Bishop nodded, impassive behind his mask. “Spelling on the last name?”
But James already knew.
The Bradachs owned a local office supply company. Not too big, but hardly too small. James had sat at Nazario’s table at a fucking chamber of commerce dinner once.
Nazario didn’t attend the Zhou family funeral. But he’d sent a card.
Kit looked up, concern furrowing his face through the shadows. James couldn’t accept that comfort right now. Not with this furious joy igniting his every nerve. James had a name. A face. A target.
He had to confirm. Of course. He couldn’t be hasty. But the information made sense. The name Nazario Bradach settled into James’s questions, and it sounded like an answer.
Buzzing under his own skin, James extricated himself from around Kit. He returned his phone to his pocket. Concern followed him through Kit’s bright eyes—but they had to be quiet. James leaned against the wall, dragging his attention back to the interrogation in progress.
“One more thing, before I start arranging flights.” Bishop tapped at his phone, like he was barely paying attention. The screen lit his mask up eerily. “What do you know about the Evelyn Zhou incident?”
James tensed. He’d discussed this with Bishop in advance, but the question still jolted.
“Why does the Viper care about that?” Melissa asked.
Bishop set his phone aside. “It happened in his territory.”
Which may or may not be true. James didn’t give a fuck, because Melissa laughed. Quick, soft, but the sound echoed.
“Nothing your boss needs to worry about,” Melissa said casually. “That was an internal affair. Evelyn Zhou was the third Rat King.”
13
‘Have you tried yoga to cure your murderous rampage’
Kit’s hands were cold. Empty. He missed James’s long fingers intertwining with his, the heat, the playful embrace. Kit’s hands were cold, and instead, dark steel glinted in James’s grasp.
Time accelerated, and Kit struggled to keep up. The gun was in James’s hand before Kit processed Melissa’s words. Evelyn Zhou, Kit heard, as James surged forward.
The third Rat King, Kit heard, as the muzzle pressed against Melissa’s head.
“Stop!” Kit shouted, but the word already echoed with the gunshot. The sounds collided, amplifying each other, and time tripped over the collision. Seconds ground to a halt, revealing every intricate detail.
James’s shadow loomed over the hostage, and fluorescent light scattered from his silhouette. He stood slightly to the left. Kit had a perfect view of the gun in his right hand, the muzzle parting tangles of brown hair. It angled down from the upper back of her skull.
Melissa’s head rocked in a spray of blood and bone. The chair scraped against the concrete.
James’s knuckles were white.
Bishop stood frozen, halfway to Melissa. Streaks of red spattered the right side of his gray mask.
Kit’s cold hand fell from midair. He didn’t remember reaching out.
He had seen dead bodies. In person and in photographs. But he had never witnessed death before. The last severed breath between living and not. Murder itself, rather than its rotting aftermath.
“She was lying,” James snarled.
He whirled, facing Bishop, then Kit. Shadow shrouded his face, and he said nothing more. One harsh breath lifted his shoulders. Then he stalked to the basement stairs.
A door slam broke the frozen tableau.
“Oh my god,” Kit said, voice thin.
Ripping off his mask, Bishop veered around Melissa. In the next blink, strong hands cradled Kit’s face. Bishop’s shoulders blocked out the light and blood.
