But that wasn’t what she heard.
“Please don’t hurt him. He didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” her mom said, her voice high and shrill with fear.
The dull, meaty thwack of someone being struck followed and fury blossomed inside her.
In a blink, her hands and feet transformed to steel. She leaned back, ready to smash the door down and become a wrecking ball of vengeance but again, a hand settled on her shoulder and she hesitated.
“Wait, Kristen. That was only one punch. They’re not roughing him up too bad.”
“Not too bad? Can you even hear yourself?”
“Maybe these assholes will tell us something we need to know. Give it ten seconds.”
Everything in her protested at any further delay, but ten seconds later, she had to acknowledge that the Wonderkid was indeed more experienced than her.
“We don’t want to hurt you people, got it?” stated the gruff voice of a stranger.
“We’re only here to keep you safe until we move you to a more secure location.” The second voice was higher-pitched and more wheedling. She wondered if there were more than only the two.
“Do you expect us to believe you’re here to keep us safe when you killed the cops out front?” Frank demanded, his voice thick. Kristen had a feeling he’d have a swollen lip from the blow. She vowed to do the same to every person in there.
“The cops are compromised, got it?” the voice that reminded her of a weasel said. “You can’t trust them anymore, but don’t worry, we didn’t kill them either. Now, I’d kindly appreciate it if all of us simply sat quietly while we wait for our associates to arrive. It shouldn’t be long now.”
Silence descended on the Hall residence.
Jim leaned closer to her ear. “There’s no reason to break your mom’s purple door. Is it locked?”
She tried the doorknob. It wasn’t.
“We go in together, on three. What’s the layout like?”
“The back door opens to the kitchen and the open floorplan connects it to the living room. From back here, there are two bedrooms and a bathroom to the right. It sounds like my dad and mom are in the living room. Brian’s probably there too. It’s not like he would be anywhere else. I hear at least two hostiles, but my guess is there are more. If we’re lucky, they’ll have their backs to us.
“That it? Is there anywhere to hide?” he asked.
“There is a tiny pantry in the kitchen but I don’t think anyone’s gonna hide in there. It’d be damn tight. Plus, it sounds like they’re waiting for a pickup or something and don’t expect me at all.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. What?”
“I thought the Steel Dragon would’ve come from nicer digs than a two-bedroom.”
“Later, Wonderkid. Right now, I have skulls to crack.”
“Right. We go in. You take point, obviously. If there’s someone in the kitchen, ignore them and target whoever is on your parents. I’ll cover you and take out anyone you blow past.”
“All right. Are you ready?”
Jim nodded.
“Good. Here we go, in three. One… two…three.”
She opened the door and they slipped inside.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Trevor Styx wasn’t a bad guy. He’d merely made a few bad decisions.
That was practically one of the definitions of what it meant to grow up poor in the inner city of any major American metropolis. Not that he was angry or bitter. It was simply that he recognized there were many factors that had led him here, not all of which were within his control.
For example, if he had not tried to break into the same house as a group of criminals, he would never have met his current crew. It was an odd coincidence and at the time, one that he had thought would be fatal. The criminals had turned out to not be police, so that was something.
Although they had known so much more than he did. In retrospect, that alone should have been enough to clue him in to the stakes of the runs they went on.
For example, that house they’d all broken into at the same time—mansion was really a better word—wasn’t merely a rich asshole’s summer home but the residence of a bonafide dragon.
He hadn’t known that. In fact, he hadn’t had any idea, but the other three goons were quick to explain the situation once they’d given him a small but painful makeover. They had known what the place was and even known the name of the dragon—Ironclaw or some shit. While he had been after the silverware and maybe jewelry or antique coins, the other goons had known about the dragon’s secret stash.
They’d befriended him once he’d made it quite clear that he wasn’t working with the dragon who lived in the house. That hadn’t been difficult for him as he’d always been good with words. In fact, words were about the only thing he was good with.
The thugs had taken him under their proverbial dragon’s wing then and they’d all worked their way into the safe to find a collection of the weirdest shit he had ever seen.
Claws, teeth, scales—it was like someone had taken the dragon’s bathroom trashcan and stashed it under lock and key. His new teammates had taken all of it but had been particularly excited about a finger—an honest to God finger—that had seemed to be made of cast iron.
He had simply tried not to think too hard about what was clearly seriously weird shit.
When they’d made their escape and returned to their getaway van, he accepted their invitation for a ride. His getaway plan had been the city bus, so everything about the situation seemed an improvement to him.
How wrong he’d been.
They’d gone to meet their boss on the top floor of a fancy hotel.
At first, Trevor had thought that even this was a stroke of good luck. Their boss had been smoking hot with a great fucking body all decked out in form-fitting black and technical gear. Black hair hung in front of one eye and she wore dark-red lipstick.
She’d beckoned for him to come closer in a voice as scratchy as Bob Dylan’s. That appealed to him as well.
He’d told her what had happened and about how they’d robbed the same place. Ha-ha. What a great coincidence and all that.
