Long Road Home(55)

She stared at him, stunned by his words.

“What are you waiting for? Get the hell out of here. I’d do it before Tony shows up and explains the situation to the feds.”

She turned and ran, her heart breaking the entire way. When she descended the stairs, she slowed, donning a cool expression. She strode out the front as if she owned the place, but inside she was a mess.

Manny had managed to break through the numbness. She felt, oh how she felt. She felt every single word he’d thrown at her. To the very depths of her soul.

She walked past countless agents, through the cars in the parking lot and down the street that had since been cordoned off. She flashed her badge at the cops who started to stop her at the barricade and they stepped aside to let her pass.

She walked until the building was no longer in sight, and she never looked back. There was nothing there for her. She kept walking until the wind blew cold on her wet cheeks.

And then a stronger sense of grief struck her. She hadn’t killed the senator. Northstar, whatever his purposes, wouldn’t care why. He would strike back at her, ruthlessly, without mercy. Manny would die, and all because she had hesitated. She had let her emotions take over in that single minute, and Manny would pay for it with his life.

She curled her fingers into tight fists. Whatever power struggle had erupted between Northstar and the senator, the only clear solution to the problem was to take Northstar out.

She needed to lure him into the open. What happened to her as a result, she didn’t care. This one last thing she would do for Manny, for her parents and for the girl she had once been.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Manuel swigged down another beer and tossed the bottle into the growing collection on the floor in front of him. He eyed the empty carton in disgust then reached past it for the unopened bottle of whiskey.

After fumbling with the lid, he tilted it back and let the fire pour down his throat. He coughed and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Beer before liquor, never sicker.

The old adage swam around in his brain, and he emitted a harsh laugh. It wasn’t possible for him to be any sicker than he already was.

His chest hurt, his head hurt, his heart hurt. And he’d never been so goddamn mad in his life.

For two days, he’d sat in this chair, drinking, trying to drink himself into a coma. He’d barely slept, and when he had, his dreams had been little more than a reenactment of his last scene with Jules.

Damn her. Damn her to hell and the bloody NFR along with her. What had they done to her to instill such loyalty that she would turn her back on someone she purported to love? Had she ever loved him? He hadn’t thought anyone could be that good an actress, but now he wondered. She’d certainly played him like a fiddle.

He swallowed back more whiskey and prayed for oblivion to claim him. Maybe then he wouldn’t hurt so damn much.

A rapid staccato sounded at the door to his apartment.

“Fuck off,” Manuel muttered.

The knocking grew louder, and Manuel tilted the bottle back some more.

Finally it stopped, and he slammed the bottle back down again.

“What the hell are you doing to yourself?” Tony asked in disgust. At least he thought it was Tony. To be honest, it sounded as though he were underwater.

He opened one eye and peered across the room in the direction of the voice. Tony stood in the doorway of the living room, glaring—what the hell did he have to be pissed at, anyway?

“Get the f**k out of here,” Manuel demanded.

Tony crossed the room and came to stand a few feet from where Manuel sat slouched in his armchair.

“Look, dude. I don’t have a lot of time, and I need your full attention. Haul your ass upstairs, take a shower and sober up. Then get back down here because there are some things you need to hear.”

Manuel studied him with half-closed eyes. “Tony, I don’t really give a rat’s ass. Get the hell out of my house. I quit.”

“No, you aren’t quitting yet.” Tony jerked a thumb toward the stairs. “Get going or so help me, I’ll throw you in the shower myself.”

“You and what army?” Manuel grumbled. But he shoved himself up and made his way unsteadily toward the stairs.

“I’ll make you some coffee,” Tony offered. “Looks like you could use a pot. Or two.”

Manuel waved in irritation. Whatever it took to make him go away.

He slugged his way up the stairs, walked into the bathroom, shed his clothing and stepped directly into the cold spray. He sucked in his breath in shock as it hit him full-on. He stuck his head under the water and let it slosh down his back.

For five minutes, he stood there, his hands braced on the shower wall, head bent, eyes closed. When his head began to clear, he fumbled for the knobs and turned the water off.

Whatever it was Tony had to tell him, it couldn’t be any worse than what had already happened. His estimation of Jules certainly couldn’t be any lower, so he had nothing to lose by listening to the all-important information.

He yanked on a T-shirt, collected a pair of jeans and hopped out of the room on one leg as he thrust the other one into the pants.

When he arrived downstairs, Tony shoved a steaming mug of coffee into his hands. “Drink it,” his partner ordered.

Manuel sat on the couch and plunked the cup down in front of him on the coffee table. “Okay, what’s so important that you’d come all the way over here to tell me? Thought that was what the phone was for.”