by H. P. Bayne
Sully knew he was right, that Dez was a threat the men wouldn’t want to contend with. How could he not be, protective powerhouse that he was? And if the men had been told about Sully, no doubt they’d been warned about his brother. Dez had saved him the last time, and he’d do it again and again; they had to know that. Rhona Dule had gotten close to Dez the last time for that exact reason. These men would open fire the moment they saw Dez.
Sully could think of just one way to deal with them, and it wasn’t going to be easy.
“Sully?”
Crap. That left the problem of what to do with Ara.
He turned to her, finding her directly behind him. He grasped her shoulders, forced a hint of a smile onto his face. “I know this doesn’t make sense to you, and you deserve an explanation. I just can’t give it to you yet. I need to deal with those people outside. You have to stay in here while I do that, okay? Find somewhere to hide and stay there until Dez or Lachlan or I come to get you. All right?”
“What is this? I thought you—”
“Now, Ara! Please!”
He’d unintentionally shouted it, desperation ruling his words. He forced calm, then tried again. “Please. I need you to hide. I can’t deal with them until I know you’re safe.”
She stared into his eyes for a moment, one that seemed to drag on far too long. At last, she backed away, eyes scanning the room.
“There’s a pantry off the kitchen,” Sully said. “It’s close to the back door if you need to get out of here. Go.”
She started to go, but he thought better of it. This might be his last chance, his last opportunity to grant her a chance at the life she deserved.
“I’m happy for you, you know,” he said. “You and Emory. He’s a good man, and I’m grateful to him for being what I can never be for you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. You never needed my permission to go on with your life, Ara. You deserve to be happy, and I’m glad you are. Now go. Please.”
Tears filled her eyes at his words, and she gave him one last long look and a sad smile before backing away toward the kitchen, holding him in her sights as if seeking to form a lasting memory. Then she was gone.
Now it was just Sully, his collection of ghosts and his would-be killers.
And Ned.
The poltergeist was still hovering around him, the unlikeliest of loyal companions, ever ready for action. Sully hoped he wouldn’t have use of Ned—the last time he had, someone had died—but the spirit might prove lifesaving under the right circumstances.
As long as he could keep the hangman tamped down. No question what he’d want to do with these men.
Sully gave it only another second’s thought before drawing Ned’s energy into himself. His insides churning with the force of the contained energy, he moved toward the door.
Lucky and Flynn each appeared in front of him, attempting to bar his way.
He faced Lucky first. “It’s okay. I know what I’m doing. You need to trust me.” He then turned to Flynn. “If I don’t deal with them now, they’ll hurt the people I love in order to get to me. They’ll hurt Dez. I can’t allow that. Anyway, they won’t kill me. Not yet. The Dules said it has to be in a fire.”
He wasn’t successful in easing their concern, as he knew he wouldn’t be. But they weren’t holding him back anymore, either. They stepped aside, just enough to create a path for him between them.
He walked out onto the veranda, hood up and hair down to conceal his features. There was no sense hiding from the men; they knew it was him without needing a closer look. But no sense the entire neighbourhood being able to identify him if these people just shot him and took off.
He was pretty sure, with Ned’s energy thrumming through him, a bullet wound wouldn’t stop him. He half-hoped they would—just put a bullet in him and take off. If they believed they’d killed him, it would get the Dules out of his hair awhile, at least long enough to deal with Lowell without his birth family causing a major complication.
Of course, nothing was ever that easy.
The smaller of the men, the one who came across as leader, stepped from the car’s front passenger seat as Sully neared. Sully spoke first.
“It’s me you’re after, not anyone else. This is between me and the Dules.”
“I agree,” he said. “They want to see you. Get in.”
He could fight them, could unleash Ned, the hangman, too, if he wanted. A quick scan of the area negated that idea. Two people were shovelling their walks, at least one of whom was watching. If Sully went full poltergeist in front of those people, he’d never be able to come back here, and Lachlan would have a hell of a lot of questions to answer.
He did the only other thing he could. He got in the back seat.
Two guns. That was the first thing he noticed. One held by the smaller man up front, a second by the larger man next to him in the backseat.
“Those won’t help you,” Sully said. “Not against me.” The words came out sounding more confident than he felt. He’d managed a weird, rapid-fire healing from a gunshot wound at Lockwood a couple of months ago, but that had been just one injury. If he ended up with a series of slugs inside him, he didn’t have quite so much faith in his ability to recover—additional spiritual energy or not.
They didn’t have to know that. As it stood, memories of what he’d done to them at Ravenwood were coursing through them; he could tell by the tight expressions, the rigidity in their postures, the way the two gunmen clutched their weapons in white-knuckled grips. Past experience had given Sully an unusual upper hand, an element of fear that could turn the situation in his favour—if he used it right.
Currently, he had no desire to use it. These men wouldn’t kill him here and now, after all. The Dules had given their orders and no doubt paid well to ensure they were obeyed. Whether by the Dules’ hands or these men’s, Sully was to die by fire. He’d force himself to stay solid during the drive; the real fight would come once the car stopped moving.
