Swallow (Kindred Book 2) (5 page)

Noise from beyond the bathroom shocked her out of her daze. Stuffing the gun back in her purse, she leaped over Elvis’s corpse on her tiptoes and avoided the quickly growing pool of blood beneath him.

Grabbing his gun from the condom machine, she needed a weapon that could match what the other gang members were carrying. Being that she had never used anything as powerful as this weapon before, she wasn’t convinced of her ability to wield it. But common sense dictated that her measly pistol wouldn’t hold up to the might of this criminal invasion. Already she was outnumbered; she didn’t want to be outgunned too.

Leaving the men’s room and her victim behind, she approached the swing door that led back out to the main bar. She couldn’t loiter because the wooden door would never protect her from a bullet. So pressing her spine into the wall beside the door, she closed her eyes, and tried to come up with a plan.

Killing Elvis was a necessity, if it was that or be raped, she didn’t have to ponder the choice for long. But killing him didn’t save her from the hot water. His colleagues were between her and freedom, but she couldn’t burst out of here and open fire when there were innocent people still in the bar.

“Hey, Elvis! You alright?”

Sinatra’s voice came from the other side of the door. From its volume, she’d guess he was close and could come through the door at any second. They must have heard the gunshot, the kill shot, and come to check on the boss. Even though Elvis was probably only a pseudo name, she wished she didn’t have a moniker for the man she’d just murdered.

There was no time to languish in the emotional turmoil of what was going on, she had to focus on the new threat, which was Sinatra. If he was just outside the door and alone, this could be her only chance to take another man out. Eliminating them one at a time would be easier than taking on the five remaining guys by herself, especially when she didn’t know what ammunition was left in this gun or how to check it. Elvis had shot up the ceiling and would be packing fewer bullets than the rest of his group would be.

Sucking in her bottom lip, she sent a silent request to Brodie for some of his fathomless courage. Determined, she spun around and shoved through the door, gun barrel first. Sinatra’s eyes grew behind his mask and she winked at him.

“Elvis is dead, baby,” she said. “But you won’t have to wait long to see him.”

“The cops are coming!” Buddy Holly yelled from his position at the door. Sirens blared and tires screeched. “Let’s split.” He didn’t wait for his comrades, and was gone before anyone could respond.

After he went, the others followed. She kept her gun pointed at Sinatra and hitched the barrel higher. “I’ll give you to the count of five then it’s Return to Sender… unless you’d prefer Jailhouse Rock.”

His buddies heeded her threat and fled, Sinatra wasn’t far behind them. Pushing over chairs on his dash for the exit, the sirens were already piercing the air just outside. She kept her gun aimed at their backs, but didn’t put her finger on the trigger. Being in control of something this powerful was terrifying, giving her a new respect for what Brodie took for granted.

The room remained silent for a score of seconds. She wasn’t sure she could move because her nerves were strung so tight. But when the front door swung shut with a final thump, she let the barrel of the gun fall to her side and point to the floor. The danger was eliminated. She had triumphed. But all she felt was the sudden onset of exhaustion.

One single pair of hands clapped, breaking the silence. It was joined by another pair until the room erupted in applause. The patrons were still clapping when the police came in with their guns drawn. As ludicrous as it was, she held out hope that Brodie would come in behind the cops, take the gun from her, and give her something solid to lean on. Hanging out with cops wasn’t his style, but she needed him tonight.

Grant came up beside her and she was grateful that she didn’t have her finger on the trigger when he touched her shoulder because the contact startled her. He pulled her into his arms after the cops surrounded them and took the gun away from her. She put up no fight, she felt so drained now that she wasn’t sure she’d ever have fight in her again.

The police secured the scene and questioned everyone. Zara was questioned by a detective she’d met before. That particular detective was the only official allowed anywhere near her, and a temporary black screen was erected in a shady corner of Purdy’s to give them privacy. The experience of recounting the night’s events and answering questions was reminiscent of the first time she’d met this detective.

After Timothy Sutcliffe’s murder more than four months ago, Detective Dennis Kraft had taken her statement. On that distant-ago night she hadn’t been much help because she’d been oblivious about who Timothy Sutcliffe was and why he’d been murdered.

Tonight, Kraft made no mention of that first encounter, but the special attention he paid her was noteworthy. None of his colleagues were allowed in her vicinity. Kraft stayed with her until the DA himself arrived at the scene. That such an important figure responded was a testament to the affluence of this district and to the caliber of companies whose employees were in the bar.

According to Kraft and the DA, other witness statements heralded her as a hero. The DA confirmed no charges would be filed against her, which was something of a relief because she hadn’t considered the legal consequences of killing Elvis before pulling the trigger.

She’d been told to stay in her seat, behind the screen, away from the mayhem in the street out front. Kraft and the DA were still just in view near the bar and deep in conversation. But she wasn’t interested in trying to eavesdrop. She was too far away to decipher what they were saying anyway. All she wanted now was permission to leave the scene.

