Page 158 of Villains Series

THE LAST EVENING

DOWNTOWN MERIT

THE rain was finally easing by the time Marcella stepped outside.

Three cars sat idling on the curb ahead, one elegant black town car flanked by two SUVs. The security detail swept around them, four men in crisp black suits, raised umbrellas masking them from sight.

Marcella wasn’t taking any chances.

Stell would be getting desperate, and desperate men did reckless things.

They reached the sedan, and Jonathan held open her door. When he wasn’t wallowing, he could be quite a gentleman.

Marcella slid into the backseat, and noticed she wasn’t alone. A man sat across from her, tan and elegant in a pale gray suit. He was staring out the window, and sulking profoundly.

“Well?”

asked Marcella.

“Did you get to her in time?”

The man nodded, and spoke in that familiar lilt.

“It was a near thing,”

said June.

“but I did.”

“Good,”

said Marcella briskly.

“You’ll bring her to me, of course, when this is done.”

June’s borrowed eyes flicked sideways, but when she spoke, her voice was steady.

“Of course.”

Jonathan climbed in on the other side. Marcella had no trouble seeing June behind her many faces—but Jonathan jumped a little at the sight of a stranger.

“Johnny boy,”

cooed June.

“Rest easy, now, the prodigal EO has returned to the fold.”

Marcella considered June.

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

The man’s mouth tugged into a wry smile.

“Am I too pretty?”

And just like that, he vanished, smooth, high cheekbones replaced by a bag lady with a hooked nose.

“Is this better?”

Marcella rolled her eyes, glad to see June restored to her usual humor.

“Surely,”

she said.

“there’s a happy medium.”

June gave a dramatic sigh and dissolved into a middle-aged man with a groomed mustache and an attractive, if mildly forgettable face. “Better?”

“Much,”

said Marcella.

June gave her a sweeping look.

“You look like Snow White killed the queen and stole the mirror.”

Marcella flashed a cool smile.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

June settled back in her seat.

“You would.”

* * *

ELI smoothed his hair back and buttoned his shirt.

He’d dumped the fragments of the broken pen into the toilet tank. The tracking devices he slipped into the pocket of his suit jacket.

It felt good to be back in real-world clothes, even if they were on the formal side. He’d donned a hundred different costumes in the service of his work. All he was missing was a weapon—a knife, a length of wire. But he could make do with his bare hands. He’d certainly done it before.

Eli was just knotting the borrowed tie when he heard the commotion beyond the bathroom door, the radio chatter mixing with Stell’s gruff voice. Eli undid the knot and started again, working slowly as he listened.

“No … God dammit … who was it? No … we continue as planned…”

Eli waited until it was obvious there was nothing more to glean, then emerged, taking in the scene. Stell’s cheeks were ruddy. He had never had much of a poker face. And only one man could cause so much consternation.

Victor.

“Everything okay?”

asked Eli.

“Just focus on the task,”

ordered Stell, pulling on his own suit jacket and running a hand through salt-and-pepper hair. More salt by the day, thought Eli. Some people really weren’t suited for this line of work.

He wasn’t the only one who’d gotten dressed.

The woman now wore a silk black jumpsuit, the kind that belonged on a catwalk, not a field agent.

The young blond was still in his uniform, but the square-jawed soldier wore a black jacket over a crisp white shirt open at the throat.

Eli hummed thoughtfully.

“The invitation only admits two.”

In answer, Stell produced a second card.

“A replica?”

wondered Eli aloud. If it was a copy, it was flawless.

“No,”

said Stell.

“It’s the one Marcella sent to the district attorney. Lucky for us, he’s out of town.”

He handed the spare invitation to the female soldier. “Holtz,”

he said, nodding at the blond.

“will stay outside.”

“Always the short straw,”

muttered the soldier.

Stell checked his watch.

“It’s time.”

* * *

THE black van was gone when Sydney got back to the Kingsley.

She found the apartment door broken, ajar, and she drew her gun, clutching it in both hands as she stepped through.

The first thing Syd saw was blood. Fat drops of it, leading down the hall, then a small pool on the hardwood floor smeared by the edge of a handprint.

And the body.

Dol.

Syd scrambled to the dog’s side, sinking to her knees beside his still form. She knocked the playing card from atop his chest, ran her fingers through his fur. Closed her eyes, and reached, felt the thread of the dog’s life dancing away, dodging her grip. Every time, it was harder. Every time, she had to reach deeper. As Sydney worked, a terrible aching cold wound through her, and she felt her lungs seize, her breath trip, and then at last she caught the thread, dragged Dol back to life. Again.

The dog’s chest heaved, and Syd sank back, gasping for air.

Her attention drifted to the king of spades, now overturned, a note in Mitch’s tight script on the back.

Went to find Victor.

Syd got to her feet, and so did Dol, shaking off his death as if it were rain. He pressed himself against her side as if to ask, What now?

Syd looked around. She didn’t have a phone.

Didn’t have a clue where anyone had gone.

But she did have something—the invisible tether that ran between her and the things she brought back.

Sydney didn’t know if it would be enough, but she had to try. She closed her eyes and reached for another thread. Felt it go taut against her fingers.

“Come on,”

she said to Dol, stepping around the blood.

When they reached the street, Syd paused, closing her eyes again. Felt her world tip ever so slightly to the left. As if to say, This way.

She started walking.

* * *

“DRIVE faster,”

said Victor, trying to ignore the buzzing in his skull, those first warnings of a building charge.

It would wait. It had to wait.

“Why?”

demanded Mitch, even as he sped toward Merit.

“Why are we going toward this mess instead of away?”

Victor found a roll of paper towels in the backseat and pressed them to the shallow wound along his ribs.

“Eli will be there.”

“All the more reason to go the other way. You two can circle each other forever, but there’s only one way it ends, Victor, and it’s not in your favor.”

“Thanks for the confidence,”

said Victor, dryly.

Mitch shook his head.

“You and your vengeance…”

But it wasn’t vengeance.

Whatever’s happened to you, however you’re hurt, you’ve done it to yourself.

Campbell had been right.

Victor had to take responsibility. For himself. And for the monster he’d helped to create. Eli.

“You’re going in like that?”

Mitch was asking.

Victor turned the card over in his hand.

“I have an invitation.”

But he looked down at himself. Mitch had a point.

He’d lost his favorite trench coat, somewhere between the confrontation in Stell’s hallway and waking up in the cell. A thin slice ran along his black T-shirt. He’d done his best to rinse the blood from his hands with a bottle of water, but it was still under his nails.

He had no weapons, and no plan.

Only the knowledge—the certainty—that Eli would run, the first chance he got.

And Victor would be there to stop him.