But she wasn’t supposed to even own the coat anymore. It should have been ash.
Lila strapped her harness around her hips, sliding her Colt onto her side. Then she donned her militia boots and thrust her backup knife into her boot.
She’d never be without them again, especially since she’d likely see La Roux at the Bullstow security office. Perhaps it would be through one-way glass, but that didn’t matter much to Lila. She’d be armed this time, and he’d not lay a finger on her.
No one would ever again.
Tristan had been right over the last few years. She needed hand-to-hand lessons. She needed to pay attention this time.
She would pay attention this time.
Before she left, Lila returned to the closet and plucked a red scarf from the sea of crimson, wrapping it around the hard bruises that had formed around her swollen neck. Luckily, a thick layer of makeup had lightened the bruises on her face. Her jaw and right eye bulged slightly, but no one would notice if they didn’t already know what to look for.
At least, that was her hope. She’d gotten good at hiding bruises lately.
Who would believe that someone had hit her, anyway? Things like that didn’t happen in Saxony. Not to heirs. People weren’t violent in the commonwealth.
Lila added a pair of shades to her ensemble, then jogged downstairs. She dodged Alex’s insistence of breakfast with a firm shake of her head and marched down the gravel path to the garage, the door opening with an off-putting, loud grumble.
A lone blackcoat looked up from his perch at the front of the garage. The sergeant had guarded the elevator during the estate’s lockdown.
“Chief?”
Lila gave a stiff nod and stopped before a black Cruz sedan.
“I’m supposed to notify the lieutenant if you want to leave the compound.” He switched on the radio perched on his shoulder and spoke into his mic.
Rather than answer with a hoarse voice, she bent over the bumper of the car, ignoring the answering static and murmuring conversation. She searched the sedan’s exterior and interior thoroughly with her palm. Finding the GPS tracker and audio bug quickly, she tossed them deeper into the garage.
They hit the cement floor with a tiny, bouncing pling and skittered away.
“No one’s messed with it,” the sergeant assured her as she opened the garage door with a grating rumble. “Several of us have been stationed here since the lockdown. The others are taking a look around the garage right now.”
Lila gave him a nod.
The sergeant bowed.
She bundled herself inside the sedan, and the sergeant leaned on her window. “I’ll go—”
Lila pulled from the garage with a squeal.
The sergeant sprinted backward to avoid the wheels.
Lila peeled down Villanueva Lane, waving at Sergeant Nolan, who stood beside the gatehouse, her breath visible in thick white curls. The blackcoat moved to slap a button on the gatehouse control panel, locking her inside, but Lila hit the gas pedal and swerved around the gate’s arm.
Assassin be damned.
Guards be damned.
She was probably safer at Bullstow than on the Randolph estate, anyway.
It only took her a few moments to reach Bullstow and pull through the gate, the area clear of early morning protestors. Chief Shaw met her on the first floor of his security office, his eyes bleary and his uniform wrinkled in the back and around his waist. His hands dwarfed a stainless steel coffee mug, and she wondered how many times he’d refilled it during the night.
Shaw’s eyes wandered to her scarf and shades. Thankfully, he said nothing and led her to his office, filled with a large desk and two comfortable leather chairs. A map of Saxony hung across one whole wall, with little lights that oozed and flowed, detailing the crimes taking place on public lands throughout the state. A little computer whirled on the ceiling, collating the data.
He closed the door and pointed at her scarf. “Can I see it?” he asked gently, the tenor in his voice betraying the fact that he didn’t want to but needed to.
Lila removed the cashmere scarf, triggering a worried hiss from the chief as he bent over his desk, white knuckles pressed into the desk.