“Who lives here?” he asked as they stood before a faded red door on a quiet street.
“Just kick it in. I’m wearing the wrong shoes.”
Deaglan kicked open the door and barged inside, beating on the homeowner and stomping him to the ground before Bella had even stepped over the threshold.
“Ladies first, Degs.”
He kicked him again, then grinned smugly and stepped back. Deaglan’s grin had nothing on Casey’s, but fuck he had style when he kicked the shite out of somebody. “Remember me?” she asked, lifting her veil.
The old man looked up at her, his mouth bloodied and his dark glasses broken. How the fuck he could see through those things was beyond her. Even Deaglan had the sense to take off his sunglasses inside.
“Of course you fucking do. You like art, eh? Paintings?”
He smiled. “Quite.” He had the same prick posh accent as Alan Barker.
“And what have you told Malkolm about art?”
“What makes you think I’ve spoken with Malkolm? I’m retired. As is he.”
Deaglan threw a lamp at the old man’s face. Bella went and switched on another one. “We need to be able to see.”
He shrugged. Frankie was better to bring along for these types of things. He had the patience she and Deaglan both lacked. Patience took too fucking long.
“What the fuck did you tell him?” she yelled.
“He said you were likely in Paris. I saw your plates on a decidedly un-you car. At an art gallery no less.”
“Where’s Casey’s sketchbook.”
“Who is Casey?”
“Yeah, who’s Casey?” Deaglan asked.
She punched Deaglan, then kicked the old man. “Where is it?”
“I know nothing of a sketchbook. If you’re referring to the boy at the gallery, the only thing he had in his possession was a painting of an old man, of which I have absolutely no interest.”
“You’re fucking lying!” She was so furious at the thought of him coming near Casey that she shook, and Deaglan had to grab hold of her to keep her still.
“I have no reason to lie. You’ve come here with your…pet, and—”
Deaglan punched him repeatedly in the face, then kicked him again for good measure. The old man breathed in silence for several minutes, then opened his eyes and continued, “You, who have never shown an ounce of restraint, would not come here without intending to kill me. I’ll say again, I have no reason to lie. Malkolm knew where you would likely go, and you’re confirming your location by being here. Now perhaps I should ask, do you like art?”
“I don’t have time for this shite,” she grumbled. “Degs, fuck him up.”
“Gladly,” he said, and Bella put on Casey’s headphones while he went to work. There was nothing in the place worth stealing. It was more of a dump than Frankie’s house. No sign of Casey’s sketchbook. She picked up the old man’s mobile phone. No texts. One recent call sent, one recently received on his mobile. Malkolm’s number. He called Malkolm the day he met Casey. Malkolm called him late last night.
Bella took one earbud from her ear and hit redial. “Yes?” Malkolm answered.
“What are you wearing?” she purred.
“Bella, I’m glad you called! You and Frank left so abruptly that I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye.”
“Why don’t you come say hello then? You know where Frank lives.”
“Do I?”
“Oh, aye. You had your little friend spying on me.”
“How could he spy on you while you were here?”
So Malkolm was still at Silva’s. Good. “You tell me. You’re the one who sent him out looking for my car.”
“Jennings lives in Paris, you stupid bitch. Since you’re with him right now, I assumed you knew that.”
Bella rolled her eyes. As if she’d be offended by petty insults. Stupid bitch was practically a term of affection in the Moncrief household. “We’ll be at his place for awhile. Come over. It’ll be a blast.”
Malkolm chuckled. “I would love nothing more, but duty calls. We can’t all be cowards and run away back to Paris.” So Malkolm did know about the apartment in Paris, or at least suspected that Frank lived in the city.
“Who was that fuck who killed him? I’ve never seen him before.”
“A Canadian apparently. He’s been dealt with.”
“Aye, by Frankie. He’s the one who fucking shot him so don’t even try taking credit for it.”
“Then I’m guessing Frankie’s also the one who took Silva’s book.”
