Aftershocks (29 page)

Zoe stood again, her eyes burning. “We can’t let Will just swing in the wind. He didn’t answer his phone.”

“You saw his security setup.” Kell stood, too, his brow furrowed with worry, but logic still dominant. “He’s going to be fine.”

“I’ve asked the local office to send a patrol car by,” Henricksen assured her. “But we don’t even know for sure Rhomney’s here.”

He’s here.
But she nodded. For a moment, they all stood, unmoving. She could almost hear engines revving, waiting for the green flag. But it wasn’t going to come for a while, and she couldn’t handle the collective tension. “I’m going to change and take a nap.”

“Good idea.” Kell stood and made to follow her. She stopped.

“What are you doing?”

He grinned. “I’m walking you to your room. Don’t worry, I’ll go on to my own.”

Zoe would have said she was fine walking the twenty feet to her door, but the possibility of Pat being nearby made her jumpy. They walked in silence down the hall, and she paused at her door to thank Kell. He seemed strangely taller than usual, and she remembered she’d left her shoes in the other room. Oh, who cared? She wasn’t going to be wearing them again soon.

“You’ll be okay alone? I don’t mind coming in and just being here. I can rest in the other bed.”

She smiled. “Tempting.” He’d taken off his jacket and rolled the sleeves of his shirt. He’d gotten warm, because he smelled good. Not the intentional scent of cologne, but the real, deep scent of his skin and need.

“Yeah?” His lips curved and he braced a hand on the door to lean over her. “How tempting?”

“Too.” The memory of her panic at Will’s was strong, and Kell could take her away from that. He was the “after” part of her life, the part she’d kept distant from the horrors, and she knew if she let him in, if she made love with him, it would banish the fear and pain, at least temporarily.

But she didn’t move. Didn’t open her door to escape him or let him in. Didn’t stop looking into those gorgeous blue eyes, so deep and oh, God, so wanting. She whispered his name, and it came out a plea rather than a warning.

Kell dipped down and touched his mouth to hers, his eyes closing before they met. Zoe kept hers open. She wasn’t sure why. His lips were gentle and undemanding, just offering her a taste, a promise. But his face was taut, his eyes scrunched a little, so that she knew he was closing off something else—pain, regret, betrayal, anger?

The last thing she wanted to do was lead him on and hurt him again later, but his mouth parted and coaxed hers open, his tongue smoothly invaded her, and something cracked. Her eyes closed, her hand came up to the back of his head, and she kissed him back. Just a little. Enough to keep from crushing him, or so she told herself. But a whimper escaped, and her body arched toward him.

Down the hall, a door opened. Zoe jerked back and thumped her head against the door. “Ow.”

Henricksen stepped out and spotted them. “Hey.” He waggled his phone and walked halfway down the hall toward them. “Grant’s talking to his guy in Boston. They’ve got eyes on Olivia, and she’s fine.”

Zoe shivered. She stopped rubbing the back of her head and kept her gaze fixed on Henricksen. “Thanks.”

Kell had shifted away from her. He waited until the agent had gone back into the other room before turning to her. All soft feelings were completely gone. His expression could have given Grant’s stone face a run for its money.

“I asked Grant to check,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “If Pat knows the totems are close and thinks he can’t get to me—”

“Yeah. I get it. I know what’s at stake.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and his chin at her door handle. “Go inside. I’m going to go check in with my parents’ people, too. Let them know what’s changed.”

“Kell—”

“You don’t want to talk about this,” he warned. “You don’t want me to start thinking about whether I should go be with my sister.”

“You should,” she squeezed through her tight throat. Her eyes burned with dryness, and she fiercely shoved down the misery his words brought. She deserved them, after all. And far more. “Olivia is the vulnerable one, and she did nothing to become a target.” She would die before she’d let anything happen to Olivia, but didn’t think Kell would react well to hearing it.

To her surprise, he blew out a loud breath and dropped his head. “You didn’t, either.”

“What?”

