"Mia," Marcus shrieked, clapping his hands and wriggling to break free of Dom's arms as she and Brian walked up the driveway. He waved his arms and shouted Jack and Sophie's names, stumbling towards them once he was finally let down. Marcus pointed towards the garage and grinned. "Car!"
"Sophie, be nice to Marcus," Mia said, recognising the look of mischief on her daughter's face. It'd been Marcus who'd climbed into the pantry that day, but Sophie was the ringleader who told him to do it. "No biting."
"She's biting again?" Dom said warily, watching as the three kids walked towards the garage where Letty would be stretched out on a creeper, working on the rear axle. Baby bag on his shoulder, he was yet to go through everything and see whether Elena had packed Marcus's blue American muscle outfit. There was also the matter of the small Union Jack boxing gloves Deckard had bought him, and his surprising attachment to them.
"It happened once," Brian explained, sitting down on the back step that led to the kitchen. Dom wasn't getting much sleep lately, according to Letty, and she wasn't sure if she was just imagining it but he was also having the occasional nightmare. Whatever had happened up on that plane left a scar on Dom's psyche. "Momma's just being cautious. Hey Dom, you wanna show me the new paint job?"
"It's upstairs." Dom could've sworn he'd already sent Brian a photo after its completion, but photos could never live up to the real thing. "Mia, tell Letty —"
Mia smiled and gestured for them to go inside. "Marcus will be fine, Dom."
He just couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to go wrong. Every time he saw Marcus and Elena, he wondered how long it would be before they were ripped out of his life and trapped in a glass box again. Dom wiped the sweat from his forehead and led Brian upstairs to the small room he and Letty had converted into Marcus's bedroom and play area. On the wall next to his cot was a painting of Race Wars: flags, cars, cheering girls, smoking tyres, the whole quarter mile.
"You did a great job, man," Brian said, amazed by the detail. His fingers grazed over the Dodge in all its beauty, and what looked like a miniature Dom in the driver's seat. "Whose idea was it?"
"Letty did most of it. I only took care of the undercoat and waterproofing, and Letty's actually. I was thinking one big car so when he sits up in bed, he looks like he's driving, but she thought Race Wars would be better."
Brian nodded and stepped back, chuckling when he saw a pair of toddler-size boxing gloves hanging over the cot. If Dom had told him two years ago that he'd find himself being amicable with the bastard who'd killed Han and blown the Toretto home up, Brian probably would've tried to knock some sense into him. No one had seen Shaw since that barbeque, leaving him glad the situation was seemingly resolved. It also meant there'd be no clash over Dom's not killing him when he had the chance.
Dom covered his yawn and blinked away the physical and mental exhaustion he felt, opting to sit on a large chair he'd bought for when Marcus got fussy and refused to sleep. "How was the DR?"
"It's nice. Not as nice as here, but Jack likes the beach so we got him swimming lessons. You should really get some sleep, Dom, you look like you're about to pass out."
He nodded, sitting the bag on his lap and unzipping it so as to start sorting through Marcus's stuff. A strong cup of coffee would have to wait till they were downstairs. Stretching out on the couch and letting his sore legs relax would've been nice too if not for his son's presence. "I've been working on the car a lot, trying to fix it up so we can install a baby seat in the back and take Marcus down to Race Wars. Hector says it's not the same without us, and he wants to meet Marcus. Everyone does."
"Is that all?"
Seeing the look of concern on Brian's face, Dom sighed and shook his head. Talking about his feelings had never been his strong suit. He wasn't interested in therapy or counselling, only in continuing his life, focusing on the future, while simultaneously accepting the past and putting it all behind him. "I keep dreaming about it. About Elena, and Cipher. She nearly — they nearly died because of me. Gisele and Han both died because I needed their help . . . and my son would've died just so Cipher could spite me. How do I live with that, Brian?"
Brian clenched his fists and kept them by his sides, focusing on verbally knocking some sense into Dom rather than physically. The look on his face was one of raw anger, jaw set and teeth grit. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, and an ache was beginning to form in his chest at the mere idea that Dom could blame himself for what'd happened. "Dom, none of that is your fault! Their deaths aren't on you. Gisele? She died because Hobbs couldn't do his job properly. Han was murdered so that piece of shit could send a message, and he nearly killed all of us too, you included. None of this will ever be your fault."