Bella smiled. She knew Frankie didn’t want to retire! “He does love to read.”
“Be a good girl and relay a message for me. I want that book. Tell Frank that I’ll let his pretty partner live if he gives it up.”
“Would you? I’m sure he’ll agree to that! Tell me where I should have him send it.”
“Oh, I’d hate to be any trouble. I’ll just come pick it up.”
“You have the address.”
“If only that were true.”
“Well then, go fuck yourself!” She hung up the phone and returned to Deaglan’s side. The old man was barely conscious, on his back making gurgling noises.
“He didn’t confess,” Deaglan said. “Who’s Casey?”
She leaned in close to Malkolm’s handler, not caring that Deaglan saw up her skirt. “We’re going to torch this place. You can die before or after. I’m sure Malkolm mentioned how much that shite fucking hurts, so what do you say?”
“Good luck with everything.” He grinned to show broken teeth. “And happy Christmas.”
They walked back to the car, barely flinching at the explosion two blocks away. “Do you think he was telling the truth?” Deaglan asked.
“I fucking hope so,” she said.
“What the fuck were you doing at an art gallery anyway?”
“Well I wasn’t fucking there, was I?” she growled. “And I bought a painting. You can help me carry it.” It wasn’t that painting Deaglan would be stuck carrying, but he didn’t need to know that.
She signed for the package at the post office while Deaglan stood by, getting glared at by the queue of Parisians they’d cut in front of. It looked bigger than it had been on Silva’s wall. She felt unsure, worried that it was wrong and Casey would be upset. Why was it so big? It was just canvas. Shouldn’t it be rolled or something? She wasn’t sure if this was right, but it had Silva’s handwriting on it, and that made her calm again. Everything was bigger in the box. So it wouldn’t get damaged. How much more damaged could it get?
“Christ this is heavy,” Deaglan said. “Take the other end.”
“I’m indisposed.”
He dropped the end of the package he was carrying. If it had been more than a couple inches off the ground she would’ve killed him and forced a Frenchman to carry it for her. “Frankie knock you up?”
She rolled her eyes. “Frank’s married.”
“Like that’s ever stopped anyone.” It certainly hadn’t stopped Deaglan. She’d had two of his miscarriages. And his abortion.
“To a man,” she said, though Vincent was anything but.
“Frankie is bent? Fucking hell!”
“You’d better watch what you say. He’ll kill you if you offend his husband.”
Deaglan laughed. “Husband.”
She scowled at him. “Aye. And keep your fucking mouth shut about it.”
The painting barely fit in the car. Should she have asked Silva to ship it to Portland? No, Casey was here. He would stay here. With her. They could have Frankie’s flat. It was so close to shopping! Malkolm didn’t know about the place. His stupid handler had only followed Casey from the car, not the apartment. She could have it painted. Casey could paint it!
“What the fuck are you grinning about, anyway? Silva’s dead, shouldn’t you be all raccoon eyes and shit?”
“Shut the fuck up.” She wasn’t grinning anymore, that was for fucking sure. Now she was mad at Casey for giving h
er wrinkles. Maybe he liked wrinkles. He certainly didn’t care about her lack of tits. And Frankie would sell the apartment just in case. Or set it on fire. “Bring that inside,” she said as she pulled up to the house, not bothering to turn off the engine. They should’ve left yesterday. The funeral might already be over.
He dragged it across the gravel behind her. She almost started to cry again, remembering how Silva always knew things, always thought of things she’d never think about, like packing the painting so it could be dropped and dragged across Frankie’s driveway by her idiot ex-boyfriend.
The dogs barked until they got to the door, then became silent as Frankie opened it. He had the same unimpressed expression on his face when he was introduced to Deaglan. “Hiya, Frankie!”
Frank glanced at her and stepped awkwardly aside, his foot wrapped the size of his head.
She waltzed in, giving him a kiss on the cheek.
“Where should I put this?”
