Текст книги "Transcending Darkness"

Автор книги: Airicka Phoenix

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 36 страниц)

“She’s trying to poison us. Tackle her, Phil.”

The lines around Phil’s mouth deepened in the ghost of a smile, but he didn’t speak.

Juliette sputtered. “What?”

Vi speared her hips with her fists. “Do you even remember how to cook?”

“I can cook!” Juliette protested, as John and Tyson shuffled in carrying more bags. They dumped them down in front of the island and trudged out to get the rest. “I’ve cooked before.”

“The last thing you made was pasta and it smelled like burnt feet.”

“I could make a chicken casserole,” Mrs. Tompkins offered.

“No!” Vi and Juliette shouted on unison.

“Thank you,” Juliette added quickly. “But you’ve already done so much.”

Mrs. Tompkins went back to her dough.

“We should order pizza,” Vi decided. “We haven’t had it in ages.”

It was true. Juliette couldn’t even remember the last time they ordered anything.

“But I just spent a fortune on groceries!” she protested.

Vi shrugged. “So? It’s food. It’s not like it’s going to go to waste. We’ll just put it all away and order pizza tonight.”

It wasn’t the wisdom behind the rationality that convinced her. It was the almost cuteness of her sister’s hopeful face when Vi puckered her bottom lip and did that doe-eyed begging thing that was impossible to ignore.

“Fine!” Juliette muttered. “But only tonight and only because you did your homework without a fuss … again.”

With a squeal, Vi bolted from the room, yelling something about putting in the call. Phil started to follow her, but Juliette stopped him.

“What’s going on with her?” she asked.

“Ma’am?”

He had a nice voice, she thought. Masculine and deep.

“Well, I know my sister and that is not her,” Juliette said, motioning with the jerk of her chin in the direction her sister had taken. “Did you sell her to aliens?”

Phil gave a silent chuckle. “No ma’am.”

“If you did, you can tell them to keep her. I like this one better.”

With an inclination of his head, he followed Vi into the next room. Juliette went to finish helping John and Tyson bring in the groceries. Most of it had been brought in and left on the kitchen floor, but there was still the bedding to haul in. Then there was the process of instructing the men to shove the dining room table to one corner and set the cots up in its place in a makeshift bedroom. She let them sort out who got which bed and where they wanted to set up while she put the groceries away.

Forty five minutes later, the pizza arrived. The doorbell rang and it was like a bomb went off as everyone scrambled into position. Javier moved to the door as Laurence shifted to brace in the doorway between the foyer and the living room with his gun drawn. Tyson took his place next to Juliette as John stood on the threshold of the kitchen. Everyone had a gun.

“Is that necessary?” Juliette demanded of no one in particular.

“I’ll get it!” Vi scrambled down the stairs at that exact moment with Phil right on her heels.

He grabbed her arm and tugged her to a stop three steps from the bottom. He said something and she made no move to continue. Juliette would have been severely impressed if Javier hadn’t taken that moment to yank open the door.

The thing Juliette found hilarious about the whole situation wasn’t the look of stunned horror on the pizza boy’s face at having guns aimed at his face or that he would no doubt go back to work and tell them about the crazy house, but that Mrs. Tompkins continued to roll and thump on her clump of dough like nothing weird was happening. It was the same sort of indifference she’d given when Juliette had explained why there was a van parked outside or why Vi needed an escort everywhere she went. She had been honest with both of them and yet Mrs. Tompkins had taken it with a nod of her head and nothing else. Vi had been furious at the very idea of being followed anywhere. She had threatened to run away, to never speak to Juliette again. But one day with Phil and she had forgotten all about her rage. Juliette didn’t want to question a good thing, but she was beginning to wonder if maybe Killian had found a way to implant people with chips designed to make them do whatever he wanted. In Vi and Mrs. Tompkins’ss case, to not fight the transition. To accept that they would be protected. She knew that was impossible and still she couldn’t help wonder.

The pizza was brought into the kitchen and set on the counter. Plates were handed out and everyone grabbed a slice. Everyone, except Juliette. She kept glancing at the clock, watching the minutes sift away and still nothing from Killian. It had been hours. How could he not be finished?

“Have you heard anything from Killian?” she asked Tyson, who set his pizza down, chewed, and swallowed before answering.

“No ma’am.”

The knot in her stomach tightened. She stared at the front door and tried not to let her imagination go wild.

