Defying Fate (8 page)

“We were just on the way to see Leo and Marja,” Hannah said.

The smile grew fixed to Landon’s face. “They’re on their way. You should get comfortable while you wait.” He kept walking forward, invading Hannah’s space. The backs of her legs struck the couch. She sat down hard.

Nathaniel set down the box of cereal. “What’s going on, Landon?” He was much too confident for a boy his age, and much too unimpressed by Landon’s authority. Just another consequence of his father’s arrogant blood.

“Why don’t you sit down, too?” Landon asked.

Nathaniel dropped onto the couch beside Hannah. She wrapped one arm around him, and the fact that he tolerated it meant that he must have been much more scared than he let himself show.

We never should have come here. This was a mistake.
Hannah clasped her trembling hands together, trying not to shiver in her rain-soaked clothing.

“Leo and Marja will be here soon,” Landon said again, almost like he was trying to convince himself. He kept glancing at the windows.

“He’s lying,” Nathaniel whispered to Hannah.

The high priest cast a sharp look at him. “I’ll be right back. Neither of you move.”

He stepped out the front door.

Hannah certainly believed that Landon was waiting for someone. But Nathaniel was right, too—he wasn’t waiting for her in-laws. He was still colluding with that angel, the one that had taken Ariane away when they were girls.

Whoever stepped through that door next would not be friendly.

Hannah squeezed her son tighter against her side, and she made a quick decision.

Landon was old. Hannah wasn’t a fighter—never had been, never would be—but she thought she could overpower him, especially if he didn’t expect it.

She had to move fast.

“Get ready to follow me. We have to run,” she said, pushing Nathaniel’s backpack into his arms. She grabbed a paperweight off of the side table. It felt hefty in her hand. Deadly.

He didn’t argue this time. He just nodded, cheeks pale and eyes wide, and zipped up his coat.

Hannah took a deep breath.

Forgive me, Mother Goddess.

She jumped onto the patio.

But Landon was already dead.

She didn’t need to check his pulse to confirm it. The butcher knife sticking out of his chest was evidence enough.

And Ariane Kavanagh stood over him with a look of shock on her face, bloody hands, and the curve of a pregnant belly under her shirt.

VIII

Malcolm couldn’t remember the last
time that he had been happy. It wasn’t the Union’s fault, really, even though they had turned out to be kind of a bust. The fact that he had spent the last few months as their detainee, rather than as an honored commander, was pretty solid evidence of that.

But his misery easily predated them. In fact, he thought that the beginning of his slide from “happy drunk guy” into “irredeemable alcoholic” had begun the day that his life tangled with Elise Kavanagh’s.

Traveling with Elise had been terrifying. Having her disappear without so much as a goodbye sucked, too. But realizing that he had lost the Kerry territory to an overlord was the worst part of all.

After that, having a goat-fucking asshole like Gary Zettel steal his job was nothing. And getting convicted for treason? He couldn’t even work up a yawn for it. At least the food in the detention center had been good.

Now he was handcuffed in the back of an armored SUV on his way to Italy. They were either going to acquit him, or kill him.

After the trend of the last few years, Malcolm was not feeling optimistic.

“I’m sick of NPR,” Malcolm called to the front seat. “Put something good on.”

The driver ignored him.

“Come
on
. How’s about a little Wolfmother? The Black Angels? You’re supposed to be transporting a prisoner, not torturing him.”

“Deal with it. The airport’s only five minutes away,” Krista said. She was his guard for the trip, and she had no sense of humor.

Malcolm sighed and slumped in the chair. “Then you think you could uncuff me? Having my wrists behind my back for such a long drive isn’t very comfortable.”

Krista gave him a small smile. She had Scandinavian features, so her smiles were a lovely thing to behold. She could have been a supermodel if not for the palsy. The genetic lottery had played two cruel jokes on her—both the birth defect, and in making her a rare female kopis. It made the left side of her body weak, including the hand she currently had draped over a gun.

But she had some of the nicest eyes that Malcolm had seen, which matched her very nice tits and ass. If he got executed in Italy, he would leave the Earth with one major regret: that he had never managed to talk Krista into a little one-on-one grappling time to get acquainted with that ass.

