Slow Agony (9 page)

“What?” said Griffin. “Knox didn’t tell me that.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I told Knox I thought maybe he had the serum.”

Griffin shook his head. “But that doesn’t make any sense. Marcel has nothing to do with Op Wraith. There’s no way he had the serum.”

“Are you sure you shot him and killed him?” said Silas. “Did you check his pulse to make sure he was dark?” That was what we called it when you got a kill shot. You looked dead, but the serum was doing its work, healing you.

“Well, no. I didn’t check. But he fell over, and he didn’t move for a really long time.”

“There’s no way he’s got the serum,” said Griffin. “He wasn’t part of Op Wraith. And no one’s even manufacturing it anymore, right?”

“No,” said Sloane. “They can’t be. It was a project that Frank Thorn worked on, and he’s...” She looked at me. “Oh. That’s your dad, isn’t it?”

“It’s fine,” I said. “My father is dead to me.”

“You had to have been mistaken, doll,” said Griffin.

“But we can get close enough to make sure,” said Silas. “Right? I’ve got no problem severing this dude’s spine.”

Griffin gulped at his beer. “I really don’t think we should meet him.”

“Why not?” said Sloane.

He rubbed the top of his head.

“Doesn’t make sense not to,” said Silas.

I watched Griffin, noting how uncomfortable he was. I had a pretty good idea why he didn’t want to meet Marcel. The man had hurt him in the worst ways imaginable. Of course Griffin never wanted to see him again.

But I didn’t think that Griffin necessarily wanted everyone to know what happened to him. How could I help without giving him away?

“Maybe,” I said, “Sloane and Silas could go without you.”

Griffin looked at me, and I could see relief in his eyes.

“But don’t you want a piece of this guy?” said Silas.

Griffin considered. His expression changed. It hardened. “Maybe I do.”

“Of course you do,” said Sloane.

“Why’s he after you, anyway?” said Silas.

Griffin shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in years.”

“So you don’t know what he wants with you?” said Silas.

“How do you know him, anyway?” said Sloane.

Griffin drank more of his beer.

“Does that really matter?” I said. I could tell Griffin didn’t want to talk about it.

“It might,” said Silas. “We don’t know what his motives are.”

“He’s... twisted,” said Griffin. “He likes to manipulate people. It’s probably all a game to him. I don’t know why he picked me, though. Maybe I made an impression on him.”

“You knew him before Op Wraith?” said Sloane.

“Um, shouldn’t you guys be focusing on strategy?” I said.

“Yeah,” said Griffin. “Trust me, we don’t know enough about his motives for them to be helpful.”

“Okay,” said Silas. “Well, we have a little more than a week to get this together, so we better get cracking, huh?”

The rest of the week passed in a flurry of preparation, and I was left out of most of it. It was decided fairly early on that I would be positively no help on this mission, so I was going to stay behind in the house while the three of them went to kill Marcel.

That was fine with me. I knew I wasn’t very good with a gun, and I didn’t want to get in anyone’s way. I stayed to the periphery of their strategizing conversations, and I didn’t try to engage Griffin, even though he was now around constantly.

He looked so gorgeous, and I wanted him. I wished I could find some way to make him see that we were meant to be together. But he was consumed with working on the plan to take down Marcel.

So the days passed. Maybe things went quickly for everyone else. They were busy. I was bored most of the time. I had a stack of romance novels that Sloane had gotten from a yard sale, and I’d been reading those. But that was before Griffin was around all the time, and... somehow, they weren’t nearly as entertaining anymore.

In romance novels, there was always something keeping them apart that blew up at the last minute. He didn’t know that she was only pretending to be a noblewoman, and when he found out that she was actually a peasant woman, the wedding was called off.

Then there would be pages of despair. At some point, though, he’d miraculously show up on his stallion, and take her away from the little hovel she lived in. They’d get married anyway.

And everything would be perfect.

But real life wasn’t like that.

Griffin wasn’t coming back on his stallion for me. He wasn’t prepared to overlook the fact that I was pretending to be a noblewoman.

