The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood #16)(60)

Vitoria stayed where she was, watching, waiting. When no one else appeared, she closed in, crossing over the lawn in the shadows because the house was lit from within, not without.

The garage had an exterior door on its far side, and in another stroke of luck, she did not have to pick a lock. The thing gave way like a good host, allowing her access into a two-car space, which had only one vehicle—a four-or five-year-old white Mercedes—parked directly in the center.

This was just getting easier.

There were three bare wooden steps to the steel door leading to the home’s interior, and as Vitoria went up them, first, second…third, she curled up a fist in the black leather gloves she’d put on.

Knock, knock, knock.

Then she stepped back down onto the poured concrete floor and waited, making sure she was off to one side a little.

The door swung open, the figure in the black robe with the glass of pale wine backlit by the lights of the hall behind.

“Hello?” came the impatient demand as the homeowner patted the wall beside them for the light switch. “Jonathan? Did you forget your key—”

Vitoria pulled the trigger on the gun in her hand, discharging three bullets that were silenced beautifully by the suppressor she had screwed onto the muzzle’s tip.

Miss Margot Fortescue’s arms jerked up, that wine thrown over her shoulder in a splash, her feet tripping over themselves as she fell backward.

Vitoria leapt onto the top step and caught the door, holding it wide.

Miss Fortescue was gasping like a fish, her perfectly pale skin going paler as her blood pressure began to fail, her hands clawing at the gray tile she was on. The slippery robe had fallen open and there were three spots of blood on the white silk nightgown beneath.

Vitoria angled the gun and pulled the trigger three more times, drilling more slugs into that chest, even though she was certain she had accomplished her goal with the first trio.

No more movement after that. No gasping, either.

The door was weighted to close on its own, but as she didn’t want any noise, she guided it into place silently.

Then she left as she had come in, rounding the Mercedes and exiting back into the yard. Jogging over to the wavy hedge, she stepped through the bushes—

Stopping short, she did not move.

One of those dog owners and his animal were walking down the street on the other side, the pair moving fast, the owner because he was cold, the standard poodle because he was energized, perhaps by a recent defecation.

Vitoria got her gun back out of its holster. She would much prefer not to use the weapon again, as killing potential witnesses could become an exponential thing, with bodies piling up like cordwood. She would do what she must, however.

If the pair were lucky, the dog would not scent anything. Would not look over and start barking. Would not cause the owner to investigate the source of canine engagement.

And wasn’t that the theme of the evening, Vitoria thought. Keeping to oneself and one’s own business was, in so many situations, the very best way of ensuring one’s long-term health and well-being.





TWENTY-SEVEN


Jane hated leaving Vishous wounded and down on the ground, but she knew he was safe in that doorway—and unlike a gunshot wound, what was going on with his leg was not terminal. Plus he was lucid and his color was good.

Moving quickly, she ran out to the road and bypassed the carload of humans Phury was erasing…then jumped over a slayer who was writhing in a pool of black blood…and finally penetrated the darkness of the next alley over to find Butch.

“Hey there,” a familiar Bostonian voice said. “Fancy…meeting you here.”

She stopped and spun around. “Where are you?”

“Behind the trash cans.”

Rerouting, she rushed over to a lineup of metal bins. The cop was sitting upright against the brick, his legs kicked out in front of him, one arm hanging loose, the other grabbing on to a wound that was somewhere up and to the left of his sternum.

Jane shifted her medical backpack off. “How’s it going, roomie?”

“Good, good.” Butch smiled weakly. “I’m making vacation plans for the spring. Think I’ll take Marissa to Fashion Week, and—” He groaned as he tried to move. “Fuck.”

“Let me have a look.” He allowed her to remove his protective hand and she immediately took a deep breath of relief. “Okay, I believe we’re a lot more shoulder than I initially thought—”

The sound of shots ringing out twisted her around. Out in the road proper, as the SUV drove off, Phury had his gun up and was racing into the alley Vishous was in.

“Oh, shit, V!” she said. “That’s where he is—”

“I’m good to go!” Butch grunted as he started to stand up. “I’m coming, V—”

Jane shoved the cop back down and held him there. “You are going nowhere.”

More shots. And then Phury stumbled back into the road. He was shouting at an attacker Jane couldn’t see as he fell to his knees.

Then, like something out of a horror movie, his torso took impacts that jerked him like a puppet, his mane of glorious hair blowing back as he collapsed into the snow.

Jane jumped to her feet and went for her phone. “Stay here—”

“I’m coming, too!”