“Look, you did plenty wrong here. Made some questionable decisions. But we’re all in this because you became a target through no fault or will of your own sixteen years ago.” He pulled one hand out and nudged her. “Go ahead. Go inside. We’ll talk about this later.”

She pulled her keycard out of her purse but otherwise didn’t move. “Are you going to Boston?”

“I don’t know. Let me talk to people. We’ll see.”

He went inside with her and checked the room, amusing her when he peered behind the shower curtain and in the closet, even pulling the safe door wide to check inside. Then he left without saying anything else, and Zoe collapsed onto her bed, even more conflicted than before.

Because she didn’t know which she wanted more—for him to leave or for him to stay.

* * *

“Almost over” was usually when everything turned to shit. So even though Grant agreed they should sleep during forced down time, he found it more difficult than it should have been.

Normally, power naps were a piece of cake. But normally, he had nothing personal at stake in a job. So instead of falling asleep as soon as he fell onto the bed he stared at the ceiling, wondering if Stone had really left Zoe at the door to her room. If he himself had a chance with her at all. The idea that he didn’t made him want to go roaring out of the room to demonstrate his beat-down skills to Stone. So he didn’t have to wonder if he really wanted her or just wanted what she represented.

Okay, that was too psychobabbly. Think about the op. Ideal progression: Henricksen would get the warrant tomorrow morning, they’d go in, confiscate the totems, placate Carling with false assurance that it was temporary, and destroy the damned things, somehow letting Rhomney know that it was all over.

But that would leave Rhomney and Thomashunis at large, and who knew what they’d do in retaliation? They hadn’t done anything the government could prosecute them for, unless it could be proven they were responsible for Cocalico’s assault. That wouldn’t be easy. Rhomney wouldn’t have allowed any trail back to him, not anything that was solid enough for charges to be levied.

So to Grant’s mind, that meant Zoe would still be vulnerable. She seemed to think Pat would let it drop if he had nothing to gain, but Grant knew that was wishful thinking.

The second possibility was that the FBI would secure the totems, then put people on Carling to see if Rhomney went after him. They could arrest him for parole violation, at the least, and assault or attempted whatever, depending on what he did when cornered. That
could
have the potential of tying Freddie to it, adding conspiracy, and getting them both back off the street, but it wouldn’t be for very long. Pat and Freddie on the street put a lot of people at risk. The profile that had been written up on them put murder low on the probability scale. But Grant knew better.

He hadn’t allowed himself to think about his brother all week. He’d blocked off that part of him long ago, and was good enough at partitioning to look at it distantly, like something that had happened to someone else, even when Zoe dragged up the past.

But, hey, might as well add to tonight’s torture. The word immediately drew up his prevailing memory: The house Rhomney’s thugs had dragged him to. Grant had been thirteen and full of mixed feelings toward his brother. He’d worshiped him as a little kid, but that had faded as they got older and grew further apart. Jordie was smart but had no common sense. He liked people, and people liked him, and all it took was doing one favor for a friend who dealt drugs to drag him onto a dangerous career path. People gave him things, or did as he requested, a lot more easily than they did under threat. He got stuff done.

But he was never a bad kid. Rhomney had somehow found out about his “talent” and recruited him into his…cult, he supposed he could call it. Grant didn’t like giving them that much credit.

When Rhomney tracked down the totems, he tried to send Jordie to take possession of them. Jordie had come home one night agitated and snapping at everyone. Grant, mad when his brother yelled at their mother, chased him down to his room in the basement and pushed him to tell what was going on. His brother hadn’t had anyone to confide in, so he caved.

Jordie hadn’t known at the beginning, but after a few weeks he’d figured out that Freddie’s “daughter” wasn’t her daughter, but a girl being held against her will. He’d gone outside to take a leak one night and heard a couple of the “lieutenants” talking about the totems and how after they got them they’d have it made, and they couldn’t wait to do the ritual with the girl. He hadn’t wanted any part of that, but Pat had told him that night to get the totems or pay the consequences.

