“No.”
“How’d you get into my condo?”
“I just did.”
He stopped and looked at her, her gravestone between them. “Why did you do it, Jane? Why fake your death?”
Well, she hadn’t, actually. “I don’t have time to explain now.”
“Then what the fuck are you doing here. How about you explain that.”
She cleared her throat. “I’ve got a patient who’s over my head and I want you to come have a look. I can’t tell you where I’ve got to take you and I can’t give you a lot of details and I know this is not fair . . . but I need you.” She wanted to tear her hair out. Fall down weeping. Hug him. But she just kept going because she simply had to. “I’ve been looking for you for over an hour, so I’m out of time. I know you’re pissed off and confused and I don’t blame you. But be mad at me later—just come with me now. Please.”
All she could do was wait. Manny was not somebody you talked into things, and you couldn’t persuade him. He would make the choice . . . or he wouldn’t.
And if the latter was the case, unfortunately, she was going to have to call the Brothers. As much as she loved and missed her old boss, Vishous was her man, and she’d be goddamned if she was letting anything happen to his sister.
One way or the other, Manny was going to be operating tonight.
FIVE
Butch O’Neal was not the kind of guy to leave a lady in distress.
It was the old-school in him . . . the cop in him . . . the devout, practicing Catholic in him. That being said, in the case of the phone call he’d just had with the lovely and talented Dr. Jane Whitcomb, chivalry didn’t play into his get-up-and-go. Not in the slightest.
As he beat feet out of the Pit, and all but ran through the underground tunnel to the Brotherhood’s training center, his interests and hers were totally aligned even without regard to the whole “be a gentleman” thing: They were both terrified that V was going to spin out of control again.
The earmarks were already there: All you had to do was look at him and you could see that the lid on his Crock-Pot was bolting down hard over the heat and turmoil underneath. All that pressure? Had to get let out somehow, and in the past, it had been in the very messiest of ways.
Stepping through the hidden door and emerging into the office, Butch hung a right and barreled down the long corridor that led to the medical facilities. The subtle waft of Turkish tobacco in the air told him exactly where to find his target, but it wasn’t as if there had been any doubt.
At the examination room’s closed door, he snapped the cuffs of his Gucci shirt into place and jacked up his belt.
His knock was soft. His heartbeat was hard.
Vishous didn’t answer with a “come in.” Instead, the brother slipped out and closed the door behind himself.
Shit, he looked bad. And his hands shook ever so slightly as he rolled one of his coffin nails. While he was licking the thing closed, Butch dug into his pocket and supplied the lighter, flicking up a flame and holding it forward.
When his best friend leaned into the orange flare, he knew every tell in that cruel, impassive face.
Jane was absolutely right. The poor bastard was humming hard and holding it all in.
Vishous inhaled deep and then settled back against the cinderblock wall, eyes trained straight ahead, shitkickers planted solidly.
Eventually, the guy muttered, “You’re not asking how I am.”
Butch affected the same lean, right next to his boy. “Don’t have to.”
“Mind reader?”
“Yup. That’s me.”
V leaned to the side and tapped his ashes into the bin. “So tell me what I’m thinking, true?”
“You sure you want me to cuss this close to your sister?” When that got a short laugh, Butch stared at V’s profile. The tattoos around the guy’s eye were especially sinister, given the cloud of control that surrounded him like a nuclear winter.
“You don’t want me to guess out loud, V,” he said softly.