Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(102)

He punched in the number, waited. “Hey, Sean,” he said into the phone. “So? News?”

Lara felt the tension grip him. Her skin still felt the warmth from the fire. But the temperature dropped in the Citadel.

She waited, her belly tight with dread.

“Understood.” Miles closed the call, his face like stone, and stared into the fire. Lara waited as long as she could, but after a few seconds, she was ready to tear out her hair.

“What?” she demanded. “How is Davy? Is he okay?”

He dragged in a deep breath. “He’s stable,” he said. “Still in the coma. They think the surgery went okay, but they won’t know for sure until he wakes up.”

“Okay,” she faltered. “Well, good. So what, then? What is it?”

“Greaves,” Miles said. “He found them. He has them pinned. He threatened their kids.”

It was happening already. Her beautiful fantasy bubble popped, and icy reality rushed in, sickening and queasy.

Lara wrapped her arms around herself, shuddering. “How . . . ?”

“They figured out who I was,” he said. “Maybe Anabel recognized me. Maybe it was the gun I left at the house, maybe my fingerprints, on the gun, the steering wheel. They left a note, stuck to Jeannie’s back. They threatened Connor’s boy Kevvie, too.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

“It’s a message to me. Arrogant shithead that I am. I sent a message to Greaves in the woods, and this is the answer.” He buried his face in his hands. “At least he didn’t slit Jeannie’s throat. Not yet, anyway. But he will, because he can. It’s a promise.”

Lara put her hand on his shoulder. Her throat burned. It just kept happening, worse every time. Her shit luck, spreading to everyone she touched. She was a walking black hole. It couldn’t go on.

“I’m the one he wants,” she said.

Miles’ head whipped up, eyes blazing, and just the faintest snap of coercion flicked across her consciousness, making her wince.

“Don’t. Even. Start.” His voice was a low rasp of menace.

Lara threw her arms wide. “What else am I supposed to do? Let him kill your friends, their kids? I can’t allow that!”

“Neither can I,” he said.

“So tell me, then!” she yelled. “What can we do?”

“Not we,” he said. “Me, Lara. Just me. I’m hog tied when I’m with you. I hate to do this to you, but you’re going have to run alone, to someplace I don’t know. It’s the only way I can swing this.”

“No, Miles. Don’t—”

“And when you’re gone, I go after this guy. And I kill him.”





24


Miles desperately needed some rest, but it wasn’t happening. Too much junk in his system. Raw fear, to think of one of Greaves’ goons being close enough to little red-mop-headed Jeannie to slap a note on her back. Close enough to his good little buddy Kevvie to ferret out the number of his hotel room. That opened a hole in his belly that no amount of teeth-grinding concentration could plug.

At least Lara had finally dropped off, after a protracted and emotional argument, which neither of them had definitively won yet. He kept checking obsessively for that bright diffuse glow in his mind that indicated she was there, inside the shield. Everytime he felt it, it gave him a rush of relief. So he reached all the time.

She was safe for now, until she got her next heroic notion. Then all bets were off. But he couldn’t think about that, or he’d just get pissed again.

He needed to get back to that cold place he’d been after the battle in the woods, where instant, ice-cold decisions were made for him by the war machine’s super-processor, and doing the hard thing came naturally. It was the only way to face Greaves, and not give a f*ck that he had little to no chance of surviving the encounter. And no chance at all of surviving it with his future with Lara intact.

That was gone now. He had to cut it off. Let it go.

He worked on that, in his head. Throwing switches, laying tracks. Cold, sharp and purposeful.

There was no point in lying here, staring at the coals. He got up, stirred the fire, put on more wood. Broke down the rifle for transport, wrapping the separate pieces in a yellowed newspaper he’d found in the closet. Transferred their wet clothes from the washer to the dryer. He found an old receipt from a hardware store, and scrawled a note on it.



To owners: Sorry for breaking in. Was in trouble (not my fault). Slept one night, used shower, washer, stove, fire-place. Took a few pieces of clothing, used some bedding and some firewood. Apologies for the picture frame, mirror and broken chopping block. Grateful for the shelter. Hope the enclosed covers damages and rent. If I make it through this, I’ll contact you and make sure we’re square.

Best wishes, your uninvited guest.





He folded the receipt into an origami swan, tucked fifteen hundred bucks into the folds under the wing, and left it in the middle of the kitchen table. He wished he could leave more money, but he needed the cash for Lara.

Then he tucked the blankets up over Lara’s pale shoulder, sat naked on the floor in front of the fire with his computer and router, and dove into the Internet’s store of lore about Thaddeus Greaves.

A lot of the stuff he had memorized from his previous searches, when he’d begun investigating her disappearance. He knew by heart the inspiring tale of Greaves’ humble beginnings as a private first class in the army, his years in the secret task forces running dangerous missions for his country, blah blah. Big-ass hero. After his years of military service, he had parlayed his smarts into business, and proceeded to make a vast fortune without apparent effort.