Chapter 17

"Boss?" One of Charles's staff is bobbing outside his open office door, hovering like he isn't sure he's supposed to knock or not. Charles refrains from rolling his eyes.

"Yes, Mickle, what is it?" Charles is tense. He had to pull a couple of big strings to get the police to jump on chasing Nicole's car, and he's nervous about the outcome. So much for the war on drugs; if Charles hadn't offered a substantial bribe, the Chief of Police couldn't have cared less.

"We have news," Mickle says, still hovering. Charles perks up at that.

"Well, for god's sake, get in here and close the door, then," he snaps, sitting upright behind his desk and reaching for the decanter of whisky on the bar cart behind him. He pours himself a healthy glug and drinks half of it in one go, not bothering to offer any to Mickle.

Mickle scuttles inside and shuts the door behind him.

"I just got a call from our officer inside," he says, sounding breathless. "It's over. It's done. Nicole is dead."

Charles chokes on his whisky.

"Nicole is what?" he sputters, coughing and reaching for his breast pocket handkerchief.

"Dead, sir," Mickle says eagerly, clearly hoping that being the bearer of this news will get him a foot up in Charles's estimation. "Her car was struck by an oncoming vehicle and shoved right off the road. It lit on fire. Body is charred to hell, but they've confirmed it's her."

Charles pours another whisky and downs it in one before leaning back in his chair and heaving a sigh of relief. This is better news than he ever could have expected.

Yes, there's a slight twinge of regret – Nicole was a fine woman, after all – but needs must. He has to look out for himself, and if Nicole is out of the way, it means he's safe. Finally safe.

"That will be all, Mickle," he says, waving a dismissive hand in Mickle's direction. "Make sure nobody disturbs me for the next half an hour."

"Yes, sir," Mickle says, hastening out the door.

Charles drinks a third whisky before picking up his office phone, the one that is his own private line, unconnected to other networks. Nobody can tap or eavesdrop on it, or at least that's what the boys in security assured him of.

He dials Nicole's father.

"Mr. Hardy? Paul?" he says into the receiver. "Charles Robinson. It's over. No, better than we could have ever hoped for, in fact. She's dead."

Charles can hear Paul relaying the news to Darlene at the other end of the line. Excited chatter breaks out – that Becki must be in the room, too. Good lord, that woman never shuts up; Charles can hear her shrieking like a banshee from here.

Everyone is elated, that much is clear. Well, and why not? Nicole was the only loose end in their plan, the only thing that could screw up what they've all worked so hard to achieve. Her death means that they're all free, no more looking over their shoulders and worrying that the past is going to catch up with them.

No sense in crying over spilt milk, as the saying goes. Nicole was a pawn – unfortunate for her, of course, but that's how the game goes at times. The expendables must be, well, expended at times. Protect the group, the mission, the goal.

Still, even in his haze of excitement, Charles feels a little uneasy. Something doesn't feel quite right about this. It was too easy.

Nicole was meant to have been arrested, put away. That was simple enough. Her death is even more convenient for them, but it's the very convenience of it that's giving Charles pause. Life doesn't usually work out in such a pat, tied-up-with-a-ribbon way.

Ah, well. Charles shoves his unease aside for now. He's worked hard, he deserves a break. It's about time he got lucky, had a plan that not only went well, but went spectacularly. He's overthinking it.

"Listen, Paul," he says, cutting over the sound of celebration and laughter over the phone. "You've sacrificed a lot for me, for this, and don't think I've forgotten it. Now that Nicole is no longer a threat, we can finally talk about what I can do for you."

Another burst of chatter on the phone – he must be on speaker, he thinks, because they're all loudly reacting to that news.

"We'll start with your promotion at the firm," Charles says. "And I think there are a lot of very high-profile clients I can start moving your way…"

Nicole

"All right, Nick, it's time to get the hell out of here," Kent says briskly. I'm standing in front of the TV, watching my car plummet over the side of the road edge for the second time in a row. I'm transfixed by it – I can't believe we actually pulled this off, that people bought it.

"Get out of here?" I ask. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you can't stay here," Kent says. He gestures at the depressing walls around us. "I mean, honestly, do you even want to?"

"Well, no," I say. I laugh, and it sounds a tiny bit hysterical. Everything's happening so fast. "Not really."

"Police will be swarming around here in no time," Kent says. "And probably Buddy Boy Charles and his flunkies, too. They might even break in here to dust some drugs around the room, really sell the drug dealer angle. If they haven't already."

Kent is right, I realize. There's no way I can stay here. I'm supposed to be dead, after all. People know that I live here: Charles, my family, Marcus. People have been watching me. I can't exactly be spotted alive and well after I'm supposed to have died in a fiery car crash.

"Where do I go from here?" I ask Kent, who is bustling about packing my clothes into the tattered old suitcase for me. He holds up a pair of ratty comfort jeans and wrinkles his nose at them before answering me.

"A safe house," he says. "I've got 'em everywhere. Nobody will be able to find you once I take you underground, I can promise you that. Andrea will meet us there. She's got the drugs." Kent laughs at the expression on my face.

"That's why they said they couldn't find the drugs?" I ask in astonishment. "I assumed that they were ruined in the fire."

"Nah," Kent says. "I had Andrea liberate them from the trunk before leaving the wreck. Don't ask me how she did it; I don't know, and she'll never tell. I promised her a cut of the proceeds, though. No sense in letting Charles's drugs go to waste."

Now it's my turn to laugh. "He has no idea what's going to hit him, does he?"

"Not a clue," Kent says. "Now, come on, girl. Let's get moving."

I turn to watch my car tumble over the edge on the TV once more before going to help Kent finish packing.

I've got to bury my old self, too. Shove it away and light it on fire, just like that car. From now on, my focus has to be getting revenge on Charles and my family.

I can't let them get away with this.