The Chaos Crew: Killer Heart (Chaos Crew #3) – Chapter 1

FROM A DISTANCE, I stalked Damien Malik.

Over the past week, I’d learned a lot about the majority whip, partly with the help of my crew—in particular, Blaze’s hacking and surveillance skills and Garrison’s ease at charming information out of people. When Malik wasn’t in Washington D.C. working with the House of Representatives, he spent most of his time in the smaller nearby city where the Malik family home was located. Unless he had a particularly early meeting, every morning he went for a jog through a local park along a tree-lined pond. Then he stopped at one specific coffee shop to grab a hazelnut cappuccino.

At least two bodyguards stayed with him at all times. I trailed far behind all of the men as I took a little jog of my own. Then I followed them up the stairs into the coffee shop.

When I got up there, Malik was already sitting at his favorite table with his fingers curled around the handle of his mug. The sunlight beaming through the broad windows gleamed off his silver hair, slicked neatly back as always, and brought the hard angles of his polished face into sharper relief.

Now, still-healing scrapes marred the otherwise only faintly lined skin at his temples and jaw. A week ago, just hours before a DNA comparison had revealed that this man was a parental match for me, a lunatic had broken into a late-night planning session at his Washington office and shot two of Malik’s staff before blowing himself to smithereens. It seemed clear that the guy the news reports were calling a domestic terrorist had been hoping to take Malik with him.

He’d almost succeeded.

I yanked my eyes away and walked over to the counter to order a small latte. Anything bigger wouldn’t be wise. Even a little caffeine got me hopped up with energy until I could have done a fair imitation of Blaze’s restless fidgeting.

As I waited for the barista to assemble the drink, my hands clenched at my sides. No matter what the news said, I couldn’t help suspecting that the attack had been connected to the household where I’d been held for over twenty years after they’d stolen me from my birth family. My trainer had been keeping an eye on Malik. Their intentions toward him couldn’t be anything but malicious.

Had they decided to go after him more overtly now that they’d lost their grasp on me so completely?

I hadn’t been here to stop them. I hadn’t had any clue that I should be. But now that I knew what Malik was to me—that he was my father—maybe I’d be able to protect him if they came at him again.

I’d damn well better be able to.

Sipping the latte and wincing at the bitter flavor, I sat down at a table where I had a view of both Malik and his bodyguards, who gave him a little space by sitting several feet away while surveying everyone who entered the shop. I didn’t want to barge right over, but I couldn’t wait too long either. I’d promised myself today would be the day I actually approached him. There wasn’t anything left I could figure out without speaking to the man himself.

But how would he take the news? Would he even believe me? The story sounded so crazy… and there were parts I couldn’t exactly admit upfront. Maybe ever. “By the way, I’m a highly trained assassin with hundreds of murders under my belt,” didn’t seem like the kind of thing any parent wanted to hear.

I’d just have to dive in and see how the first part went.

When I’d made it halfway through my latte and become convinced that I really should have ordered a hot chocolate instead, I noticed the signs that Malik was nearing the end of his own coffee. He closed the newspaper he’d been browsing and sat a little straighter in his chair.

My pulse lurched. I inhaled deeply to steady myself, abandoned my mug, and walked over to his table.

As I put myself in his view, Malik glanced up at me. His expression was mild, not particularly curious but not hostile either. Probably warier than it’d been before last week’s attack.

He had a faint bruise on his cheek that I hadn’t noticed before from a distance, nearly healed but giving that patch of skin a slightly greenish hue.

I yanked my attention back to my purpose. “You’re Damien Malik, aren’t you?” I said, as though I hadn’t been watching him in person and through screens for nearly every waking moment for seven days straight. I could have recognized him from behind at a distance of a hundred yards at this point.

He put on his practiced politician smile and extended a hand to shake mine. “It’s always nice to meet a supporter.”

I hesitated and then accepted his hand, giving it a quick shake. I couldn’t believe I was actually touching him—my father. The first member of my real family I’d spoken to within my memory. My throat tightened abruptly.

Something must have shifted in my expression that troubled Malik, because he pulled back in his chair as he dropped his hand.

“I—I was hoping I could talk to you about something important,” I said, blurting out the appeal faster and more clumsily than I’d intended.

“What would that be?” Malik asked cautiously, his other hand rising just slightly.

I knew what that meant. I’d seen him gesture to his bodyguards before when he felt he was getting too crowded. He was seconds away from summoning them, and then I’d never get through everything I needed to say.

I’d wanted to ease into this, but there was no easy way to manage it.

“Please, don’t call them over,” I said, sinking gingerly into the chair across from him. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. This is about—you had a daughter. Rachel.” My birth name still felt foreign rolling off my tongue. “You think she died in a car crash, but it was a set-up. It was arranged so you wouldn’t know she’d actually been kidnapped.”

Possibly it was a good thing that I’d blurted it all out like that, because I startled Malik enough that he just gaped at me for a second, his whole body motionless. Which meant he wasn’t summoning his bodyguards. But it was only a moment before anger jolted him out of his shock.

“I don’t know why you’d come to me with a story like this,” he said with an edge in his voice, starting to stand up, “but you should get some help and—”

“No!” I protested, leaping up. “I know it’s true. I know—because I recently found out that I’m her. I’m Rachel. I’m your daughter.”

Malik paused and stared at me again. I knew some of the evidence was right there before his eyes. We’d found pictures of his wife—my mother—back in her college days when he’d first met her, before she’d had the plastic surgery that’d upturned the elegantly straight nose I’d inherited from her and plumped up the thin lips we’d once shared. Our hair was still the same, black and wavy.

