Page 53

53

CONOR

“Did I hear that right?”

The question didn’t come from me or Cin, but Troy.

I stared at the tree where her scope was glinting in the sun, wondering how the hell she’d heard Star when she’d practically whispered what had happened to the woman we’d only just left in London.

Fuck—was her blood on our hands?

It seemed likely.

We showed up years after the murders of Kuznetsov and Belyaev and she was dead the next day?

“They’re cleaning house,” D intoned, ignoring Troy.

“Yeah,” I rasped, watching Star with concern.

“Try Dagda again,” she ordered, rubbing her brow.

Deep in her eyes, I saw her misery and guilt. I wished I could do something to take away the pain, but I knew too well that nothing did that. Only time, and even then, that didn’t always work.

Needing to help her, I nodded and hit dial on my phone again. Barely a couple rings sounded in my ear when a bullet shot at the car, inches away from Star’s feet.

Automatically, I grabbed her and dragged her to the ground. Cin slipped into a crouch too, her scowl deep, her anger growing.

“It’s Troy,” she clipped, but she remained stationed behind the SUV. “She’s fucking around.”

“Answer my question. Ovianar’s dead?” Troy spat.

“You remember her, then?” D snapped.

“Of course I goddamn do. This is about Ohio, isn’t it? Fuck.”

“ O’Donnelly ?”

Amid this ridiculous conversation, the sudden appearance of Dagda’s voice in my ear came as a shock, especially as he sounded breathless.

I cut to the chase, “Ovianar’s dead.”

“Fuck,” he hissed.

“We think the Sparrows are cleaning house. There might be someone on their way?—”

“They’re not on their way, O’Donnelly. They’re fucking here. I’m going underc?—”

The blast of another bullet had me looking up, thinking it was Troy again—it wasn’t.

It had been in my ear.

“Dagda?” I demanded. “Are you there?”

Dead air.

“Fuck.”

“Dagda? You’re talking to Dagda?” Troy hollered, suddenly leaping from the tree she’d been hiding in and striding over to us like she hadn’t been letting off bullets to see us dance to her tune a couple minutes ago.

She wore camouflage, her face was painted, and she’d have made G.I. Joe seem underdressed—she was prepared for an ambush.

“His line just went dead. He said they were there already,” I informed Star.

“Holy fuck,” Dead To Me blurted, eyes wide with disconcertion. “This is a coordinated effort.” She turned to Troy. “Have you been threatened? You must have been to get dolled up like that. What happened?”

Before she could answer, an alarm sounded from within the house. It echoed around the barren fields, seeming to grow in volume with every pounding beat of my heart.

Troy, wearing an eyepatch like a boss-ass bitch, gritted her teeth as her head whipped to the side to study her house. “That’s my perimeter alarm.” Another alarm blared. “The rear gates.”

As one, Dead To Me, Star, and I rasped the same goddamn words:

“ They’re here. ”

That was when a ball of fire surged toward us from the highway.

BOOM.