Retribution.

A Valentine Shepherd Novel.

Shana Figueroa.

To Chris, my husband and love of my life, who will only know this book is dedicated to him if somebody else tells him, because he will almost certainly never read it.

Chapter One.

Valentine Shepherd ran so fast she thought her heart might explode from the strain. Her suburban neighborhood was quiet in the late morning as she rounded a corner and sprinted down the street. With the mid-July sun hard on her back, she crossed the invisible finish line in front of her house and slowed to a halt, put her hands on her knees, and threw up into the bright green gra.s.s. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and took deep breaths until the nausea subsided. No workout felt good enough without a dollop of pain-sore knees, joint pain, pulled muscles, nausea. Going easy on herself meant letting weakness fester, giving her enemies the upper hand. She'd be d.a.m.ned if she let that happen again.

Val walked half a block away from her house to cool down. She stopped mid-stride and stared at a car she didn't recognize, parked on the corner in front of a fire hydrant.

"BFG three thousand fifteen. BFG three thousand fifteen," she said to herself, committing the car's license plate number to memory so she could track down who it belonged to, who Delilah Barrister had sent to watch her. She hadn't had any contact with Delilah since the now-mayor of Seattle sent a batch of e-mails mocking Val for falling for her scam to kill her husband, but it was only a matter of time. Then again, why would Delilah bother to have someone stake out Val's house? She was a G.o.dd.a.m.n prophet-like Val, but better. More devious at least. Norman Barrister's widow probably knew what Val was doing every second of every day.

Val shook her head at the mystery car. It was likely nothing, and she was being paranoid again. "s.h.i.t," she muttered, turning away from yet another shadow to obsess over.

She stalked back into her house and kicked aside one of Stacey's raincoats splayed on the floor next to the door. She'd need to have another talk with her friend about leaving c.r.a.p lying around for clients to stumble upon. Very unprofessional for the recently popular Valentine Investigations. Business had been booming since she'd "solved" the mystery of who killed Seattle millionaire Lester Carressa and exonerated his son and heir, Maxwell, of the crime last October. They'd even had to turn some clients away. Val hated saying no; she was often their last resort for justice. But even with Stacey's help and her own ability to glimpse the future, she was only one person against a world where cruelty and injustice were the norm.

Val rubbed her sweaty face on a dishcloth and threw open her fridge, shoving aside bundles of kale Stacey bought, but would never eat, to grab a beer from the back. She touched the cold gla.s.s bottle to her hot cheek, rubbed the condensation on her skin, and let it trickle down her neck. Then she twisted off the top and took a long drink. The immediate buzz was comforting. Dwelling on things she couldn't change would drive her mad. She should accept it and move on, like Max had done- A lump grew in her throat. Don't even start, she admonished herself as she chugged the rest of her beer. Don't think about him. He went on with his life. You can, too. She looked at herself in the gold-burnished decorative mirror-the one she'd put up in the hallway across from the kitchen a million years ago, when she'd lived there happily with Robby and gave a s.h.i.t about home furnishings. Her strawberry-colored hair hung in a high ponytail glistening with sweat, flushed face dominated by gray eyes the color of steel. She sneered at the woman behind the gla.s.s.

"How's being mayor?" she said to her reflection. "Working your way up to governor, still milking your dead husband's glorious legacy?" She stepped closer to the gla.s.s, imagining Delilah's premonition of this moment, the good laugh the mayor would have about it. "You know I'll kill you, right? I never thought I was capable of cold-blooded murder, but you've made me reconsider."

Her heart began to race again as she ground her teeth. She would stop Delilah somehow, and make her pay for killing Robby and trying to destroy her and Max's lives. Justice delayed wasn't justice denied, she reminded herself...except when someone had an entire evil organization protecting them. G.o.ddammit, she needed another beer.

After she grabbed a fresh bottle from the fridge, she walked to the spare room she used as an office. Setting her beer atop one of the jumbled stacks of papers on her desk, she pulled aside a curtain that covered half her wall. For the millionth time, she stared at the collage of pictures, newspaper clippings, articles, and handwritten notes she'd pinned up, all connected with little strings. On the bottom: photos of her and Max, along with reports on the Science Center fiasco last year. To the side, two items: a picture of Sten Ander, corrupt Seattle PD Vice Squad detective and, unfortunately, her ex-boyfriend. The other item was a Post-It Note with a big question mark on it, representing Kat, Stacey's shady ex-girlfriend. Both had strings leading up to Delilah, their puppet master. Above Delilah: the "woman in white," who was another question mark, along with a secret group of powerful people she either worked with or for.

