A Chip and a Chair (Seven of Spades, #5)(93)

Levi blinked at the man he was straddling. Hatfield’s face was a shattered, bloody mess, his head lolling insensate on the carpet. His wet breaths gurgled in his throat.

Recoiling with a cry of dismay, Levi scooted backward on Hatfield’s chest. Dominic released his wrist, and his arm fell limply to his side.

“You should kill him,” Natasha said as she approached from the left. “Think of everything he’s done. Everything he planned to do.”

Levi was transfixed by the mess he’d made of Hatfield: Nazi. Murderer. Mastermind of a plot to level a city and slaughter tens of thousands.

Natasha was suddenly right beside him, murmuring into his ear. “Nobody has to know you were the one who killed him. You can even say it was me. The only people who’ll know the truth are the ones in this room.”

Levi’s hands shook.

“Kill him, Levi.” Natasha’s voice was quiet and relentless, an undercurrent of excitement charging her words. “You know you want to. He deserves to die.”

Deserves?

Did Hatfield deserve to die? Who the hell was Levi to judge that? Who was he to take matters of life and death into his own hands, to decide when it was time for another human being to draw their last breath?

Hatfield had been an immediate threat when Levi attacked him. Now he was just a broken old man. Levi didn’t want to kill him.

“No,” Levi said, shaking his head. Then, more firmly, “No.” He rose to his feet. “Hatfield’s down; he’s not a threat to anyone anymore. I have no right to kill him. He belongs in jail.”

Levi stepped aside, moving away from Hatfield’s prone body. Dominic gripped Levi’s shoulder, meeting his eyes for a single heavy moment before he let go and knelt to administer to Hatfield. Martine came to assist him, squeezing Levi’s arm as she passed.

Watching them work on Hatfield, Levi had to retreat further, ashamed of his loss of control. Leila was standing by the door with her trademark stoicism, stroking Rebel’s head.

She raised a single eyebrow in Levi’s direction: You okay? He nodded, and that seemed to satisfy her.

“I was wrong,” Natasha said behind him.

He turned around. “What?”

“I was wrong.” Her dumbfounded expression was echoed by the faintness of her tone. “I’ve always thought that you and I were the same-that you were repressing that side of you, locking it away because you were afraid of it. But your anger is only a product of your unhealed wounds. There’s nothing deeper driving it. You . . . you aren’t a killer.”

“I’ve killed people,” he said, bewildered.

“You’ve taken life. That doesn’t make you a killer.” She shrugged. “I misjudged you. I’m sorry.”

His mouth fell open as he struggled to find words. “You’re . . . sorry?” Hysterical laughter bubbled in his throat, drawing the others’ attention. “You’re sorry? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I-”

“What do you think is happening here?” The macabre humor of the situation fled, and Levi was left drowning in a sea of adrenaline, rage, and grief. “Do you think this little adventure to save the city will somehow make up for everything you’ve done? Do you think it’ll make me forget-not only the people you’ve murdered, but the ways you hurt Keith, Adriana, Dominic?”

Natasha clenched her jaw. Behind her, Dominic had stood, eyeing their confrontation but hanging back.

“There’s no forgetting,” said Levi. “Once this is over, you’re going to jail just like Hatfield, and you’re going to rot there until the day you die. Maybe then God will forgive you, Natasha.” He swallowed hard, blinking back tears. “But I never will.”

He stalked out of the room.



When the rest of the team joined Levi by the condo’s front door, nobody commented on his rant. Utopia’s reinforcements had arrived, but since Carmen still controlled the elevators, they were forced to climb twenty-one flights of stairs. All Levi and the others had to do was slip onto the freight elevator when Carmen unlocked it, then ride it to the first level of the parking garage while she disguised their descent.

Utopia hadn’t stationed new guards in the garage, so they discussed their plan-or rather, the lack thereof-as they retrieved Leila’s bike and headed for the exit ramp. The closer they got to the sidewalk, the louder the screams, sirens, and bedlam of the riots became.

“We still have the same problem,” Dominic said. “A tight deadline to travel six miles across a city in chaos, with no form of transportation other than a single motorcycle.” He gestured to the bike, which Leila was walking down the ramp with effortless control.

Martine, who’d used all her beanbag rounds, had her shotgun tucked beneath one arm. “We could call Denise now, tell her what’s going on. The FBI could get to UNLV before us.”

“And if the wrong person overhears and warns the triggerman to change locations?”

“Look,” Leila said impatiently, “if one of you knows how to drive a bike, you and Levi can just take it and go.”

Levi’s stomach turned over at the mere suggestion. “I’m not leaving Natasha alone with you two.”

“Whoa, hold up.” Martine hurried in front of him, extending a hand to stop him in his tracks. “You don’t trust me to keep her in custody?”