Passenger was playing on his laptop.
She’s breathing, but she’s destroyed.
“Fuck,” he clipped, stalked to his laptop, paused the song, moved his finger randomly on the mouse pad, and tapped the button.
And it started.
Forty seconds in, he stopped dead.
And listened.
Five minutes later, he was out the door.
He did the extraction. He delivered the package. He got paid.
Then he went back to his hotel room, packed up, checked out, and hit the road.
He left his wedding picture on the bed.
* * * * *
Marcus Sloan
“I’m out.”
Marcus sat in his chair in Knight Sebring’s office at his nightclub, Slade, Raiden Miller and Sebring sitting with him, his gaze on Deacon, his surprise at these words masked.
“Out?” Knight asked.
“Out. No more. I’m here askin’ you to spread the word and cover my tracks. The man who worked the life is gone.”
Marcus caught Raiden grinning at his lap.
“Out?” Knight repeated and Marcus looked to him.
“Out,” Deacon grunted.
Marcus turned his attention to Deacon. “Cover your tracks to where?”
“Antler, Colorado. Got a war on my hands. I win it, I’m there until I die,” Deacon answered.
With great interest, Marcus Sloan studied a soulless man resurrected.
And he did it gladly.
“What’s in fuckin’ Antler, Colorado?” Knight asked.
Deacon pushed his chair back, stood, looked down at Sebring, and replied, “Beautiful war.”
On that, he walked out of the room.
The door closed on the soundproofed room before Raiden burst out laughing.
Chapter EighteenBeautiful War
Cassidy
I heard the shouting from the kitchen and ran, Bossy on my heels, to the door.
I held my big girl back with my calf, slipped through the door, clicking it shut behind me, and stopped dead.
This was because, just past my house, up the lane, Milagros’s SUV was at an angle, cutting off a black Suburban.
My breath burned in my lungs.
Milagros was out of the car.
So was Deacon.
Deacon.
“You are not here!” Milagros shouted, jabbing an angry Mexican American woman’s finger at him, meaning even Deacon was screwed.
Deacon said nothing, not because he had nothing to say, but because his eyes were on me.
My insides expanded so much, I thought they’d burst free.
Just as quickly, they shriveled to nothing.
That was the feeling I’d become accustomed the last six months, so it didn’t affect me.
“Go!” Milagros demanded. “Go! You’ve done enough! You do no more!”
Deacon continued to stare at me for long moments before he got in his truck and slammed the door.
It was a good thing my insides shriveled or seeing that would hurt like a bitch.
I stood there and watched him through his windshield as he put the Suburban into gear.
He reversed.
Then he stopped, shifted to drive, and my mouth dropped open when he drove up over the boulders that lined the side of the lane, likely gutting his undercarriage, his SUV bouncing into the snow as he drove until he stopped across from my house.
I’d quit breathing at the boulder maneuver and my breath came raspy as Milagros dashed down the snowy gravel to the foot of my steps.
Deacon was out, the handles of a plastic bag in his fist, and stalking her way.
She lifted a hand.
“Not another step, John Priest!” she yelled.
“Name’s Deacon Gates,” he replied calmly and I saw her body jerk.
As for me, my knees buckled and I had to lock them or I’d go down.
He’d surprised her so he got by her.
She recovered quickly and chased him up the stairs.
“Cassidy, get inside,” she ordered.
I was staring into Deacon’s eyes, my head tipping back to keep hold of them when he stopped nearly toe to toe with me.
“I’m calling Manuel!” she threatened, like five foot seven, at-least-seventy-pounds-less-weight-than-Deacon Manuel could help.
But he’d try.
And I couldn’t let that happen.
I pulled my eyes from Deacon’s and looked around him to my friend.
“I’ll take care of this.”
“Cassidy—”
“Honey, go home. I’ll take care of this and call you later.”
“This man, whatever his name is, hu—”
“I’ll take care of it, Milagros,” I interrupted her to say. “Love you, appreciate the support, but please, honey, go. Go on. Go home. I’ll call you later.” I drew in breath and finished, “Promise.”
Milagros glared at me, knowing me, knowing I was stubborn and ornery and even she couldn’t talk me down if I was intent on doing something. Then she stomped to our sides, eyes up to Deacon.
“You damage her more, only God will have mercy on your soul,” she snapped, glared at me again, did it a long time, then stormed to the steps. She stopped at the bottom and yelled up. “You call me, Cassidy! I don’t hear from you, I’m coming back, and I’m bringing every man I know with me!”
I sighed.
She tramped to her car.
I watched her get in and start to drive off before I looked up to Deacon. “You’ll give me a minute then you can come in.”
He said nothing, just stared into my eyes, face impassive.
He was good at that.
Nothing had changed.
So why was he here?
I didn’t ask.
I turned with difficulty since there wasn’t a lot of room for me to move between Deacon’s big body and the door. I got it open, slid through, and immediately corralled my confused and whining dog.
Bossy wasn’t going to see Deacon. If she remembered him, I didn’t want to get her hopes up. She thought he’d been gone for a job and he’d come back. She had him less time than me and was devastated as the weeks turned to months and he didn’t show.
I felt her pain.
For a while.
Now I didn’t feel anything.
Or, at least, I told myself that.
I got her in the kitchen, whispered, “Be good. Be quiet. And stay.” She looked up at me with her sweet brown eyes and sat on her furry booty.
My Boss Lady.
I closed the door, shored up my defenses, and stood in my foyer with eyes to the front door.
Moments later, Deacon walked in, closing the door on the cold behind him.
Bossy heard him enter and barked, deep and resonant, no longer a puppy (well, still my puppy but mostly she was a dog).