“What is it?” Vincent asked, entering the hallway and acting like every package that came to their home was a present for him.
Deaglan chuckled. “Don’t tell me I’m here to fucking babysit.”
Frank possessively put his arm around Vincent and kissed his wee blond head before Vincent could put any physical force behind his scowl. “You are here as a guest. Do not forget that,” Frank said.
“Holy fucking hell! I didn’t know you could talk!” Deaglan said. Vincent smirked until Deaglan opened his mouth again. “You been working on that one, Frankie? Say something else. Say…civil union!”
“I fucking warned you!” Bella punched him so hard he dropped the painting again. “Put that over there.”
“Your ex, I assume?” Maggie asked as she came into the hallway, stressing the word ex as if she was staking claim on her son’s behalf. It almost made Bella smile.
Deaglan looked her up and down. “You the mother?” he asked, turning his attention to Bella with a shit-eating grin on his face and staring straight at her stomach. Deaglan wouldn’t tell her secret, but he’d make it fucking easy for them to guess.
“I’m a mother,” Maggie said, sounding confused but not interested enough to ask.
So far Deaglan had failed to impress. As Casey came downstairs smiling his face off, it looked like Degs might break his losing streak. “Who’s this? No, let me guess…”
“This is Casey,” Bella said with pride, going to give him a nice wet kiss hello and grabbing him between the legs, getting him to make that sound she loved so much. That shut Deaglan up for two seconds. The best two seconds since she’d picked him up. Until Casey tried to be polite and introduce himself, and got nothing in return but a smug laugh.
“Cute,” Deaglan said, dropping his duffel bag on the ground. “So you’re both robbing the cradle. Will wonders never cease.”
“You’re here because you know how to shoot. Hopefully if someone tries to break in they’ll kill you first.” She kissed Casey again and grabbed Frankie’s hand. “Let’s go.”
Frankie pulled his hand away and said his goodbyes, then hugged Vincent tight enough to break him and asked, “Will you be all right?”
“I can take care of myself. You’re the one who got shot by a civilian.”
“Behave,” Frank said. “You’re in charge.”
“Here we fucking go,” Deaglan said, and invited himself in.
Chapter Fifty-Five
The bad dreams started the night Frank left. He and Bella crashing on the Autobahn, flipping the car over and over, pieces of flesh and blue fiberglass tossed away into the night; getting riddled with bullets at the gates to Silva’s home by the snipers Frank detested so much; eaten alive by Karl the Russian. Maggie came to sleep with me after the first time I woke up screaming, downgraded that quickly from man of the house into a frightened little boy in his mommy’s bed. It didn’t help the nightmares, but at least Maggie sounded convincing when she said everything would be okay.
This had happened before, when Frank’s brother was coming for us. A warning in the symbols and imagery of sleep. Charlie’s dead sister and her broken neck. I hadn’t been able to decipher that I was soon to be kidnapped by a madman, and forever altered by repeated blows to the head. For all I knew, the dreams could mean something non life-threatening, like Frank running out of gas on the side of the road and having to limp to the nearest gas station while Bella waited behind, selfishly caring for her shoes. But it sure as hell felt like I’d never see him again, and I was terrified.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Maggie’s husband was supposed to be dead by Christmas, not mine. I was too young to be a widow. And I couldn’t cook.
Chapter Fifty-Six
In an attempt to take a page out of Casey’s book, Frank permitted himself only positive thoughts on their drive to Silva’s: he needed to see a doctor, and a doctor would be there; going to Malkolm and setting him on fire would be a lot more efficient than waiting for Malkolm to come after them; Karl may very well have been invited to the funeral and could therefore also be set afire; and although Vincent was unhappy with the situation, he had somehow refrained from biting Frank during his farewell blowjob. With Bella behind the wheel, their journey only took six and a half hours. She stopped at the warning sign, and Frank smiled to himself. She was using caution. Apparently she was under Casey’s influence as well. “Shall we?”