“Can I have the keys to the SUV, please?” she asked him, holding out her palm.

Tyson peered at her. “I can’t do that, ma’am. We were given orders to keep you here until further instructions.”

She curled her fingers and drew her hand back. “Fine. I’ll find my own way there.”

Leaving the kitchen, she stalked down the hall. She made it as far as midway to the door when her path was blocked by John.

“We can’t allow you to go there, ma’am,” he told her in that infuriatingly calm manner.

“You can’t stop me!” she shot back. “He could be hurt or worse and we may never know if we’re sitting here doing nothing.”

“There are protocols—”

“I don’t give a shit about your protocols. I just care about making sure Killian’s all right. It’s been hours and no meeting takes this long. It means something has happened, something horrible or someone would have already gotten in touch. Now, you can take me or you can get out of my way.”

John never so much as batted an eye. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Don’t sorry me!” she practically screamed. “Just move.”

“Can’t do that, ma’am.”

Maddeningly close to tears, Juliette glowered at him. Her balled fists trembled at her sides with the need to punch someone, but she knew it was pointless. He was bigger and perfectly capable of restraining her if need be.

“Juliette.” Gentle hands took her arm and she was tugged away from the wall of muscle keeping her from the door. Vi peered at her with an ocean of sympathy Juliette had never once seen on her sister’s face. “Come on,” she said, motioning with the jerk of her head towards the stairs.

She let herself be led away. No one stopped them, not even Phil, who followed, but stayed in the hall when Vi pulled Juliette into her bedroom and shut the door behind them.

“You’re not going to get through them,” she told Juliette. “They’re black ops, like top of the line almost assassins. Phil told me,” she explained when Juliette stared at her. “They’re highly trained killing machines, or something. Anyway, they won’t let you leave if they don’t want to.”

The thought of being held captive in her own home terrified her. It made her wonder what the hell she’d gotten them into, and if something had happened to Killian, how was she going to get them out?

“They’re not bad guys,” Vi said quickly. “But they’ll follow their orders or die.”

“I need to see Killian,” she said, and heard the desperation in her own voice. “He could be in trouble.”

Vi raised an eyebrow. “The guy is trouble, Juliette. He’s like grade A, crime lord trouble.”

“No!” Juliette said too quickly. “He’s not. I mean, he is, but he’s not a bad person. He’s really sweet and kind and one of the most—”

“You love him!” Vi’s gasp startled her.

“What? No! No, it’s not like that.”

“Right, because I constantly worry about people I don’t love, you know, just for the hell of it.”

“I care about him,” Juliette admitted. “He’s been very good to us in ways you cannot possibly imagine. We both owe him our lives. I know I do and there isn’t any way I can ever repay him.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Vi grinned at her. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

“Vi!”

“I meant a nice batch of homemade cookies, you pervert.” But the mischievous glint in her eyes said otherwise and Juliette laughed.

Juliette sobered and eyed her sister. “This is nice,” she said. “Why have we never done this before?”

“You mean sisterly bonding?” Vi teased. “Oh, probably because Mom got sick and I was left alone to take care of her while you and Dad continued to live your lives like nothing was happening. Then, she died and Dad threw himself into a bottle and then in front of a bullet and you just sort of forgot I existed.”

All humor vanished. “What? That’s not true! Everything I did was for us and what do you mean you had to take care of Mom?”

Vi turned away and moved to flopped down on her bed. “It’s like I said, Mom got sick and you went off with your friends and Dad stopped coming home. At least the first few years. Then Dad started gambling and Mom got sicker and you started staying home more. When she was finally at peace, you couldn’t get far enough away from me. It’s all right though. I was really angry about it for a long time, being abandoned and all, but I worked it out.”

It was a tossup what part of all that upset her more, the flat, emotionless tone or the weight behind what she was being told.

Vi had been five when their mother had gotten sick. The first couple of years, their mother had been well enough to carry on in whatever mothers did. It wasn’t until the third year that the cancer got too strong for the chemo to fight. By that time, they had already been told they would lose her and there was nothing anyone could do. Juliette remembered needing to get away, away from having to watch the person she loved slowly die before her eyes. She had thrown herself into Stan and her friends and let them help her not think about the bleak future ahead. It was the phone calls on the machine, the ones from the bank and collection agencies and the school that made Juliette begin to see she couldn’t keep running. That Vi and her mother needed her.

“Why did you never tell me?”

Vi shrugged. “I didn’t think it would matter. You hated me.”

