Blood to Dust(87)

Yeah, guns are for pussies, but when it comes to Cockburn’s life, I’m not brave. I am a *. I can take a gamble with my own life. Take the gun we stole from Sebastian and figure shit out for myself. But Prescott? I’ll use every dirty trick in the book and out of it to make sure she’s safe.

I count the bullets in the gun before I go in. Six rounds.

Six. That means I’ll still have to handle at least some of them with my fists. The first two to go down are the Aryan Brothers standing at the front door. I’ve never used a gun but my aim is good. I have steady hands and a knack for doing all things violent.

In all probability, people from neighboring houses heard the shots. There are only two houses on Godfrey’s cul-de-sac, and judging by the fact that they let a bunch of criminals hang out here for hours without calling the cops, there’s a chance I might have a bit more time to pull my shit together. Maybe they’re not home this time of year, those rich bastards. Here’s f*cking hoping.

I storm into the house and two more *s run toward me with fists and knives.

Boom. Boom. Gone.

“Pea?” I call out, looking around the open-space foyer. I can see most of the kitchen from this angle, and it’s empty. I hop up the stairs, taking two at a time, my quads burning.

“Prescott!” I boom, kicking the first door in the hallway open. Nothing.

“Baby-Cakes?” My voice breaks. Two more Aryan Brothers appear from the far corner of the hallway and I shoot them down immediately.

I’m out of bullets, but I don’t give a f*ck.

“Try and kick something, make some noise,” I prompt her.

If she’s dead, I’m burning down this whole house, with me inside. But she’s not. She’s tougher than Godfrey, and he doesn’t even know it.

Maybe he found out.

I’m just about to kick the second room’s door when it swings open, and I take a step back on instinct, only to find the face of the love of my life staring back at me. Wide-eyed, shocked and trembling. . .but healthy and still standing.

Thank God.

“Jesus f*cking Christ, Cockburn. Why didn’t you answer me?”

“I ran and hid in his closet when I heard gunshots,” she murmurs and throws herself into my arms. I pull her into a suffocating hug, one that’d hopefully glue her back together. When we break away, I run my fingers over her face, her nose and her mouth, then touch her hair. Doing inventory, making sure they’re all still there. “Where’s Godfrey?” I ask. She takes a step sideways and I see him on the floor, his Hawaiian shirt torn around his neck. She killed him with her hands.

“Guns are for pussies.” She grins, pressing her hot, sweet mouth into mine, and I feel like f*cking her right here on the floor, but that’ll have to wait.

“Come on,” I grab her hand. “We need to rethink this law on guns. If you see someone coming, shoot them. We don’t have time and I don’t have bullets.” I gesture toward the gun she’s clutching.

Descending the stairs, she halts near the first step of the staircase, takes my sleeve and wipes the railing.

“Fingerprints?” I ask. She nods. I grab one of the Nazi bastards who are lying dead at the foot of the stairs and crash his head against it. Blood splatters all over the railing. “That covers it.”

We storm out of the house and into the car in record time. When I rev up the engine, my girl tells me, “We have one more stop. London, England.”

“What about Vallejo?” I ask.

“Preston is with Camden.” She smiles. “I can feel it. Besides, you’re right, if he’s in Vallejo, I can come back for him when we’re no longer wanted.”

I tilt an imaginary hat down.

The drive to SFO is so quick, we barely have time to catch our breaths.

My baby has just one final piece to glue together before her soul is whole again. I intend to help her in any way I can.





Fake passports or not, both Nate and I are a wreck when we show our IDs at the security checkin point. Every law enforcement official in the state is probably looking for him by now, and unfortunately, his good looks, endless tattoos and huge frame only work against us in this case. His face is ridiculously memorable.

We ask the girl behind the United Airlines counter for two tickets to London, first flight out. I shift my weight from foot to foot, chewing on the inside of my cheeks and gawking at everyone and everything like they mean me harm.

Nate is stoic, quiet and peaceful, but he’s also human. There’s a storm inside him too, he’s just better at hiding it.

“Ma’am?” Her forehead crinkles, and I shake my head.

“My father’s just died and I need to hurry make it for the funeral,” I tell her from behind my big shades, even though it’s nearly dawn. That’s the only way I can justify the sunglasses.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The young woman puts one manicured hand over her chest and moves her attention to my companion. Her eyes glint with something, and for a second, I worry that she recognizes Nate. But no. It is not recognition that peaks her interest. It’s the fact that he is a walking, talking masterpiece.

“Sir, may I have your passport please?” She offers a smile, and he hands her Christopher Delaware’s passport.

“Mr. Delaware,” she mumbles to herself. He nods once. She begins punching information into her touch screen monitor, her gaze scrutinizing. I want to yell at her to stop, but know that it’s a less than stellar idea.