

  That one detail was more than Sumchai should have known about Cinder. Gian worried that he’d already been to her place. “If you’ve hurt her . . .” he warned.

  Sumchai laughed lightly. “I’m saving the best for last. My wife and I have a lot of catching up to do.”

  “You’re gonna have to go through me to get to her.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you around town, Mr. Piasanti.” Sumchai slowly moved farther into the studio. “You’re an ex-Marine—”

  “There’s no such thing as an ex-Marine.”

  Exaggerating a bow, Sumchai placed his right hand over his heart. “Forgive me,” he said, overly gracious. “Once a Marine, always a Marine?”

  “Something like that.” Cautious, Gian approached Sumchai.

  Stepping onto the mat, Sumchai circled around the broken glass. “And now you’re a respected business owner. A regular pillar of the community, give or take a public brawl here and there.”

  “What do you want?” Gian demanded.

  “To see the great Giancarlo Piasanti. To meet the man who’s trying to steal my wife.”

  “She’s not your wife.”

  The upper left side of Sumchai’s mouth twitched. “She took a vow. What God has joined, no man, not even you, can put asunder.”

  “She divorced you, or didn’t you get the memo?”

  Sumchai kept moving, maintaining his distance from Gian. “One of the women at the market across the street told me a lot about you. It’s amazing what these backwater bottle-blondes will give up, once you get them yapping. She said you were smart.” He shot a look at Gian. “She doesn’t know you very well, does she? You see, a smart man would know when to back off and let another man repair his relationship with his wife.”

  “You’d need tweezers and airplane glue to piece your relationship with Cinder back together.”

  Sumchai responded with a sarcastic smile. “Again, I’m just not seeing this smart side of you.”

  “Quit backing away from me and I’ll show it to you.” Sumchai stopped well out of Gian’s reach. “Have you laid her yet?”

  Gian pushed up his sleeves.

  “No answer is an answer, jarhead.” Sumchai grinned. “I can tell you have just by looking at you. You look like you want to kill me, because you know I had her, too. I had her first. You’re good looking. Resourceful.” He looked around, nodding in approval at the studio. “I suppose you’re successful.” Sumchai shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “But I know one thing you’re not.”

  “What’s that?” Gian challenged.

  “Bulletproof.”

  The blast of the gun concealed in Sumchai’s jacket pocket threw him back a step, revealing his inexperience with such a weapon. But he knows enough, Gian thought, clumsily falling to his knees. His right hand went to the bright, hot pain just above the crest of his right hip. Without looking, he knew the wetness quickly filling his hand was blood. He struggled to his feet, staggering toward Sumchai. If I can reach him, I can disarm him.

  Gian’s effort was met by a second shot, this one striking his right shoulder to spin him before dropping him to his knees. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he panted, curses flying from his lips. His legs worked but his feet could gain no purchase on the bloody mat. He fell forward, his entire right side ignoring the desperate orders issued from his brain. Forcing his forehead into the mat, Gian tried to roll himself over.

  Sumchai’s worn and dirty sneakers came into view, and with them, another shot that sent Gian’s body into spasms of agony that nearly rendered him unconscious.

  Jesus, he cried in his mind, refusing to give Sumchai the pleasure of seeing his pain. Sweet Jesus, help me get him, he pleaded. He threw out his left hand, hoping to snag Sumchai’s ankle or the cuff of his trousers.

  Sumchai neatly stepped out of reach.

  Gian writhed, digging his elbows into the mat to drag his bleeding body after Sumchai. Pain, jagged and hot, rocketed through his body, and it was so intense, he couldn’t tell where the third shot had hit him.

  He was too familiar with the sound of gunfire, and he hoped that someone on the street had recognized it, too. With each passing second, Gian’s limbs grew heavier, his clothing heavier with his blood. He had been through two wars, dozens of dangerous missions behind enemy lines, and had emerged with little more than a few minor injuries.

  Gian refused to die in his own dojo.

  Keeping out of Gian’s reach, Sumchai backed toward the lobby. “Cinder won’t mourn you for long,” he taunted. “I’ll make sure of it. But before I put her out of her misery, I’m going to make sure she pays for the hell she put me through. Two years in prison, another ten on probation . . . I’m a felon because of her.”

  Grunting, Gian took a swipe at Sumchai’s ankle. Sumchai stepped into the lobby.

  “I never thought she would hook up with anyone else, not after what I did to her,” Sumchai continued, stealing peeks over his shoulder to check the street. “I made her mine. I took her skin, her tears, her hair, her blood. I’m sure you can understand my dislike for you, Mr. Piasanti. You tried to take my wife. I deserve satisfaction, and I’ll have it, the second I tell Cinder that you bled to death at my feet.”