“I never…” she trailed off, because as much as she loved her sister, she had also always hated her. From the moment Vi had been brought home, Juliette had never wanted her. “Vi…”

“It’s okay. I’m not angry anymore.”

Juliette frowned. “Why? I was a horrible sister.”

“Phil.” There was a softness to her tone when she said his name that prickled along Juliette’s neck. “Helped me realize a few things.”

Juliette blinked. “Phil?” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder towards the door.

“Phil-Phil?”

“Yeah, Phil-Phil. He’s been really good to me the last few months.”

“Vi…”

Something in Juliette’s voice must have given away just how concerned she was becoming, because Vi’s head jerked up. Her eyes widened and then narrowed in disgust.

“Don’t be gross! He’s old enough to be my dad for God sakes. It’s just nice to have one of those again, one that doesn’t ignore or yell at you for waking him up when he’s hungover.”

Feeling guilty, Juliette shifted. “Sorry. I just … I feel like I don’t really know you and this new you is so different from the one I’m used to.”

Vi snorted. “That’s Phil’s doing also. He made me see that being angry at the world doesn’t bring my family back. The only person I’m hurting is myself.”

“Wow,” Juliette murmured, hating the bitter tang of jealousy that actually reared its head. “You and Phil talk a lot, huh?”

Vi shrugged. “A bit. I do spend about ninety percent of my time with the guy. I hated that at first. He was always there, you know? Lurking in the shadows, watching my every move. But he grew on me. Now, he’s kind of the only friend I’ve got.”

That hurt.

While it wasn’t said maliciously, it carved into Juliette like a dagger. It had never dawned on her that Vi would feel alone and abandoned. She had always had an army of friends following her around like loyal puppies. She had a life. How could she possibly feel unwanted?

“But sisterly bonding isn’t why I brought you up here.” Vi hopped off the bed and rose. “I’m going to help you get out.”

It took Juliette a moment to change gears on the conversation.

“What?”

Vi moved quickly to the window across the room and tugged on the lever. The window swung inward soundlessly. Someone—possibly Vi—had sprayed the hinges with WD-40, because everything else in the house squeaked like spirits being tortured. Reaching in, she grabbed the window and tugged. The latches gave seamlessly and the window popped out of the frame, leaving a neat, square hole in the wall. Vi set the window down and turned to Juliette.

“There is a ledge right on the other side,” she said in a quick, hushed voice. “Brace your weight there and turn your waist just enough to grab the tree branch. From there, you have to creep across and down, but watch the bottom, there’s a root that rises from the ground and my foot gets caught almost all the time. But once you’re on the ground, turn left and go into the Ricor’s backyard. Their back light doesn’t work.”

Juliette honestly had no idea what to say or how to react. A part of her was horrified that her sister was so apt at escaping her bedroom. Another part was impressed by the ingenuity and cleverness behind it. But a much larger part was thrilled.

“How long have you—?”

“Since like the fifth grade.” Vi smirked. “You didn’t honestly think I was up here doing homework, did you?”

Yeah, she kind of had. Now she just felt really stupid.

“I can’t believe—”

“Are you going to go or what? They’re going to come in here and check soon and you’ll miss your chance.”

Thinking fast, Juliette hurried to the window. She braced her hands on the ledge and peered over into the darkness below. The ground had become one giant black void that threatened to suck her in. But she didn’t think about it. She threw one leg over and then the other and searched for the ledge Vi had mentioned. There was nothing but air for several seconds and then her heel caught it. She twisted her body, hands on the windowsill, and tucked her toes on the lip.

“You’re doing great!” Vi encouraged in a low hiss.

Heart palpitating, hands slick with sweat, Juliette stretched her body just enough to turn and grab the thick branch resting on the roof. She wondered if that was something nature had done, or something Vi had done. She decided that now wasn’t the time to think about that.

Gingerly, she lifted one foot and stretched it to the thick branch a full two feet away. Her stomach somersaulted and she wondered how the hell Vi did this every night in heels. Breath held, she gave one good shove and propelled herself onto the branch. The thing creaked and wobbled under her weight and it took all her willpower not to squeak.

Vi stuck her head out of the opening in the wall. “Watch for the root!” she reminded her.

