Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

Eddie's soft chuckle was what he'd been gunning for, and as soon as he got one, he shut up.

As things grew quiet again, he thought about good old Isaac Rothe. That hardheaded, strong-backed motherfucker might be an excellent addition to the team.

Of course, he'd have to die first.

Or be killed.

Either of which, given how shit was going, could be arranged tonight.

In the farmhouse's kitchen, Grier sat across from her father at a table made of boards taken from an old barn. Between them, there were two small white plates marked up with smudges of chocolate and dessert forks down for a rest at steep angles.

Over the course of the meal, they had spoken of nothing important, just everyday things about work and his garden and her ongoing cases in the penal system. The conversation was so normal . . . perhaps deceptively so, but she'd take what they had under the fake-it-till-you-make-it rule.

"Another piece?" she asked, nodding over at the cake stand on the counter.

"No, thank you." Her father dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. "I shouldn't have had the first."

"You look as if you've lost weight. I think you should--"

"I lied about Daniel to keep you safe," he blurted, as if the pressure of holding back had built to an unsustainable level.

She blinked a couple of times. Then reached out and played with her fork, drawing little Xs and Os through the frosting she hadn't eaten, her stomach flip-flopping around the dinner she'd just had.

"I believe you," she said eventually. "It hurts like hell, though. It's like he's just died again."

"I'm so sorry. I can't say that enough."

Her eyes lifted up to his. "It's going to be okay, though. I just need some time. You and I . . . we're all we've got left, you know?"

"I know. And that's my fault--"

From out of nowhere light blazed in through the windows, illuminating the alcove and the two of them in a burst of brightness.

Chairs screeched as she and her father burst up and dove for cover behind the solid wall of the den.

Outside on the front lawn, the motion-activated security lights had come on and a man was walking over the cropped grass toward the house. Behind him, in the shadows, a car that she didn't recognize was parked on the gravel drive.

Whoever it was must have come in without headlights on. And if it were Jim or Isaac or those two men, someone would have called.

"Take this," her father hissed, pressing something heavy and metal into her hand.

A gun.

She accepted the weapon without hesitation and followed him to the front door--which was where their unnounced "guest" appeared to be heading. Where was the sense in that, though? You snuck down the drive without your lights on, but then marched right up to the--

"Oh, thank God," her father muttered.

Grier relaxed as well as she recognized who it was. In the security lights, Jim Heron's big body and hard face were as clear as day, and the fact that he'd ghosted down the lane made sense.

Her first thought was for Isaac, and she searched the pool of illumination for him as her father disarmed the system and opened the door. He wasn't with Jim, though.

Oh, dear Lord . . .

"Everyone's okay," Jim called out across the lawn, as if he'd read her mind. "It's all done."

The relief was so great she excused herself briefly, ducking into the kitchen, putting the gun down, and bracing her arms on the table. From the other room, she heard the deep voices of her father and Heron, but she doubted she would have tracked the conversation if she'd been standing next to them. Isaac was all right. He was okay. He was all right. . . .

It was over. Done with. And now, just as Isaac would be taking off in relative freedom, she could try to move on as well.

Man, she needed a vacation.

Somewhere frivolous and warm, she decided as she went over and picked up the dessert plates. Somewhere with palm trees. Mai tais and umbrellas. Beach. Pool--

Tick . . . tick . . . whir . . .

Grier frowned and slowly looked across her shoulder.

Over by the refrigerator, the back door's dead bolt was shifting from right to left at the same time the old-fashioned latch lifted up.

The voices out in the living room went suddenly silent.

Too silent.

This was wrong. All wrong--

She dropped the plates and lunged for the gun she'd left on the counter--

Grier didn't make it. Something bit into her shoulder blade, and then an electrical charge slammed through her body, throwing her into a backward arch that knocked her off her feet and took her down hard onto the floor.

Chapter Forty-seven

Back in Beacon Hill, Isaac walked up the town house's front stairs, paused at the second-floor landing and then kept going to Grier's bedroom. In her private space, he paced around the bed, and felt like he was losing his ever-loving mind.

He checked her alarm clock. Walked to the French doors. Looked out onto the terrace.

Nothing moved outside, and there was no one else in the house but him and Jim.

Time was passing, but nobody was showing, and no matter how many times he went down to Jim and then came back upstairs again, he wasn't able to jump-start the next sequence of events.

It was like a director with no bullhorn and a cast and crew who didn't give a shit what he had to say.

The inescapable fear that drove him was that they were in the wrong place. That he and Jim were cooling their heels out here while the action was happening elsewhere. Like Grier's father's farmhouse.

On a vicious curse, he headed back for the staircase and jogged downward, expecting nothing else along the way or at the bottom other than a short pause in the kitchen and another trip up.

Except . . .

When he came to the landing, the front door down below creaked as if it were being opened. Palming his guns, he was ready to pounce--until he heard Jim's annoyed voice rising up.

"What are you doing here?" Heron demanded.

"You texted us."

Isaac frowned at the sound of the pierced man's voice.

"No, I did not."

"Yeah, you did."

At that moment, the Life Alert went off with a subtle shimmy in Isaac's pocket.

All instincts firing, he ducked quietly into the guest-room he'd stayed in. Holding the transmitter in his palm, he activated the device, and this time there was no delay in response.

Matthias answered right away. "I have your girl at her dear old dad's place. Get out here. You have a half hour."

"If you hurt her--"

"Time's wasting. And it goes without saying that you come alone. Don't keep me waiting, or I'm likely to get bored and have to fill my time. You won't like that, I promise. Be here in thirty."

The light went out, the transmission ending sharply.

When Isaac wheeled around to leave, he jumped back. Jim had somehow made it up the stairs and through the closed door to stand right behind him.

"He has her," Jim said flatly. "Doesn't he."

"I'm going solo or he'll kill her."

Shoving the man out of the way, Isaac jogged downstairs. The body in the front hall had been frisked for weapons before it had been gift wrapped, but car keys were another thing.

Bingo. Front pocket. Ford.

Now to find the bastard's ride.

When Isaac stood up, he realized everything was totally silent and nobody was in the front hall. Glancing around, he had the feeling he was alone in the house even though he hadn't a clue how they'd moved out so fast.

Whatever--fuck it. And f**k them.

Isaac lit for the door--but at the last minute, he pivoted in the archway and went back to the body to strip it some more. Then he shot out into the darkness.

The unmarked that he'd watched from the Pinckney Street house the day before was parked a block up, and the dead guy's key got him in. Engine started just fine and the GPS was functional, so he quickly plugged in the address Grier's father had given them all.

"Bat out of hell" described the trip.

He went flat-out on the Mass Pike, pushing the speed limit until he busted the f**ker into pieces. Even still, it felt like he was moving in slow motion --and that got worse when he left the highway and tried to get through some town that was filled with stop signs and curvy roads.

Fortunately, the GPS took him exactly where he needed to go, his destination fronted by a pair of stone markers that sat on either side of a pale, glowing drive.

He canned the headlights and hung a right, downshifting from rush, rush, rush to slow, slow, slow. Cracking his window so he could hear better, he inched along, hating the sound of the tires crunching over a million seashells. The only good news was that the perma-glow of the city didn't exist out here in the semi-sticks, and the moon was covered by clouds. But how much you want to bet they had motion-activated exteriors on the house and/ or trees?