Laird side-stepped to block the door first. That was the only reason Kit had a chance. He slammed into Laird, left hand snatching Laird’s shirtfront, right hand punching the syringe into Laird’s upper arm.
He pressed down.
Pain burst along Kit’s cheekbone. The backhand knocked him to the floor. Barely feeling the fall, Kit jumped up. Or tried to. Dizziness dragged him back onto his ass.
The syringe fell to the carpet next to him. Still half full.
Laird’s breath sang harshly. “Little Shiloh was more rebellious than I thought.” Laird braced a booted foot over the syringe. Crunched down with all his weight. “I should have just fucked him to death. But what else would have lured you out?”
Kit scrambled backward, dizzy with cold nausea. Fuck. Fuck. The sedative was measured for Kit. Half a dose wouldn’t knock Laird out. It might slow him down.
Or it might just piss him off and strip away any last inhibition.
“I raised you too smart,” Laid said, swaying in place. “You did what nobody else could, caging the Viper.”
Taking the credit for his own downfall. Fucking typical. How did Kit never see Laird’s arrogance growing up?
Because he’d known nothing else.
“I could have lived with that,” Laird continued. “I was getting out in three years. I still had resources. But then you fucked that up too.” Laird crouched a foot away. “You disappeared. When I found you again, you were letting all those thugs ruin you.”
Kit’s back hit the side of the bed. There wasn’t anywhere else to run. “You ruined me,” Kit whispered. “They helped fix me.”
“I should have finished you years ago.” Laird’s eyes unfocused. Resharpened. Sweat beaded his temples. “I kept waiting for the perfect moment. You grew more beautiful every year. The very best of me.”
“And Mom,” Kit said, faintly grasping for any distraction. Any delay. “She didn’t run away, did she?”
“Of course she ran.” Laughing raggedly, Laird lurched to his feet. He towered. “That’s why I had to kill her.”
Kit hadn’t expected that to hurt. He’d known it for so long. But dragging things into the light was blindingly painful.
“You were so sweet,” Laird continued, starting to slur with the half-dose of sedative. “So innocent. That’s why I kept waiting. I wanted so badly to twist your tiny throat. But I waited too long. My sweet little boy is dead.” Laird reached for his pocket. A knife flicked open, bright as hatred. “I can’t bear to see you like this, Christopher.”
A final fight flashed through Kit’s imagination. Jumping for the knife hand. Knocking Laird off balance. Racing for the door, hoping the half-dose of an aesthetic was enough to slow Laird down. Searching the rest of this unknown building for a weapon. Preferably a gun.
But he was too dizzy. Too spent. He couldn’t face another failure, so he closed his eyes.
Then the wall exploded.
46
impact
Rocked against the bedside, Kit processed the impact in fragments. The far end of the room crumbled. Thunder shook a snowfall of plaster from the ceiling. Laird staggered to one knee, then staggered in reverse to his feet.
A car charged through the outside wall. It stopped halfway into the room, hood crumpled, steaming.
“What the fuck,” Laird spat, twisting for his holster. Slower than usual.
The passenger door flung open. James leaned out, which was just as impossible as the rest of this. Cold steel gleamed in his hand.
Shots rang from multiple directions. Kit jerked, head spinning, to see Bishop and Darius in the doorway, guns drawn.
One, two, three. Where was…
Of course. As Laird collapsed to his knees, then to the floor, Holden sat in the driver’s seat, batting away the airbag. Dust clouds billowed from the window.
“Okay,” Kit said, barely hearing his own voice through the muffling shock. “I guess that works.”