Juliette braved a quick nod and started her slow climb downward. She didn’t actually let out her breath until her foot hit bottom. Only then did she double over and wheeze. The cool night air swept around her, tearing at her clothes and licking at the sweat soaking her skin. She tried not to pay attention to it as she sprinted across the yard to the low, wooden fence the Ricor’s had put up a few years back when they’d gotten their Pomeranian Muffy. She climbed over quickly and made her way up the side of the house to the driveway.

From there, she just ran.

Chapter 15

Getting shot had a unique sort of pain that most other injuries didn’t. There was the initial burn as hot metal pierced through flesh. Then the temporary numbness where the brain hasn’t fully caught up to what happened. Finally, there was the crippling sting of a fresh burn and the raging throb of being stabbed. It was probably why most criminals preferred guns to knives.

Killian had been shot before so the sensation was a familiar one, yet it never felt better. It still hurt like a mother. But at least the bullet had gone straight through. Digging fragments out was a whole other process he did not want to think about.

“Sir?” Frank entered Killian’s bedroom, a phone in one hand and a blood soaked towel in the other, pressed down on the knife wound on his shoulder. “The cleanup crew will be here in an hour for the bodies.”

Killian nodded. He heaved one leg down off the bed. Then the other. His body screamed in protest. His skin seemed to be on fire around the hole Frank had stitched up, which seemed to have pissed off the injury. It thrummed with a sort of malicious glee that crawled up the rest of him to antagonize the colorful rainbow splattered across his torso.

Christ, he wanted to throw up.

“Sir, maybe you should stay in bed,” Frank advised.

Killian shook his head. “Need to check on the men.” He shoved unsteadily to his feet and felt the room tilt. He squeezed his eyes shut as his bearings settled. “How many did we lose?”

He heard Frank exhale heavily. “Five.”

Killian opened his eyes, his anger boiling to the very cusp of his control. “Smith?”

“Dead, sir. As are his men. Sir, perhaps you should stay—”

“I’m fine!”

His snarl was like a punch in the gut. It tugged at the stitches beneath the simple slap on bandage and Killian doubled over. Frank’s meaty hands were there, grabbing him and hauling him back into bed.

“You are not well enough to go anywhere,” Frank stated flatly. “I will see to the men—”

“No, they are my men.” But he didn’t try getting up again, all his energy having been vaporized. “I will see to them myself.”

“Perhaps in the morning then,” Frank suggested.

Killian started to shake his head. “No, I need to do it now—”

Frank stiffened. He jerked back with one hand going to the plastic bit in his ear. He said nothing as he listened.

“What?” Killian struggled to get up, but Frank held him down. “Frank!”

Frank lowered the hand. His dark eyes met Killian’s.

“It’s Miss Romero, sir.”

Killian’s entire world tilted this time. He felt the very air flicker between black and red. Blood roared Hot between his ears, deafening him to everything but the madness he could feel clawing through him.

“No…” He shoved the other man back with strengths he shouldn’t possibly possess considering he could barely keep his eyes open. “Where is she? Where’s Juliette?”

“Sir!”

But Killian was already on his feet, his pain numb in the blinding terror pounding through him as he staggered to the door.

Please, God, please don’t let her be dead, he prayed over and over again through the thick haze clouding his thoughts. The corridor he’d walked a million times bobbed and swayed in a sick sort of game that twisted his insides. He tried to squeeze his eyes shut and will everything right, but that only amplified the splotches of gray weaving around the corners of his vision. His heart pounded in a wild and frantic tempo of war drums. Each beat resounded through his very bones. But it didn’t matter. Not the pain. Not the hot waves crawling up his skin. Not the possibility of tearing his stitches. None of it, except finding Juliette. He needed to find her. He needed to make sure she was all right. The rest wasn’t important if he’d lost her.

“Killian!”

Her voice echoed through the hollows of his subconscious, sounding small and far away. He tried to blink, but that only made everything blurrier.

“Juliette…”

Something gave. Maybe it was his legs or his whole body, but everything spun in a cartwheel then the ground vanished from beneath him. There was nothing but a strange floating sensation for several seconds or minutes or hours before he hit the ground with a muffled thud.

“Killian!”

A shadow leapt into the path of the ceiling lights, shielding him from their sharpness. Soft, cold hands cradled his hot cheeks, swept back his damp hair while a broken voice called his name over and over again. Raindrops hit his skin, each one stinging like acid upon contact. He tried to raise a hand or speak, but it hurt to even breathe. Instead, all he could do was close his eyes and give himself over to the numb nothingness on the other side. Eyes the sweet color of caramel were the last things he saw before everything faded to black.

