Killian (West Bend Saints 4)

We stood awkwardly just inside the doorway of the small house, and Trigg angled himself near a window after giving Deborah a hug. "I'm just going to keep an eye out for the car," he said.

"It's my brother's car," I explained, aware of how it seemed, us driving into this neighborhood in a car like that, like a couple of rich assholes. The truth was that we were far from it.

"It's probably a good idea to watch," Deborah said, shaking her head. "The men there, they're no good. Drugs, I think. A lot of people go in and out of the house."

"Trigg said you moved here a couple months ago," I said. Deborah gestured toward the table and chairs, and I sat while she busied herself in the kitchen, getting glasses and a pitcher of water.

"The hospital bills cleaned us out," she said.

"It happened a year ago, though," I said, shaking my head. "I thought the hospital bills were all taken care of. Johnny had insurance."

"All of the hospital bills were taken care of, the ones from what happened at the fight," Deborah said. "But, months later, he was hiding the problems with dizziness. He was still having - what do they call it? - Vertigo. He couldn't operate heavy machinery, and then he lost his job as the equipment operator at the plant a couple months ago. Everything started going downhill."

"I'm sorry, Deb," I said. "I left and - I didn't know. I'd have sent more, if I could."

She waved her hand dismissively. "Please, Silas," she said. "You've already done so much. After what happened with you..."

"I was lucky," I said, changing the subject. I didn't want a pity party. "What is Johnny doing? Is he okay now?"

Deborah shrugged. "We'll make it," she said. "He's bagging groceries, picking up odd jobs here and there. He still has the dizziness, and migraines. We just needed to downsize a bit. We'll be fine. Tell me about you. How are you doing? Are you back in town to stay? Johnny will be real happy to see you. He's working late today, though."

I shook my head. "I’m just popping in," I said. "I had a fight the other night."

Deborah's face paled. "You're back with Coker?"

"No, no, of course not," I said. "Abel called me to be in his corner for a fight, but he ended up in the hospital, so I took his place."

Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide. "Is he okay? Was it Coker?"

I shook my head. "No, no," I lied, throwing a look at Trigg. Deborah didn't need anything else to worry about. "He was in a car accident. It was completely random. He's fine - just bruised up, nothing serious. I'll tell him you asked about him."

"You already did the fight, then?" she asked, her voice shaky.

I reached for her palm, covered her hand with mine. "Yeah," I said. "And I'm fine, too. I kicked the guy's ass."

Deborah patted the back of my hand. "Please watch yourself, Silas," she said. "You were smart to leave when you did. I worry about you and the other fighters."

"I'm good," I said. "We brought you something. The purse from the fight – minus some money I owed someone. Hopefully it'll help."

Trigg took the envelope of cash from inside his jacket and slid it across the table. "It should be enough to get by for a little while. It's not permanent, but..."

Deborah inhaled sharply, bringing her hand to her mouth. "No," she said. "I couldn't possibly accept something like that. Silas, that's yours. You need the money."

"I won't take no as an answer, Deb," I said. "You've been like a mom to me, more than my own mother, and I can't think about you and Johnny struggling like this. It's not right."

"I can't accept your charity, Silas," she said, her voice adamant. "I've got a job, cleaning for this rich guy, and I told him the same when he offered to help. We're not a charity case. We'll figure it out."

"This isn't charity, Deb," I insisted. "It's payback for all the shit you and Johnny have done for me, bailing me out of trouble when I first came out here to Vegas. Or don't you remember cleaning my ass up, getting me back on track?"

"You don't owe us anything, Silas," she said, shaking her head. But I could see her eyes welling up, her resolve weakening.

"Yeah, sure, I don't owe you anything," I said. "Just my life. I don't care what you say, the money stays here. If you don't want to take it, then you can put it away for Cara." I knew that the mention of her daughter's name would make Deborah cave.

She looked at me for a long time before she finally nodded. "Thank you, Silas," she said. "You too, Trigg."

Trigg smiled. "Don't look at me," he said. "This is all Silas' doing."

7

Tempest

"I'm glad it's daylight," I said. We hadn't even reached our destination, and the neighborhood was becoming increasingly dangerous-looking.

Iver was distracted, his gaze focused on our surroundings. "Yes," he said absently. "We'd probably get shot here at night."

