But then, through the verbal din, I hear something. Two words.
They capture my attention and snap my head around.
“Alistair Lipton . . .”
And I think of Abby in that tub—her skin ashen and her voice small. I see that awful, flat expression on her face and the haunting that was in her beautiful eyes.
I try to shake it off, to let it go—because it’s not mine to deal with.
She’s not mine.
And that lasts for all of two seconds.
Then—fuck it.
And I’m speaking into the microphone at my wrist that’s connected to the piece in Gordon’s ear.
“My man’s on your six—keep an eye on him. I need to take care of something.”
“You what?” Gordon’s confused voice surges back, because this is a break in protocol. It goes against all our training—and I can’t make myself give a single shit.
“Tommy, what—”
I pull the piece from my ear and slip it in my pocket as I move to the group of five tuxes where the name was uttered. I push my way through to the center, getting right up in his space, nose to nose—I don’t know how I know it’s him, I just do.
“Alistair Lipton?”
“Yes?” is what comes back—indifferent and disdainful.
He’s got the kind of face that’s easy to hate, and even easier to break. Translucent skin and thin bone structure, wide-set eyes—like prey—classic but oddly arranged features that hint at a bloodline of inbreeding.
“Do I know you?”
Every muscle in my body is coiled rock-hard and tight, ready to spring. But I’m not in a rage, not out of control.
There’s a cold calm that settles over you before you annihilate a man.
Almost a centered sort of peace that comes from knowing exactly what you’re about to do and the innate awareness that it needs to be done.
“No. We have a friend in common. Abigail Haddock.”
And it’s all there on his face—plain as fuck. No one else sees it, but I do. The flash of recognition—the flinch of cornered fear and cowardly guilt—not over the act itself but at the worry of being found out.
He remembers. He knows what he did. He’s known it all this time—and he knew it then. And now he knows I know it too.
And that’s good.
I want him to understand what it’s about. And if it’s the last moments of understanding this worthless fuck gets to have on this earth, I want him to know . . . that it’s for her.
I swing my arm quick, landing the brick of my fist in the center of his face—feeling the brittle crunch and the wet give beneath my knuckles. He goes down and I go down after him—and time loses meaning.
It all blends together in a symphony of swinging and pounding and punching, splitting skin and shattered teeth, shouts and screams, and pulverizing vengeance.
Rough, faceless hands tear me off him too soon and drag me outside, throwing me on the wet pavement. They twist my arms back and clamp cuffs around my wrists—and I’m hauled into the back cage of a police car.
As I sit there catching my breath, my ability to think normally again returns. At least normal for me.
My first thought is—Lo’s gonna be royally pissed. What I did was stupid, and irresponsible, and possibly ruining.
My second thought is—completely fucking worth it.
* * *
I’ve never actually seen the inside of a jail cell. That’s not to say I haven’t done things to deserve getting locked up in one . . . I’ve just never gotten caught.
It’s not so bad.
There’s heat, decent lighting, working plumbing—that’s better than a few of the houses around my neighborhood. The wooden bench I’m sitting on is hard, but my arse has sat on worse.
And the company’s colorful, to help pass the time. There’s Alvin who’s in for boosting a car, Forrest who apparently tried to strangle his tool of a brother-in-law, Mickey who got busted for possession, a bloke who calls himself Jinx who reeks of trash and is too drunk to stand, and a poor old gent named Horris whose only offense seems to be talking out loud to several people who aren’t there.
They’ll release me on my own recognizance in the morning. I’m sure as shit not going to call my mum to bail me out—my present company is much more pleasant. And Ellie’s in the home stretch of her pregnancy, so I don’t want to bother Logan at this time of night.
When Jinx staggers a bit too close my way, I warn him, “If you vomit on me, mate, I’m going to have to snap your neck.”
And he lurches in the other direction.
Then I settle in, tilting my head back against the wall and counting the water stains on the ceiling.
That’s when an officer appears on the outside of the bars.
“Sullivan—you’re out.”
Maybe Gordon and the lads chipped in to spring me.