Page 25 of All Saints Day (Lucifer and the Saints #2)
Quentin and I will enter the facility with Compton in plain sight, dressed as security personnel.
Compton will be wired with a very large amount of explosives on a deadman switch controlled by Seb and Caz, who will be supporting the breach from the safety of the van, with plenty of additional explosives at the ready of course.
Compton will help us make the grab, lest we blow him to bits.
Once Louise has been removed from the premises, we will vacate, while Compton makes his planned rendezvous with Lowry—keeping her and the rest of the higher-ups none the wiser as we make our exit.
As long as he plays his part, we’ll leave Compton in one piece. Once we’ve gotten clear of the Country Estate—he’ll be at the mercy of the Windmill.
We stop at a drugstore in the wee hours of the morning for shitty coffee and a few cans of aerosol “just for men” temporary hair color.
The powdery black ‘dye’ was enough to take away the eye-catching copper brown of Q’s coif along with the distinctive strawberry blond of my own hair.
While it might not have withstood much scrutiny on its own, in combination with the uniform-gray brimmed ball cap of Windmill security and the nondescript Kevlar vest and canvas jumpsuit, it offered almost perfect anonymity.
We provided Compton with one of his own clean, pressed suits—complete with shirt and tie—so he wouldn’t draw too much attention.
Quentin had been forced to gently dab concealer and foundation over Compton’s nose and beneath his eyes to cover the deep purple bruising Seb had caused. He carefully dusted finishing powder over Compton’s bulbous nose and stood back—pleased with handiwork.
“Well, I’d hardly say it's my ‘best’ work—but anyone watching a security camera shouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”
I pulled the brim of my cap down low over my eyes—wanting to be in motion rather than stuck in this game of waiting.
“You remember the basics, yeah?” Seb chimes in as we approach the cutaway for the service entrance to the so-called Country Estate.
“You’re going to behave, keep it cool, calm, and collected on your way in.
No funny business, straight to Louise’s chambers—then back out to the service exit,” Seb explains carefully, reaching out one of his big beefy hands into the space between him and Compton.
“The slightest whiff that you’re gonna be a problem?
The boys break your kneecaps and make a run for it—and Cazzy and I blow you sky high.
” He slaps his meaty palm over Compton’s chest, the layer of plastic explosives beneath his suit jacket and button down.
Compton does his best to play tough, jutting his lower jaw out and giving a curt nod—but his skin is ashen and he’s gently perspiring even though the AC in the car is cranked.
“If you do as you’re told, we let you live and we leave you with a couple pounds of explosives as your bargaining chip.”
“I feel like I’m gonna puke,” Caz groans as we pull into a marked spot between a laundry van and a Polar Springs delivery truck.
“Just don’t blow Compton up while we’re escorting him, and we’ll be fine.” Quentin pecks a kiss onto Caz’s cheek before he swings the door open—jumping down to the pavement, motioning for Compton and I to follow.
We walk through the front doors of the Estate with little fanfare. The two white-gloved doormen at the entrance don’t bother giving Q or I a second glance, and they obviously know Compton.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Compton,” the housemaid greets us as we move from the entryway into the Mansion’s great rotunda.
“Good afternoon, Martha. Susan is expecting me for tea—would you mind opening up the curtains and airing out my salon?” he asks calmly, a hand resting tremulously on his green satin tie, enough explosives to take down this entire building just beneath his palm and a few layers of fabric.
“Very good, Mr. Compton.” She nods and disappears from sight. Q and I glide easily behind Compton as he leads us toward the west wing—where Louise is being held.
My heart hammers in my chest, the automatic rifle slung across my chest like a welcome security blanket as we follow Compton to the scanner pad beside a set of heavy metal double doors.
I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until I hear small beeping sounds from the clear scanner pad beneath Compton’s outstretched hand—my breath leaves me in a slow hissing gust.
Part of me had been waiting for some kind of silent alarm—a way that Compton could alert his colleagues to foul play as we entered the inner sanctum of the notorious Windmill.
If I’m honest, I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop—we still have the retinal scan and the actual breakout to manage before any of us can truly breathe easy.
We make our way down a short length of hallway before we reach another, more sinister set of reinforced white metal doors that stand out from the dark wood and lush carpeting of the connecting hallway.
Wordlessly, Compton stoops to bring his face level with the brushed metal and glass scanner box beside the door.
“Please remain still,” a computerized woman’s voice instructs before clarifying: “now scanning.”
Another moment of breathless fear passes before the metallic voice rasps out, “Approved, please enter after the buzzer.”
Compton moves to smooth his tie over his chest—then seems to think better of it; the three of us pass easily through the set of white metal doors into a sterile tiled hallway without windows, and drenched in a cold, blinding white light.
I swallow down my panic, thinking about what it would be like to be held in a place like this—what it’s been like for Louise these past few hellish months.
There are a handful of doors marked with letters and numbers, plastic clipboards with vitals and other information about the captives inside hanging on metal hooks beside the complicated locking mechanisms and keypads.
As much as I want to look at them—to see the finer details of those in captivity that fall beneath Compton’s notice—I stay on track, keeping within a few strides behind Compton alongside Q.