She’s breathing, but she’s destroyed.
“Fuck,” he clipped, stalked to his laptop, paused the song, moved his finger randomly on the mouse pad, and tapped the button.
And it started.
Forty seconds in, he stopped dead.
And listened.
Five minutes later, he was out the door.
He did the extraction. He delivered the package. He got paid.
Then he went back to his hotel room, packed up, checked out, and hit the road.
He left his wedding picture on the bed.
* * * * *
Marcus Sloan
“I’m out.”
Marcus sat in his chair in Knight Sebring’s office at his nightclub, Slade, Raiden Miller and Sebring sitting with him, his gaze on Deacon, his surprise at these words masked.
“Out?” Knight asked.
“Out. No more. I’m here askin’ you to spread the word and cover my tracks. The man who worked the life is gone.”
Marcus caught Raiden grinning at his lap.
“Out?” Knight repeated and Marcus looked to him.
“Out,” Deacon grunted.
Marcus turned his attention to Deacon. “Cover your tracks to where?”
“Antler, Colorado. Got a war on my hands. I win it, I’m there until I die,” Deacon answered.
With great interest, Marcus Sloan studied a soulless man resurrected.
And he did it gladly.
“What’s in fuckin’ Antler, Colorado?” Knight asked.
Deacon pushed his chair back, stood, looked down at Sebring, and replied, “Beautiful war.”
On that, he walked out of the room.
The door closed on the soundproofed room before Raiden burst out laughing.
Chapter EighteenBeautiful War
Cassidy
I heard the shouting from the kitchen and ran, Bossy on my heels, to the door.
I held my big girl back with my calf, slipped through the door, clicking it shut behind me, and stopped dead.
This was because, just past my house, up the lane, Milagros’s SUV was at an angle, cutting off a black Suburban.
My breath burned in my lungs.
Milagros was out of the car.
So was Deacon.
Deacon.
“You are not here!” Milagros shouted, jabbing an angry Mexican American woman’s finger at him, meaning even Deacon was screwed.
Deacon said nothing, not because he had nothing to say, but because his eyes were on me.
My insides expanded so much, I thought they’d burst free.
Just as quickly, they shriveled to nothing.
That was the feeling I’d become accustomed the last six months, so it didn’t affect me.
“Go!” Milagros demanded. “Go! You’ve done enough! You do no more!”
Deacon continued to stare at me for long moments before he got in his truck and slammed the door.
It was a good thing my insides shriveled or seeing that would hurt like a bitch.
I stood there and watched him through his windshield as he put the Suburban into gear.
He reversed.
Then he stopped, shifted to drive, and my mouth dropped open when he drove up over the boulders that lined the side of the lane, likely gutting his undercarriage, his SUV bouncing into the snow as he drove until he stopped across from my house.
I’d quit breathing at the boulder maneuver and my breath came raspy as Milagros dashed down the snowy gravel to the foot of my steps.
Deacon was out, the handles of a plastic bag in his fist, and stalking her way.
She lifted a hand.
“Not another step, John Priest!” she yelled.
“Name’s Deacon Gates,” he replied calmly and I saw her body jerk.
As for me, my knees buckled and I had to lock them or I’d go down.
He’d surprised her so he got by her.
She recovered quickly and chased him up the stairs.
“Cassidy, get inside,” she ordered.
I was staring into Deacon’s eyes, my head tipping back to keep hold of them when he stopped nearly toe to toe with me.
“I’m calling Manuel!” she threatened, like five foot seven, at-least-seventy-pounds-less-weight-than-Deacon Manuel could help.
But he’d try.
And I couldn’t let that happen.
I pulled my eyes from Deacon’s and looked around him to my friend.
“I’ll take care of this.”
“Cassidy—”
“Honey, go home. I’ll take care of this and call you later.”
“This man, whatever his name is, hu—”
“I’ll take care of it, Milagros,” I interrupted her to say. “Love you, appreciate the support, but please, honey, go. Go on. Go home. I’ll call you later.” I drew in breath and finished, “Promise.”
Milagros glared at me, knowing me, knowing I was stubborn and ornery and even she couldn’t talk me down if I was intent on doing something. Then she stomped to our sides, eyes up to Deacon.
“You damage her more, only God will have mercy on your soul,” she snapped, glared at me again, did it a long time, then stormed to the steps. She stopped at the bottom and yelled up. “You call me, Cassidy! I don’t hear from you, I’m coming back, and I’m bringing every man I know with me!”
I sighed.
She tramped to her car.
I watched her get in and start to drive off before I looked up to Deacon. “You’ll give me a minute then you can come in.”
He said nothing, just stared into my eyes, face impassive.
He was good at that.
Nothing had changed.
So why was he here?
I didn’t ask.
I turned with difficulty since there wasn’t a lot of room for me to move between Deacon’s big body and the door. I got it open, slid through, and immediately corralled my confused and whining dog.
Bossy wasn’t going to see Deacon. If she remembered him, I didn’t want to get her hopes up. She thought he’d been gone for a job and he’d come back. She had him less time than me and was devastated as the weeks turned to months and he didn’t show.
I felt her pain.
For a while.
Now I didn’t feel anything.
Or, at least, I told myself that.
I got her in the kitchen, whispered, “Be good. Be quiet. And stay.” She looked up at me with her sweet brown eyes and sat on her furry booty.
My Boss Lady.
I closed the door, shored up my defenses, and stood in my foyer with eyes to the front door.
Moments later, Deacon walked in, closing the door on the cold behind him.
Bossy heard him enter and barked, deep and resonant, no longer a puppy (well, still my puppy but mostly she was a dog).