Time was a funny thing when one was running a fever. Everything was a fuzzy, groggy mess between dream and reality. For most of the three days, Killian had no idea which was which. It was all a sickening blur of voices and colors. But the thing they all shared, the singular, solid presence was always Juliette. She seemed to be in every snippet of memory. Her voice was the thing that kept drawing him back to consciousness. At least, what felt like consciousness; it was the one that came equipped with the blinding pain.

By the fourth day, some of that had dulled to an almost bearable hum. The hole still radiated with its own heat and felt like it was vibrating with its own unique brand of agony, but the rest of him was less tender. He knew because someone kept fussing over him, coaxing food and water into him.

It wasn’t until almost a week later that he finally opened his eyes. The room was dark, except for the lamp next to the bed. Beneath it, the alarm clock read three AM. But it was the figure curled up in the chair that caught his attention.

Juliette.

She wasn’t hurt. She was there, squished in an uncomfortable position, but alive. Unless she was a figment of his feverish imagination, something his sick mind had conjured to help ease him into acceptance. Not that there was such a thing. There was no peace or accepting that loss. The damn girl had burrowed herself so deep beneath his skin that he couldn’t even process anything different.

He studied her in the fine whispers of light spilling through the messy knot of hair confined to the top of her head. It glided along the flushed curve of her cheek, the one not resting on her folded arms. She wore white tights under a loose, white top. Her feet were bare, exposing her dainty toes painted a light purple. Her knees were raised to hold her arms and she had her head tilted to one side. It was a wonder how she was able to sleep that way. He’d have already fallen face first to the ground. But it also made him wonder how long she’d been there. Had she really sat there the entire week, waiting for him to wake up? The thought made his chest hurt, a sort of hurt that had nothing to do with being pummeled by six guys or shot.

Damn it, Juliette. What are you doing?

Taking a deep breath, he called her name. Softly at first. Then louder when she didn’t budge right away. She came awake with a start. One leg slipped out from under her and she staggered forward, barely catching herself on the corner of the end table. Her wide eyes jumped around the room before settling on him.

“Killian!” She threw herself out of the chair and perched on the edge of the mattress, next to his hip. Her hands went to his face. One rested on his cheek. The other went to his brow. “How are you? How are you feeling?”

He stared up at her, at the worry crinkling her brows and the fear darkening her eyes. Her face was chalky and drawn and held the resemblance of not enough sleep.

“What are you doing?” he heard himself ask.

The question seemed to confuse her before she realized something. She straightened, taking her hands with her. He felt their loss immediately.

“I couldn’t leave you,” she said quietly. “Not when you’d been beaten and … and shot. I know I’m not allowed to worry about you, but damn it, Killian, you were shot!” She broke off when her voice quivered.

“I meant what are you doing in that chair,” he murmured.

Her head jerked up. The lamplight caught the dampness in her eyes and the sight of her tears hit him like a fist.

“You told me not to stay the night,” she whispered. “It’s not staying the night if I don’t sleep in a bed.”

Her logic was ridiculous, but it was a sharp spear in his gut and he wondered how many different ways she could possibly tear up his insides without lifting a finger.

“Jesus, Juliette.” He tugged down the corner of the sheets. “Come to bed.”

She seemed to shrink back a notch. “Maybe I should get Frank—”

“Bed!” he said louder. “Get in.”

Hesitance still stiffened her shoulders, but she carefully slid over him and climbed into the empty space on his other side. He drew the sheets up over her.

“Come here.”

“But you’re hurt—”

“Damn it, woman!”

She wiggled into his side, the one away from his injuries and carefully snaked an arm across his ribs. Her head nestled against his shoulder.

Killian closed his eyes as her sweet scent washed over him, as her familiar weight and heat settled against his side. Seeing her when he woke up was one thing, but to feel her, to hold her and know she wasn’t his imagination was a reality that shook him to the core.

“I thought something happened to you,” he murmured into the top of her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared.”

“You scared?” she croaked. “I came in and you … you were covered in blood and so white. Then…” Her voice caught. The hand on his chest balled into a trembling fist. “I was so sure…”

Hot, wet tears burned into his skin where her cheek lay. Against his palm, her back shuddered with her silent sobs and his heart broke.

“Juliette…”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m trying to stop.”

It was a bit of an effort getting both arms around her and not turning on his side. Already the movement was tugging at the stitching in his side, but he ignored it as he crushed her to him.