"The GPS says we're in in the right place," I said. "This is the address Emir pulled." Emir could get virtually any information we needed about the marks and the people we were helping, but there was just something about checking things out in person that always made me feel better about a job. Emir laughed at me, called me superstitious, since his information was never wrong. And in this case, he had pictures of the neighborhood where Iver's housekeeper and her family lived, easily obtained on the internet. But there was just something about seeing it with your own eyes that couldn't be replaced.

Usually I did this kind of thing at the beginning, when we were verifying a victim's story, before we even started a job. But this time, I'd been trying to break old habits, telling myself my compulsions weren't reasonable. When it came down to it, I was a creature of habit. Iver knew it was driving me crazy, the fact that I hadn't already done my drive by. So he'd agreed to come with me.

"Just so you don't get killed," he said. "I've seen the photos from Emir, and I know Deborah. The story is genuine."

I slowed down at the end of the street, within viewing distance from Iver's housekeeper's place. "Did she suddenly come into money?" I asked, nodding toward the shiny Mustang parked in the driveway.

Iver's brow furrowed. "Is that one of Coker's cars?"

I shook my head, mentally running down the checklist of Coker's known vehicles. I had a memory for details like that. "Not that I know of."

We sat in silence for a few minutes, the car engine idling, until Iver spoke. "I'd have brought champagne, if I'd have known we were going to be on a stakeout."

I laughed, recalling the first time Iver and I had worked together. We had been under surveillance, brought on us by a bad deal of Iver’s. But, in typical Iver fashion, he wasn’t worried in the least.

“Chin up, lassie,” Iver said, with a fake Scottish accent and a wink. “It’s not the end of the world, you know.”

I stood at the side of the window, looking down at the unmarked utility van outside of the hotel, the same van that had been sitting there for hours. I didn’t say anything, paranoid that the room might be bugged.

Then Iver turned on his heel, walked across the room toward the bar, and took a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket. Grabbing two champagne glasses, he passed me without a word.

“Champagne? Really? It’s noon, and I hardly think the occasion calls for it,” I said.

“Oh, darling,” Iver said. “It’s not for you.” And he left the room, the door closing hard behind him.

Momentarily stunned, I wondered what the hell he was doing. I watched from the window as he walked toward the utility van, brandishing the champagne bottle and glasses as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

My breath caught in my throat and my hand came to my mouth as he knocked on the back of the utility van and the door opened. He handed the agents the champagne. He said something to them, then walked away as if nothing unusual was happening. Even from where I stood, I could see him whistling as he walked.

When Iver returned, I stood there, open-mouthed, before I started laughing. “What did you say to them?” I asked.

Iver smiled. “I was simpl

y congratulating them on a job well done,” he said. “It’s important to recognize civil servants. They’re often underappreciated.”

The door to the housekeeper's house opened, and I drew in a breath sharply as two men exited the building and walked toward the car.

"Guests," Iver said, looking at me. He paused. "And...wait a minute. You know who they are."

I shook my head, and swallowed hard. "I don't."

"Don't lie to me," he said. "Or have you forgotten I can read people? The expression on your face says it all."

"It's nothing," I said. "No one." I put the car in drive, ready to blow past the two of them and out of there, but I couldn't quite bring myself to do it. Instead, I just sat, my gaze fixed on Silas. I watched him pull open the driver's side door and get inside, and the tail lights came on. When the car backed out of the driveway, I paused.

The little voice inside of my head, the reasonable one, told me it was a stupid idea to follow him.

Don't do it, I thought. Let him go.

"I can see what you're about to do," Iver said. "And if you think for a moment I'm going to let you tail someone who's not involved in this job because of a personal reason, without knowing all of the sordid details, you don't know me well enough at all."

I ignored Iver and rolled the car down the road slowly, far enough behind Silas that he wouldn't see us.

If there was one thing I knew how to do, it was tail someone.

It was one of my lessons when I was growing up. By the time I was eight, I was skilled in the art of pickpocketing. My father had taught me his card tricks, and by ten, I’d mastered poker and could hustle a game of pool. I’d been involved as a prop in most of my parents’ cons, but by adolescence, I was actually good at it.

Really good.

My parents were proud. Deception and evasion were second nature to me. Evading a tail was as instinctive as breathing. Tailing someone without being seen took a little longer.

My upbringing hadn’t exactly been normal. It had been highly unusual. And by unusual, I meant pretty fucked up by most people’s standards. While other kids learned to read and write, I learned the Three Card Monty and the art of pickpocketing.

