me then; he didn’t have to now.
Trained to kill, but not as a spy. He was given a deadly ability, but not to use as a last resort. A normal boy had been warped into an engine of destruction, pure and simple.
“You’re a weapon,” I said quietly, my smile long gone. “A living weapon. They tried to make you into the ultimate assassin, didn’t they? You and all the kids. Assassins who don’t need knives or guns. For sale to the highest bidder.”
He raised his hand and shaped it. Pointing an index finger at me, he dropped the hammer with a softly muttered
And he didn’t raise his eyes from the printed page to look at me, not once.
Chapter 16
Five hours later, I nearly lost my brother again.
It was in a public restroom. Forget the eye-watering stench of the flowery disinfectant that was worse than the smell it was meant to cover up. Ignore the tile colored a puke green that made your stomach heave and gave you a desire to check the bottom of your shoes. Concentrate instead on puffy white feet, one in a cheap loafer, one bare and twisted to the side. Take a look at those as they show beneath the stall door. White, white skin splotched with purple veins and resting in a puddle of blood so fresh that the warmth of it steamed against the icy tile.
Yeah, take a good look. Here’s someone in the wrong place at the worst of times, much like Michael found himself. I couldn’t know exactly what that felt like to him, but I could hazard a guess. His stomach would be stretched comfortably full with a mystery-meat hamburger and an order of fries that would’ve foundered an elephant. I would bet he stopped at the mirrors over the sink, still startled by the blond hair that flashed at him from the corner of his eye. Maybe he looked at his reflection and tried, despite himself, to remember a young boy with the same blond hair. Or maybe he just groaned at the bleached mop and cursed me under his breath.
I’d take three to one on that second option.
With the door shut behind him, he didn’t see the man who slapped an Out of Order sign over the universal little stick man that made the bathroom safe for penis-carrying men everywhere. He didn’t see it, but I did. And that was something they did not expect. They waited until I was around the corner buying Michael another apple pie with a chocolate shake to chase it down. It wasn’t the brightest move on their part. My body may have been around that corner, but my mind wasn’t. I hadn’t kept Konstantin alive, no matter how temporarily, by standing around with one thumb up my ass and the other in an apple pie. Jack fucking Horner I was not.
The sun hit the plate glass that lined the boxy building at the exact angle for a clear if phantom reflection of the rest of the so-called restaurant. My eyes were glued to it as I handed over a five to the cashier. As I paid, I’d seen a veritable parade of the full bladdered. There had been a pudgy old man in high waters and a white belt who’d entered the restroom at an urgent clip. He was followed by a man in jacket and jeans, and then by Michael. My brother now took any and every opportunity at a toilet without leaves and bark.
I didn’t think much of the guy in the jacket. We were well into northern Florida by now and it had cooled into the forties and fifties. A jacket was the rule here, not the exception as in Miami. It was when the second man, denim jacket and baseball cap, taped the sign on the door with the speed and panache of Houdini that I immediately realized just how many guns one could hide in those jackets. The bastards had traded in their khakis, forsaking the Gap for Wal-Mart.
They’d found us. In one damn day, they had found us—
Leaving the shake on the counter, I shoved the boxed pie into my pocket and walked to the bathroom. In a bit of sleight of hand of my own I’d pulled my gun from the small of my back and hid it against my leg as I moved. Considering that I planned on making one helluva commotion when I passed through that door, that concealment would buy me only seconds at best before the cops were called. But those few seconds could mean the difference between getting away and being stuck behind bars as Jericho walked out of the police station with Michael. It might be with real government ID, bought and paid for, or with the expertly forged kind. Either way, they’d be gone. It took ten years to find my brother; I doubted I would be able to find him a second time. And that was making the rainbow fantasy assumption I’d live out the week to even try.
Jericho wasn’t that stupid and neither was I.
I kicked open the door hard enough to rip it from one hinge. There was an immediate reaction, in front of me and behind.
If life had taught us anything in the past few decades, it was that you could die violently in a public place long before you’d win the lottery. Psychos were everywhere. These fast-food fans were at the top of their class on that news headline. To the back of me I heard fish patties and cheap plastic prizes hit the floor as lunch patrons stampeded. Good for the herd. If the aerosolized fat in the air didn’t kill them first, they just might survive.
The bathroom was fairly large. There was more than enough room for the two men to keep a safe distance from Michael. In the confines of the Institute he’d been obedient, but now he was an unknown. He’d gone along with his rescue and then ignored Jericho’s demands to return with him. They may have thought he’d been confused, inexplicably gone rogue, or simply transferred his submission to me. It could be that I’d already been identified as his brother and his sudden stubbornness could be pinned there.
The speculations didn’t matter. The two of them weren’t about to let Michael get close enough to make contact with them—no way, no how. They had him blocked into a corner by the urinal. He had his arms folded with his hands tucked tightly out of sight. He had even less desire to touch them than they had to be touched. His life was at stake, yet he was desperate not to take the life of anyone else. That alone proved that Jericho, despite all his efforts, hadn’t tainted him. Couldn’t taint him.
One of the bastards aimed a peculiarly shaped pistol at Michael’s chest as the other pointed a gun that was completely familiar and completely lethal. The explosion of sound that was the door shattering had their heads whipping around. Michael’s eyes, as empty of emotion as his face, rose to meet mine. “I think I should’ve waited for the tree,” he said with darkly forced cheer.
Hopefully, I’d be able to remind him of that later. For now I slammed a foot into the back of the first man’s thigh before the startled expression had time to register on his face. Catapulting across the room, he crashed headfirst into the stall, but not before he’d pulled the trigger of his weapon. A dart flew through the air and hit the tile next to Michael’s shoulder. That’s why I hadn’t recognized it. It was some sort of tranquilizer gun. Jericho would take Michael out permanently before he’d risk exposure, but if he could recover him alive, safely and secretly, that could only boost his profit margin.
The second kidnapper was turning, attempting to shift his gun in my direction. He did come close; I’ll give him that. A definite A for effort, but I doubted that was much consolation. I fired the Steyr, and a bullet in his chest bowled him over backward. A fine red spray flew from his mouth to dot the white porcelain of the sink. I didn’t know if he was still alive or not, and truthfully I didn’t have time to wring my hands over it. The one who had cracked the stall like cheap cardboard was trying to climb to his knees. I could’ve shot him in the back easily enough. But the words I’d said to Michael came back to me: It’s not what you can do, but what you choose to do.
I chose to beat him senseless.
Grabbing a handful of his short brown hair, I cracked his skull repeatedly against the tile until he stopped twitching. It was the lesser of the evils. Unconsciousness and a fractured face beat death hands down . . . from the point of view of the spit-bubble-blowing vegetable anyway. From my perspective, leaving any of Jericho’s men alive wasn’t exactly in my best interest, but that was the price you paid to walk the path of the righteous. Yeah, world’s biggest frigging humanitarian, that was me.
“Come on, Michael,” I rapped. “Let’s go.”
Inscrutable gaze on the fallen men, then on me, he flowed past me as insubstantial as a ghost. I followed behind him, my shoes flattening fries into greasy yellow skid marks. The restaurant was empty, but the glass doors were still swinging and people were sprinting through the parking lot. Taking Michael’s arm, I held him back and moved ahead of him as we reached the doors. “Stay behind me.” I scanned the lot with sharp, hard eyes. “And if I go down, run.” I tightened my grip on him. “Okay? Run like hell and find a Saul Skoczinsky in Miami. He’ll help you.”
He pressed his lips together but reluctantly nodded when I gave him a quick prompting shake. “Don’t go