Grant tried to convince his brother to go to the police, but Jordie refused. He didn’t trust them to believe him, and his history meant he wanted to stay far away. But he’d been more cheerful the next morning and apparently went to tell Rhomney he wasn’t doing it. When Grant left school that afternoon someone hit him on the head and shoved him into a van, where they knelt on his arms until they got to the house.

Jordie was standing in the middle of the living room, talking to a ratty-haired redhead with big boobs sagging out of a tank top, when they shoved Grant to the floor in front of him. He’d never forget the way Jordie’s expression changed. The glazed look in his eyes gave way to horror, then fury, and he’d launched himself at the goon standing over Grant. But instead of fighting Jordie, the man held a knife to Grant’s throat, which of course stopped Jordie in his tracks.

There’d been arguing. Pat came in and calmly told Jordie to go get the totems. Jordie told them to let Grant go first, but instead the guy had sliced off Grant’s earlobe, tossed it at Jordie, and told him to do the job or he’d slice more pieces off his little brother.

Grant had spent much of the rest of the day in a haze of red pain and terror. They’d put him in a bedroom with Zoe, who bandaged his ear with a dirty cloth and held him, wiping away sweat and tears and giving him reassurances she shouldn’t have had the strength to even consider. Sometime after dark, Jordie snuck in. He came into the bedroom, apologized to Zoe, and carried Grant out to the van.

He hadn’t known it at the time, but Jordie’s goodbye had probably been intentionally final. He’d decided to let them do whatever they’d do to him to save his little brother. Grant had called Jordie when he got dumped in front of their house, told him he was home okay, and never spoke to his brother again.

Of course, the police had gotten involved when his mother took Grant to the hospital, but with the very little information Grant could give them, no trace of Jordie, and his history of screw-ups, the investigation had gone nowhere.

He threw himself off the bed and into the bathroom to twist on the tap. Cold water splattered the countertop and numbed his fingers. He filled his palms and tossed the liquid onto his face. Then again. It did nothing to chill the burning pain or relieve the clawing in his throat. Water continued to gush as the edge of the marble dug into the heels of his hands. He stared through reddened eyes at a face he barely recognized, twisted with grief.

He’d opened the door. Now he had to walk through it: No outcome the government achieved would be enough for him. He’d started this because Zoe, the only woman he’d ever loved, had needed his help. He’d been able to keep his attention on that need, plus his desire to be back with her. But this could never be just about that. If Grant had been the one to spot Rhomney today, Zoe—or worse, Stone—would be bailing Grant out of jail right now.

Hell.

He slammed the faucet handle down and swiped a towel across his face, dropping it onto the floor. He returned to the bed, stretching on his stomach this time, and shoved his arms under the pillow. Would his brain shut the hell up and let him sleep already? Because if he had a hidden need for revenge, there was no way he could ever be with Zoe. She deserved a man without the ability to wreak vengeance at any cost.

A man like Stone. Fuck.

A door opened down the hall, then closed. A moment later, the sound repeated further along. Fuck again. Had Stone been with her all that time, taking the advantage back?

Grant should let him have it. Zoe had chosen Kell in a way she’d never chosen him. They’d been pushed together by crime, then by their mothers, who’d clung to each other in the aftermath of their tragedies, throwing Grant and Zoe together. For their part, they’d each latched on to the one person who understood what they’d endured. It had grown, and Grant believed the love they’d felt had been real, but it had never been choice.

He didn’t have much longer to decide if that mattered.

* * *

“You’re staying here.”

Zoe didn’t know why Henricksen didn’t trust her. They stood near the FBI trucks across the street from Carling’s mansion. No one had been able to reach Carling since yesterday, and Henricksen had worked all night to finalize a seizure warrant for the totems. He’d apparently been building his case for that all along, and was hoping to get it fast by showing a convincing connection between Cocalico’s assault, the totems, and her sighting of Pat.