Once the DA said goodbye to Kraft and departed, Kraft headed over to pull up a stool in front of her. Serious concern was written all over his face. From how he leaned close and held eye contact, she figured he knew she was flagging. Being a cop, he was probably used to people fazing in and out of reality and knew how important it was to emphasize every word, forcing the witnesses to follow his speech.

“The media are out front,” he said. “It’s just local.”

She closed her eyes as she breathed in. Zara didn’t have the first idea about how to handle the media and as long as she had them on her scent, she couldn’t go near Brodie or the manor.

Sometimes it felt like the Greater Power was plain old picking on her. “Great,” she grumbled.

When her eyes opened, he ducked to capture them with his, again ensuring she absorbed his every word. “You can’t talk to them, Zara. We won’t release your name to anyone,” he said. She narrowed her eyes, recalling something Brodie had inferred about having a history with this individual detective. “You have to keep a low profile. Drawing attention to yourself will only bring attention to your associates. I’ve got Grant McCormack waiting out back, he’ll take you home.”

Her associates. Kraft didn’t mean her CI colleague or the strangers in Purdy’s. Grant gave press conferences when there was anything significant going on at CI, he loved attention and had nothing to hide. No one in Purdy’s knew her and she was inconsequential enough that the young urban professionals paid no attention to her.

“Grant,” she said. Kraft took her arm and stood, drawing her onto her feet with him. “Detective Kraft, is this about—“

“You tell Raven hello from me. Let him know we looked out for you.”

The lingering stare became a smile and she nodded once. He did know something about the Kindred or about Raven at least. She needed an ally today and wouldn’t argue with his kindness or fail to take note that she owed him one, because she did. She didn’t want to be a hero or have her picture plastered all over the newspaper. She did what she did to survive and now she just wanted to go home.

Kraft took her behind the bar through a door to a staff corridor. After a sharp right, she found herself at the fire exit. Detective Kraft pushed the release bar and held it open before handing over her purse, with the weight of the Sig inside. They shared another look, one that suggested he was as curious about her as she was about him.

Raven was an enigmatic man with secrets and a past filled with characters she didn’t know. As far as Kraft was concerned, she was a woman with Raven’s ear and that could be useful in many situations. Their moment of reflection passed and Kraft guided her outside with an arm around her shoulders.

Grant was sitting in the driver’s seat of his idling car. The minute she got inside, he drove out the end of the alley and turned away from the busy scene. She appreciated that he didn’t ask questions on the ride home. But when he pulled into the residents’ parking lot at the back of her building, he parked, and turned off the engine.

Zara didn’t want company, but she also couldn’t be bothered arguing with him, so she let him follow her up to her apartment. It wasn’t like she had to worry about Brodie lurking in the dark waiting for her, those days were long gone. Grant wasn’t going to cross paths with his brother, giving her a reprieve from refereeing any battles that could break out.

The first thing she did when she went inside was to turn on the coffee machine. After that, she went to the restroom to wash her face and retrieve an ice-pack and arnica. Grant was pouring coffee when she came out and laid her supplies on the table.

He carried the steaming mugs over and put them on the table before he sat down beside her at her circular dining table. “Do you want help?” he asked as she snapped the icepack to hold it over her cheek.

“Nope.”

She iced her bruises, but knew they’d had time to develop and would likely swell. Frustration and impatience were making her tense again. Keeping Brodie sane didn’t include flashing the evidence of her assault in his face. If he saw these bruises, she’d have to tell him what happened. As soon as he heard the story, he’d go postal.

There was no reason for Grant to linger and she wished she’d made the effort downstairs to keep him in his car. “It’s already after midnight,” she said. “You should get home.”

“Is it your plan to go to him?” Grant asked. She did her best not to sigh or to curse and roll her eyes. After everything that had happened tonight, the last thing that she wanted to deal with was Grant having a temper tantrum. “You’re going to the manor, aren’t you?”

“No,” she said, elongating the word. “It’s late. It would only upset him to see me like this, and it’s never smart to upset Raven.”

“You were amazing tonight.”

Lowering her ice pack, she reached for the topical remedy, but Grant intercepted her hand. She hated it when he touched her. At one time, she had respected him more than she had respected any other person. Game Time had shattered her illusions about who he was and showed her how naïve she’d been to trust him.

Wrath swelled in her belly until her jaw clenched. “I had no choice but to defend myself,” she spat out, drawing her glare from his face to his hand. “That, my friend, is how protective your brother is of his property. Take that under advisement.”

Defiant and foolish, he didn’t shrink. His courage grew, but she knew it was bullshit. He’d proved what he was made of when he cowered tonight. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be,” she said, yanking her hand out of his hold. She wasn’t kidding around.

Beyond how upset Brodie might be if he thought Grant was trying to make a move on her, he would be more upset by the fact that Grant had done nothing to defend himself or to fend off the attackers tonight.