Val had pinned pictures of Robby and his sister, Josephine, on the left. They connected to Max-he, Robby, and Jo shared a father, Dean Price, though Jo had no idea. She hadn't heard from Jo since Dean's funeral; maybe Jo blamed her for Dean's suicide. h.e.l.l, Val still blamed herself sometimes. The image of Dean eating a bullet on his son's grave still shocked her with a jolt of despair that only copious amounts of alcohol could fix.

One string made a big half circle down the center of the collage, from the group at the top to a single pin below her and Max-their future child. That's what the cabal really wanted, the one thing Val knew for sure about them. Another knot tightened in her throat, and she chugged her beer to loosen it up. If that pin didn't exist, those evil people would never get what they wanted. Of course, it also meant she would never get what she wanted, either. But Max seemed to have found happiness, so at least they both didn't have to suffer.

More pictures and notes dotted the periphery, people and events around the world she suspected were connected to the mysterious group at the top-airline crashes, a.s.sa.s.sinations, coups, etc. Locally, just last week a Seattle union leader who'd been at odds with Delilah over some ordinance she'd wanted to pa.s.s died in a hiking accident. How convenient for the mayor. Val had already investigated the incident and come up with nothing incriminating, again. But one day soon, very soon, Delilah would slip up. Val would find some tangible connection between the mayor and this group, or some other evidence of her wrongdoing, and bring her down- "That's some crazy s.h.i.t, Shepherd."

Val jumped at the man's voice behind her. She dropped her beer bottle and lunged to her desk, where she kept a gun taped underneath the pencil drawer-one of many she positioned around the house in case of emergency. She ripped the weapon free and pointed it at the voice. Her eyes narrowed when she recognized Sten Ander leaning against the room's door frame, legs crossed and hands in his pockets as if he'd just stopped by to say hi.

"You know, you don't need to make a crazy wall collage on your actual wall these days," he said. "A computer will do the same thing. Get an app for that."

Val stared down the man who'd tried to murder her and Max on three separate occasions. She hadn't seen Sten since he'd shot Max in the stomach at the Science Center. He'd shaved off his giant 1980s beat cop mustache; now he looked like a darker, crazier version of Jeremy Renner. "Come here to finally kill me?"

"Yes, I came to kill you. That's why I'm unarmed-to show off my head-exploding psychic powers." He stared at her and scrunched his face in mock concentration, then relaxed and sighed. "d.a.m.n. I was sure that would work."

f.u.c.king Sten. She'd never met a person so full of s.h.i.t, and she'd met a lot of s.h.i.tbags in her line of work. Val kept her gun trained on him. "What do you want, Sten?"

"I came to deliver a message."

"So spit it out."

"See, here's the thing. It's kind of complicated. I think-"

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake." Val lowered her gun and yanked the curtain back into place, covering the collage so clients couldn't stumble upon it and think she was...well, crazy. She shoved past Sten on her way to the kitchen. It was a risky move; he could probably kill her with his bare hands if he wanted to. But h.e.l.l, she was angry-and intoxicated. She'd like to see him try.

Val threw open the fridge and pulled out another beer. "If you're gonna start with the bulls.h.i.tting, I'd rather you just kill me." She popped the top off the bottle and took a long swig.

He sauntered into the living room and propped himself up on the sofa's arm. Addressing her over the part.i.tion that separated the kitchen from the living room, he said, "I think, before I give you the message, we should talk about your drinking problem. You'll never score another rich boyfriend as a paranoid drunk."

Val slammed her bottle down on the countertop. f.u.c.king Sten and his mind games. "You wanna talk?" She stomped around the part.i.tion and shoved her gun in Sten's face. "Let's talk."

He looked down the barrel of her Glock and lifted an eyebrow, more surprised than scared. For as long as she'd known him-since serving in the Army together, where they'd had a brief, intense fling-he'd never been particularly concerned about his own safety. It made him an excellent soldier, and predator. Fear for life and limb didn't motivate Sten, unfortunately for her.