Maybe it was because what I had done seemed worse to him than lying about my social class. Maybe it was because all romance novels were nothing like real life. How many young, virile, handsome dukes could there possibly be in England during the Regency period anyway?

I didn’t know.

I tried not to think about it. I tried to watch Griffin without wishing he was mine.

Mostly, I tried to stay out of the way.

I did insist on coming along to the shooting range. The others were only brushing up, but I needed a good bit of practice. I wasn’t particularly good with a gun. I’d only had a few lessons with Griffin, and when I thought about them—thought about how his body had been so close to mine as he’d shown me how to hold the gun—well, it was distracting and not in a good way.

Sloane took some time to give me some pointers.

“You need to relax,” she said. “You’re tensing up, and it’s making you shaky.”

She seemed to be able to explain things better than Griffin. Or maybe it was only that she peppered all her advice liberally with, “Oh my God, I couldn’t get that down at first. I screwed that up so much. Don’t worry, you’re fine.” She was very reassuring.

Anyway, it might have been my imagination, but I thought my ability to shoot was improving.

Beyond that interlude at the shooting range, I did absolutely nothing for the entire week.

But finally, it was the night before Griffin was supposed to meet Marcel. He stayed at Sloane’s and Silas’ house overnight so that they could get an early start the next day, and they all went to bed early, because they wanted to be at their best the next day.

I tossed and turned, thinking about how I’d be alone in this house all day tomorrow. I was going to be so worried. But I agreed with them that it was better for me to stay here. And they were all trained assassins. They knew what they were doing. They’d be okay. I hoped.

Still, I wasn’t having an easy time sleeping, so I got up and went downstairs. There was leftover Chinese in the refrigerator, and I thought I’d make a late-night snack.

When I got into the kitchen, Griffin was there. He was eating his own Chinese food at the kitchen table. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, just a pair of shorts, and I remembered that I used to be able to put my hands all over his skin when it was bare.

But now I had to keep my distance.

“Doll,” he said. “What are you doing down here?”

“Looking for Chinese leftovers,” I said. “Guess we’re on the same wavelength.”

He smiled. “Guess so.”

I went to the refrigerator. “Shouldn’t you be asleep? Big day tomorrow and all that?”

“Probably,” he said.

I got out my carton of kung pao chicken and brought it to the table. “Having trouble sleeping?”

“I guess so,” he said. “I, uh, keep thinking about Marcel.”

“Oh,” I said. “I guess that’s not a fun thing to think about.” Wow, so that was the understatement of the year. I cringed.

Griffin didn’t seem phased by what I’d said. He looked down at his chest, at the crudely inked tattoo there. “He gave me this, you know. This is his mark.”

Whenever Griffin talked about this, I felt like I wanted to crawl out of my skin. Thinking about it was too much for me. How had he lived through it? “That was him? He did that?”

He nodded. He used his fork to stir what was left of his Chinese food. “He was the worst. He had this... I don’t know, almost an empire or something in that jail. This collection of men that did whatever he wanted. He was like the godfather of the cellblock. Everyone owed him favors. And he called them in to get whatever he wanted. And the kind of favors he did for people...” He curled his lip in disgust. “Well, I was a favor sometimes. I got loaned out.”

“Oh Griffin,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.” I wished there was something else I could say. My sympathies paled in comparison to the horrors he’d experienced.

He stared off into the distance. “I’m not sure if the pain was really the worst part. After a while, I guess it kind of hurt less, anyway. It was being treated like you weren’t... a person anymore. Like you were a thing.” He set down his fork. “I really hate thinking about it.”

I didn’t know what to say. Should I keep saying I was sorry? Did that matter? I reached for him.

But the minute my fingers brushed his, he jerked away from me. “Don’t, don’t.”

“I—”

“I just don’t want to be touched.” A long pause, and then he turned to me. “You’re the only person who knows, you know? I trusted you enough to tell you this, and now we’re not together anymore.”

“I’m still here,” I said. “You can talk to me. I’ll always be here for you.”

“It’s not the same, though, is it?” His gaze held mine.

I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it. He was right. It wasn’t the same.

