the necessary kind of fear
Kit chose Darius’s car because all of James’s were too flashy. Nearly biting through his lower lip, he forced his trembling foot onto the gas pedal. Not yet pushing down, but ready, because as soon as the garage door rumbled, his countdown would begin. The darkened garage was a turning point. He could still turn off the car. Go back inside.
Confess everything.
Or keep pretending.
A laugh broke from him. No. He’d already crossed the limits of his acting skills. Offering to get coffee, sneaking upstairs to carry out his backpack in a basket. Thankfully Bishop and the rest were distracted by Archie Calvin. And Kit’s jeans were baggy enough to hide his gun.
The gun had a tracking device, just like the phone, and would alert Darius when fired. But that was a risk Kit had to take.
Kit didn’t know why Dad was working with Bishop’s old partner, and he couldn’t afford to care. Caring was a luxury for safer times.
The trembling stopped. The fear was still there, but it was the necessary kind of fear. Not panic, but clarity. Kit needed to run. Every other thought could wait.
He pressed the garage door clicker and eased the car into drive. The door lifted too slowly, too loud. As soon as Kit had clearance, he would floor—
The foyer door slammed open behind the car. Kit glimpsed Darius surging in his rear-view mirror. Too late. The garage was open enough. Kit slammed on the gas.
Just as James leaped in front of the car.
Kit hit the brakes without thinking. Jerking against the seatbelt, his every thought fled. One moment of utter blankness.
James slapped both hands on the hood, rocking the car. “Where do you think you’re going?”
His voice was muffled by the window, but clear.
“Get out of the way!” Kit shouted.
James’s grin shone feral in the slanted house lights. “Go ahead and hit me.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Kit’s breath returned in quick, shallow gasps. This wasn’t the plan. He needed the plan.
A shadow covered the driver’s side window. Kit stared blankly at Darius’s ear, unwilling to meet his eyes. Darius lifted his hand, and Kit jumped at the knock on glass.
“Put the car in park, boy,” Darius said, nice and easy, and god Kit wanted to listen. “You don’t have to turn it off, just put it in park.”
More movement at the passenger side. Bishop was there too. Kit was surrounded. The only way he was getting out of this was running James over.
James probably wouldn’t die. He could afford good medical care. Kit still couldn’t do it. Slow and shaky, he put the car in park.
Darius yanked the door open and seized Kit’s arm.
“What the fuck,” Kit hissed, struggling uselessly. “The car was locked.”
“It’s my car. I have a key.” Darius reached past to unbuckle Kit’s seatbelt. “I unlocked it when I knocked on the window.”
He dragged Kit from the car. Not harshly, but not gently, and there was no hope of resistance. Kit usually liked being overpowered by his men. Now he felt like a caged bird, battering iron bars with broken wings.
Bishop leaned through the passenger door and snagged the key. When he straightened, he had Kit’s backpack in hand. “That was smart with the mugs.”
“Fuck you,” Kit said, because being angry was easiest. No. He was pretending to be angry. Feeling anything real was too fucking hard. “Fuck all of you.”
James stalked closer, that feral smile gone. “Not now, babe. First, we’re going inside and having a real honest talk.”
Wait. Maybe this was okay. They were mad he was running away, but they didn’t know why. Kit could invent a new story. Say Laird Renaker was part of Ed Addersen’s gang, even though it was the opposite.
The foyer door hung open, and Holden leaned in the doorway. His arms crossed, defensive. Kit had never seen that expression on his pet psychopath before.