He had to see the truth. I didn’t know how else to convince him. I couldn’t exactly tell him I’d broken into a high-security genetics facility with a crew of hitmen to test my DNA.

A glimmer of recognition lit in Malik’s eyes. Then he closed them and shook his head. “It’s not possible.”

“I had a stuffed tiger,” I said quickly. I was pretty sure the toy had come from my former life, since it’d already looked worn in the earliest videos of my training sessions, before Noelle had stopped letting me bring it along at all. “Orangey-yellow fur with brown stripes and button eyes. My kidnappers—they let me keep it.”

Malik pressed the heel of his hand to the bridge of his nose. As he lowered his arm, he peered at me through his fingers. I thought I saw the doubt in his expression fading.

The tiger hadn’t been mentioned in any of the news reports about the car crash. I shouldn’t be able to know about it unless it’d belonged to me.

I barreled onward, figuring the more I said while he was listening, the better. The Chaos Crew had helped me construct a story that would fit the timeline and sound plausible without getting into the, well, bloodier parts of my role in the household.

“I had no idea I was kidnapped for a long time,” I said. “They told me my parents were dead. I finally figured out that something was wrong a couple of years ago and managed to escape them, but it took me the rest of that time to figure out who my real family was. Where I came from.”

Malik cleared his throat, likely trying to gather his thoughts. Was he going to tell me that he’d finished grieving his long-lost daughter, that I couldn’t be her no matter what I said? Would he send me away in disbelief? Anxiety roared through my veins as I waited for a response.

He hadn’t called the bodyguards yet. That was a small sign in my favor.

Malik took a few slow breaths. Then he fixed a more piercing look on me than he’d given me before in his initial surprise.

“If you are who you say you are, do you remember what you were wearing the day you were taken?” he asked, his gray eyes that were nearly identical to my own intent on mine.

I couldn’t tell whether he really wanted me to answer that question. It’d be easier for him if it turned out I was lying, wouldn’t it? He could go back to his normal life where he’d set aside his tragic loss decades ago.

I sucked my lower lip under my teeth. “I was so young. I don’t remember my life before the kidnapping at all.”

He sighed and leaned back in his seat. I groped for a better answer I could give him, and my mind latched on to my memories of the old videos Blaze had lifted from Noelle’s laptop.

I had been young in them. In the very first one, I’d been just a crying toddler begging for her mommy and daddy. That image was ingrained in my mind now. The clothes I’d been wearing had been dirty and wrinkled, not like the trim tees and sweats I’d been dressed in later.

Was it possible they’d left me in my original clothes for the first few days while they tried to ease me into my new situation? It was worth checking.

“I did have one old set of clothes—an outfit I don’t remember my kidnappers giving me,” I added, improvising. “They were different from the others. A little yellow romper with frilly sleeves and a sunflower embroidered over the chest. Was that it?”

Malik’s stance went rigid again, but this time there was nothing but amazement on his face.

“And a little bow on the collar,” he said, barely more than a whisper.

A smile touched my lips, a wave of exhilaration rushing through me. “Yes.”

He brought his hand to his mouth now and then lowered it again. He couldn’t seem to peel his eyes away from me. “Rachel?”

The name meant nothing to me now, but I nodded. I could hardly tell him I’d rather go by Dess or Decima, the names the household—my kidnappers—had given me. Regardless of its source, it felt like me far more than “Rachel” did. But he’d hardly understand that.

Malik opened his mouth and closed it again. I’d never seen him lost for words in all the videos I’d watched of his political activities.

His bodyguards must have noticed his agitation, because they strode over to our table, glowering at me. “Is everything all right, sir?” one asked.

“Yes,” Malik said, motioning for them to go back to their seats. “Yes, I think it is.” He kept staring at me. “You look exactly like your mother did when I met her.”

“I’ve seen pictures of her in college,” I said, glad I could be honest about that. “That’s part of how I figured it out.”

“You—She’ll be so—” He caught himself and composed his expression. His voice came out more measured, falling into professional mode. “I need outside confirmation. I’m sure you can understand. Can I take a strand of your hair—or you could spit in a cup for me—I’m not sure what would work best.”

“Well, there’s lots of cups here,” I said. I’d expected something like this, and it’d work in my favor when he got independent confirmation of our connection. “I guess I’d better use a disposable one.”

“Yes.” Malik leapt up and hustled to the counter to ask for one of the takeaway paper mugs with a lid. He returned to the table and handed it to me. Feeling a little awkward, I summoned a dollop of saliva onto my tongue and spat it into the cup.

Malik took it from me, holding the cup like it was made out of precious crystal. “I need to go,” he said. “But as soon as I’ve checked—what’s the easiest way I can contact you?” He pulled his phone out of his pocket to make a note.

I recited the number from the burner phone Julius had given me, and my father entered it with swift taps on the screen. He tucked his phone away and gazed down at me one last time. Relief was trickling through me that I’d managed to mostly convince him, but my gut twisted at the same time.

It was a lot of pressure, living up to someone’s vision of their dead child come back to life, wasn’t it? I hadn’t totally been prepared for that.

“You’re okay for now?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” I said. “I’ve got a job and a place to live, friends who’ve been helping me out. I just hope we can get to know each other better once you get the results back.”

“Of course.” He ran his fingers back over his hair and dipped his head to me, a shadow crossing his eyes. “I’ll be in touch soon. In the meantime, be careful out there.”

I thought about telling him that I could take down a man like his domestic terrorist in three seconds flat if I had to, but that would be revealing a little too much information for comfort. Instead, I smiled at him. “Thank you. I will.”

But if any of the people associated with the household came at me or my father again, I was going to make sure they regretted it.