"Tell me why you're working for Delilah."

"'Working' is a strong word. 'Indentured' is more accurate."

"Why?"

Sten sighed, and for half a second his laidback-a.s.shole demeanor betrayed a hint of sadness. "Because I owe a debt I can never pay back."

Val gritted her teeth. "What does that mean?" She grabbed the lapel of his cheap suit, yanked him to his feet, and yelled into his face, "What the f.u.c.k does that mean? Why does everyone have to talk in G.o.dd.a.m.n riddles?"

"That's the condensed version," he said. "The full story would take all day, maybe all week..." Sten trailed off as his eyes drifted down to her wet cleavage, bulging over the top of her sports bra.

Of course he'd be thinking about s.e.x as she a.s.saulted him. Or maybe he was just pretending. He'd throw up any distraction to avoid telling her the truth about whatever game he and his co-conspirators were playing. Screw his games.

Val slapped him hard across the face. He jerked back a couple of inches at the shock of it, then rebounded toe to toe with her, dangerous anger flashing across his face. Good. Now he could have a taste of what she felt every day.

"Who's the woman in white?" she demanded.

He took a slow, measured breath, as if trying to summon his previous calm. "Who?"

"The woman who wears the white suit. Long black hair, thick British accent. I saw her in a vision. Who is she?"

He pressed his lips together, as if considering every possible way he could answer. Finally, he said, "Ca.s.sandra, the Alpha."

"The what?"

"They call her the Alpha because she sees all possible futures, all the time, or something like that. Without the s.e.xing. As far as I know, she's the only one in the world. The rest of you future-f.u.c.kers are chumps compared to her."

So the terrible images of death and destruction that Val only had glimpses of, Ca.s.sandra saw every waking moment of her life? Sounded awful.

"What does she want?" Val asked.

"h.e.l.l if I know. I'm pretty sure she's insane. It doesn't matter what she wants anyway. She's more like a consultant. Northwalk gives the marching orders."

"Who?"

"Northwalk-the people at the top of your crazy wall. That's what they call themselves. Some kind of ancient surname."

"They're people like me?"

He sighed. "No. Jesus, Shepherd, keep up. As far as I can tell, there are maybe fifty or so of you future-f.u.c.kers in the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n world. Northwalk is just one of the organizations of rich, control freak a.s.sholes that pull your strings."

Just one? There were other evil cabals? Oh, h.e.l.l no. "Why are you telling me all this now?" He'd never been this forthcoming before.

He enunciated each word, the anger she'd sparked with her first slap beginning to simmer again as he seemed to tire of their conversation. "Because it's pertinent to my message."

She scoffed. "f.u.c.k your stupid message. What's Northwalk's endgame?"

"How the h.e.l.l should I know?"

She slapped him again, as hard as she could. "Make an educated guess!"

d.a.m.n, it felt good to hit something. He rebounded closer to her, the anger in his eyes deepening. Where she stood less than a foot away from him, she caught a whiff of his scent. He smelled hot and dirty-like a delicious man. Sten was also easy on the eyes, she had to admit-dark and fit, with a dangerous aura about him. Just the way she liked her men, before she met Robby and discovered the joys of nice guys, while Max had embodied the perfect combination of good and bad. Sten had also been great in bed, she suddenly remembered. Rough. She'd liked it, back then. She hadn't been with anybody in a long time; not since Max. Oh, Jesus, she must really be drunk and desperate if Sten was turning her on.

"Ow," was all he said.

Guess the time for disclosure was over. "Get out."

"I haven't delivered my message yet."

"I said get out!"

She tried to shove him, but all the d.a.m.n beer made her clumsy. He easily grabbed her arms and flipped her faceup onto the couch, pinning her down with his body. A moment of panic seized her as she lay helpless beneath him. If he decided to kill her after all, it would take him little effort now-oh G.o.d, and she felt the hardness of his erection pressing against her belly. Son of a b.i.t.c.h. For the last eight months, she'd been haunted by this G.o.dd.a.m.n Northwalk conspiracy, where the only measure of control she could exert over her life was to cut out her own heart by pushing Max away. And here was Sten, physically restraining her and getting off on it. She was so tired of being the one on the bottom. She couldn't take it anymore.