“Do you think they’ll kill us?”
Frank sighed and took out his cell phone. Asking Joe Russell for anything more than a replacement car was not on his list of priorities but getting home to Vincent just happened to be, and it would help to have an idea what they were up against.
“You want a favor, I imagine,” Joe said without waiting for him to speak. Frank put killing Vincent at the top of his to do list. It was bad enough the kid exchanged numbers with Frank’s former handler in training, but did he have to give Joe an In Case of Emergency contact as well?
“A head’s up would be appreciated.”
“Head’s up for what?” Joe asked. He sounded exhausted. Frank empathized.
“We’re back. For the funeral.”
“You’re a bit late,” he said. “There’s no one here to stop you. Come on up to the house.”
That was not what he had expected, and he felt mildly betrayed by his brief bout of optimism. “Everyone’s gone?”
“Mostly. I’m here.”
Frank nodded to Bella and hung up the phone.
The gate was wide open, and as they tentatively passed through it he could see the beginnings of the destruction. There was broken furniture on the lawn, and nearly every window in the front of the house had shards of glass lying below. The man Frank had shot while protecting Vincent was hanging upside down by one leg from Silva’s window. He’d been skinned, and the top of his skull was mostly missing from the gunshot. The marble bust of Voltaire was on the ground underneath him, split in two.
At the back of the house the metal garage door was open, revealing further disorder. Most of the cars were gone. The ones that remained would have kept Vincent busy for a year. Bella’s row of red sports cars in particular showed proof of her popularity: the hoods smashed, windows busted, bumpers on the floor. The trunk was open in the burnt shell of her Maserati. Malkolm looking for license plates.
“Fucking animals,” Bella said, getting out of the car and slamming her door.
Frank got out slowly, settling to limp beside her rather than taking the lead. His foot was throbbing, the pain reaching all the way to his hip, but he had not wanted to risk being anything but completely sober when they had to defend themselves.
Bella pushed the door to the first floor, but it only gave way an inch. “It’s blocked.”
He sighed. It was this or limp all the way around to the front entrance. “Let me try.”
She moved aside as if she’d expected any less, and Frank shoved his weight into it, holding the knob to keep the pressure off his foot. The door opened further, leaving a smear of blood acro
ss the white marble floor.
Bella walked forward with her gun drawn, effortlessly slipping through the narrow opening. “It’s clear. Just a corpse.” She dragged the body further away from the door so Frank could enter. “Looks like fuckhead was trying to make a getaway.”
“Yes, but who shot him?” There was blood covering the floor, and other bodies to match. More broken glass, and broken furniture. The door to the weapons room was ajar, the shelves empty save for a bright pink pistol that none of the men would have touched.
Frank had expected Joe to be waiting for them downstairs but he was nowhere to be seen. He reached for his cell phone to try ringing him again when he saw the doctor standing at the top of the staircase. Frank didn’t know the old man particularly well, but he knew what it meant to see him there without Joe.
It was very rare for a handler to come to any sort of harm from one of the men. They were occasionally respected but mostly ignored when off the job. They were deemed necessary and non-threatening. Whatever had happened to Joe was because he’d helped Frank escape.
“Come on,” he said to Bella. He took her hand and they stepped over a pile of congealed blood on their way to the stairs. The third floor was the absolute worst place in the entire house for the sole physician to keep office. Then again, the majority of the wounded passed through Silva’s office first, Frank included, and that made its location an immense convenience.
The doctor remained motionless as they approached him, watching Frank hobble with the aid of the banister. There was blood on his clothes. “You’ll be needing medical attention, I take it?” he said finally, and he gave Bella a courteous nod.
“Is Joe all right?” Frank asked.
The doctor gestured to his office. “He will be.” Bella turned to Silva’s office instead, gazing at the closed door with tears in her eyes. “He is not there, Bella,” the doctor said sadly, and gestured again.
Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2) Page 31