“For the record, I think it’s a shame,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the driver.

“What, the NPR? Right there with you, sister,” Malcolm said.

She lowered her voice. “The Union needs more guys like you and fewer like Zettel. I hope they give you a fair trial in Italy. I want to see you back on the ground soon.”

Malcolm grinned. The Union had confiscated his eye patch as contraband, so it probably wasn’t nearly as charming as her smile. “Why, Krista, I didn’t know you cared. It’s not too late for a quickie, you know.”

She returned his grin with a lopsided smile of her own. “Not happening. I’m still carting your ass off to the plane. But don’t take it personally.”

Ah, well. It had been worth a try.

“No worries. You’re just doing your job.”

Before his arrest, Krista had explained to Malcolm that she had enlisted with the Union for two reasons: because they paid for physical therapy, and because they had agreed to let her serve as a soldier despite the disability.

Malcolm could dream of all the quickies he wanted, but there was no way she was going to put her job at risk when she loved it so much. Not for him, not for anyone.

Total waste of a perfect ass.

The SUV came to a stop and waited for the gates to open. Krista kept her gun trained on him the entire time, like he might try to escape. Malcolm couldn’t help but laugh at that. He was a drunkard, not a moron.

They got clearance quickly enough, and moved inside. Malcolm leaned his forehead against the window to take in the sight of the last flight he would ever take.

It was a small airplane, which was painted black with white lettering on the side, just like everything else the Union owned. The door was already open and waiting for him. Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought the fuselage was shaped like a coffin.

When the SUV stopped, he was surprised to see Gary Zettel open the door.

Malcolm stepped onto the tarmac. Zettel was much shorter than him, and he had the personality of a disgruntled Chihuahua to go with the height. Malcolm briefly entertained the idea of dropkicking Zettel across the airstrip.

“Come to see me off?” Malcolm asked. “How sweet. You shouldn’t have.
Really
.”

Zettel ignored him.

“Change of plans, Krista. The witch escorts have been diverted to search the forest. You’re getting a free trip to Italy. Congratulations.” Then he addressed Malcolm. “What did you do?”

“What? I think a man has every right to complain about being forced to listen to NPR.”

Zettel closed a meaty fist on Malcolm’s shirt, jerking him down to eye-level. “James Faulkner is gone and your cell door was open. What the
fuck
did you do?”

“James Faulkner’s gone? Gone from where?”

“From the detention center. We arrested him in Fallon. You colluded with him to escape.”

Oh, lovely. The Union had tried to take James into custody. There was no way
that
could go poorly.

“Believe it or not, I haven’t seen him in ages,” Malcolm said. “And we’ve never been best mates. Jim has no interest in rescuing me. He’d probably throw a little party for my execution, in fact.”

Zettel glowered. “I’m going to find him. And when I do, and he confirms your involvement…”

“I’ll be arrested for treason and sent to Italy HQ? Oh, no. Please don’t do
that
.”

“Get him on the plane,” the commander said. Krista couldn’t salute with her good arm holding the gun, so she just nodded, then followed Malcolm closely as he mounted the stairs.

He maintained his very best devil-may-care smile until the moment he stepped into the jet.

Malcolm hadn’t allowed himself to fantasize about escaping, but if he had, he wouldn’t have imagined the rescue involving James Faulkner.

The airplane door shut with a heavy
thud
, and it sounded like a tomb sealing behind him.

“You should reconsider the quickie,” he told Krista. “I’m pretty sure I’m about to die, and it would be
great
for morale.” She rolled her eyes. “No last wish for a dying man?”

“You’re not dying.”

“You don’t know James Faulkner,” Malcolm muttered, too quietly for her to hear.

She sighed and set down her gun. “Come here.”

Krista unlocked his handcuffs. Being able to move his arms again felt sinfully good.

“You’re a peach. A delicious, sexy peach,” he said.

“Sit down.”

“All right, all right.”

Malcolm took a window seat and stretched his legs out in front of him. If nothing else, the leather chairs were comfortable. He was a prisoner in style.

