Hell Hath No Fury Read online

  I drag in shallow breaths, trying to psych myself up for the remaining staples. It hurts like a bitch, but it has to be done.

  When I press the staple gun’s trigger again, I nearly draw blood biting back a loud whimper from the pain as the metal cinches my wound together tightly. After a few more shaky huffs of breath, I punch out four additional staples before my fingers release the gun, letting it drop to where I’m slumped on the chair in one of the clinic’s exam rooms.

  “Fuck.” I try to will away the pain-induced nausea because I need to keep my eye on the prize.

  I’m so damn close to getting to them. Not to mention, when I’d been lying in wait, listening and assessing before I attacked, I overheard the men talking about their boss and his second-in-command never showing their faces anymore.

  “I heard a rumor a fire or somethin’ disfigured ’em,” one of the men had said. That detail definitely piques my interest.

  With a pained wheeze, I pick up the staple gun knowing I need to finish this. I brace myself for the next few staples and grit my teeth against the wail that tries to escape.

  “Goddammit.”

  The muttered curse has me whipping my head around to stare at the person standing in the open doorway, gun gripped in my other hand and aimed directly at him.

  He waves me off dismissively, as though I’m an annoying insect. “Put that damn thing down and let me look at you.”

  “No.” With the gun still trained on him, I glare at him. “I’ll be out of here in a minute.”

  He stares at me before scowling. “Put the damn gun down.”

  I don’t move. And I hate it, but I don’t know if he’s changed in seven years. Sure, my homework indicated he hasn’t, but I can’t take a risk.

  Not before I’m finished.

  Hurt bleeds into his expression, and it twists an invisible knife in my chest. Slowly, he raises his hands. “I’m not a threat.” Then his eyes turn misty, his voice lowering to a broken whisper. “I’ve missed you, Caitlin.”

  I suck in a sharp breath at the pain welling up within me but don’t lower my gun.

  “If you turn me over to them, I swear I’ll kill you.” I hold his eyes as I make the vow. And I mean it. It would gut me, but if he betrays me, I can’t allow him to live. Not if he’s in bed with these assholes.

  “Agreed.” Gaze darting to the staple gun in my other hand, he lifts his chin, gesturing to it. “Now, you gonna let me patch you up, or do you insist on doing a shitty job of it?”

  Our gazes hold for a long beat before I lower my weapon with a curt nod. “Thank you.”

  Doc Hogue doesn’t hesitate in his approach, only drawing to a stop once he’s in front of me. His features soften. When his fingers graze the wound, I hiss but manage to stay still.

  “What in God’s name have you gotten yourself into, young lady?” he murmurs.

  “The wrong end of a knife.” I lift my gaze to study him as he tends to my injury. “I’m sorry, but I needed to use your—”

  “Hush.” His reprimand is stern, but there’s also the familiar affection in it. Blue eyes dart up to mine briefly before focusing on cleaning my wound better. “You’re family.”

  I swallow hard past the lump of unfamiliar emotion assaulting me. I haven’t let myself feel anything but anger for so long that…affection is foreign to me now.

  It’s better that way. I steel myself against it and change the subject. “The cash is on your desk. To cover what I needed.”

  The gauze and antiseptic. The staple gun.

  The whiskey he keeps locked in the bottom drawer of his desk in his office.

  He tosses a sharp glance at me before he inserts a needle a few times to numb the area surrounding my injury, then he picks up the staple gun. “You know I could’ve done a better job of stitching you up than with this thing.”

  I remain silent because I didn’t—don’t want him involved. I refuse to risk the one man I trusted implicitly. The man who helped me escape years ago.

  “I rarely stop by here after hours. But tonight, for some reason, something told me to check on things.” Tiny lines fan out from the corners of his eyes, and the familiar hint of a smile has my heart lurching in my chest.

