Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(157)

Damn Ranieri. Damn Parr. He needed them dead.

A glance at the screen to track the tracers that identified Hobart’s and Julian’s positions showed them to be heading toward him at a gratifyingly fast clip, but still too far away for comfort.

He slunk to the door, peered out. Nothing but the creaks, pops, and moans of an aging mansion over a century old. A warren, full of places for concealment, possibilities for ambush.

He finally recognized the unpleasant sensation tugging at the underside of his intestines, like hanging icicles. It was fear. Banal, stupid, helpless fear of events that could not be controlled.

How dare they put him in this position. He, who had gone so far, accomplished so much. Anger steadied him.

They would pay for making him feel like this. They’d both pay.

Screaming.





Pain. Jagged, flashes of light, and every jolt, every sway hurt.

Zoe’s eyes burned, her ears roared. A warm stream of blood was coming out of her nose. She was used to it. It was a common side effect of her special meds. But it tickled.

Zoe tried to reach up to scratch it. Her shoulders flared like hot coals. She was trussed, arms behind her back. The pain began to come into focus. Dark, smothering. A plall tarp, stinking of mildew, over her mouth. She struggled, coughed, spat blood.

Someone ripped the plastic shroud off her face. It let in a cold, sweet rush of oxygen and a flood of blinding light.

“Coming around?” Slap, slap, the blows made her skull pulse with white-hot fireworks of agony. “Had a nice nap?”

She squinted to squeeze tears from her eyes, which felt swollen, full of fluid, like they were going to pop out of her head. Focused on the face.

Dislike registered before recognition did, but it clicked into place in a second. Hobart. That useless sack of shit who had been on her team in Seattle. The one who had f*cked her up with incomplete supplies and inadequate intel. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking out the trash,” Hobart said.

She struggled again. “Untie my hands.”

Hobart just smiled. “No.”

Alarm jangled through her nerves. “What do you mean, no? Undo my goddamn hands! When I tell King what you—”

“King is going to Level Ten you as soon as we get back to base,” Hobart sneered. “You’re done, bitch. You are so culled.”

She jackknifed up so that she almost rammed her head into his face. He rocked back, evading her. “No!” she shrieked. “He trusted me! All alone! He sent me on a mission to—”

“It was a suicide mission. He was getting rid of you. Anyone with a brain that still functioned would have seen that. But you’re trashed, Zoe. Strung out on Melimitrex. He was going to Level Ten you as soon as you mowed down the McClouds and the Ranieris, since it was such a simple task, no intelligence involved. But you couldn’t even handle that much. Pathetic, you know? Really embarrassing, for one of us.”

She shook her head, rejecting his words. “No! No, why would he send you to pick me up if he was going to—”

“Use what few synapses are still firing in your brain and figure it out.” Hobart’s voice dripped false pity. “He couldn’t risk you ending up with the police, pulling an auto-destruct, like you antiquated older models were programmed to do. Like Nadia. We’re too exposed.”

“But . . . but he—”

“And you want to hear the really shocking part? We just found out that Lily Parr killed Melanie. And King is back at headquarters, all alone, with her and Ranieri on the loose, until we get back. Because of your incompetence, we’re still miles away, Zoe. He’s completely exposed, with two enemies on the loose. Think about that. Just think about it.”

The horror of it transfixed her with guilt.

Hobart nodded, pleased with her remorse. “You’ll see, when we get back. He’ll fix you. And I hope I get to watch.”

It ricocheted in Zoe’s brain, echoes swelling, horribly loud. Pop, a pinpoint of agony bloomed in her eye. Too much pressure. Flashes of light. She saw Hobart’s face through a veil of red. God, how she needed another patch. Her heart swelled, pounding like a trip-hammer.

Lies. It was all lies, the jealous, scheming, lying dickhead. “Undo my hands.” Her voice shook now. “I need a patch.”

Hobart laughed at her. “Fucking junkie trash. No reason to waste meds on you. You’re being flushed, bitch. Down the tubes you go.”

His face wavered, swam through that fog of red. His eyes began to glow, like red-hot coals. His mouth was open, laughinge had fangs, like a predator, a panther. A demon. She couldn’t get any air. Her lungs were locked. A demon. Both of them were demons. It all fell into place with a quiet click. How could she not have understood before?

Hobart and Julian were demons. They didn’t love King, not like she did. They were only interested in power. They were malfunctions, abominations. They should have been culled at birth. They would stab him in the back if she did not stop them.

She was the only operative whose love was entirely pure. The only one who could protect him from the enemies who stalked him.

Hobart’s demon face swam and wavered, and suddenly he yanked the smothering plastic back down over her face. She vibrated inside her dark plastic cocoon. Galvanized by her holy mission. She would save her King. She was the chosen one. Made for this, by his own hands. Molded, by his brilliant mind. He was her maker, her love, her God.