Some kids learned the Golden Rule, I learned the Grifter's Code.

My father’s hand flew up to my wrist, as quick as lightning, and he looked down at me with a grin, his gold tooth glinting in the sunlight. "Gotcha."

"Crap." I yanked my hand back, and tucked it in the pocket of my jacket, tattered and worn.

"Hannah Wilde," he said, looking at my mother. "Your child just made an excessively clumsy attempt to lift my wallet."

"My child?" My mother was in front of the house, sitting in a rocking chair, newspaper held up close to her face. She folded down the edge, then peered over it at us. "Tempest's pickpocketing skills are more similar to yours than to mine."

My father looked down at me and winked. "Better luck next time," he said. "You need more practice. You're already eight years old. You should be smoother than that."

I sighed and kicked at the pebble on the ground under my shoe. "Come on, dad," I said. "When can I try it, for real?"

"You can try it when you're ready," he said. "And only then. If I can catch you, it means you're not ready."

I followed him up to the front porch of the house where we were staying. It wasn't our house, of course. It was a scam. We were squatting, pretending to be the relatives of the owners. We'd been there for two weeks.

"Dad?" I asked.

He sat down on the porch, then pulled out a deck of cards and began shuffling them, the cards flying through the air in a blur. I sat in front of him, mesmerized as I always was by the movement.

"I like it here," I said.

He didn't respond, just kept shuffling, his fingers flying.

"Could we just stay here?" I asked.

My mother looked over her newspaper at me. "You mean, like regular people?"

I nodded, the thought of being a regular person - someone with a house and friends, someone who stayed in one place - like something out of a dream.

"You're not meant to be a regular person, you hear me?" my father said, pausing his card shuffle. He laid three cards out on a small table between us, then gestured toward me. "Sit. You're a grifter, understand that? It's your birthright. You want to work for someone else your whole life? Be a slave to the system?"

I exhaled heavily. "No," I said. I didn't know what that meant, but it sounded bad. "But we could stay in one place. We wouldn't have to move so much."

My father gave me a long look. "And what? Find the Queen,” he ordered, pausing for a moment while he waited for me to pick a card, which I did, incorrectly. “You put down roots, you die. It's as simple as that. There's no staying in one place for people like us. You're a wanderer. It's in your blood. The people that work for the man, they're getting conned. The people that own the businesses, they're the real cons."

I pointed to the middle card.

No roots. Traveling was in my blood.

Right now sitting here with my parents, was deceptive, a lull in what was otherwise a chaotic life.

The problem was, I liked the lull. It was comforting. Safe. I wanted to stay in one place.

But I knew it was temporary, that something bad waited just around the corner. It always did.

"Watch the card," he said. "This life isn't something you choose to do. It's something you're born into. You're a lucky kid. All these other people going about their lives? The marks? You're smarter than they are. You're learning how the world works. You con or get conned, you understand that?"

The problem was, I didn’t want to see it that way, as us versus them. Even then, I wanted to belong. Being on the outskirts hated by everyone, was no life. That was what I understood.

He tapped the table, his finger near the cards. "Now," he said. "Where's the Queen?"

Silas' Mustang wasn't exactly hard to follow - a bright blue car like that stood out like a sore thumb, especially as we wound through the roads in the shitty little neighborhood.

"You're distracted again," Iver said. "I can only assume that you're preoccupied with thoughts of one of the men in the car. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m afraid I'll have to point out that this little detour will need to stop, because we must meet with Coker."

Coker.

Damn it, I thought. Get your head in the game, Tempest.

I was acting like some love struck teenager, following Silas down the road. Stalking him. It was madness.

What the hell was I going to do, even if I found out where Silas was staying? It was stupid, and I was smarter than that.

"Now," Iver said. "Spill the story."

"There's nothing to tell," I said, watching as Silas turned down a street. I had to practically force myself to keep the steering wheel straight, to avoid veering down the road and following him. From my peripheral vision, I saw the blur of the blue car fade into the distance, and I exhaled. "He's just a ghost from the past, is all."

Iver harrumphed. "That boy didn't look like a ghost to me. Judging by the expression on your face when you saw him, I'd say he's very much a part of your present."

I didn't answer. The last thing I needed right now was for Silas to be part of my present. He was past tense, and that's how it was going to stay. I'd left him behind in West Bend.

Silas and I were ancient history.