"She's not part of this!" Rothe hissed. "She's got nothing to do with me or her goddamn father!"
"Maybe. But shit happens. And I assigned her to you for a good reason--which panned out better than I thought. I never expected the two of you to get so personally involved--or did you think I didn't hear what the pair of you got up to in that guest bedroom of hers last night?" Matthias fought against the pain in his chest, feeling as if he were drowning. "Don't make me hurt her, Isaac. I'm getting tired of all that, I truly am. Stay where you are--I'm sending someone, and you'll know when he gets there. And if you and her and her father are not there when he arrives, I'm going to have him find her, not you. You follow instructions and I'll make sure no one but you gets hurt."
Matthias hit the end button and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.
Wincing, he struggled to keep the car heading straight as the agony behind his ribs swelled to unmanageable levels. Under the onslaught, he briefly thought about driving over to the Caldwell International Airport again, but he decided to keep driving because he needed to get a grip and that was going to take time. And privacy.
Squeezing his left pec, he pulled over and tried to breathe through the pain in his chest. Which didn't really help much . . . to the point where he wondered whether this was it. The Big One. Just like what had killed off his father.
Looking out of the front windshield, he realized he was in front of a church.
For no good reason, he turned off the engine, picked up his cane and got out. He hadn't been in anything remotely God-like for years and to be limping toward its huge double doors felt . . . wrong in a lot of ways. Especially given everything that was waiting for him in Boston. But his number two needed time to get things set and Matthias . . . needed this heart attack to either get organized and kick his bucket or shut the f**k up.
Inside was warm and smelled of incense and lemon floor polish. The place was huge, with hundreds and hundreds of pews spanning out in three directions from where the altar was.
Matthias didn't make it all the way to the back. He collapsed in a sit about halfway down the side aisle, all but falling onto the wooden bench.
Moving his cane between his knees he looked up at the crucifix . . . and began to cry.
Chapter Thirty-six
After he cut off the communication with Matthias, Isaac shoved the Life Alert transmitter into his sweatshirt. What he wanted to do was put it on the granite counter and smash it with his fist. Then maybe light the pieces on fire.
Bracing his hands on the kitchen sink, he leaned into his shoulders and stared out at the back garden. Almost eight a.m. and the place was all but pitch- dark because the houses in the neighborhood were packed so closely together. No clue whether Jim's buddies were still back there. No word from Jim.
But Isaac had other problems right now.
Shit. All things considered, the fact that Matthias was savvy enough to be suspicious wasn't a news flash. But the nail-on-the-head component to what was hopefully just speculation put Isaac in a tight one. If he left now, he ran the risk of Grier and her father getting slaughtered. If he stayed . . . they were probably going to be made to watch him die.
Mother. Fucker.
"They got in touch with you."
He looked over his shoulder. Grier was fresh out of her shower, her hair down and drying naturally.
"Isaac." Her face grew tight. "Did they get back to you?"
"No," he said. "Not yet."
To make the lie stick, he pulled out the transmitter and let it dangle, banking on the fact that she wouldn't notice that the light was now off.
"Is that thing working?"
"Yeah." He put it away as she came over. "How's your father?"
"On the phone again in the bathroom." She glanced at the clock. "God, I thought last night would never end."
"I just want Jim to show," he said as she started to make coffee by the sink.
"Do you think . . . he really is dead?"
At this point--maybe. "No."
Sitting down on one of the stools, he watched her pop the top off the Hills Bros can and put the filter into the maw of the machine. As she went through the routine task, the sunlight on her face made him want to weep, she was so beautiful.
On some level, he couldn't believe he'd been with her--and not as in the he-wasn't-worthy shit. Duh, that was self-evident. But all that pounding, hot- and-heavy sex seemed like a dream. She was all cleaned up, smelling like shampoo instead of his sweat, her hair smooth, her face unflushed.
She took his breath away. To him, she was proof positive that life was worth the sacrifices it demanded of people: Just to look at her and be in the same room, to have the memories he had given not just her, but himself . . .
The idea of anything hurting her, ever, was simply unsupportable. And if he was the cause of it?
I'll let you live a long life, knowing that you are the reason she's ruined from the inside out.
Not a threat. Not from a guy like Matthias, who didn't draw any distinctions that stopped at the feet of the female sex. And he would hurt her in ways that made that special thing Isaac had shared with her down in the cellar impossible for her to enjoy ever again.
As much as it pained him, he had to be realistic: When he was gone, she would find another lover. Maybe one she'd marry and have kids with and grow old beside. And there would be none of that for her at all unless he stuck around, waited it out . . . and prayed that when Matthias's operative showed up, he was able to kill the f**ker and then quickly disappear.
After all, he was a goddamn assassin. It was what he did for a living.
One thing was clear: there was going to be no coming forth with intel anymore. No way. Grier's life was worth more than her respecting him and whatever was set in motion by her father could be undone fast as a phone call after the dust settled--so as far as they were going to know, it was business as usual until Isaac took off.
And as for his ever after? He was going to turn himself in to Matthias and have his reckoning, but it would be on his terms. Grier's pops was on to something with those dossiers, and Jim Heron or one of his boys was just the kind of guy who'd keep a first-person, taped narration of every single murder Isaac had ever done locked in a safe--provided Grier and her father died of natural causes.
After all, he was under the impression that death's door confessions were admissible in court--so as long as Isaac stated that Matthias was going to kill him shortly, he had a whole lot of clout, didn't he--or at least enough to open one f**ker of an investigation.
His testimony would be her and her father's life insurance policy.
Across the way, Grier hit the on button, and as the machine started hissing it out, she stayed where she was, staring at the thing.
Compelled by something he didn't question, Isaac stood up and went behind her, putting his chest to her back. Her breath caught as she felt his body, and though she stiffened, she didn't move away.
He reached up and touched the blond waves that fell around her shoulders, running his fingertips over them. Then he swept them slowly to the side, exposing the nape of her neck.
God, he'd made his mind up, hadn't he.
He'd chosen his path.
"Can I kiss you," he said roughly. Because it seemed like the gentlemanly thing to ask first.
Her head dropped. "Please . . ."
He went in for her lovely neck, pressing his lips to her skin. That wasn't nearly enough, but he didn't trust himself to go any further or even put his hands on her waist--if he did, he wasn't letting go until she was under him and he was in her again.
"Grier," he whispered hoarsely.
"Yes . . ."
"I need to tell you something."
"What?"
Sometimes emotions were like a locomotive for words: Once they got a reveal rolling, there was no slowing the thing down, no brakes strong enough to grab onto the tracks of your throat.
"I love you," he said with more breath than syllable.
She heard it, though. Dear God, she heard it, because she inhaled on a hiss.
Grier whipped around so fast, her hair spun out in a halo, and even though his heart was pounding, he didn't look away.
When her mouth opened, he put his finger to her lips and shook his head. "I just needed you to know. Once. I just needed to say it . . . once. I realize I haven't known you long enough or well enough, and I'm very aware that I'm not the man for you . . . but some things need to be said."
What didn't require airtime was the terror inside his skin.