The engines roared to life just seconds later. They must have been in a hurry to get rid of him.

He watched through the window as Zettel stormed around the airstrip, acting like the bossy little bitch that he was. Malcolm tried to find satisfaction in seeing him puff and holler, but his sense of humor seemed to have mysteriously vanished. It had been replaced with a feeling like falling down a long, dark hole with piranhas at the bottom.

Krista put a hand to her earpiece. “What do you mean, a helicopter got stolen?” she asked, eyes unfocused as she listened. “The medical copter? But it’s here at the airport. I saw it parked behind our jet.”

Malcolm sat up. “What did you just say?”

She thumbed the earpiece, turning off the speaker. “One of our helicopters got taken by Zane St. Vil—a kopis that was at HQ for medical care. But if St. Vil took the helicopter, and it’s at the airstrip now…”

The pilot’s compartment opened. When Malcolm saw who stepped through, he started laughing, and he couldn’t seem to stop.

James Faulkner was looking thoroughly old these days. He used to have the kind of perfect hair that a gentleman spy would have envied, but now it was going gray. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in days. He was also wearing a Union uniform.

The plane began to inch forward. Krista stood and aimed at him.

“Don’t shoot,” Malcolm said.

Wonder of wonders, she listened to him.

“James Faulkner,” Krista said, bracing the gun at her hip. “You’re under arrest.”

“No, actually, I’m leaving, and I’m taking Malcolm with me. You can get out of the plane right now, or I can knock you out for the duration of the trip. It’s your choice.”

“You destroyed half of Fallon getting arrested,” she said. “I saw the notice.”

“That’s right.”

That information seemed to be more than enough for Krista. She lowered her gun. “I’ll get off here.”

James opened the sliding door and ducked behind the wall. The airstrip was moving more quickly underneath them now as they accelerated.

There was no way to hear the shouting of the Union guards as the plane began to pick up speed. The engine was too loud. But Malcolm felt a pretty powerful surge of satisfaction at seeing them sprint after the plane with their hands waving over their heads. Especially when he saw the shock on Zettel’s ugly face.

How funny. Malcolm’s sense of humor seemed to have returned.

Bullets pinged into the side of the airplane.

“Make it quick,” James told Krista. “We’re taking off.”

She tossed the gun out the door first. “You owe me,” she told Malcolm, and then she leaped out the door, arm over her head and knees tucked to her chest.

James slammed the door shut again. The plane accelerated.

“Of all the people I thought might spring me, you weren’t one of them,” Malcolm said, helping James latch the door.

“Don’t thank me yet.” James peered out one of the windows. There were three SUVs on their tail, including one of the fancy ones with the hood-mounted machine gun. “I only freed you for a favor.”

“Naturally.”

The engines roared. The flaps on the wings adjusted, and the pavement dropped out from beneath them.

The plane bounced and shuddered, but it climbed. It climbed fast. Malcolm’s stomach lurched.

James threw open the cockpit door and stepped inside. The pilot was a Union man with a shaved head and the look of someone who wasn’t happy to be there. He was also wearing a bathrobe—an actual
bathrobe
.

But as they plunged into the gloomy gray clouds, leaving the Union behind them, Malcolm decided that he didn’t care if the pilot was a drunken horse with Alzheimer’s.

He was free.

The private jet flew into
the silent night. Malcolm wanted to properly enjoy his liberation, but the mini-fridge in back wasn’t stocked with alcohol. He settled for distracting himself by annoying the pilot.

“Zane St. Vil, right?” Malcolm asked, flopping into the copilot’s chair.

St. Vil shot him a look. “The fuck are you?”

“Ah, the dulcet tones of a blossoming Union recruit. Makes my heart give a little pitter-pat.” Malcolm jammed the copilot’s headset over his ears. It was silent.

“They cut us off twenty minutes after we got off the ground,” James said from the cockpit doorway. “But not before I heard someone from Union control mentioning fighter jets.”

That meant that things were going to get ugly in short order. Malcolm didn’t want to be in a tin can piloted by a bald guy when that happened.

“Excellent,” Malcolm said. “Best rescue mission ever.”

“Who
are
you?” St. Vil asked.