The woman had smiled demurely and Trevor had almost lost it. There he was, meeting a criminal mastermind, and she liked him!
She invited him out to the balcony and Trevor remembered fantasies playing through his mind. Maybe this woman needed a proper man, a man gifted in all things tongue for her team. Maybe she’d take him on as henchman lover and put him in charge of these other goons and maybe in charge of her finances. He was sure he could have negotiated her a better deal on the hotel room.
His first inkling of how royally fucked he was came when he saw what she’d left on the balcony. It was an entire damn armory—more weapons and more varieties than he’d ever seen.
Well, that wasn’t quite true.
It was mostly rifles and the kind of scopes you’d need to see a moth’s asshole from a mile off. She picked one of them up, handed it to him, and told him to find someone who was harming the city.
Trevor had put his eye to the scope and tried not to shake while he looked through the lens. Obviously, this woman had some kind of moral code that was somewhat in line with his. She robbed mansions—or the mansions of dragons anyway—and seemed to think guns were a useful tool. What did that mean, though? Someone who was hurting the city?
Warily, he scanned the ground far below while he tried to decide what counted as harm. A junkie was hidden in a back alley. Detroit had been through one hell of a period of growth lately but there were still junkies. Every city had junkies but now, they stuck to the back alleys.
But, as worthless as the guy was, he wasn’t harming the city. He barely took up any space and didn’t bother anyone. The dude looked so tweaked-out he wasn’t even asking for change. His alleyway probably smelled like piss, but that wasn’t a punishable offense.
His search continued.
For a moment, he settled on a family. He lov
ed his mom, God rest her soul. Obviously, he didn’t want to do anything to that one.
A firetruck drove past and he moved on.
Movement caught his attention and he paused. A police officer stepped out of a bank, talking animatedly with someone. He watched the conversation and a frown gathered on his face.
He couldn’t hear the words, of course, but the expression made it clear to him what was going on. The cop was getting something from the banker, something that made him exceedingly happy. He pumped the other man’s hand and grinned like he’d busted into someone’s house and found a stash of emeralds.
The banker didn’t look any more innocent. He nodded knowingly and added encouragement of some kind every now and then. Obviously, the two were in cahoots.
“In front of the bank. You have a dirty cop and a corrupt banker.”
The woman took the rifle from him and aimed it at them. That was his first inkling that perhaps something was wrong. She wore gloves and seemed far more adept at handling the weapon than he was. He’d assumed she’d given him the weapon so he could use the scope, but now… Well, if something happened, his prints would be on it, not hers.
“How do you know the police officer is harming the city?” the woman had asked and annunciated each word carefully. She had a faint trace of an accent—something eastern European maybe? He didn’t know, but the accent plus the figure plus the dark lipstick made him want to please her.
“Have you ever talked to a banker? They don’t help anyone who actually needs it and are only interested in their damn shareholders. Do you know what shareholders do for this country? Nothing. Nothing at all. If he’s working with a cop, that cop must be looking the other way for something—some sick fucking things bankers do in their back corners. Have you ever heard about those sex-rings politicians and their investors run? Apparently, little children aren’t beyond their preferences. I’ll bet that cop is delivering one or letting one slip through. Something horrible.”
She nodded at his explanation and he smiled inwardly. He’d always been good with words and it seemed like she was as powerless to resist his charms as anyone else.
“I trust your judgment,” she had said, and his heart had quickened. No one trusted him, not even his own sister. That was simply not a word used to describe Trevor Styx. Some people listened and even went along with him temporarily, but trust wasn’t the word they used.
“Do you trust mine?”
“Your judgment?” he had asked. “Sure.”
The woman fired the rifle as the cop’s car drove into an intersection. They were so damn far away it actually took a moment for the bullet to strike. When it did, he breathed a sigh of relief. She’d missed. Thank fucking God, she’d missed. She’d hit the front tire instead of drilling a hole in the windshield.
His relief faded when the cop’s car had swerved because its front tire was flat and drove in front of a bus going maybe forty miles an hour.
He saw the collision and the way the little green sedan had crumpled like a beer can at a party under a bridge. The man was dead. He had no doubt about that. Jesus Christ himself would have had to be seated in the passenger seat for someone to survive something like that.
“You have my trust, Trevor. This city is a better place because of your judgment.”
“My judgment? I didn’t tell you to kill the guy!”
“And I didn’t. You did.” She thrust the rifle into his hands.
He’d accepted it instead of letting it clatter to the floor. That might have been what he regretted the most. Why hadn’t he simply run out at that moment?
“But I didn’t know you would kill him.”
“That’s no longer relevant, Trevor. What matters is that I trusted you and now, you are in my trust.”
The conversation had never really gone in his favor after that. Apparently, the woman had brought the crew into town and—lucky Trevor—they were working on a target on the police force.