With the car accelerating down the block, Sully allowed his eyes to leave the guns long enough to check out the driver. Like the man sitting next to him, he was a larger man, but not the other one he’d encountered at Ravenwood, the one who’d clearly been high on something when he ran off in a panic.
“New guy,” Sully observed. “Your last one didn’t want to face me again.”
“He wasn’t in a state to get the job done,” the smaller man said. “He’s got some problems. I’m sure you noticed. Bernie”—he nodded at the driver using his chin—“doesn’t have similar issues. Don’t worry.” The man managed a smirk. “We’re all in very good hands.”
“Where are we going?”
“For a drive.”
“I gathered that much,” Sully said. “In town or out?”
“Out,” the man said. “Can’t risk anyone finding you before it’s done. Speaking of….” He turned to the man in the backseat. “Tie him up.”
The guy next to Sully set his gun down and pulled out a pair of long zip ties from his pocket. Time to nip this one in the bud.
“Nope,” Sully said. “Not going to happen.”
The de facto leader tried for cocky. “You think you’ve got a choice?”
Sully turned a heated glare on him, was pleased to see a nerve jump along the side of his forehead. “Damn straight I do. I’m coming along quietly at this point. You want to change that, go ahead. But your buddy back here will be out that door before he knows what’s happening, and you’ll be using your gun in ways you’d rather not consider.”
The backseat thug was convinced, zip ties dropping forgotten to the floor while he retrieved his gun. Sully noticed the smaller man up front wasn’t arguing the point either.
The driver had yet to say or do anything but steer. He chose this moment to break his silence. “What the hell is this? You’re not actually letting this asshole give you orders.”
“This asshole isn’t our problem,”
the smaller man said. “We’re being paid to deliver him, that’s it. Anything else ain’t worth my time.”
“But—”
“And you’re being paid to drive, Bernie. Shut up and do it.”
Sully sat back, did his best to relax. They were heading north out of the city; that much became obvious as Bernie steered them onto the freeway and avoided the exits that would have led them toward the northeast or northwest parts of Kimotan Rapids. What awaited them at the end of the drive was unclear, the games the Dules were willing to play myriad and dangerous.
Sully had told his dad and Lucky he knew what he was doing. Truth was, he was making it up as he went. And until he knew exactly what he was facing, the outcome—for his enemies as well as himself—was far from certain.
10
The house stood at the end of an unplowed lane. The snow had drifted so heavily in spots, they would have to walk in rather than drive. A second vehicle sat this end of the lane, abandoned with a few sets of prints leading from it toward the two-storey farmhouse.
Among the prints was a set that came not from feet but wheels. Lorinda. How Rhona and Greta—no doubt responsible for the two sets of boot prints Sully observed in the snow—had wrestled both Lorinda and her wheelchair in here, Sully had no idea.
But one thing about the Dules: They were determined. The fact he was here, in the company of a group of paid hitmen, was evidence enough of that.
Sully took some satisfaction from the markings left behind in the snowdrifts, evidence the women had struggled coming through here. If Sully was reading it correctly, Lorinda had been made to walk in places while the chair was dragged. Someone had sunk deep into the drift, leaving a trail of pits that spoke to a struggle in extrication. A similar set of marks met Sully and the other men as they reached a second, then a third snowdrift.
The women—Lorinda at least—would have been exhausted and grouchy by the time they got to the house. If they were anyone else, he might have felt bad for them.
Having passed the final snow-created hurdle, Sully turned his attention to the farm. That it was no longer inhabited was obvious—and not just because of the fact the road hadn’t been plowed in some time. The house wasn’t in horrible shape, suggesting it had been lived in within the past decade, but the paint and the shingles were peeling, and one of the lower storey windows this side was smashed.
A variety of other buildings stood, all in need of fixes were this ever to be used again as a farm. A large barn was in far worse shape than the house, sagging precariously against its lean; a row of old wooden bins was missing doors and boards; another small building—its purpose lost to time—had fallen in completely. Sully’s eyes went next to the only other item of note in the yard: a pair of tanks toward the back of the property, marked “fuel” and “diesel” in large, faded lettering. If the Dules had managed to tap into the one tank—and if it still contained sufficient gasoline—they’d have all the accelerant they needed for a decent blaze.
Ned rattled around inside him, eager for release, and the hangman was crouched and ready to spring at a moment’s notice. A time not so long ago, Sully would have given in to both, would have let them take control in order to protect himself both physically and psychologically. But he’d seen the destruction the pair could wreak. With little to no moral compass between them, the one Sully possessed was all that stood in the way of an unnecessary murderous rampage. If death became necessary, he’d let the hangman at it. Sully was no killer—not where it counted, anyway. If it came down to having to do it again, he knew well enough to leave the job to the professional concealed within his soul.
A flash of purple came into view from behind a caragana bush. Lucky’s eyes were wide, fear rippling off her as she moved to stand in front of the door. He knew what she was trying to do, and there was wisdom in her attempt to keep her son from entering that house. But Sully had moved past wisdom, had firmly entered a mindset of determined recklessness. He didn’t know what awaited him on the other side of that door. All he knew was these people were keeping him from dealing with the situation with Lowell—a situation that was threatening his family’s safety and any chance they had at peace. The Dules needed to be dealt with, one way or another. He was done running, done hiding.
