Page 113 of Shrapnel

Elijah shifted beside him, eyes sharp in the darkness despite the restlessness coming off him. If this were a typical Weaver op, they’d have all sorts of intel. Owen would have satellite images with heat sensors. They would be going in with complete confidence because the Weavers didn’t do anything without guaranteed success.

But this wasn’t a Weaver op, and they weren’t acting as Weaver’s. It was easier to shed the identity than he thought. Every time Jamie worked there was the constant nagging presence of restraint. Kill because that’s the job. Maim because he had to.

This was different. This was personal, and it felt like it.

They had been watching the bakery for several hours. Crouched in the fading shadows of an alley across the street. Elijah glanced at his watch.

“Haven’t seen anyone else go in,” he prompted, his voice low.

“Six inside. It’s doable.”

Elijah nodded beside him. He was uncomfortable with the spontaneity of it all. Elijah wanted to study the place, go in during the day and get the layout. Maybe even spend a few days watching—tagging the employees going in and out.

Jamie couldn’t wait. Every moment Renard was breathing was another moment the past was getting closer to him.

What was the rule for algebra? What you did to one side of the equation you had to do to the other. He had eliminated one side of his equation years ago, and now he had to do the same to the other.

“What’s with all the fox themes?” Elijah asked as he checked his knives, sliding the blade across the hairs on his forearm. Sharp enough for a shave.

“Renard means fox in French,” Jamie answered automatically, tasting bile on the back of his tongue.

“So he’s French?” Elijah asked distractedly.

“No.” Jamie tried to keep the venom from his tone. “He’s Belgian.”

Elijah paused in his preparations. Jamie could feel his eyes on the back of his head. “The beer.” It wasn’t a question. “What do I need to know about him?”

Jamie clenched his jaw. The familiar ache radiated up his jaw and he leaned into it. This was too close. He had purposefully never kept tabs on Renard or his gang. It was easier to pretend they didn’t exist. He couldn’t scrub all his memories. The drugs they forced him to take helped with some of them, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t forget that last night. The night he had left. He spent years wondering if Renard would come after him, take revenge on him for what he did.

“He runs a gang. Mostly sex workers—some trafficked, some locals. Uses drugs and debt to keep them in line. Used to run them out of an old duplex on the south side. But I guess he’s upgraded.”

Elijah’s knife snicked back into it sheathe. “All right.”

Jamie was a little surprised. “That’s it? You’re just going to go in there with me? No questions asked?”

“I asked questions,” Elijah explained calmly. “The rest doesn’t matter. I told you, I’m with you.”

Jamie forced his jaw to relax, swallowing back whatever was trying to bubble up inside him. Emotions? Maybe. They felt kind of familiar. If the scenario was different Jamie would have asked Elijah why. What could Jamie possibly have done to earn such trust?

Grant said he had to figure it out himself. Jamie just wasn’t that smart.

He slid his .454 Casull from the shoulder holster. It smelled like oil and metal. Like a Pavlovian reflex, the moment the weight hit his palm he felt it all bleed away. Everything but the slick desire to hurt something. The thrum of anticipation. When Jamie held a gun, he was a god standing judgement over his victims.

And Jamie was a vengeful god.

Cracking his neck, he glanced over at his partner. “You ready to solve forX?”

Elijah made a face. “What?”

Jamie grinned, stepping off the curb and prowling across the street. Two silent wraiths moving without hurry. A casual lethality ebbing off them in waves. They weren’t worried about being seen. This was the part of town where people look without seeing.

The flimsy lock was picked in seconds. Jamie stood on tiptoes, grabbing the bell above the door to keep it from jingling. Elijah slipped past him, pulling the door open farther so Jamie could enter behind him. They didn’t need to speak. Years of being shoulder to shoulder had given them a supernatural awareness of the other.

Jamie checked the home-made silencer on his gun while Elijah crept forward. The bakery was quiet and dark. The front counter smelled like industrial cleaner. Three tables were pressed up against the subway tiled wall, chairs flipped up so they could mop the floor.

The muted whisper of conversation pricked Jamie’s ears. He caught Elijah’s eye and jerked his head at the swinging double doors behind the counter. A porthole was set into each side, light spilling onto the linoleum tile in perfect circles.

Elijah pulled a mirror from his pocket. Tiny, it was smaller than the palm of his hand. But he used it to look into the room. Careful not to reflect any light, he angled it with his wrist, eyebrows drawn together.