Rage boiled through his body, frothing his blood until his vision started to get wavy. "Goddamn you."
"What's it going to be, Jim."
Jim glanced down at his old boss's ruined face. The skin across the bone structure had turned an alarming gray color, and his mouth had cranked open even though his breath was shallow.
Fucking A . . .
Fucking hell.
On a curse, Jim turned away, started walking . . . and was entirely unsurprised when Devina materialized in his path.
"Where are you going, Jim?"
Christ, he wished she'd stop saying his frickin' name.
"I'm taking him to his car. And then you and I are leaving together."
The smile she gave him was radiant and made him sick to his stomach. But a trade was a trade and at least Matthias would live to see the next dawn --yeah, sure, there was undoubtedly some kind of death waiting in the wings for him, whether it was a physical collapse or his dirty deeds coming back to haunt him. Jim, however, wasn't going to make the call as to the "when" if he could avoid it. That was up to Nigel and his ilk--or whoever the hell was in charge of destinies.
Tonight, he was going to keep the man alive, and that was all he knew. Because even a sociopath deserved something better than falling prey to the likes of Devina.
And hopefully, Jim would make it through whatever she had planned for him with a little more information about what made her tick--and how to take her down.
Intel remained everything. Back in Boston, Isaac put the hood of his windbreaker up to hide his face, and then frog-marched Grier's dad through her front door. Once they were outside, he was very aware of how exposed he was--hood or no hood, his identity was pretty damn obvious. But it was a cost/benefit situation: he didn't trust Childe and Grier wanted the guy gone.
So do the math.
As he hustled father dearest around to the driver's side of the Mercedes, the cold air seemed to tighten the man up, the remnants of the hard-core confron with his daughter getting replaced with a determination Isaac had to respect.
"You know what he's like," Childe said as he took out his key fob. "You know what he'll do to her."
The image of Grier's smart, kind eyes was inescapable. And yeah, he could just imagine the sort of shit Matthias would hurt her with. Kill her with.
Might even make the father watch again.
Might make Isaac play witness, too.
And didn't that make him want to throw up.
"The solution is within you," Childe said. "You know what the solution is."
Yes, he did. And it was a bitch.
"I beg you . . . save my daughter--"
From out of the shadows, Jim Heron's buddy with the piercings stepped forward. "Evenin', gents."
As Childe recoiled, Isaac grabbed the man's arm and held him in place. "Don't worry, he's with us." More loudly, he said, "What's up."
Shit, he needed to get back in the house here, boys.
"Thought you might like some help."
With that, the man stared at Childe like his eyes were a phone jack and he was plugging into a wall. Abruptly, Grier's father started to blink, his lids working Morse code, flip-flip, fliiiiiip, flip, flip. . . .
And then Childe said goodnight, calmly got in his car . . . and drove away.
Isaac watched the taillights turn the corner. "You want to tell me what you just did to that man?"
"Nope. But I've bought you some time."
"To do what?"
"Up to you. At least her father no longer believes he just saw you in that house--which means right now daddy-o isn't hopping on his cell phone and calling your old boss with where you are."
Isaac glanced around and wondered how many eyes were on him. "They already know I'm here. I'm about as undercover as the Vegas Strip at this point."
A large palm landed on his shoulder, heavy and strong, and Isaac froze as a flush went through him. The sense that the guy was powerful was not a surprise--like Jim would hang with anybody else? But there was something freaky about him, and it was not the dark gray metal hoops in his lower lip and his eyebrow and his ears.
His smile was positively ancient, and his voice suggested there were secrets all over his syllables as he spoke: "Why don't you go inside?"
"Why don't you tell me what the hell's going on?"
The guy didn't look thrilled with the hit back, but Isaac was so NMP'ing that one. He didn't give a shit if Jim's buddy gave birth to kittens from the upset --he needed some intel so things made sense.
Some sense.
Any sense.
Christ, this must be how Grier felt.
"I've bought you a night--that's all I can say. I strongly suggest you get in there and stay put until Jim comes back, but obviously I can't make you grow a brain."
"Who the f**k are you?"
Pierced leaned in. "We're the good guys."
With that, he jogged his hooped brow and Cary Granted it with a grin--
Then just like that, he was gone. Sure as if he was a light turned out. Except, come on, he must have walked off?
Isaac wasted a split second looking around, because, hello, most bastards--even the high-level spooks and assassins he'd been in the service with --couldn't disappear into thin air.
Whatever. He was a sitting duck out on this front stoop.
Isaac flashed back into the house, locked the door, and went into the kitchen. When he didn't find Grier, he leaned up the rear stairwell.
"Grier?"
He heard a distant reply and took the rear stairs two at a time. When he got to her room, he stopped in the doorway. Or skidded to a halt was more like it.
"No." He shook his head at her rich girl's flavor of Samsonite: That monogrammed luggage was so not going anywhere. "Absolutely not."
She glanced over from the nearly filled suitcase. "I'm not staying here."
"Yeah, you are."
She pointed her forefinger at him like the thing was a gun. "I don't do well with people trying to order me around."
"I'm trying to save your life. And staying here where you're known and visible to a lot of people, where you have a job that you'll be missed at and appointments to keep and a security system like the one in this house is the way to stay alive. Going off to anywhere else just makes it easier for them."
Turning away, she pushed at the clothes she'd packed, her slender body bowing as she leaned into the shoving and made more room. Then she picked up a sweater and folded it in half and then in quarters.
As he watched how her hands shook, he knew he would do anything to save her. Even if it meant condemning himself.
"What did you say to my father?" she demanded.
"Not much. I don't trust him. No offense."
"I don't trust him, either."
"You should."
"How can you say that? God . . . the things he's kept from me--the things he's done . . . I can't . . ."
She began to tear up, but it was clear she didn't want the old haven-in-strong-arms routine from him: She cursed and marched into the bathroom.
Dimly, he heard her blow her nose and run some water. While she was in there, his hand went into his windbreaker's pocket and he palmed up the Life Alert. Death Alert was more like it: Help, I haven't fallen and I'm standing up--can you come and rectify this problem?
Grier remerged. "I'm leaving here with or without you. It's your choice."
"It's going to be without me, I'm afraid." He took his hand out.
She froze when she saw the device. "What are you doing with that?"
"I'm ending this. For you. Right now."
"No!"
He pressed the summons as she lunged for him, sealing his fate--and saving her--with a one-touch.
A little red light on the device started blinking. "Oh, God . . . what have you done?" she whispered. "What have you done?"
"You're going to be fine." His eyes traced her face, memorizing yet again what was already etched into his mind forever. "That's all that matters to me."
As her eyes welled up, he stepped forward and captured a single, crystal tear on the pad of his thumb. "Don't cry. I've been a dead man walking since I bolted. This is nothing more than what would come to me eventually. And at least I can know you're safe."
"Take it back . . . undo it . . . you can--"
He just shook his head.There was no undoing anything--and he was realizing that fully now.
Destiny was a machine built over time, each choice that you made in life adding another gear, another conveyor belt, another assemblyman. Where you ended up was the product that was spit out at the end--and there was no going back for a redo. You couldn't take a peek at what you'd manufactured and decide, Oh, wait, I wanted to make sewing machines instead of machine guns; let me go back to the beginning and start again.