  Gian coughed. Thick clots of blood sputtered from his mouth, the salty, metallic taste of it sickening him. His lungs, hard and heavy as concrete, fought to drag in one more breath, and another, then another.

  “You should have seen her the last time I was with her,” Sumchai said. “She was all bloody and twitchy, kind of like you are right now. She pissed herself once I started cutting. Smells like you pissed yourself, too, sensai.”

  Gian could pull himself no further. Shaking his head to clear the fog from it, he grabbed the brick lying on the floor.

  “You bring a brick to a gunfight,” Sumchai laughed. “Big dumb Marine.”

  Gian drew his arm back, and with the last of his strength, he sent it hurtling forward.

  The brick whistled past Sumchai, missing him by more than a foot. Sumchai laughed, but the sound of it was abruptly drown
ed out by the violent crash of the front door breaking as the brick sailed through it.

  Gian’s thoughts grew filmy, and everything around him darkened.

  He heard Sumchai utter a profanity, then flee. An eternity after, a man’s voice called his name. But he couldn’t answer, not when something within pulled him farther into darkness, the weight of it pressing on him from every direction. The sound of his heartbeat in his ears, he was aware of movement around him, but he couldn’t feel it.

  Is this dying, he wondered. No, it can’t be . . .

  Gian traveled the in between places, the corridor between warm and cold, life and death, love and emptiness, and he found Cinder. He thought life was supposed to flash before your eyes at a time like this, but all Gian saw was the woman he loved.

  Cinder asleep in her pale white shift, the shadowy outline of her body a thing of beauty in the moonlight. Cinder, her skin glistening with perspiration, twirling a bo with the grace and power of a samurai. Cinder’s lazy half smile of good morning on a pillow they shared. Cinder’s lips parted in sensual surrender in that moment when their bodies and souls fused, that brief infinity when they were truly one.

  He forced his eyelids open and fixed his gaze on the hazy silhouette of the man looming over him. “Cinder,” he sputtered through blood. “W-Warn her . . . Wyatt is coming for her . . .”

  Chapter 16

  The call had come from Gian’s cell phone, but the voice on the other line wasn’t his. The words the caller spoke replayed in her head as she frantically dragged a small suitcase from the back of her bedroom closet.

  Wyatt is coming for you. He has a gun.

  The suitcase contained clothing, toiletries, cash, copies of her insurance, and medical records—everything she needed to make a quick getaway. The suitcase had been packed and ready from the day she moved into the apartment. She had hoped that she’d never have to use it.

  She put on her fleece jacket, grabbed her purse and car keys, and began unbarring and unlocking her front door. Her breath caught in her chest, sweat ran down her spine, her vision blurred. Dizzy with panic, she fumbled with the locks, her fear growing with each passing second.

  Her skull seemed too tight for her brain, forcing her thoughts to jumble into a senseless knot. She threw open her front door to hear the crash of glass from three stories below. Her throat closed, stopping the scream building in her lungs, and her bladder threatened to empty. Forcing herself to keep her cool even as she heard slow footsteps climbing the stairs, she closed her door and locked it.

  The fire escape.

  She dragged the suitcase into her bedroom and unlocked her window. Cinder threw the suitcase out first. In less than thirty seconds, she would be in her car and on her way to the police department. After that, she would head to a new town to make a new start. One foot on the fire escape and the other dangling in her bedroom, she straddled the window sill.

  A new start.

  How many of those had she already gone through? How many were in her future? How many times would she have to escape from Sumchai Wyatt?

  She had tried to escape Sumchai once, and he’d nearly killed her to stop her. Here he was again, forcing her to run. From him. From Zae. From Gian. She hadn’t spent six months learning to fight only to run. Not when she had so much to fight for.

  Sumchai wasn’t looking for a fight, she was certain of it. He had nothing to fight for. He wanted revenge, plain and simple.

  She hadn’t asked for this war, but Sumchai had brought it to her door. He wouldn’t have the advantage of a blitz attack, not this time. This time, she would see the enemy coming. If nothing else, Gian had taught her the most important thing about war.

  “Stand or surrender,” she murmured.

  She pulled her leg back inside.

  Cinder’s dark leather library chair faced her front door, and it was there she sat, her legs crossed, her arms on the wide armrests, when Sumchai stepped into view. The door stood wide open. Cinder wanted him to know with absolute certainty that he was welcome to enter.

  He entered slowly, his steps deliberate, perhaps even cautious, as he stepped into the foyer. Without taking his eyes off Cinder, he closed the door behind him. He locked it, securing the chains as well.

  Her lips pursed, Cinder watched her ex-husband approach. He was still tall and handsome, although prison had eliminated the softer aspects of his features. The planes of his face were hard, his skin appeared to be stretched too tightly over his high cheekbones, one of which sported a purple-black bruise. New lines curved around his eyes and wide mouth. A scant crop of gray hairs glinted at his temple. Accustomed to seeing him in well-tailored clothing purchased with her income, it took her a moment to get used to him in his off-the-rack denim jacket, no-name work pants, and scuffed sneakers.

