Vengeful (Villains #2)(118)

Mitch’s car, its front end a mess of crumpled metal, barreled through the open gate and drove away.

He checked the rearview mirror—nobody was behind them, not yet. He glanced sideways at Victor.

“That’s a lot of blood.”

“Most of it is Dominic’s,” replied Victor grimly.

Confusion washed over Mitch. He didn’t want to ask. Didn’t really need to. The only answer that mattered was in Victor’s eyes as they avoided his.

“Where’s Sydney?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You drop me off,” said Victor, “and you find her, and then you get the hell out of this city.”

“Drop you off where?”

Victor pulled the invitation from his back pocket. It was crumpled, and bloodstained, but the gold lettering on the front was clear.

“The Old Courthouse.”





XVI





THE LAST EVENING


DOWNTOWN MERIT


THE rain was finally easing by the time Marcella stepped outside.

Three cars sat idling on the curb ahead, one elegant black town car flanked by two SUVs. The security detail swept around them, four men in crisp black suits, raised umbrellas masking them from sight.

Marcella wasn’t taking any chances.

Stell would be getting desperate, and desperate men did reckless things.

They reached the sedan, and Jonathan held open her door. When he wasn’t wallowing, he could be quite a gentleman.

Marcella slid into the backseat, and noticed she wasn’t alone. A man sat across from her, tan and elegant in a pale gray suit. He was staring out the window, and sulking profoundly.

“Well?” asked Marcella. “Did you get to her in time?”

The man nodded, and spoke in that familiar lilt. “It was a near thing,” said June, “but I did.”

“Good,” said Marcella briskly. “You’ll bring her to me, of course, when this is done.”

June’s borrowed eyes flicked sideways, but when she spoke, her voice was steady. “Of course.”

Jonathan climbed in on the other side. Marcella had no trouble seeing June behind her many faces—but Jonathan jumped a little at the sight of a stranger.

“Johnny boy,” cooed June. “Rest easy, now, the prodigal EO has returned to the fold.”

Marcella considered June. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

The man’s mouth tugged into a wry smile. “Am I too pretty?” And just like that, he vanished, smooth, high cheekbones replaced by a bag lady with a hooked nose. “Is this better?”

Marcella rolled her eyes, glad to see June restored to her usual humor.

“Surely,” she said, “there’s a happy medium.”

June gave a dramatic sigh and dissolved into a middle-aged man with a groomed mustache and an attractive, if mildly forgettable face. “Better?”

“Much,” said Marcella.

June gave her a sweeping look. “You look like Snow White killed the queen and stole the mirror.”

Marcella flashed a cool smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

June settled back in her seat. “You would.”

*

ELI smoothed his hair back and buttoned his shirt.

He’d dumped the fragments of the broken pen into the toilet tank. The tracking devices he slipped into the pocket of his suit jacket.

It felt good to be back in real-world clothes, even if they were on the formal side. He’d donned a hundred different costumes in the service of his work. All he was missing was a weapon—a knife, a length of wire. But he could make do with his bare hands. He’d certainly done it before.

Eli was just knotting the borrowed tie when he heard the commotion beyond the bathroom door, the radio chatter mixing with Stell’s gruff voice. Eli undid the knot and started again, working slowly as he listened.

“No . . . God dammit . . . who was it? No . . . we continue as planned . . .”

Eli waited until it was obvious there was nothing more to glean, then emerged, taking in the scene. Stell’s cheeks were ruddy. He had never had much of a poker face. And only one man could cause so much consternation.

Victor.

“Everything okay?” asked Eli.

“Just focus on the task,” ordered Stell, pulling on his own suit jacket and running a hand through salt-and-pepper hair. More salt by the day, thought Eli. Some people really weren’t suited for this line of work.

He wasn’t the only one who’d gotten dressed.

The woman now wore a silk black jumpsuit, the kind that belonged on a catwalk, not a field agent.

The young blond was still in his uniform, but the square-jawed soldier wore a black jacket over a crisp white shirt open at the throat.

Eli hummed thoughtfully. “The invitation only admits two.”

In answer, Stell produced a second card.

“A replica?” wondered Eli aloud. If it was a copy, it was flawless.

“No,” said Stell. “It’s the one Marcella sent to the district attorney. Lucky for us, he’s out of town.” He handed the spare invitation to the female soldier. “Holtz,” he said, nodding at the blond, “will stay outside.”

“Always the short straw,” muttered the soldier.