  Once he’s finished and has secured the bandage in place, his eyes linger on the area. “Wish you would’ve let me clean the entire wound. To make sure—”

  I shift, barely holding back a wince at the pain, and slip off the table. “You’ve helped plenty. I won’t have you risking your life any more than this.”

  He heaves out a sigh and rips the sanitary paper off the exam chair, much of it red from my blood. Disposing of it and the needle in the designated receptacles, he washes his hands in the nearby sink. Once he’s dried them, he faces me, his expression sending prickles of unease traveling down my spine.

  “I need to go. Thank you.” I turn, but he stops me.

  “Caitlin, please.”

  I pause but don’t turn around. I can’t. “Caitlin Ashford died seven years ago, Doc. You’d be smart to remember that.”

  It’s the truth. I say it as a reminder to myself and to him.

  “Just…promise me you’ll be careful.”

  A part of me wants to laugh in his face. Careful? I’m single-handedly hunting down every member of the Dixie Mafia I can find and killing them.

  There aren’t PTA meetings, tickle fights with my daughter, date nights with my husband, or dinners with my family on Sundays.

  I’m a murderer now.

  Regret pummels me, and I stiffen against the onslaught before answering quietly, “I can’t promise that.”

  As I step through the doorway, his soft words trail so faintly after me that I’m not entirely certain they’re meant for me to hear.

  “May God keep you safe.”

  I exit the clinic through the back without a word.

  Because God needs to sit on the sidelines for this.

  14

  The Hunter

  The first visit

  The doctor’s small clinic is mostly dark with the exception of his office, his desk scattered with patient files. He’s evidently against going digital with his practice. Behind his desk chair is a large bookshelf overflowing with medical journals, but what catches my attention is one of the framed photos on the far right. I instantly recognize the woman captured in it.

  Caitlin Ashford.

  In it, she looks vastly different than the photos I recently perused. Here, she holds a young girl on her hip who shares her smile and eyes, and they both radiate so much happiness, so much life, I have to jerk my eyes away from the photo.

  Striding through the clinic, gun in hand, I head in the direction of the sounds coming from one of the exam rooms at the end of the short hallway.

  “It’s after hours, but if there’s something I can help you with, I’d be more than happy to.” The old man offers this before turning to face where I stand in the doorway, eyeing him sharply to assess whether he appears to have any weapons.

  Even though he’s in his late fifties, I get the feeling this man’s not to be underestimated.

  Blue eyes lower to my gun before returning to meet my gaze. “What can I help you with, son?”

  “A little late to be cleaning up after a patient. Especially when you closed three hours ago.”

  He holds my gaze steadily. “You strike me as the type to recognize a perfectionist when you see one.” Gesturing to the exam room, he adds, “Sometimes, my staff puts things where I don’t want them.”

  My eyes dart past him, landing on the staple gun. “Someone come in with a bad injury, Doc?”

  Voice still maintaining the congenial quality, his gaze turns a bit cooler. The edges of his mouth turn up in a partial smile. “Now, son. I’m not sure where you come from, but around here, we introduce ourselves before asking a bunch of questions.”

  “Figured my gun was introduction enough.”

  “I’ll agree to answer as best I can, but I need you to answer one question
first.”

  “You’re not really in the position to be bargaining, Doc.”

  Blue eyes turn icy. “Depends on whether you want information or not.”

  We stare at one another, neither of us willing to turn away first.

  Still holding my eyes, he offers, “Shall we sit and chat in my office?”

  “Here’s good.”

  With a faint sigh, the old man sinks down onto the rolling stool, bracing his palms on his knees. I take a seat in the chair nearest to the door, not taking my eyes off him.

  He averts his gaze to the doorway, and there’s something wistful in his eyes. “I’ve lived a good life, so if you’re planning to kill me, just do it.”

  The old man’s ballsy, I’ll give him that. “I need some answers first.” I pause. “What can you tell me about Caitlin Ashford?”

  Those blue eyes snap to mine, but a moment passes before he answers. “I assume if you came looking for me that you already know my relation to her.”