“What if...” He took a shaky breath. “What if I fall apart when I see him? What if I can’t handle it?”

“You won’t. You’re strong. You’re going there to kill him. You have the twins as backup.”

“You can’t know that.”

I couldn’t. I bit my lip. “Maybe not. But I believe it. I believe in you.”

“Oh, doll. Sometimes...” He turned back to his Chinese food.

“Sometimes what?”

“Sometimes I wish that things weren’t...” He studied the inside of his carton. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” I said, and I put my hand on his.

He pulled away from me, his eyes flashing. “I told you not to touch me, didn’t I?”

“I-I’m sorry.”

But he was scooting the chair out, getting up from the table. He tossed the carton of Chinese in the trash and left the kitchen. Leaving me there alone.

They left when it was still dark outside. I sat on the steps as they went through their gear at the front door.

“You’ve got my number in case anything happens, right, doll?” said Griffin, handing a long rifle to Sloane.

“Yeah,” I said.

Sloane slung the rifle over her shoulder. “And you’ve got a gun in your room, right?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“And bullets?” asked Griffin.

“Yes,” I said. “I mean, they’re not loaded into the gun, because I know that’s not safe, but they’re here.”

“She’s going to be fine,” said Silas, opening the door. “We got to get moving.”

And then they were gone.

It was early, and I probably could have gone back to sleep, but I was too antsy, so I didn’t. Instead, I watched movies on cable. I was nervous, and I wished they’d come home.

I wanted it over.

On the other hand, I knew that once Marcel was dead, there would be no reason for me to be close to Griffin. That made me sad.

The hours ticked by.

When I got hungry, I ordered in food. There was an Italian place that delivered more than pizza, and I was in the mood for some pasta.

Fifteen minutes after I called, the doorbell rang.

I opened it.

It was the delivery guy. But he wasn’t alone. There was a man behind him—tall, greasy hair, a wispy beard and mustache. He had a knife to the delivery guy’s throat. “Little pig, little pig, let us in.” He giggled.

Chapter Six

I swallowed, taking a step back from the door.

Greasy Hair forced the delivery guy inside. Then he slit his throat carelessly.

The delivery guy slumped to the floor, along with my container of lasagna, which burst open when it hit the ground. The rug was going to be really stained.

I let out a little squeak. “What do you want?”

Greasy Hair wiped his knife on his jeans. “I want you. You’re Leigh Thorn, aren’t you?” He reached out and picked up a lock of my hair. “So pretty. No wonder Griffin likes you.”

I shuddered. This had something to do with Griffin. This was a setup. Somehow, Greasy Hair had known I would be alone. Was he working with Marcel?

I didn’t have time to worry about it. I couldn’t let this guy hurt me. I didn’t think. I turned and ran up the steps. I had a gun in my bedroom.

Greasy Hair giggled again. “This little piggy went wee, wee, wee, wee...” And then he was scrambling up the steps after me.

I took the steps two at a time, careening onto the second story landing, where Sloane’s room was.

Greasy Hair was right behind me, still laughing like a demented hyena.

I opened the door to Sloane’s room and the door to the bathroom—not much in the way of obstacles, but they were something.

I raced up the next flight of stairs.

I heard Greasy Hair behind me, the doors banging closed.

The sound startled me, and I tripped.

I fell onto the steps, the hard wood glancing against my chin.

I bit my tongue.

It
hurt
.

I cried out.

Greasy Hair was gaining on me. “Fall down and go boom!” he crowed.

With effort, I pushed myself to my feet.

His hand closed around my ankle.

I looked back at him. He was close. I could see that his front tooth had been replaced with a fake metal tooth, but it wasn’t like those platinum gangsta things. It was old and scratched. He was leering at me, open-mouthed and delighted.

I aimed a kick at his face.

I connected.

He cried out in anger and pain.

But I was free.

I went up the rest of the steps as fast as I could, slamming the door to my bedroom after me and locking it.

Where was the gun again?

Outside, Greasy Hair slammed into the door. “Little pig, little pig.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. The dresser, right?

I yanked open the drawer, pulled out the gun and the box of ammunition.

“Open the door, little pig.”