Gruesome. How gruesome was all of this.
God, typically, she thought of death in terms of accidents or disease. Not tonight. Tonight it was all about the violent and the premeditated, and she didn’t like this world. It was hard enough to get through the day when only Mother Nature and Murphy’s Law were after you.
She had a really bad feeling about all of this.
“Would you like something to eat now?” her father asked. “Or would you prefer to freshen up?”
So strange. Usually when she came into this home, she treated it as her own, going to the refrigerator or the coffeepot or the stove without a thought. It felt odd and uncomfortable to be treated as a guest.
Glancing over her shoulder, she stared at her father, tracing the handsome lines of his face. In the awkward silence of the armored house, it dawned on her how alone they both were. For their sake, they really needed to get back to being family from this place of being foreigners.
“Why don’t I make us both some dinner.”
Her father’s eyes watered a little and he cleared his throat. “That would be lovely. I’ll just take this up to your room.”
“Thank you.”
As he passed by, her father reached out and touched her arm, squeezing it ever so slightly—which was his version of a hug. And she accepted the gesture by placing her palm over his hand. Just as they had always done.
After he went up the front stairs, she headed to the kitchen feeling shaky and off her game . . . but she was up on her feet and moving forward.
Which, at the end of the day, was all you got, wasn’t it.
There was just one thing missing . . . and she paused to look over her shoulder again. Then she strode into the kitchen and checked the table in the alcove . . . and the long stretch of counter where the cooktop was . . . and the foot of the back stairs . . .
“Daniel?” she hissed. “Where are you?”
Maybe he didn’t want to be in their father’s house. But if he could show up at the Four Seasons for a charity benefit and then at an underground fighting ring, he could damn well drag his ass here.
“I need you,” she said. “I need to see you. . . .”
She waited. Called his name quietly a couple more times. But it appeared as if only the double ovens and the refrigerator were listening to her.
Oh, for God’s sake, she knew her brother had always despised conflict—and that their father had made him jumpy. But no one had ever seen him except her, so clearly he could pick who he showed himself to.
In a moment of panic, she wondered if he was never coming back. Had there been a good-bye on his part that she hadn’t caught?
Again, no response from the appliances.
Figuring she’d have more luck putting them to work, she went over to the icebox and cracked the door, wondering what the hell she could whip up for her and her father.
One thing was for sure: dinner wasn’t going to include omelets.
It was going to be a while before she made an omelet again.
As darkness settled in, the headlights of Matthias’s unmarked swept over the road ahead. There were other cars traveling along the same asphalt as his, other people behind those wheels, other plans in other heads.
All of it was irrelevant to him, with no more significance than a movie playing on a screen.
No more depth, either.
He had issues. Bad issues. The kind that tied his brain in knots and made that pain he’d been having on his left side fire up to the point that he struggled to keep conscious.
Shit . . . Jim Heron knew way too much about what should have been private thoughts and private knowledge. It was as if the man had tuned in to Matthias’s inner radio station and heard all his songs and jingles and traffic reports.
And the fucker was right. Matthias’s second in command had only truly distinguished himself after Matthias’s little “accident” in the desert: In the last two years, that operative had made himself indispensible and, looking over the assignments and situations Matthias had dealt with, the guy had gradually influenced Matthias’s decisions until he was all but making them himself.
It had been so subtle. Like someone slowly turning the flame up under a pot of water. His second in command had been the one to change his mind about letting Jim Heron go. And the man had been driving Matthias to kill Isaac. And there had been a hundred more examples—many of which he’d acted on.
He hadn’t even noticed it happening.
God, it had started with killing Alistair Childe’s son. That had been the first of the bright ideas.
Of course, the logic had been unassailable and Matthias hadn’t hesitated to pull the trigger. But when he’d watched the footage of the death, the captain’s weeping had touched him. Opened up a door he hadn’t even known had been in his hallway.
Matthias had turned the video off and gone to bed. And the next morning he’d woken up and decided enough was enough. Time to leave the party he had started all those years ago—let the guests take over his house and burn it down, fine. But he was done.
Straw. Camel’s back.
Focusing on his hands on the car wheel, he realized someone else had been driving him, steering him, dictating his exit ramps and his directional signals. How had it happened?
And why the fuck did Jim Heron know?
As his mind went laundry machine on him and started another spin cycle on the past, he decided all that mental wash and rinse wasn’t material. Not tonight. Not on this road. What mattered was not how he’d gotten behind this wheel and found himself on the way to Boston. What mattered was what he did when he got there.
Crossroads was right. He felt it in his bones—the same way he had when he’d prepared that bomb years ago.
The question was, What now? Believe what Jim Heron had said. Or follow through on the anger impulse that was driving him east.
Which destination did he go to.
As he ruminated, it sure as fuck felt like he was choosing between Heaven and Hell.
CHAPTER 46
As Adrian watched over a gray clapboard gentleman’s estate from a stand of oaks, he was beginning to feel like a fucking tree himself. Except for that skirmish back in town the night before, he’d spent waaaaaay too much time waiting in the wings over the last two days.
He’d never been a big bencher to begin with, but on a night like tonight, when the action was in town and he and Eddie were stuck out in the sticks babysitting for a couple of grown-ups, he got really damn twitchy. Especially given that the pair he and his buddy were in charge of were locked into a house that made Fort Knox look like a Porta-Potti in the sturdiness department.
Fucking hell. He couldn’t believe they had been going after the wrong soul.
All their conclusions had seemed sound, but in fact, the shit was like an algebra equation that had gone awry: looked great on paper, but the answer was incorrect.
And what a squeaker this one had been. It gave him a case of the cold sweats to think they had been so close but so far away at the end of a match.
But the near-miss wasn’t the only thing making his balls tight in a bad way. The other half of it was where Jim was at in his aftermath routine: in spite of what Devina had done to him, the guy was making like he was all tight in the membrane . . . and yeah, fine, maybe that was the case right now. Hell, the fact that everything with
