Call Down the Hawk (Dreamer, #1)(3)

“Really?” The Zed peered up at Farooq-Lane. His attention was fully on her, as if the others weren’t there. Fair enough; her attention was entirely on him, too. “That kills me either way. I expected more complexity from you, Carmen.”

Lock raised his gun. He did not say it out loud, but he found this Zed a particularly creepy son of a bitch, and that was even without taking into account what he’d done. “Then you’ve made your choice.”

During all of this, Ramsay had fetched his gas cans from the back of the rental car; he’d been dying to use them all day. Petrol, he’d smirked, as if variations in English usage were sufficient material for a joke. Now the small copse had begun to stink of the sweet, carcinogenic perfume of gasoline as Ramsay drop-kicked the last of the gas cans in the direction of the cottage. He was probably the sort of person who would throw a cat.

“We’ll need to watch the road while it burns,” said Lock. “Let’s make this quick.”

The Zed looked at them with detached interest. “I understand me, guys, but why Browne? He was a kitten. What are you afraid of?”

Lock said, “Someone is coming. Someone is coming to end the world.”

In this humming wood, dramatic phrases like end the world felt not only plausible but probable.

The Zed quirked a gallows smile. “Is it you?”

Lock shot him. Several times. It was pretty clear the first one had done the job, but Lock kept going until he stopped feeling so creeped out. As the shots finished echoing through the wood, something deeper in the copse thudded to the ground with the same distinctive sound as the cat in the kitchen. It had some weight to it. All of them were glad that this dream had fallen asleep before they’d had a chance to meet it.

Now that the woods were silent, everyone left alive looked at Carmen Farooq-Lane.

Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut and her face was turned away, like she’d been bracing for a bullet herself. Her mouth worked but she didn’t cry. She did appear younger. Ordinarily she presented herself with such corporate sophistication—linen suits, lovely updos—that it was difficult to guess her age: one saw only a successful, self-possessed businesswoman. But this moment stripped away the glamour and revealed her as the twenty-something she was. It was not a comfortable sensation; there was the strong urge to wrap a blanket around her to return her dignity. But at least they couldn’t doubt her dedication. She’d been in this as deep as any of them and had seen it through to the end.

Lock put a paternal hand on her shoulder. In his deep voice, he rumbled, “Fucked-up situation.”

It was difficult to tell if this offered Farooq-Lane any comfort.

He told the others, “Let’s finish this up and get out of here.”

Ramsay lit a match. He used it first to light a cigarette for Nikolenko, and next to light a cigarette for himself. Then he dropped it into the gasoline-soaked undergrowth just before the flame bit his fingertips.

The forest began to burn.

Farooq-Lane turned away.

Releasing a puff of cigarette smoke in the direction of the dead Zed’s body, Ramsay asked, “Have we saved the world?”

Lock tapped the time of Nathan Farooq-Lane’s death into his phone. “Too soon to say.”





2

Ronan Lynch was about to end the world.

His world, anyway. He was ending one and starting another. At the beginning of this road trip would be one Ronan Lynch, and at the end, there would be another.

“Here’s the situation,” Declan said. This was a classic Declan way to start a conversation. Other hits included Let’s focus on the real action item and This is what it’s going to take to close this deal and In the interest of clearing the air. “I would have no problem with you driving my car if you would keep it under ninety.”

“And I’d have no problem with riding in your car if you’d keep it over geriatric,” Ronan replied.

It was early November; the trees were handsome; the sky was clear; excitement was in the air. The three brothers debated in a Goodwill parking lot; those entering and leaving stared. They were an eye-catchingly mismatched threesome: Ronan, with his ominous boots and ominous expression; Declan, with his perfectly controlled curls and dutiful gray suit; Matthew, with his outstandingly ugly checked pants and cheerfully blue puffer coat.

Ronan continued, “There are stains that spread faster than you drive. If you drive, it’ll take fourteen years to get there. Seventeen. Forty. One hundred. We’ll be driving to your funeral by the end.”

The Lynch brothers were on the first road trip they’d been on since their parents died. They’d made it fifteen minutes from Declan’s home before Declan had received a call he refused to take in the car. Now they continued to be delayed by negotiations for the driver’s seat. Ronan had driven this far; opinions were divided on whether he should get the privilege again. In the Goodwill lot, the brothers presented the facts: It was Declan’s car, Ronan’s trip, Matthew’s vacation. Declan had a letter from the insurance company offering him better rates for his exceptional driving record. Ronan had a letter from the state advising him to change his driving habits lest he lose his license. Matthew had no interest in driving; he said if he didn’t have enough friends to drive him anywhere he wanted to go, he was living his life wrong. In any case, he’d failed his driver’s test three times.