  “I’d prefer to hear what you have to say.”

  He studies me briefly. “I knew her daddy. Good man. I delivered Caitlin and patched her up here and there.” His eyes take on a faraway look. “She was always so happy. And then I delivered her daughter, Willow.” His features cloud as he averts his gaze, his voice growing thick. “She was a beautiful child, like her mother.”

  “I read what happened the day she disappeared. She punched you. Overpowered you and escaped.”

  He nods.

  “Do you know what happened to her after that?”

  His brow furrows, and he appears troubled and overcome with sadness. “I believe Caitlin died.”

  I narrow my eyes, attempting to dissect his words and expression, and yet…everything seems like he’s telling the truth.

  “Why are you asking me this?”

  I’m careful with my phrasing. “Because there’ve been some…disruptions within the Dixie Mafia.”

  He frowns. “Disruptions?”

  I avoid clarifying, and instead ask, “So, you don’t think Caitlin would ever come back for revenge?”

  He draws in a deep breath before shaking his head slowly. “No. I believe Caitlin died seven years ago.” His expression is one of remorse. “It has to be someone else who’s out for revenge.” The way he says this, in a low murmur, makes it seem like he’s talking to himself.

  It still feels like he’s not telling me something, but I can’t quite pinpoint it.

  “A word of warning, young man.” The way the doc stares at me makes me uneasy, not in a physically threatening way, but more like he’s offering me a split-second glimpse of a premonition. “Not all is what it seems around here. There’s always more behind the story than you expect.”

  15

  Her

  He’s a creature of habit, and it only makes things easier on my end.

  I watch as he makes quick work of the steps leading from the precinct to the curbside where a food truck is parked, clearly raking in the cash if the coming and going of countless employees is any indication.

  Detective Warren pays, then stands off to the side as he waits for his lunch order to be called. I study him through the small monocular from where I lie haphazardly sprawled on one of the benches across the street, and my eyes catch sight of a small nick along the left side of his jaw.

  Thanks to the last vagrant who claimed this spot, I lie on padded newspapers clad in an oversized dark green poncho, the hood covering my head. With my projected air of defeat and filth, I easily blend in with the others in the vicinity.

  Once the detective collects his order, I wait until he heads toward the stairs leading back to the building before I make the call.

  Carefully stacking his to-go coffee on top of his Styrofoam takeout container, he withdraws his cell and stares down at the screen for a beat before answering.

  “Detective Warren.”

  “Hello, Detective. I’ve been meaning to call you.” The free voice-distortion app is doing its job, thankfully.

  “Who is this?” He immediately glances around, searching for sight of anyone who stands out.

  “Do you know what’s been going on with the Dixie Mafia these days?”

  There’s a subtle stiffening of his shoulders. “Who the hell is this?”

  “You’ve been working hard, but nothing’s stuck, huh?” It’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t pause for him to answer. “Well, that dirty money that went missing the other night? It found its way to a good cause. The Salvation Army and the Center for Abused and Neglected Children.” My voice hardens. “Those organizations will do that blood money justice.”

  Detective Warren shakes his head slowly. “You can’t just go around killing people.” As he gains momentum, his tone grows firmer. “That’s not how things work.”

  I glare even though he can’t see me. “That’s how things work now, Detective. When the justice system fails, someone else needs to step in.”

  “You can’t—”

  “Hey, Detective?” I interrupt suddenly. Because there’s my cue: the wince-inducing screech of the city bus’s brakes as it draws to its scheduled stop in front of the precinct. “Be careful shaving next time. It’d be a shame to nick any more of that handsome face.” The bus blocks my view of the detective as I end the call, then peel off the poncho, and tuck it beneath the thick wad of newspapers before I stride away.

  I’m out of sight before the bus drives off.

  16

  Her

  “…said something happened down at the old warehouse down on Market near Seventeenth Street.”

  “I heard that. They’re saying there was an attack.”

  “I hope it’s not another group trying to take over.”

