Page 71 of Exiled

But Logan isn’t dead. At the last moment, he pivoted and sidestepped, pistol whipping up into a two-hand grip.

BANGBANG!

His pistol jumps twice; I see each buck of the barrel, tiny burst of flame.

Len flinches, staggers. Gun hand droops. The silver hand cannon hits the floor. Red florets bloom, become a rosette, and then a spreading crimson splotch, and then Len’s once-white button-down shirt is painted red.

Logan shoves his pistol into the back of jeans, drapes his shirt over it. Bends over Len, withdraws something from an inside pocket of Len’s coat, and then straightens. Turns away. Walks toward the exit. Emerges from the building. Gets in the car. The engine is still on; he never shut it off.

The whole scene lasted less than a minute, and now Len is dead.

Logan doesn’t look at me. He is utterly calm. Too calm. He has a key card in his hand, uses one hand to drive, clutching the key card in his fingers. The card was once white, and now is spattered with red.

I am fighting hyperventilation.

“Keep it together, Is. Not done yet.” He doesn’t look at me as he speaks.

We don’t go far, just around the block to the private underground garage entrance and exit. There is a yellow box with a card reader, and a red-and-white-striped barrier arm. A swipe of the card, and the arm rises, admitting us. Down, then, into the darkness. Into the belly of the beast. The Mercedes’s bluish-white headlights turn on automatically, bathing the dimly lit garage.

There are several cars parked with plenty of space between them, all Caleb’s, I assume. The Maybach, a low, sleek red sports car, a yellow one, a green one, a buglike silver one. I don’t know the names or models of them, nor do I care. There, directly ahead of us, is the private elevator. To the left of it, a black SUV.Range Rover, the badge says. It is on, idling, rear passenger-side door ajar.

It is facing the exit. Thomas stands outside the driver’s door, an earpiece in his left ear. He has two fingers pressed to the earpiece, receiving the news of Len, I presume.

The elevator door slides open as Logan brings the car to a halt. Shoves the shifter into park. Throws open his door.

Steps out, bringing his gun up as soon as his feet touch concrete.

“Hands up, Thomas,” he orders. “On your head. Now.”

Thomas complies slowly, placing his paws on his clean-shaven scalp. Calm, unafraid. Eyeing Logan as a lion might eye prey from behind a scrim of tall grass. Waiting for an opportunity to pounce.

Caleb is walking toward us, still, eyeing the scene, one hand in a trouser pocket, cell phone to one ear, suit coat draped over an arm. Hair slicked back, freshly showered.

I am outside the car, though I don’t remember moving.

Logan has his gun up, still. Touches the barrel to Thomas’s temple. “Weapon out, now. Slowly. Two fingers.” Thomas complies. “Now. Get in the car.”

Thomas folds his huge frame into the driver’s seat, buckles his seat belt, closes the door, and places both hands on the steering wheel.

Only then does Logan turn his attention to Caleb. “You, motherfucker. Get on your knees.” The pistol leveled at Caleb adds weight and immediacy to his command.

Caleb ends the call, slips the handset into a trouser pocket. Stares, unperturbed at Logan. “I think not. I have business to attend to. If you’re going to shoot me, get on with it. I have no time for dramatics.”

“You had time to kidnap Isabel from my roof. You shot mydog.”

“No one suffered any harm.”

“Youtookher from ourhome.”

“And brought her back.”

“You choked her. Left bruises on her throat. Cut her with a knife. You brought her back naked and sobbing.”

“She had a robe on.”

“You cut off her bathing suit, you sick fuck.”

“She was mine first. I was her first everything, Ryder. First kiss, first fuck, first love.”