She couldn’t kid herself that he was in the right mental space to be interested in going after the men who had thought about hurting her. He wasn’t looking after himself, so she knew he wouldn’t look after her. That stark truth was emphasized by him ignoring her phone call. Brodie wasn’t ready to move away from his grief, and he may not ever be. Angering him while he was being dogged by his demons would only add weight and quicken his descending spiral.

Grant didn’t take the hint or offense. He stayed put and delivered his appraisal. “I think you’ve proved tonight that you don’t need him to back you up anymore. Zara, you were impressive. Everyone else cowered and you… you were up there, doing what was right.”

He twisted in his seat to face her and brushed a hand down her arm. She tried to withdraw, but he kept his hand on her elbow. “I’ve learned a lot recently about how to handle myself,” she said. “I suppose I just clicked into that mode and did what needed to be done. It was kill or be killed.”

“Sure, I understand,” Grant said. “I just want you to know that I’m proud of you.”

She no longer sought his approval as she had when their relationship was simply employer and employee. Validation from Brodie would mean so much more to her. But at that exact moment, she wanted to forget about what had happened tonight, to forget about the life she’d taken.

Too tired to take on another cause, she tried dismissive acceptance. “Thanks,” she said and scooted away to finish up with her wounds.

Gulping down as much of her drink as she could while she cleaned up, Zara put the bathroom items back in the first aid box and came back to the table. Finishing her coffee while in a standing position was supposed to signal to Grant that she wanted him to leave, but he didn’t notice it.

Still holding his own mug in two hands, and seated at her table, he observed the night beyond her windows. “This was my fault. Tonight, it was my fault,” he murmured. “It was all of our faults.”

Inhaling, she reminded herself that she wasn’t the only one who had gone through a trauma tonight. It was likely that Grant didn’t want to be alone because he was still dealing with the adrenaline that being in a life or death situation caused, but that didn’t ease her frustration.

It was no longer her responsibility to coddle Grant McCormack. Any guilt she had about that quickly faded when she recalled the sound of the gunshot and the heavy weight of Art’s body hitting concrete.

Grant had no one to lean on because he didn’t have close friends or intimate acquaintances. But, he hadn’t sought companionship when he found himself alone after Frank’s death, so she couldn’t pity him. It wasn’t like he’d wanted a bunch of people in his life that he could be loyal to and rely on. He’d gone on a vengeance spree, thinking himself superior and righteous.

Resting her hands on the back of the chair she’d been previously seated on, she saw that this moment of vulnerability might be a weakness that would allow her an avenue to probe his motivations.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

There was only one thing that linked them ‘all’ and that was Game Time. But she couldn’t see how the clash three months ago could be linked to a siege at Purdy’s.

“I don’t think it was an accident that we were in Purdy’s when those guys came in. He’s coming for us.”

Raising her brows, she prompted him. It was late, she was tired, and she didn’t feel like playing twenty questions. “He?”

“Albert Sutcliffe,” Grant said and lifted his eyes to hers. Art’s murderer. That name made the hairs on her arm stand up and the new awareness made her edgy. “I lost a VP and my housekeeper was killed on the same day.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” she said.

Concern and confusion chased away her desire to be alone. The whole point of being near Grant was to get answers and he was offering them free of charge. Swerving her hips around the chair-back, she sank down into it, facing in his direction. While tragic, she hadn’t given much thought to the death of the CI VP as anything more than random. Being killed by a mugger was upsetting, but it didn’t warrant special interest. It certainly didn’t warrant Kindred attention.

Grant’s gaze became distant again and it drifted towards her windows as he pondered. What she wanted was information, an explanation, and he was dragging out each moment of this confession.

The McCormack brothers had moments of similarity, but the majority of the time they were chalk and cheese. If Brodie had something to tell her, he’d blurt it out without softening it for her feelings. If he was withholding, he’d become a wall of silence and make no secret that he was cutting her out of the loop.

Grant needed a bit more handholding when it came to getting to the point, especially about something non-work related. But his next question came from left field.

“What’s it like to be with him? To be in a relationship with him?” Grant asked.

Zara hadn’t expected a question about Brodie. That it came now suggested Grant had been wondering about his brother—or her relationship with said brother—for some time. Getting over her initial surprise, Zara’s curiosity about the connection became suspicion. If it was no accident that she and Grant were present in Purdy’s during the raid, it was no coincidence that Grant was asking about Brodie on the same night.

“Why do you ask?” she asked, interested in how he would account for the relationship between Brodie and Purdy’s. “He had nothing to do with your VP or your housekeeper, if that’s why you’re asking.”

Brodie had lied to her about the Quebec job, but she had confidence in declaring him innocent of the more recent murders. It would be difficult for him to kill when he hadn’t left McCormack Manor. He was a good shot, but not good enough to defy the laws of physics.

“That’s not why I’m asking,” Grant said, but she couldn’t trust the sincerity in his soft tone. “I want to know what he’s like.”

If the two brothers could get to know each other and bond then her life would be a whole lot easier. The trouble was, she knew both of them too well to expect something like that would go off without a hitch.