"Here's the message," he said, his face a couple of inches from hers as she struggled underneath him. "Northwalk would like to extend you an invitation to work for them."

"Why the h.e.l.l would I work for them?"

"In exchange for your cooperation, they'll take care of Delilah for you."

She stopped struggling and stared at him. Were they offering to kill Delilah? When she was with Max, she'd had a vision of Delilah as president of the United States, initiating a nuclear war. Maybe Northwalk knew about this possible future, and didn't want to see it come to pa.s.s, either. But Northwalk was evil, and they wanted her child. She'd never help them do anything, no matter what they offered.

"Tell them thanks for the offer, but the answer is no," she said. "I'll never be a slave like you."

What was left of Sten's smarmy demeanor cracked, and the anger she'd stoked finally overtook him. "I am not their slave! You don't know anything about me, Shepherd."

"Oh yeah?" she said, relishing every second she got under his skin for once. "Poor lonely Private Ander, won't talk about his past but f.u.c.ks like a beast and takes orders like a champ! Too used to pleasing his masters to even consider having any agency of his own. Just point him at whatever you need killed, no questions asked!"

His grip tightened around her wrists. As his hard body pressed down on hers and his hot scent filled her lungs, he glared at her with rage and frustration that matched her own. Sten didn't want to work for them any more than she did, she realized. He hated them, too. He felt what she felt. A burst of heat shot through her body. She hadn't connected with anyone on a raw emotional level since Max, and it felt...good. Holy s.h.i.t, did it feel good.

"Sometimes," he said through gritted teeth, "you have to let people use you to get what you want."

"Keep telling yourself that. I'm n.o.body's b.i.t.c.h like you are. n.o.body's!"

When she thought he was close to breaking her wrists, he let go. "Fine. Take it out on me if you want, see what happens," he growled. "Do it!"

With her hands free, she shoved him to the side, and together they fell to the ground. She scrambled on top of him and punched him in the face. Finally, she was in control. She punched him again, the need for release so potent her skin trembled like a live wire. Sten was right; she needed to take it out on someone, use somebody.

A frantic euphoria hijacked her brain. Two more times she hit him, and he didn't fight back. As she lifted her arm to hit him again, he sat up and yanked her sports bra off, st.i.tches ripping as he forced it over her shoulders and head in one quick jerk. With a grunt like an animal, he grabbed her nipple with his mouth and sucked hard. She gasped-sweet Jesus, that felt good. A noise between a whimper and a groan escaped her chest as a wave of desperate l.u.s.t wiped away all rational thought. She needed something, anything, to dull the pain- Val pushed him back to the ground. She reached into his coat breast pocket, took out his wallet, and flipped it open. Of course he had a condom with him-he was on the Vice Squad, after all. She pulled his pants down to his thighs, ripped the package open, and slipped the latex over him while he watched, his chest heaving and black eyes burning. Then she threw off her running shoes, shorts, and panties.

What the h.e.l.l are you doing, Val? Stop- She sat back and let him enter her with a thrust so strong it sent shock waves through her entire body. A guttural moan surged from her throat as she rocked on top of him. She licked her lips, closed her eyes, and thought of Max. The smell of his mountain spring shower gel, the bay rum aftershave on his neck, the way he'd felt inside her. G.o.d, she missed him. She hadn't known she could long for another person so much until he wasn't there anymore. Even the pain she'd felt after Robby's murder paled to the hole Max's absence left in her soul. Now she was willing to take anyone who came along to fill the void, anyone who made her feel something good, even her enemy.

Sten grabbed her and pulled her deeper onto him, directing her hips with strong, rough hands. She grabbed his dress shirt in her fists and blinked back stars that popped into her vision. A wave of dizziness swept over her, from the run and the beer, and now the s.e.x. Her mouth watered and muscles tensed while growing weaker at the same time. She needed release. Needed it.