"I dreamt she killed Marcus last night," Dom admitted. It was a horrible dream that never seemed to quite go away. Its unwanted return in his mind had left him waking up with a foul taste in his mouth and shaky hands. Luckily, Letty slept through them all. He'd dreamt it three times now, and being able to recall specific details only made him hurt that much more. "Cipher said if I killed her, her men would storm the room and kill Marcus. I dream I never have enough bullets to stop them all."
"But you did, Dom, you stopped Rhodes."
* * *
They finally landed in Santa Clara after two hours. From there, it was just a matter of driving till they reached Santa Catalina ward and an old sandstone building. Perhaps it was just luck, but the manager of the building intercepted Luke before he could get either a word in edgewise or a foot into the apartment itself, asking for a key deposit and four weeks in advance if they wanted to move in. Eventually, he got the conversation to turn, allowing Little Nobody to step up to the plate.
"Men in suits," Eric said in English so Hobbs and Nobody could follow along, nodding as the manager continued in Spanish what sounded like a story he'd just made up on the spot. "And you saw them take her out? Can you describe her?"
Hobbs handed over a fifty dollar bill to loosen the guy's lips without hesitation. The woman was average height, dark brown hair, white and didn't tan very well; she'd been living there two years paying rent every two weeks, fixing radios and lamps for spare change. The men themselves — of which there were six — sounded British, and had called her by a name the manager didn't recognise: Shaw.
"What the hell does this mean?" Eric said, after paying the manager to let them inside the apartment. It was small, with a sofa bed shoved against one wall and a kitchen window that looked out onto the street. From the sink, he could see their car parked below. A single chair and table sat in the centre of the room, with a small toolbox beneath it. "You think Cipher found her first?"
"Could be her brothers decided to come collect her," Mr. Nobody said, opening cupboard doors to find a bag of unlabeled grains along with four tins with the labels torn off. He felt blindly along the inside wall of the cupboard and the top, till he touched something plastic and began working it free of the tape holding it against the wall. "Found one of her stashes."
Loose floorboard, Luke realised as one creaked under his weight while he walked towards the bathroom. He pushed down slightly with his toes and the opposite end of it lifted, allowing him to get his fingers in the gap and remove the timber. Manager says it's her, but why do I feel like this is a setup? You don't get out of prison then stay in the country unless you're stupid . . . or you've been meeting someone. That private airfield's only two hour's drive away.
Luke tossed his phone to Little Nobody before reaching down into the gap beneath the floorboards. "Call Ramsey, tell her to pull up any and all security cameras in the country and filter for Cipher's face."
"You think the target's working with Cipher?" Eric queried. If they were, this was going to be one awkward Jerry Springer-esque reunion once they brought them all in.
"Someone had to pull strings to free her. Tell Ramsey to track the Shaw brothers too, I don't want them sneezing without us knowing if they wipe it on their sleeve."
Luke reached further along before his fingers brushed the handle of a lockbox. Finally something solid. It didn't feel too heavy, he noted, and caught it with one finger to drag it forward, allowing him to get a better grip and lift it out. Sweat gathered on the tip of his nose then dripped down onto his bottom lip while his heart began to pound in anticipation. With no padlock securing it, he cracked the box open and lifted a blanket off the top. Thank God. Hobbs let out a sigh of relief when he found only a pile of tools, three bundles of cash, and no bombs in sight.
"You could also send in a tactical squad before they have a chance to run. They have skills we could use, Luke. If Elizabeth is in contact with Cipher, it's simply a matter of pushing her till she breaks."
"That only works if you grab all three at once." Owen Shaw was two steps short of being a full-blown psychopath, not to mention the complete opposite of someone he'd ever want to work with. Deckard's Victoria Cross recommendation showed him to at least possess a streak of decency and courage, and yet to no one's surprise it didn't erase the recent past. "Shaw has to be in contact with her. There's no way she'd get this kind of money without help."
"It'll only take a phone call," Mr. Nobody said, reaching into his pocket for his cell. "We need a better lead than some possible sightings."
"You never did fix that mirror," Eric said, a smug look on his face. "I think you owe it to Shaw to at least help him repair that car."
They had a point about better leads. The car, not so much. Hobbs would never regret pushing that sumbitch's buttons. Nor was it as simple as pushing her till she broke. He'd tried that already. "Make the call, but Owen gets put in a cell immediately. He's not to be anywhere near the other two, and after it's done, they land in the cells next to him."