  The women speaking in hushed voices outside the small cafe continue down the sidewalk, their voices fading as they head in the opposite direction.

  Initially, I’d drawn to a stop outside the cafe entrance because of their conversation, but now I notice the chalkboard sign displayed beside the doors with a saying:

  Live a great story. Life’s too short to give up before THE END.

  The words bring forth a yearning so fierce I press my fingers to the center of my chest to try to assuage the ache there.

  Live a great story. Live a great story. The words repeat on a loop in my head. Am I living a great story?

  I huff derisively. I suppose it depends on the perspective.

  As I continue down the sidewalk, I’m still plagued by a dull soreness as my wound heals. Everyone around me sees an older woman, thanks again to the work of liquid latex and heavy makeup and the aid of a wig.

  My silvery gray hair is styled in a sleek bob haircut, and I’m dressed in plain clothing—black slacks, blouse, and jacket in the same color to ward off the cooler temperatures since it’s dipped into the low fifties. My shoes are plain black support soles, and dark sunglasses shield my eyes.

  Drawing closer to the particular area, I war with myself. Maybe this was a mistake.

  I slow as soon as I see the perfect windows—the ones that had once been shattered by bullets. The sign above the entrance is no different, and it takes every ounce of self-restraint to not reach up and claw at it. Because it’s not true. It’s not Bullard’s Gun & Pawn anymore, goddammit. My father isn’t behind the counter, talking to customers about ammunition or to avid hunters about taking MREs on their upcoming hunting trip. Deacon isn’t showing customers reflective gear or hunting rifles.

  The small thrift shop that had bordered our store is gone, now that they’ve expanded the pawn shop’s square footage, and the shop’s windows span the entire front along the sidewalk.

  But I know what they’ve done with the extra space behind the displays of goods.

  I shouldn’t, but I reach for the door anyway and step inside as the little electronic ding sounds, announcing me. No one greets me. The two men at the counter, one with a confederate flag tattoo stamped along the side of his neck, are in deep discussion with anoth
er man, whose shoulders are a mile wide and who doesn’t seem like he’s a customer, simply by the authoritative yet dangerous vibe he gives off.

  I slide my sunglasses to rest atop my head carefully and peruse the aisles, casually scanning the inside of the shop. A few cameras are placed throughout, yet I don’t spot one in close range of the cash register on the far end of the display case, closest to the back wall where a door is marked Employees Only. My eyes dart to that door leading to the back of the shop, where my father’s office had been. It had led to the back entrance Willow and I came through that night long ago.

  My throat tightens painfully, and I will away the emotions that will only make me weak.

  In my periphery, I catch sight of movement. A young teenage boy ambles up to the register to pay for a camp jacket, and I discreetly watch as the man with the neck tattoo steps away to ring him up.

  Jeremiah, according to the name embroidered on his Bullard’s Gun & Pawn shop T-shirt, approaches the register near the shop’s back wall. He accepts the cash from the kid and gives him a receipt and some coins in exchange.

  What happens next is so subtle and quick, much like a sleight of hand magic trick. The kid turns and leaves with his new jacket as Jeremiah discreetly skims cash from the register before he closes the drawer, quickly tucking the money in his front pocket.

  The man with the mile-wide shoulders turns and heads through the Employees Only door. I don’t catch a glimpse of much before he closes the door behind him, but it doesn’t matter. I already know what’s back there.

  I casually redirect my attention to the goods on the current aisle I’m in. Footsteps approach, and I brace myself.

  “Anything I can help you with, ma’am?”

  Pasting a pleasant expression on my face, I turn to face the man and catch him staring at my ass. Bile rises in my throat at the way he eyes me lasciviously. The way he doesn’t rush to look me in the eyes, combined with the faint smirk tugging at his lips, makes me want to end my game right now and do what needs to be done. But no. This will make my revenge sweeter because this man has a neck tattoo with the Dixie Mafia inscribed in the inked detail.