Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

He glanced over at her. "I'm going out there. Can you handle a firearm?" When she nodded, he took out one of his two guns. "Have this."

She didn't hesitate, but man, he hated the sight of her pale, elegant hands on his weapon.

He nodded down at the thing. "Point and shoot using both palms. Safety's off. We clear?"

When she nodded, he kissed her again because he just had to; then he moved her back into position in the shelter of the floor cabinets. From that vantage point, she could see anyone coming in from the front or the rear, but also cover the interior door that he had a feeling led to the basement stairs.

Palming his other gun, he exited in a quick shift--

His first breath brought an unholy stench into his sinuses and down the back of his throat. What the . . . ? It was like a chemical spill--

From out of nowhere, one of the pair who'd been with Jim appeared. It was the guy with the braid and he looked like he'd been spray-painted with WD- 40--and had dry ice shoved in all his pockets: Tendrils of smoke were steaming up from his leather jacket, and shit . . . the smell.

Before Isaac could what-the-fuck him, Jim's boy cut the question off. "Do us a favor and stay put. Coast is clear for now, though. If you understand what I'm saying."

As Isaac met the man's eyes, there was no question that even though they were strangers, they spoke the same language: The guy was a soldier.

"You want to tell me what the hell just happened out here?"

"Nope. But I wouldn't mind some white vinegar if she has it?"

Isaac frowned. "No offense, but I think making salad dressing is the least of your concerns, buddy. Your jacket needs a hose-down."

"I've got burns to take care of."

Sure enough, on the side of his neck and on his hands there were raw, red patches on his skin. As if he'd been hit with some kind of acid.

Hard to argue with the steaming bastard, considering he was injured. "Give me a sec."

Ducking back in the house, Isaac cleared his throat. "Ah . . . do you have any white vinegar?"

Grier blinked and then pointed with the gun muzzle to the sink. "I use it to clean the hardwood. But why?"

"Damned if I know." He headed for the sink and found a huge jug with a Heinz label on it. "But they want some."

"Who's they?"

"Friends of a friend."

"Are they okay?"

"Yeah." Assuming the definition of okay included a section for roasty-toasted.

Outside, he handed over the stuff, which was promptly thrown around like cool water on a sweaty football player. It did kill the smoking and the stench, though, on both Braid Guy and the pincushion.

"What about the neighbors," Isaac said, glancing around. The brick-to-window ratio on the backs of the buildings worked in their favor, but the noise . . . the smell.

"We'll take care of them," Braid Guy answered. Like it was no biggie and something they'd done before.

What kind of war were they fighting? Isaac thought. Was there another organization past XOps? He'd always assumed Matthias was the shadiest of the shady. But maybe here was another level. Maybe that was how Jim had gotten out.

"Where's Heron?" he asked them.

"He'll be back." The one with the piercings returned the vinegar. "You just stay where you are and take care of her. We got you."

Isaac waved his gun back and forth. "Who the hell are you?"

Mr. Braid, who seemed the leveler of the pair, said, "Just part of Jim's little group."

At least that made some sense. Even though they'd clearly been in a rough-and-tumble, neither seemed bothered at all. No wonder Jim worked with them.

And Isaac had a feeling he knew what they were doing--Jim might just be after Matthias. Which would certainly explain the guy's desire to get involved and play Orbitz with the plane tickets. "You need another soldier?" Isaac asked, only half-joking.

The two glanced at each other and then back to him. "Not our call," they said in unison.

"Jim's?"

"Mostly," Mr. Braid replied. "And you've got to be dying to get in--"

"Isaac? Who are you talking to?"

As Grier walked out of the kitchen, he wished like hell she'd stay inside. "No one. Let's head back into the house."

Turning to good-bye Jim's boys, he froze. Nobody was around. Heron's wingmen were gone.

Yup, whoever and whatever they were, they were definitely his kind of soldiers.

Isaac went up to Grier and walked them both back inside. As he threw the lock and turned on one track of lighting waaaaaay across the room, he grimaced. Man, the kitchen didn't smell much better than those two out back had: burned egg, charred bacon, and blackened butter were not a party for the ol' sniffer.

"Are you all right?" he asked, even though once again the answer was self-evident.

"Are you?"

He ran his eyes down her from head to foot. She was alive and he was with her and they were safe in this fortress of a house. "I'm better."

"What's in the backyard."

"Friends." He took his gun back. "Who want both of us to be safe."

To keep himself from dragging her into his arms, he sheathed both guns in his windbreaker and picked the pan off the stove. Dumping the remains of her almost-dinner in the sink, he washed the thing out.

"Before you ask," he murmured, "I don't know anything more than you do."

Which was essentially true. Sure, he had a leg up on her when it came to certain things--but as for the shit in the backyard? Fucking. Clueless.

He popped a dish towel off a hook and . . . realized she hadn't said anything for a while.

Pivoting around, he saw that she had taken a seat on one of the stools and wrapped her arms around herself. She was utterly self-contained, having retreated into her skin and turned to stone.

"I'm trying . . ." She cleared her throat. "I'm really trying to understand all this."

He brought the pan back over to the stove and braced himself on his arms, thinking here it was again, the great pide between the civilian and the soldier. This chaos and scramble and deadly danger? To him, it was business as usual.

Except it was killing her.

Like a complete lame-ass, he said, "You want to give dinner another shot?"

Grier shook her head. "Being in a parallel universe where everything looks like your life, but is actually something else entirely is an appetite killer."

"Been there." He nodded. "Done that."

"Made it your profession, matter of fact. Didn't you."

He frowned and left that one right where it had landed on the counter between them. "Listen, are you sure I can't make you--"

"I went back to your apartment. This afternoon."

"Why." Fuck.

"It was after I dropped your money off at the police department and gave a statement. Guess who was at your place."

"Who."

"It was someone my father knew."

Isaac's shoulders tightened up so hard, he found it difficult to breathe. Or maybe his lungs had frozen solid. Oh, Jesus Christ, no . . . not--

She pushed something across the granite at him. A business card. "I'm supposed to call this number if you show up here."

As Isaac read the digits, she laughed with a sharp edge. "My father had the same expression on his face when he read what was on it. And let me guess, you're not going to tell me who'd answer the ring, either."

"The man at my apartment. Describe him." Even though Isaac knew.

"He had an eye patch."

Isaac swallowed hard, thinking that whatever he'd assumed she'd had in that tissue when she'd gotten out of her car . . . he'd never considered that it would have been given to her by Matthias himself.

"Who is he?" she asked.

Isaac's reply was just a shake of the head. As it was, she was already standing at the precipice of the rat hole he and her father were sucked into. Any explaining would be the size-thirteen boot in the ass that sent her over the edge and into a free fall--

With a sudden surge, she burst up from the stool and grabbed the glass of wine she'd been nursing. "I am so goddamn tired of all this silence!"

She pitched the chardonnay across the room, and when the glass hit the wall, it shattered, leaving a bomb burst of wet stain on the plaster and shards all around on the floor.

As she wheeled toward him, she was breathing hard and her eyes were on fire.