* * *
Cipher corrupted him and left him for dead. So, if I get a shot to take her down, believe me, Flex, I'm taking it. They were words Deckard was going to live by if he had his chance, and God help him, he'd be the one to do it. As he pulled into the driveway, he ignored his buzzing phone on the dash and the word 'Mum' displayed on the screen. Bloody hell, how many times was she going to call? It'd taken him two hours just to drive down from his apartment up north, and another forty minutes just to navigate traffic and get to her house.
"Next time you don't pick up that phone, we'll be having words, Deckard Nicholas," Magdalene said, walking up to his car. To no surprise, it was an old camo-green Defender. He'd bought it for two thousand pounds in the mid nineties and proceeded to restore it to its former glory. "I see you're still driving this thing around."
"It's reliable." He parked it and stepped out, tugging his jacket down to conceal the pistol strapped to the small of his back. With the sky dark and half the street lights out, odds were no one would see it. Still, it wasn't a risk he was willing to take. Most situations never called for it, but subconsciously he was relieved to be armed. Sometimes a bullet could make all the difference. Deckard smiled and moved to hug her, feigning ignorance of the curtains shifting in the window and the shadow cast against them. Of course they were being watched. "It's good to see you, Mum," he said finally. "Is Owen here yet?."
"He's inside." She hadn't told him about the third member of their little search party. No, that — that would be a surprise. It'd been hard enough tracking their sister down, relying only on interpersonal connections and phone calls, but once the net closed around her the task was reduced to a simple snatch and grab. "Just watch out, he's in one of his moods."
Deckard huffed. Owen was always in one of his moods. If he wasn't pissed about the Toretto deal, he was getting in their faces about not killing him and cleaning up the mess. What could he say? Hearing the effect his so-called death had on Hobbs, well that changed a few things. He'd never imagined Hobbs would punch a steel door, nor that he'd dent it. Getting Deckard to admit he liked the man would take a miracle in and of itself; respecting Luke, on the other hand, was a given.
Inside, Owen frowned, one hand braced against the wall and the other parting the curtains while he watched for any other arrivals. Why him? As much as they fought, he'd hoped it would just be them. Deckard was always the third wheel in these situations and it showed. He looked over his shoulder, checking she hadn't bolted while no one was looking. Owen wouldn't blame her if she had. Their mother was quite a handful. "Deck's here."
Elizabeth glanced up then went back to staring at the rug beneath her feet. This entire farce was turning out to be more awkward than expected. First Owen, now Deckard, and their mother — what was she even doing here? Family reunions didn't usually involve this much tension, or so she'd been led to believe. "What happened to your face?"
Mum hadn't told her already? He sighed and said, "I was thrown from a crashing plane and hit by burning fuselage. I ended up in a coma."
She'd hoped it was a lie, that Cipher had just been trying to make her feel better about her so-called stupid choices, but that was his cold hard truth tone of voice, and the way he clenched his jaw said it all. For all her attempts at covering his arse, he'd nearly lost his life. Elizabeth cringed and tried to suppress the sudden feeling of heaviness forming in her chest. She knew it was plenty capable of pushing her into a guilt-ridden tunnel, but that relied on her feeling guilt in the first place.
"What about you?" he said, moving away from the window. She was wringing her shirt in her hands, the steaming mug on the coffee table in front of her untouched. Owen lifted it and gestured. She responded with a shrug and he took a sip, savouring the taste of freshly pressed coffee. This was the real stuff, not that cheap swill people drank. "Last I remember you lived in Moscow."
"I got swept up in problems that weren't mine and sent to prison again." She didn't want to play the blame game, nor dump all her issues in his lap. It was partially his fault for getting involved with Cipher in the first place, and the rest lay with her for caring enough to get involved in things that didn't directly affect her. "Eventually strings were pulled and I was released, but I'm never getting those eighteen months back."
"Why?" Deckard said, walking into the living room and taking a seat. Jacket folded over his arm, his black AC/DC tank exposed a small mass of scar tissue on his sternum. The look on her face was one of irritation, but Owen's repeated clenching and unclenching of his fists didn't bode well. "Why'd you have to go and stick your nose in? I thought we taught you better."
"Does it matter?" Owen snapped, glaring daggers at Deckard. Of course he'd take the high road. Their brother would never admit to being wrong, or that he didn't know everything. Deckard was the one who'd joined the ranks of the elite within the SAS, and his ego grew alongside the chevrons on his shoulder. "Not everything's a life lesson."