  “What?” His tone was casual as he walked toward Cinder with open arms. “No hug?”

  “If you touch me, I’ll kill you. ”

  Despite the gun loosely held in his right hand, his steps faltered. Cinder gave him a grim smile.

  His eyes raked over her ribbed tank top. “You look good, kitten,” he said, using the nickname she most hated. “The past couple of years have been real good to you.” He sat a few feet away on the arm of the sofa, his gun hand resting on his right knee. “I love your place. It’s a lot bigger than it looks from the outside. The high ceilings are really special. I figured I’d have to hunch over like Quasimodo up here.”

  “You came here to talk architectural details?”

  A deep cackle rose from his chest. Cinder squinted and locked her jaw to stop herself from screaming. Sumchai had the laugh of a cartoon witch. It was completely incongruous with his physical appearance, and there had been a time when the mere sound of it had made Cinder laugh, too. But now she cringed at the high-pitched, wheezy sound with its broken, staccato notes. It was the laugh she heard in her nightmares.

  “No, I didn’t come here to talk about your new digs. I want to talk about us.”

  It was Cinder’s turn to laugh. “You really are insane, aren’t you?”

  “I was here for two weeks before I finally saw you, on Halloween. It was like love at first sight all over again. I saw you there on the street, and you were more beautiful than the day I met you. I was surprised at how fast your hair grew back. But then I saw you at that karate school the next day, and I realized you’d been wearing a wig. I loved your hair long, but I like that you’re still wearing my mark.”

  “What you like isn’t really my concern anymore. I don’t have a choice when it comes to your marks. They’re all over my body. Plastic surgeons did what they could, but I’ll have my scars for the rest of my life.”

  “I meant your hair.” He drew a fine gold chain from his collar. “I had this made while I was in lockup. See that?” Pulling it taught over the tip of his thumb, he leaned forward to show it to her. “You probably can’t see it from over there, but I’ve got one strand of your hair woven in it. Just one strand. That’s all I’ve had of you for the past couple of years. It’s the only thing that’s kept me connected to you. That, and the internet. You’d be surprised at how well-equipped the prison library is. My cellmate runs an online dating service for cons and the women who love them. He posted profits of more than fifty grand last year.”

  “That’s fascinating,” Cinder said dismissively. “You didn’t find me on the internet. I don’t use your surname or my maiden name, and my clients don’t list me on their websites. Nothing significant comes up if you search the name I use now.”

  “Yes, I realized that a few months into my search. And your parents . . . they were no help at all. I searched their house from top to bottom, and they didn’t have so much as a holiday card from you.”

  Cinder’s skin broke out in gooseflesh. “If you hurt my mother and father . . .”

  “They were at the Cape when I broke in,” he said blithely. “But I didn’t leave entirely empty-handed. Did you know that they use your birthday for the combination to
the safe behind the bookcase in their den? They really should change it. Birthdays are so obvious. Very easy to guess.”

  “What did you take?”

  “Just a few pieces of jewelry. Your mama is like a raccoon. She likes anything that sparkles. She probably never even noticed anything missing. It was like Blackbeard’s treasure in there.”

  She stood, slowly, so as not to startle him into firing the gun. She moved toward the kitchen. “Why did you rob them?”

  Sumchai followed her, keeping close. “I needed fun money for this little vacation to Webster Groves. My parents have me on an allowance, can you believe it? It’s barely enough to cover my bar tab, let alone to travel halfway across the country and woo back my wife.”

  “How did you find me?” Cinder made a point to stay clear of the cordless phone mounted on the wall just inside the kitchen. She went to the freezer and took out a half-gallon of milk.

  “Zae.”

  With a loud thunk, the frozen milk landed on the butcher block counter. Shocked, Cinder’s tongue seemed too thick as she said, “She wouldn’t . . . liar.”

  “Oh, she didn’t tell me where you were. But Professor Azalea Richardson was an easy search online. I knew that if I found her, you would be close by. I almost came to you on Halloween. I dressed as a ninja, in keeping with your current interest in martial arts.”

  “Why did you attack Zae’s daughter?” Cinder asked abruptly.

  “Zae screwed around in our life for too long. I figured it was time to screw her right back.”

  “By going after one of her children? Why didn’t you go after her?” She smiled bitterly. “Oh, right. Zae would have ripped your nuts off and force-fed them to you. Is that why you always hated her so much? I used to think it was because she’s a tenured, published professor, while you couldn’t even get a job teaching primary school. Then I thought maybe it was because she’s the only one of my friends you couldn’t intimidate and drive away. It’s pretty obvious to me now that it’s because she’s ten times the man you’ll ever be.”