The robbery where they’d found him had only been to obtain those weird dragon pieces and trade them for something. The stakes of this relationship had terrified Trevor. He’d thought he was working with a team of thieves so professional that they regularly robbed dragons.
It turned out that was their first attempt to rob anything larger than a pawn shop, and that their boss—the woman in black—normally didn’t conduct that kind of business either. She’d only accepted the gig because the contact had known the dragon who owned the mansion would be busy that night.
To make it all worse, she had explained that their mission was to kill the Steel Dragon herself. Apparently, the robbery that had brought him onto the team had merely been a part of that puzzle.
This had scared the shit out of him, but when he’d found it wasn’t simply a dirty cop that this assassin was targeting but the goddamned Steel Dragon, what could he have done? Quit?
The worst part was that she was always watching. Every mission they went on, there’d be some crazy fucking moment where a bullet would come out of nowhere and shoot the lock of a door, or where a camera would burst into scrap immediately before it turned to look at him.
He had no doubt that if he’d tried to flee, there’d be a bullet in his brain to stop him.
Which made his current situation all the more troubling.
The goons—as he liked to think of his quiet, surly associates—had disabled the two cops in their cars before he even knew what the hell was going on.
In the next moment, they were inside, beating the shit out of some fat man and his fat kid. The mom had screamed at them to not damage the carpet with their blood and that her husband was an ex-cop and their little crew was royally fucked.
Trevor didn’t particularly like hitting women. He understood that some men got a real kick out of getting a mouthy bitch to shut up, but he didn’t fault women for talking. After all, he was chatty himself. But damn, had it felt good to get her to shut up with the back of his hand.
After barely a minute, they had the three fat fucks subdued and more or less quiet on the couch. Everything had seemed to be fine but now, they were there waiting. That was what bothered him the most about the whole damn operation. This was supposed to be simple. Go in, subdue the family—he hadn’t known about the cops, but after his few weeks with the goons, he found most of them were rarely told the whole story—and wait for pick-up.
But it had been more than five minutes. That was a long time to wait with cops out front who could wake up at any moment.
One of the thugs had plopped down next to the fat kid’s fat dad. He wasn’t a kid really but a nineteen-year-old, privileged piece of shit. He told himself he didn’t give a shit about some fatso who lived with his parents, had a roof over his head, and was well fed. That was more than many people had.
Everything had been fine until the idiot—Martin was his name—had put his feet on the couch.
“Keep your fucking feet off the couch!” the fat man had complained like he had any fucking right to talk.
Martin had looked at him once. He stood, dusted the dirt off the couch, then kneed the fat man so hard in the crotch that Trevor had actually seen his eyes bug out like a cartoon.
“Please don’t hurt him! He didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” the woman had whined.
“We don’t want to hurt you people, got it?” one of the other goons had told the woman but that hadn’t calmed her. She looked around the room, no doubt for a weapon or a phone or something to change her situation. Trevor had recognized the look in her eyes—a mixture of desperation and resolution.
It wasn’t a good look for an old bitch who was supposed to sit quietly on her couch.
“We’re only here to keep you safe until we move you to a more secure location,” he said.
Those were their mission parameters, after all. He had been glad to take this mission at first. The orders hadn’t come from the woman in black but another man—well, not a man but a dragon. He was bigger and more obviously intimidating than the assas
sin and had to be her partner or something. The goons had listened to him when he’d given them orders, so he assumed they knew who he was. It had been nice to get out and do something. Even if it was kidnapping, it was better than being bored.
“Do you expect us to believe you’re here to keep us safe when you killed the cops out front?” the fat man said, his voice both weak from being kneed in the crotch and a little thick from his bruised face.
“The cops are compromised, got it?” Trevor explained and walked toward the kitchen to get himself a beer or a pop. “You can’t trust them anymore, but don’t worry. We didn’t kill them, either. Now, I’d kindly appreciate it if all of us simply sit quietly while we wait for our associates to arrive. It shouldn’t be long now.”
What happened next would be the moment that defined his life. He’d end up describing it more often than any other sequence of events, and yet he’d never quite believe it.
The first thing he noticed was that the doorknob turned extremely slowly.
He took a few steps back and moved past one of the goons who was in the kitchen. It was a little cowardly but he had no loyalty to these guys and besides, he was the mouth, not the muscle. He didn’t need to be closest to the door.
Still, he thought that perhaps he should warn them and was about to say something when the door swung open.
“You’re fucked now!” the fat kid had shouted and all three of the goons turned toward him instead of the open door.
Trevor alone saw the silver blur enter the house, race past the man getting a beer from the fridge, and slam its palm into Trevor’s chest hard enough to catapult him over the dining room table.
A rapid gunshot felled the man in the kitchen. Before he’d even landed, a cop strode in through the open back door. The motherfucker had killed a man just like that, more or less in cold blood.
Dammit, he hated cops.
But the silver blur was what held his attention. It raced into the living room, caught the third goon—his name was Dorson—and lifted him into the air.
He saw then that it wasn’t a blur but a woman.
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