Visions (Cainsville #2)(110)

Morgan’s squint deepened. “You’re saying that if I send out the file, you’ll retaliate with some other blackmail.”

“Certainly not. I gave you permission to send the file. The difficulty comes if you refuse to leave Olivia alone. Then I will be forced to reveal what other intelligence I’ve gathered on you.”

“I will not leave Olivia—”

Gabriel sprang to his feet and had Morgan against the wall before the man could blink. He pinned him there, feet barely touching the ground, his shirtfront gathered in Gabriel’s fist, pressing into his windpipe.

“You will leave her alone. If you harm her, in any way, you will wish to God for blackmail, because you can recover from that.”

“Is that a death threat?”

“I would never be so unimaginative.”

Gabriel dropped Morgan but stayed where he was, effectively keeping him pinned there, unable to move more than an inch.

“You tell me you love her, but this isn’t love,” Gabriel said. “It’s anger and it’s wounded pride. Your history is open to anyone with a laptop, Morgan. You had another woman you planned to marry, but she was dull and insipid. Olivia is neither. You dumped the old girlfriend. You pursued Olivia. You won Olivia. Now you’ve lost her. And that looks bad.”

“You think this is about politics? Her biological parents—”

“—are convicted serial killers. Now about to undergo an appeal, which may set them free. And you stuck by Olivia the whole time. You believed in her. Except . . . she wasn’t grateful. Now she’s run off with a biker. A biker. How humiliating. You should walk away. But you can’t. You want her to grovel. You want her to pay.”

“I would never—”

“No? Look me in the eye and tell me this is about love.”

Morgan’s jaw worked, and Gabriel eased back to watch him squirm. He noticed the movement a split second too late. His own fault, really, the smug satisfaction that he’d intimidated Morgan into impotence. Then the blow to his jaw that sent him reeling.

Gabriel recovered and slammed his fist into Morgan’s gut. He caught Morgan’s expression when he saw the blow coming. Shock, as if he couldn’t believe Gabriel would pull such an ungentlemanly move. Again proving the man was an idiot. On the streets, there’s no place for fairness. You put your opponent down fast, by any means possible.

Morgan crumpled to the floor, doubled over, his eyes bulging as he gasped for breath.

“You might want to see a doctor about that,” Gabriel said. “I believe Olivia was telling me just the other day that Harry Houdini died from an untreated blow to the stomach.”

He walked into the hall. As he did, he heard the pounding of Mrs. Morgan’s footsteps on the stairs.

Gabriel looked up at her. “May I suggest you teach your son not to strike a man significantly larger than him. It rarely ends well.”

She started shrieking threats. Creative threats, actually, making Gabriel suspect she would have been a far more worthy adversary than her son. He continued to the door as she hurried down to tend to her wounded boy.

Gabriel pulled open the door—and nearly yanked the security guard in with it. Behind the guard were two uniformed police officers.

“Gabriel Walsh, you’re under arrest for trespass, breaking and entering, issuing threats . . .”





CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT


After the Huntsman left, I fell asleep. I’m sure there was something preternatural in that—there was no way I’d drift off with everything pinging through my head.

When my phone rang, Ricky woke first, and by the time I surfaced, he’d already pulled my cell from my discarded slacks.

He swore and turned the phone toward me. It was James. The call went to voice mail.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Two in the morning. Has he been doing this?”

“No. It’s because . . . he sent a package this morning.”

His look of concern sharpened to alarm, and I laughed softly.

“It wasn’t a bomb or a dead rat,” I said. “Just a file on Gabriel. Rumors and allegations. There was one on you, too. He didn’t dig up anything more than a couple of dismissed traffic violations, but I should have mentioned it. I planned to, and then last night . . .”

“You had trouble with Gabriel, followed by motorcycle rides, which aren’t conducive to conversation. We should talk, though. If James is—”

The phone rang again. Still James.

“Okay,” Ricky said. “Three ways to handle this. One, you answer, though I’d rather you didn’t, because it seems to only give him an excuse to keep calling. Two, you turn the phone off. Three, I answer.”

“Go for it.”

His eyes glinted. “Seriously?”

“I was hoping for a mature breakup, but he’s not letting me have it.”

Ricky answered. There was a pause, as James presumably processed the fact that a man was answering my phone at this hour. Then Ricky said, “It’s Rick Gallagher. We haven’t met.”

A murmur on the other end of the line.

“It’s the middle of the night. Can I pass on a message?”

Another murmur.

“If it’s important, I’ll wake her, but she’s been working double shifts. I’d like to let her sleep.”