She struggled to breathe as the heat in her belly grew, until the pain she'd been holding in for eight months finally exploded- I'm standing on the balcony of Max's house, the balcony where he threw his father to his death. The sky is overcast, the water is black. All the gla.s.s is cracked and trash is strewn everywhere. At my feet I see a weathered newspaper with a headline that reads: "President Barrister Declares War." Before I can check the date or read the article, the brightest light I've ever seen bursts in the sky and mushrooms upward. I hear and feel a rumbling that grows louder, shattering the gla.s.s around me, until a shock wave hits and I'm engulfed in flames- Blur.

A light rain falls on a choppy expanse of water I recognize as Elliot Bay. Across the water, the s.p.a.ce Needle pokes through the skyline, glinting where the sun strikes it in breaks between roiling clouds. A group gathers on the rocky beach, just off a two-lane road: police officers, medical personnel, random onlookers behind a cordon. A coroner. Splayed on the rocks at the center of the throng is a body-a woman in a c.o.c.ktail dress that used to be white, now soiled brown. Her matted blond hair bobs in soft waves of water that lap at her bloated, pale face. Milky eyes that used to be brown bulge from their sockets. Black ligature marks streak across her wrists and ankles. Nearby, a woman wails- Like cigarette smoke, the vision faded from Val's view, and she was back in her living room.

Underneath her, Sten blinked as if trying to snap out of his own trance. The desperate anger they'd shared faded from his face, replaced by his usual smarmy mask. "Got tomorrow's lottery numbers?" he asked. "If you did, I think it's only fair I get half."

Val sighed and closed her eyes, trying to push away the image of yet another dead person from the future, as well as her recurring vision of Delilah destroying the world. She'd never had a real o.r.g.a.s.m before, only these terrible-and mostly useless-glimpses of the future. Max was the one who saw numbers-stock market data and other financial information that had made him his millions. Val saw dead people, either during or shortly after their often horrific and painful-looking demises-none of it financially lucrative. The visions were weak when she was alone, stronger with another person, even stronger with someone she was attracted to, and strongest with another person with the same ability-someone like Max or Delilah. If she concentrated right before o.r.g.a.s.m, she could sometimes guide her visions to reveal useful information to help her solve cases, like manipulating a dream. Unfortunately, she wasn't very good at it.

She'd wanted a distraction from her miserable life. Instead, she saw a random dead woman. G.o.dd.a.m.n this horrible ability.

Val felt something brush against her face. She flinched and her eyes popped open. Sten's fingertips caressed her cheek.

"I thought you pa.s.sed out again," he said, his voice soft with a tenderness she didn't know he was capable of. "I don't think you're cut out for day drinking, Val."

"Shut up." Light-headed, she slowly pushed herself off him and sat in a heap on the couch.

Sten stood, peeled the condom off, and dropped it on Val's coffee table. He picked up her gun off the floor and put it on the table, too, as if replacing a tchotchke he'd knocked over. As he pulled up his pants and tucked in his dress shirt, his eyes lingered on her. Val sat slack on the couch, tired, naked, more than a little drunk, and covered in sweat. Shame flushed her cheeks. What the h.e.l.l had she been thinking? Sleeping with Sten had been stupid, reckless, and worst of all, pointless. It felt great for a few fleeting moments-to experience control, to feel pleasure-but now she was back down the hole she'd started in; deeper, even. She should have shot him instead.

After a few seconds of staring at her, Sten straightened out his jacket and fished a business card out of his wallet. "If you change your mind about Northwalk's offer, or ever need to talk again, give me a call. Anytime." He set the card down next to the used condom. "Carressa doesn't know what he's missing with that vanilla fiancee of his."

She flinched. Of course he'd bring that up. f.u.c.king Sten.

He finally left, giving her a couple of hours alone to prepare for the arrival of a new client-after she took a long, cold shower.

Chapter Two.

Val handed a tissue to the sobbing middle-aged woman seated at the dining room table. Nora Monroe dabbed at her eyes and sniffled until Stacey returned from the kitchen with a mug of hot water, a tea bag bleeding into it.

Nora accepted the mug with trembling hands. "Thank you."

Stacey nodded and sat next to Val, in front of a pen and notepad she'd prepped. They waited as Nora sipped her tea. In the pause, Val took a long drink of black coffee from her own mug, trying to ease the hangover headache thumping between her eyes. She ignored the disapproving glance Stacey shot at her. Another lecture about Val's self-destructive behavior was brewing. Fantastic.