Page 181 of Dance of Devils

The world sort of fades away when I see that. So much so that I’m not even aware what's happened until I’m blinking in confusion at the pain in my fist, and wondering where the three new jagged holes in the wall came from.

Maya swallows uneasily, eyeing me. “I know he used to live in Bushwick. On Dekalb. Near the hipster bowling alley?”

“Thank you,” I growl, yanking out my phone.

“Kir?” Freya croaks sleepily into the phone. It’s noon in Kyoto, which is literally the middle of the night for my nocturnal daughter.

“Frey, it’s an emergency. It’s Brooklyn.”

“Fuck. Gimme a sec.” Her voice becomes much more alert. I hear shuffling and Mal grunting “who is it” in the background, then a flurry of keyboard strokes.

“Okay,” Freya says. “What do you need?”

“I need you to track a license plate. Belongs to her ex. The fucker I had sent to Canada.” Maya rewinds the tape, and I rattle off the number to Freya. Then I hang up and call Isaak. The plate trace is going to be the most accurate, but in case James heads to familiar territory, I have Isaak bring a few carloads of guys to Bushwick to start canvasing that stretch of Dekalb Avenue. I have other men sent anywhere else I think James might go—his uncle’s office at the port, a friend’s apartment, anything.

Maya stays at The Mirage, to be at ground zero. I jump back into the car, my blood searing like napalm in my veins I peel away, dialing Freya again.

“Narrowing in!” she blurts into the phone. “Not everywhere has those newer speed cameras like in Manhattan, so I’m running image recognition on still frame captures. Taking a little longer than I want—oh! Got a hit!”

“Where?!”

“The Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, heading south.”

I spin the wheel, screeching the car into a U-turn and crossing the meridian before I gun the engine and roar through Greenpoint into Williamsburg. I catch the expressway there, weaving through traffic like a madman.

“Another hit on the BQE!” Freya yells. “And another—a traffic light in Red Hook fifteen minutes ago!”

Fifteen minutes. Fuck.

The car roars down the exit ramp into Red Hook. Freya finds another still photograph of James’ plate near a shipping yard close to the old docks, so that's where I go, my hands gripping the wheel like iron, my pulse thudding like a war drum in my ears as I scan the crumbling old warehouses.

It’s the gate that gives it away—the one hanging open on rusty hinges, with a freshly cut lock. The Aston Martin tears through it, tires spewing gravel as I roar past old shipping containers and screech around a corner.

NO.

James looks up wide-eyed when my headlights flood the scene. Brooklyn is sprawled across the hood of his car, face down, her pants at her knees, his hand between her legs.

My car has barely stopped moving before I’m out and charging him like a runaway train. The breath leaves his body in awhooshwhen I collide into him, knocking him off his feet and smashing him to the ground.

Then I rain down holyhellon him.

I hit him until my fists go numb, his face turns to bloody pulp and I hear his ribs cracking. It’s only when he's lying limp on the ground that I lurch away from him and rush over to Brooklyn.

“Babygirl—”

“I—I’m?—”

She’s curled on the ground, shaking, her pants still down and her arms wrapped around her body when I reach her. For a second, I’m worried that even my touch is going to break her. But when I go to put my arms around her, she instantly clutches me tightly, like I’m the only thing tethering her to the world.

“H-he tried…”she sobs into my chest. “But… I fought him. I fucking fought him, Kir!”

“It’s okay, babygirl,” I murmur softly, stroking her hair as I pull her into my arms right there on the ground. She clings to me, crying into my chest. I just hold her, and kiss the top of her head, and tell her that nothing in this world will ever hurt her again.

Gingerly, I help her to her feet, and she pulls her pants back up. I gently lead her to my car, and text Freya that I have her. My jaw tightens when I see the ugly purple bruise swelling over one eye, and the cut on her lip.

“I have to go do something,” I say quietly as I buckle Brooklyn into the passenger seat. Her hands tighten on mine. “I will beright back,” I growl.

She nods quickly, her eyes still teary but fierce as I lean in to kiss her cheek.