“Ah, darling lamb.” He kissed the crown of her head. “What am I going to do with you?”

Juliette was gone when Killian woke up again. The room was soaked in bright, warm sunshine that hurt the eyes and the sheets had been drawn securely about his waist, but the place next to him was cool and empty. The sight of it annoyed him far more than it probably should have. She’d been quietly leaving his bed for months while he slept and, while he assured himself it was what she was supposed to do, it still prickled at him whenever he reached for her and his fingers closed in air.

Carefully, he tossed the sheets back and lowered his feet to the soft carpet. His muscles only twanged slightly with the motion, which he took as a good sign. He padded to the washroom and shut the door behind him.

He didn’t look half as bad as he felt, he noted as he surveyed his injuries in the wall of mirror next to the shower. Aside from the weeks’ worth of beard making his face itch, the kaleidoscope of colors in various shades of purple, black, green, yellow and blue had mostly faded. His ribs and back had taken the worst of it, possibly from the kicking. There were a few blotches along his thighs, his arms and stomach, but they would all heal eventually. Even the bullet wound, which was a raw, painful mess of stitches and flesh.

Killian exhaled slowly, his best attempt at tapering the boiling rage he could feel writhing like cobras deep in the very dark place inside him. Yet the anger had nothing to do with getting shot, it was the nerve of Smith and his pathetic group of morons who thought that they could waltz into his home and attack him. Had he honestly thought he would win?

Discarding the pajama bottoms someone—possibly Frank—had dressed him in, he stepped into the full sized shower and shut the glass door behind him. There were six different sprays stationed around the eight by five cubical, but he only ever used one, the one with the pressure massage. The hard jets struck him in all the right places, softening the pained muscles while he scrubbed furiously at the rest of him.

Half an hour later, he was showered, shaved and dressed once more. His side continued to pang, but he slapped on a fresh bandage and left.

Frank met him at the end of the hall. Juliette must have told him Killian was awake, because he seemed unsurprised to see his employer on his feet.

“There are a few matters that require—”

“Where’s Juliette?”

Frank fell into an easy step alongside him as they headed towards the office.

“Miss Romero has gone to work. She left early this morning, but will return later this evening.”

“How did she get here? Who brought her without my direct orders?”

He reached his office and stalked straight to his desk.

Frank hesitated by the door. “She arrived on her own, sir. Apparently she climbed through a bedroom window.”

Killian staggered to a stop and spun around. “What?”

Frank straightened his shoulders and clasped his hands in front of him. “The team had secured the house. Miss Romero requested to speak to you, but our communication hadn’t yet gone up and she took matters into her own hands … sir.”

Killian dropped his face into his hand and slowly shook his head. “That woman is going to be the end of me,” he muttered to himself.

“What would you like me to do, sir?”

“Fire them.” He lowered his hand. “If they can’t watch over a single woman when there are two of them, I have no use for them.”

Frank blinked. “Sir?”

“Bring them to me,” he decided instead. “I want to hear what happened from them.”

“Yes sir.”

Killian leaned against the side of his desk as all strength in his limbs disintegrated, leaving him unnaturally exhausted and weak. But he stayed steady when he spoke again.

“The men we lost, have the families been contacted?”

Frank nodded. “Yes sir. The funerals have been arranged.”

“Make sure the families are taken care of and bring me their numbers. I’d like to speak with them personally.”

“Yes sir.”

Forcing himself up, Killian moved to his chair and lowered himself into it. “This can’t go unaddressed, Frank. Not just for my men, but because this is my home. They came into my home!” He shook his head. “No, this needs to be handled.”

“Yes sir.” Frank moved deeper into the room, phone in hand. “What would you like to do?”

“Bring me John and Tyson first,” he instructed. “Get Jake and Melton to stay with Juliette. Then set up a meeting with Kinch.”

Frank inclined his head, his fingers already moving over the keys on his phone. Finally, he straightened and lifted his head.

“Anything else, sir?”

He stared at the top of his desk. The underground cleanup crew had scrubbed the place clean of bodies and blood. It didn’t even look like anyone had been shot, never mind killed in the middle of his office.

The knowledge that he was responsible for the death of another person never sat well with him. He wasn’t a psychopath. But there wasn’t any remorse either. Smith died by the hands of his own foolish stupidity and that was on him; although, the fault wasn’t entirely with Smith, if Killian was honest with himself. He was just as much to blame.