Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(56)

Maybe the little Texan had been too good as a PA.

With hunger spurring him on, he shuffled into the kitchen and peeled

open the refrigerator door. Empty. Except for a box of Arm & Hammer baking soda that should have been used on that couch.

Slamming the Frigidaire shut, he absolutely despised the world and

everyone in it--although that was mostly a function of not having his eggs and bacon already waiting for him.

Plus crappy real estate did that to a guy. The ranch house was a new

acquisition and one he'd been to only once before--hell, not even Mr. D

knew the Society owned it. The thing was, Lash had bought it out of

foreclosure because they were going to need places to make meth and the POS had a large basement. Stunning that whoever had owned it hadn't been able to cover the mortgage cost. The bitch was one step up from an outhouse.

Maybe half a step.

He headed out into the garage and it was a frickin' relief to be back in the Mercedes . . . although it galled him to have to hit a McDonald's drive-through for an Egg McMuffin and a coffee. He'd even had to wait in line along with a bunch of guys in trucks and moms in minivans.

As he went back to his brownstone, his attitude sank further into Man-son territory--and then shot completely into the sewer as he pulled up to the garage. The door was still up, but the Lexus was gone.

Parking the Mercedes under cover, he shut the thing in with the

remote and got out. The garden in the back was relatively undisturbed, but he could smell the lesser the instant he--

Stopping on the terrace, his eyes shot to the second floor. Oh, God . . .

Energized by panic, Lash started to run full tilt and he took the back steps on a oner, bursting through the door--

His loafers skidded to a halt as he saw the carnage. Jesus . . .

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Christ . . . his kitchen.

The place looked like it had been hit with an oil shower. And duh,

there wasn't much left of Mr. D. The slayer's torso was in the middle of the room, by the island, but his arms and legs were scattered all around . . . and his digestive tract was like macrame hanging from the pulls on the cupboards.

By some miracle, the guy's head was still attached and his eyes

opened wide, his mouth starting to move as he saw he was no longer alone; a guttural plea came out of lips glossy with congealed black blood.

"You f*cking *," Lash spat. "Look at you. For f*ck's sake!"

And goddamn it, he had bigger problems than his second in command

getting shredded. He leaped over the mess, tore through the dining room, and raced up the stairs.

Bursting into the bedroom he'd shared with Xhex, he found nothing

but a whole lot of empty . . . and a window with a hole in it.

"Motherf*cker!"

Wheeling around, he looked through the open door and saw the mark

outside on the hall wall. Stalking over, he pressed his nose against the silk wallpaper and inhaled. Her scent was in the fibers of the weave.

She had broken out physically.

Yet she'd still been in the room after Mr. D had been attacked. Had

the Brothers come back and helped her get out?

A quick run through the house and Lash's mood went from nasty to

toxic. Laptop gone. Cell phones missing.

Mother f*cker.

Down in the kitchen, he headed into the pantry to get the--

"Oh, f*ck me!" Kneeling down, he checked out the panel that had been torn open. His stash was gone, too? How the hell had they found it?

Then again, Mr. D looked like an anatomy class had had at him.

Maybe he'd spilled. Which meant Lash couldn't be sure what other addresses had been compromised.

On a burst of rage, he threw his fist out, winging it hard and catching whatever he did.

A massive glass jar of olives.

The thing shattered, juice going everywhere, those little eyelike rollers hitting the floor and making bids for freedom in all directions.

Lash stomped back into the kitchen and went over to Mr. D. As that

bloody mouth started working again, the pitiful struggle was positively nauseating.

Reaching over the counter, Lash extracted a Henckels, palmed the

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hilt, and sank down. "Did you tell them anything?"

As Mr. D shook his head, Lash stared down into the guy's eyes. The

whites were darkening to a gray shade and the pupils had dilated to the point where there was almost no iris. However, although he appeared to be on the brink of demise, left on his own, Mr. D would languish and rot forever in this condition. There was only one way to "kill" him.

"Are you sure?" Lash murmured. "Even when they pulled your arms out of those sockets?"

Mr. D's mouth moved, the gurgling sounds like wet dog food falling

out of a can.

With a revolted curse, Lash stabbed the empty chest of that lesser, getting rid of at least that part of the mess. The pop and flash both faded quickly and then Lash shut himself in, locking the back door before heading up for the second floor once again.

It took him a half hour to pack his clothes, and as he muscled six

Prada duffels down the stairs, he couldn't remember when he'd ever had to carry his own luggage.

After lining up his load out on the back step, he set the security alarm, locked up, and shuffled his shit to the Mercedes.