We finally reach the end of the hall, and Compton flashes both Q and I a momentary glance before he stops, keying a short code into a number pad before confirming with a scan of his right thumb and right eye.
When the heavy door squeals open on its hinges, it’s all I can do to keep myself from letting out a pained cry at the sight of Louise.
Across the bond, she has appeared just as we left her—if a bit weary and sorrowful.
In the flesh, she looks hollowed out—dark purple smudges below her eyes, her cheeks sunken, her once luminous silken scarlet tresses dulled and matted against her head, her clavicles stand out like the bones of a bird.
She lies curled on her side—her hospital Johnny parted to show her spine beneath her sallow skin like a studded opal monument to her pain—her refusal to give in.
Her cinnamon eyes are glazed as they fall on the three of us, her expression resigned.
“Come on, Penny, we’ve got an important appointment to keep,” Compton orders, the slightest edge to his voice.
Louise doesn’t respond, just lies there on the floor—her gaze looking through us.
It isn’t until Q and I get in close enough for her to catch our scents that something seems to stir in her.
This close, I can see that her pupils are heavily dilated—that she’s having trouble tracking my motion as I lean down and close a hand around her frighteningly thin upper arm.
Her nostrils flare, and her eyes search my face, her slack jaw working slowly in disbelief.
I tuck my head and bring a single finger to my lips in a gesture that asks for her silence.
Her eyes dart to Q, who gives a single clipped nod—and I feel an instant swell of relief as her lips press closed—tears of joy spilling from her glittering red-brown eyes.
Silently, we lift her from the floor—one arm over each of our shoulders—Louise’s feet dragging along the cold tiled floor as we prepare to bring her to the door.
We heft Louise’s hollow bird body with ease in preparation to exit the cell, hope finally beginning to glow anew.
Our collective comfort is instantly undone as the heavy metal door swings inward—a surprised-looking Frank, blinking in disbelief at the scene before him.
“What the fuck?” he breathes as the door slams shut behind him.
Our eyes lock—and for a moment, I could swear that Frank looks relieved.
“The Alerion,” he bites out—his eyes boring into mine.
The Alerion. The hotel I met him and Mike at that last fateful night… is he trying to say something about the bond? My mind races as our gazes stay locked together for what feels like an eternity.
“Don’t forget,” Frank warns sternly.
I have only the barest of seconds to register his movements—those dark blue eyes flitting to my bonding bite marks before his right hand flashes to his chest holster—his gun appearing in my line of vision only milliseconds before Frank fires at me.
Two slugs hit me squarely in the Kevlar; another finds its home in my right shoulder. The searing pain tears through me, my panic abated, if only for the fact that Frank is the best shot I have ever known. If he hasn’t hit me directly between the eyes, it's because he didn’t want to.
Before Frank can do anything else, Q is in motion—the blade of his hand cutting through the air to strike Frank in the side of the throat.
The open-handed strike instantly drops Frank to his knees—both hands instinctively flying to his throat as he gasps for breath, his gun falling to the ground.
My right arm a bloody mess, I brace Louise against my left side as Quentin lunges for Frank with a loaded hypo of night-night juice.
Compton stands still as a corpse as Frank goes limp on the tile floor—not wanting to give Caz or Seb any reason to detonate his foundation garments.
“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” Quentin hisses—his gaze snapping back up to the camera above the doorframe. “Move—NOW!”
There isn’t time to make a discussion—Quentin lifts Frank’s rag dolled body off the floor, carrying his awkward dead weight across his broad shoulders and I scoop Louise up into my arms as if I were carrying her over the bridal threshold rather than out of the confines of her holding cell.
We pour out of the hallway into the rotunda, breaking away from Compton to make an escape out the back. We’re following the floor plan, cutting through a massive formal dining room that looks out over a stone terrace and pristine gardens when the ear-piercing alarms begin.
None of us speaks, all our thoughts blaring fast and furious down the mating bond. I can feel Caz and Seb—already on their way to the vista of plate-glass windows that open the formal dining room to the estate’s charming gardens.
Drive over the lawn, through the fucking fountains—whatever you have to do—just be there when we crash through , my mind cries as my vision begins to blur. I’m losing a good amount of blood, but my adrenals have been doing their job—I’m still moving on the momentum of body chemicals and sheer will.
My heart nearly skips a beat when I see the panel van burst through a well-trimmed hedge—tires squealing as it speeds for the line of floor to ceiling windows.
Q drops Frank onto the empty dining table like a sack of potatoes before pumping a spray of bullets into the glass—the whole wall of windows turning to a momentary spiderweb of cracks before falling to the ground like a sheet of glassy rain.
Q hefts Frank up and over his shoulder once more—and we dash for the van, Sébastien swinging the sliding door open to receive us.
I can see the look of dark hatred on his face as he sees who Q is carrying—but he doesn’t argue, just yanks both Q and I along with our quarry, Frank and Louise, into the safety of its confines just in time to close the sliding door on a hail of gunfire.
“Everyone’s in—go go go!” Seb screams to Caz, who handily begins maneuvering the panel van over cobbles and berms of carefully curated flowers until we burst through a low wall of waxy-leaved topiary sculptures and on to freedom.