Even with that in place, they"d also reached out to their friend Chance McCormick and hired one of his McCormick Security guys to watch the building. Destiny would be pissed if she knew, but neither Brandon nor he would have been able to work without knowing there was someone more than the rent-a-cop in the lobby, the 110 pound receptionist and Destiny"s prig of a boss available to act should something happen. If there was even a whiff of trouble, there would be a well-trained armed guard on Destiny within seconds.
Patrick sincerely hoped that didn"t come to pass. Not just because Destiny would be in danger, but because she would remove some of his favorite body parts and use them for kindling when she got a hold of him.
Thankfully, so far nothing had happened.
They were doing all they could to be safe, cautious. So damn careful. And still, Patrick thought as he climbed into his truck, mindful of the time, he was nervous.
Concerned enough about their safety that he had to actively resist the temptation to pick up his cell and tell them to wait for him before going into the house. He knew Brandon wouldn"t go charging in until he knew the house was secure. Just as he hadn"t the night before. There"d been an unmarked car parked on his street for two days and no one had seen anything.
Running his hand over his face, Patrick fought back the frustration that had been riding him all day. He and Brandon, Carter and McGuire—even Sully—had spent most of the two days since Destiny"s run-in outside her office, trying to find something on Bobby Wilkinson and whoever the hell had approached Destiny yesterday. They"d questioned Mario Benedetto again. They"d chased down every snitch Brandon"s team had in the North End. And they"d come up almost entirely blank. The one lead was 175
Samantha Wayland
finding an address for Bobby"s mother. McGuire was headed to her house now to see if she could shed some light on her son and whatever he was involved in.
Taking a deep breath, Patrick started the truck and told himself he could relax for the three minutes it would take to get home.
He barely registered a flash of movement in the side mirror, then cold steel pressed to his neck.
“Don"t move,” a shaky voice said behind him. In the mirror Patrick saw a young man, twitchy as hell, holding the gun to his neck through his open window. Patrick recognized him from Brandon"s decription of his attackers and Destiny"s description of the man who had tried to save her outside her office two days before.
Shit.
Very slowly he lifted his hands from the steering wheel, trying to show his cooperation even as he searched the cab of his truck, wishing like hell he hadn"t thrown his cell phone on the dashboard.
Looking outside his windows, he wondered at his bad luck when there wasn"t a single fucking person in the parking lot to see them. The kid collecting carts on the other side of the acre of pavement was oblivious to anything but whatever was playing on his iPod.
Patrick jumped when the passenger door opened. A man slid into his truck. Grey hair and loose skin showed his age and the effects of hard living. He was probably in his fifties, though he looked older. The cross around his neck and the Bible clutched in one hand told Patrick he was about to get another piece in puzzle of what was behind all their troubles and more than ever he was certain it had nothing to do with the Benedetto family.
The .9mm in his other hand warned Patrick he wasn"t here to talk.
He calculated the risk of going for his own holstered gun, regardless of the muzzle pressed to the back of his neck. The old man lunged before he had finished doing the math.
A needle plunged through his pants and into his thigh, hellfire racing up his leg as god-only-knew what kind of dope was pumped into him. He saw the Bible on the seat beside him. He hadn"t seen the syringe clutched along the book"s spine until it was too late.
He reached for his gun, his fingers numb before they brushed uselessly at the holster"s snap.
The old man grinned. Patrick"s heart began a loud, ponderous beat in his ears.
It didn"t take years of honed cop instincts to see the guy was fucking crazy. It was right there in his eyes.
The drug hit him quickly, stealing his body from his control faster than it dulled his mind. He wondered if it would stop his heart.
His heart. And he"d only just given it away.
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Destiny Calls
He wanted to roar when his body slumped into his seat, but any kind of speech was no longer within his capacity.
His door opened and sent him sprawling into the arms of the boy. His significantly greater size almost took them both down to the pavement, but another set of hands caught his arm. He fought with his body to struggle, to fight, to do anything.
Nothing.
A black fog ate at his will and he battled it back. He had to protect Destiny and Brandon. To warn them. Their images floated before him and he felt revived. He loved them so much. He had always loved them.
He needed to tell them that. Again and again.
But he couldn"t hold out, couldn"t hold on. Their images, so clear one moment, slipped away as the black void engulfed him.
Brandon was trying not to panic.
Patrick was only fifteen minutes late, after all. It wasn"t like he wasn"t capable of taking care of himself. He was probably stuck at the store, or picking up some takeout.
Something.
Destiny"s fingers gripped his even tighter, their hands clasped across the table in Ethel"s kitchen. Their kitchen. He started to bounce his leg. He made himself stop.
Farley leaned against him, worried too.
Destiny broke first. “Let"s call his cell.”
Relieved to be able to pretend it was for Destiny"s sake, Brandon