They’d been expecting Bad Sully ever since they’d learned of his existence.
They were about to meet him.
The men who’d brought him here flanked him, standing close by as if expecting him to do a runner. No doubt they’d been told by the Dules he wouldn’t come quietly. He banked on surprising everyone by heading for the front steps willingly, leading the way to the building’s front door.
Lucky didn’t move, standing still and resolute in his way.
“I have to do this, Mom,” he said. “You have to let me.”
She shook her head.
“Who are you talking to?” asked one of the two larger men at his back. He didn’t look to see which, didn’t care.
“Shut up, you idiot,” the smaller man said.
Sully’s attention returned in full to the teenager on the top step. “Please,” he whispered. “This needs to end. One way or another, I need to deal with it.”
She stared at him, large, blue eyes no less terrified by the determination he knew had to be showing in his own gaze. But, as she had at Lachlan’s, she slowly stepped aside.
Sully moved past her and, conscious about the idea of leaving prints should this go badly, used his coat sleeve to turn the knob. It opened easily in his grip, door either left unlocked or incapable of being locked.
The house was surprisingly warm, suggesting someone had started a fire already.
“In here, Sullivan,” a voice called from somewhere on the main floor. He was in a kitchen; he guessed Lorinda—the voice he’d just heard—was up ahead, probably in a living room or parlour.
Sully glanced behind himself. The men hadn’t followed him inside, opting to remain out in the snow. Sully had no idea why, and it seemed there had to be a reason for it.
While he looked small compared to Dez, Sully was solidly built by normal standards. At six feet, he’d managed to regain some weight and muscle he’d lost during his self-imposed years in hiding, and he knew how to hold up his end of a fight, even without supernatural intervention. Add all that to the fact these women had to know how much he loathed them, and he couldn’t help wondering why they weren’t more intimidated by the idea of facing him without some backup present.
It was probably a call for caution on his part. But caution required time. Time he no longer had.
He pressed ahead, passing Lucky as she stood at the juncture between kitchen and what proved to be a sitting room. In the room, gathered near a lit fireplace, were the Dules.
Rhona had dragged over a once-plush chair and had plunked herself into it, water damage and potential mouse infestation be damned. Greta stood nearby, arms crossed while leaning back against the wall as if trying for an appearance of cool despite the panicked, drugged-out look in her eyes. And between them, posed collectedly in her wheelchair, sat the matriarch of this nasty little clan. Lorinda leaned forward slightly as Sully entered the room, her bright eyes looking him up and down appraisingly.
“You’ve gained a little weight since we last saw you,” she said. “You look much healthier.”
He didn’t respond. They’d moved far past the point of engaging in small talk. “What do you want?”
He felt no surprise despite a quick movement from Greta, one that ended in her aiming a gun directly at him.
“They were supposed to tie you up,” she said. Then to her mother, as if the statement had gone unheard, “They were supposed to tie him up.”
“Wasn’t going to happen,” Sully said. “Anyway, I came quietly. They didn’t have to restrain me. Neither do you. Put the gun away, Greta, before you get hurt.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked. “I’m the one with the gun. It’s you who should be worried about getting hurt.
”
He’d forgotten about Lorinda’s liking for tranquilizer darts and her ability to move quickly when she chose. He felt it before he had time to register movement from the chair, the bite of a dart into his midsection. He yanked it out, threw it discarded onto the time- and weather-battered rug, and waited for the inevitable sensation of sinking.
It didn’t come.
He puzzled over it a moment, just as the women clearly were. He didn’t need as long as they did, though, to land on the answer. He was carrying Ned’s massive energy inside him; as long as Ned was there, Sully was more or less immune to the effects of whatever drug they’d just given him.
“Shoot him again,” Rhona said.
Lorinda raised the gun. Sully focused on it, let Ned do his thing. The weapon flew across the room and clattered against the wall before slipping into the crack between wall and sofa.
Lorinda turned narrowed eyes on Sully. “How did you do that?”
“It doesn’t matter. You wanted me here. You’ve got me. What do you want?”
“You know what we want.” Her eyes were slits as she glared at him. “We know what you did back at Ravenwood Hall. We know you killed a man. You’ve gone bad, just like we said you would.”
“He tried to kill me. I didn’t mean for him to die, but it happened.”
“Because you’re evil. You can’t control yourself or the power within you. And now someone is dead. We can’t allow you the chance to kill anyone else.”
“He’s dead because you sent him and the others after me. You wouldn’t leave well enough alone. All I want—all I’ve ever wanted—was a chance at a good life. You’ve been doing everything in your power to prevent it, all based on some stupid thing from the past.”
“But you’ve been learning how to do things, haven’t you?” Lorinda asked. “You just threw that gun across the room like it was nothing. You can move things, control things with nothing more than a thought. But it’s not all you, is it? You’ve taken in another soul. You’re evil, Sullivan.”