And at first I thought they’d broken him. I looked and saw nothing in his face. No fright, no pain, not even rage or madness. It was like his emotions had been ripped out, eviscerated.
And then I looked again and, maybe because I knew him so well, I caught a glimpse of what lay past the shield he’d been using to protect himself from damage. Something glittered like ice in the depths of his eyes. A brooding intelligence that still lurked, intact and aware. Waiting . . .
And, recognising it, my legs spontaneously took me forwards.
Lonnie jerked the end of the shotgun up into where the carotid artery pulsed under Sean’s jaw, bringing both of us up short. The only difference was that it was me who flinched. Sean didn’t react at all. Lonnie had to physically lift his head back, arm muscles straining with the effort. It was only when I was still again that he allowed the gun to relax slightly away from Sean’s head.
“Hey, Charlie,” Sean said lightly, his voice soft when I’d been half expecting a tight weariness. “Love the hair.”
“Yeah,” I said, forcing my vocal cords to unclench. “It’s growing on me. I may even decide to keep it this way.”
He smiled at me then, recognising my response for what it was. The smile was slow and sexy and it made my heart ache and my throat constrict until it hurt to swallow.
“I see rumours of your death were greatly exaggerated,” I managed with surprising equanimity.
“Mm,” he said, calm and level but for the first time there was just a trace of the underlying anger. “I expect they hoped you might fold easier if you thought you were on your own.”
He let his gaze skim from my blenched features to Whitmarsh’s. The other man wouldn’t meet his eyes and I realised that even though he held the upper hand Whitmarsh knew only too well what might happen if ever there was a change in the status quo. He was a little afraid of Sean, a little afraid of the monster they’d created and now daren’t let go of. No wonder he’d got both his men clamped onto him, leaving Keith standing to one side, submissive and almost forgotten in this exchange.
“So, Charlie,” Whitmarsh said with a touch of sneer. “Unless you want to watch your boyfriend’s brains getting splattered all over the ceiling for real this time, call the kid in. Don’t make me ask a third time.”
Come on, Mason. For Christ’s sake man, get on with it!
But even as the thought formed I realised that if Brown’s men did ambush us now, Sean was likely to get his head blown off anyway. I told myself that Mason’s combat experience, either police or military, was standing him in good stead. He was waiting for his opportunity, biding his time. All I had to do was play along for just a little longer . . .
I lifted the phone again and completed punching in Trey’s number. My eyes met Sean’s as I hit the send key, looking for reassurance, but I might as well have been hoping for a reaction from a statue. I wondered if he knew what I was going to do, if he would have done the same himself.
I tried not to feel pain at the fact that he’d shut down again, shut me out, but it was real and physical. I just had to accept that he was doing what he had to do in order to survive this. Now it was up to me.
Somewhere below me the noise came rushing up again as the mob howled and stamped and cheered for the half-naked girls on the stage. The commentator’s voice was a frenetic squawk as he urged them to select a winner like they were choosing a sacrifice.
“Hello?” Trey’s voice sounded tinny and hollow but they were somewhere close. In both ears I could hear the same cheers and catcalls. One reported, one live.
“Hi Trey, it’s me,” I said and saw Whitmarsh’s fingers flex round the pistol grip of the Beretta, trying to relieve the tension. But his face had already twisted into a triumphant smile. He knew he’d won. Knew he’d beaten me. Beaten the pair of us.
Not quite yet, old son.
“I need you to come upstairs, the corner near the stage. Fast as you can,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “Come on your own. Don’t bring the others with you.”
“All right,” he said, nonplussed and cautious. “Is everything OK?”
“Yeah,” I said, eyes fixed on Sean’s face. “Keith’s here. Everything’s fine.”
I ended the call and threw the phone back to Whitmarsh. He caught it easily, one-handed, and said with some satisfaction, “So now we just wait for him to come to momma.”
He never got the chance to be disappointed.
At that moment two of Brown’s men came smoothly out of one of the offices behind where Lonnie and Chris were holding Sean, guns out and ready. They must have been using the time they’d been hidden to quietly bypass the connecting doors between the rooms, gaining ground.
Whitmarsh’s face sagged in disbelief. Before he had time for response, Mason and the black guy moved out from a doorway to my right and I found out what had been in that gym bag. Both had Mossberg pump-action shotguns pulled up hard into their shoulders like they were doing house clearance, the barrels arcing to cover all the players.
My heart trampolined into my throat as I watched Lonnie’s grip tighten on the stock of his own shotgun but he hadn’t lived to turn grey in the security field by making rash decisions under fire. After only a fleeting hesitation he delicately removed the Remington from Sean’s neck and let it droop.
A spasm of anger passed across Whitmarsh’s features, as though recognising his best hope for negotiation had just slipped away from him. Then he, too, let his gun hand fall to his side.
“I gotta hand it to you, Charlie,” he said, his voice bitter. “I didn’t think you had the balls for an ambush.”
“She didn’t,” Brown said. He’d followed his men out of the office doorway and was careful now to stand behind them as he spoke. “But I sure did.”
Almost to my surprise he had a gun out, too. A little stubby Colt 38 Special revolver that sat firm and steady in his liver-spotted fist. There was more steel to Livingston Brown III than I’d ever suspected.
Lonnie and Chris had sized up the situation enough to step away from Sean, keeping their movements careful and their guns lowered. Sean swayed slightly when they disengaged, the only betrayal of weakness. Then he was steady again. His hands were secured behind his back but I saw him straighten and hunch his constricted shoulders, as though in preparation for release.
Something, I wasn’t sure what, stirred in his eyes. Something base and deadly. I could feel it vibrating in the air between us. When he got loose, there was going to be trouble and he could almost taste that freedom.
Whitmarsh just stood and gaped at Brown, gaped all the more as Gerri Raybourn emerged alongside him. His eyes grew wide and not a little wild. “What the—?”
“What, Jim?” Gerri demanded, stalking forwards. “You’ve got a whole heap of explaining to do, feller and, oh boy,” she added with low venom, “it better be good. Just what the fuck did you think you were doing here?”
“A little private enterprise, by the looks of it,” Brown put in coolly.
Whitmarsh froze, then made a conscious effort to relax, gave a wheezy laugh.
“Just trying to put together the whole package, I guess,” he said. His composure seemed to have resurfaced entirely now but it could just have been last gasp bravado making him sound so cocksure.
Gerri, on the other hand, was shrinking before my eyes. Lines of strain had appeared around her mouth. Her skin had taken on a translucent quality so the matt powder of her subtle make-up now looked false over the top of it.