Jim Heron stepped out of the darkness. And wasn't that a surprise, given the wall that ran around everything. Then again, maybe he'd been there before Isaac had come--which was even more disturbing because Isaac should have teased out his presence.
Although the guy had always been very, very good at making like the landscape.
"What are you doing here?" Isaac demanded, his hand finding the butt of a gun as he straightened.
"Looking for you."
Isaac glanced around and didn't see anyone else. "Well, you found me." And shit, maybe Heron could help on a limited scale. "Your timing is good, by the way."
"And yet you didn't call? I gave you my number."
Isaac nodded up to Grier. "Complications."
Jim cursed under his breath. "Without even knowing the particulars, I can tell you your solution. Leave. Now. You're worried about her? Let me put you on an airplane."
"They gave her something."
"Fucking hell. What."
"I don't know." He stared through the glass at Grier. "And that's why I'm not leaving."
"Isaac. Look at me." When he didn't comply, Jim grabbed his biceps and squeezed. "Now."
Isaac slid his stare over. "I can't have her . . . hurt."
Another curse. "Okay, fine, so let me clean up the mess. You're too valuable to sacrifice. We need to get you to somewhere safe, far, far away from anyone or anybody who knows you or could find you. I'll take care of her--"
"No." God, he couldn't explain it and he knew it wasn't logical. But when it came to Grier . . . he couldn't trust anyone.
"Be reasonable here, Isaac--you're the gun pointed at her head. You're the trigger and you're the bullet and you're the shot that's going to kill her. You hang around here? You're putting paid to her tombstone."
"I'll get myself in between her and Matthias. I'll--"
"The only way to save you both is for you to get the f**k out of here. Besides, maybe if we can keep you hidden for long enough, he'll give up--he won't be able to afford the persion of resources for an endless search."
Isaac slowly shook his head. "You know what Matthias has been like the last couple of years. He's running XOps like a clubhouse, moving his own agenda. He used to take orders . . . but lately? He's been making them up. He's out of control. The assignments now are about . . . something else. I don't know what. And that means he'll hunt me until he dies. He has to--it's the only way to protect himself."
"Then let him track you all over the globe. We'll make sure you stay two steps ahead of him for the rest of your natural life."
Isaac refocused on Grier through the glass. She was bracing herself against the counter he'd sat at, her head dropping down, her shoulders bowing as if they bore all her weight. Her hair had been left loose and the long, wavy lengths nearly touched the granite.
"I'm beginning to think that I made a mistake," he heard himself say. "I should have stayed in XOps."
"Your mistake is staying in this garden."
Probably. But he wasn't leaving.
"Oh, for f**k's sake," Jim bit out. "Take this."
At the sound of a rustling, Isaac glanced over and found a paper bag being held out to him.
"It's a turkey sandwich," Jim said. "Mayo. Lettuce. Tomato. And a cookie. From DeLuca's on the corner. I'll even take a bite to prove I haven't poisoned it."
Jim shoved his hand into the bag, pulled a reveal on the sandwich, and peeled back the cellophane with one hand. Then he cranked his jaw around the thing, bit hard, and chewed with his mouth closed.
Which naturally caused Isaac's gut to go two-year-old and start howling. "What kind of cookie."
Jim talked around his mouthful. "Chocolate chip. No nuts. Fucking hate nuts in chocolate-chip cookies."
"I'm much obliged," Isaac said softly. Holding out his left palm, he took what was offered and ate with efficiency.
"Cookie?" Jim murmured.
It pained him to say it, but he had to: "You take a bite first. Please."
That big mitt disappeared into the bag again and came out with something the size of a car wheel. Unwrap. Bite. Chew.
"Thank you kindly," Isaac said as dessert changed hands.
"I have a bottle of water in my back pocket." Jim took the thing out, made a show of cracking the lid, and grabbed a healthy swig.
Isaac leaned forward, and accepted the FIJI bottle. "You've saved me." "That's the plan," the guy muttered.
Inside the kitchen, Grier started to make dinner, and damn, she was vulnerable as hell over that cooktop--all the glass turned the room into a TV set that stayed tuned to the Childe Channel twenty-four/seven.
"I'm leaving her undefended if I take off."
"You're making her a target if you stay. You shouldn't be here now. You shouldn't have spent all day in that house across the street."
Isaac looked over sharply. "How did you know?"
Jim just rolled his eyes. "Remember what I did for a living for over a decade? Look, be realistic. Let me watch over her once we get you settled."
"FYI, I know you a little too well--so this Boy Scout routine's kind of hard to buy."
"You can choke on the shit as far as I care. Just take advantage of it--"
A cold breeze wafted in from an indiscernible direction . . . and Isaac felt a chill run up his spine that had nothing to do with air temperature and everything to do with instinct.
Beside him, Jim stiffened and looked around--
Two huge men came out of the shadows behind him.
Isaac was quick on the draw, palming his other gun and leveling a muzzle at each of them. But it turned out they were just Jim's boys, the one who was pierced like a pincushion and the other who was the size of a mountain.
"We got company, my man," Mr. Needle Fetish hissed to Jim. "Bad company. ETA about a minute and a half."
"Get him into the house," the one with that rope-thick braid said. "He'll be safe there."
Right, time to cut in, boys: "Hi, my name is Isaac. This is Lefty . . . and Bob." He lifted his guns accordingly to make the introductions. "And none of us take orders well anymore."
Jim's eyes burned as they shifted over. "Listen to me, Isaac . . . get in the house . . . get in the f**king house and stay there. No matter what you see or hear--do not leave. We clear?"
From out of nowhere, the guy pulled a knife that made no sense. Damn thing was made of glass . . . ? What the--
A low whistle started to hum through the air, and Isaac glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the sound. It was the kind of thing that had to be just the wind. . . . There was no other explanation for it. And yet he didn't feel any breeze on his skin.
"Get in the house if you want to live," someone said.
Jim grabbed his arm. "You can't fight this enemy, but I can. If you're inside there, you'll be safe--and you can protect that woman. Keep her with you and keep her safe."
Well, that was one order he could follow--
All at once, Grier's house seemed to glow with an ethereal light, as if it had been hit with red floodlights from the foundation up. As his eyes struggled to comprehend what he was seeing, a buzzing on the back of his neck grew so intense he worried his head was going to play 7-Up and pop off his spine.
Isaac didn't stick around.
He tore across the backyard as the unholy wind got louder and louder, praying he got inside and to Grier in time.
Grier hated fighting with her father. Absolutely despised it.
Flipping her omelet in the pan, she centered the thing and then stared at the cell phone she'd just tossed across the island.
Their first call had taken place about an hour after he'd left, and he'd done the dialing. Naturally, he'd discovered her little sleight-of-hand trick and that had led to all sorts of trouble--none of which had been resolved, because she wasn't giving the stuff back and he wasn't taking no for an answer and they'd had to cover that rocky ground in code because God knew who was listening.
After going around and around for a while like boxers in a ring, they'd taken a time-out; she'd tried to work while her father had gone into that shadowy world of his.
Although she was just guessing at that part. It wasn't as if he told her anything concrete.
Still.
Like always.
Second trip through the phone park, and her fingers had done the walking. Her intent had been to make some kind of peace and find out what he was doing, but that had quickly devolved into more half-assed accusations in a language that appeared to be one part pig latin and one part charades.