"Because you asked me to." Elizabeth stood and took a step towards Deckard, ignoring the way he sat forward. Whether he was armed or not, it'd make no difference. She'd still try to tear him a new one, and he'd hiptoss her into the floor. "Or don't you remember making Owen's business mine? You're the one who approached me to help you convince him to walk away."
"Huh. That's not the way I remember it," Deckard said, feigning confusion. He noticed the look on Magdalene's face and scowled. Why couldn't Beth just shut her mouth? Sibling business had nothing to do with their mother. "You sure all that time in prison hasn't messed with your head?"
"You want to gaslight me?" she said, taking up position in front of him. She leaned down and rested her hands on the couch either side of his head. There was a fire in her eyes that said she wasn't messing around, nor was she afraid of him and his skill set. "Go ahead, try it. I'll bury you like I did Dmitri. That son of a bitch got his due, and so will you."
"Lizzy, sit your arse down. Now that's enough out of the lot of you." Magdalene said. "Two of you couldn't take Cipher down, perhaps three of you can. That's why you're here. The Americans think she's in Greece."
"Good luck with that, Mum. Two of us already had part of our lives stolen 'cause of her." He gave Elizabeth a knowing look but said nothing. The idea that she could slip anything by him was laughable, but he'd give her credit: she'd taken it in her stride and never hesitated in protecting him. "If Deckard wants to go after her, he's more than welcome, but don't count me in."
Magdalene chuckled. She'd expected at least one of them to rebel. It being Owen was a surprise, yet not. As he'd said, part of his life — their lives? — had been wasted because of Cipher. "Did it sound like I was giving any of you a choice?"
"See you 'round, Mrs. Shaw." Elizabeth pushed off the couch and walked towards the door, never allowing her anger to waiver. Deckard knew she remembered most things exactly as they happened. Suggesting prison had messed with her head? He was practically begging for a flogging. "Thanks for the free ride."
"We're not finished here, Elizabeth. Take a seat, or have a piece of cake. I'll wait till you return to your senses."
"No, I think we are. You want to take down Cipher? Deckard can do it on his own." The sooner she was out the door, the better. "I'm not your daughter, I'm Mikhail's, and your crocodile tears don't work on me."
Owen looked between the two, mostly focused on the tension in Elizabeth's spine. His mother was keeping her cards close to her chest, playing it cool and straight-faced like always. Deckard had once told him that she could sell the Pope a whole new spin on doctrine. He didn't doubt it. Beth, on the other hand, could sell her soul to the Devil and not think twice if she deemed it necessary.
"Alright then, I'll have the boys drop you off at Gitmo. You are a terrorist after all who should've remained locked up." Magdalene smiled, waiting for the one-sided yelling match to begin. She'd always known Lizzy had a temper, as did she, but the difference lay in how they dealt with it. "Seeing as you're a threat to society."
"I'm not going to let you kill someone just because you blame her for your sons' stupidity. Deckard and Owen made their choices. The repercussions are theirs to bear, not mine."
So much for a loss of control. She stood and stepped into Elizabeth's personal space, waiting for the pushback or her to lash out, but there was nothing. Since when did her stepdaughter act like such a conniving manipulative adult, like Owen? There was no outburst of anger, just a constant simmering rage right below the surface. "When did Cipher get to you? In prison? Before prison?"
"She didn't get to me."
"No one else could've pulled those strings to get you out. Certainly wasn't me."
"Get out of my face, suka." The slap that followed was hard enough to rattle her brain and leave a red handprint on her face. Elizabeth flinched but didn't move, shoving her hands in her pockets and taking a breath. It hurt like hell if she was being honest. Even Cipher didn't have a swing like that. "Do I really have to spell it out for you?"
Magdalene looked between the three of them. The way Deckard was staring at his sister, it was as if he were boring holes in the back of her head. Owen leaned back, head resting on his hand, looking all too smug. What was up with him? And her. She kept talking about choices, something Owen had pushed throughout his years, proclaiming the behaviour of others was never his fault. He never forced anyone to do anything. He couldn't control their actions, only his own. "You sold yourself to her?"
Now she got it. Elizabeth nodded, keeping her arms by her sides. Pain still radiated through the left side of her face, and she was pretty sure that was blood oozing from her nose. It dripped onto her bottom lip, tasting of rust and salt; yep, definitely blood. "Close enough."