Bishop was five feet back, behind another tree. Dawn smudged pink over the city, and lavender blue lingered above the ocean. Waves scraped the shore out of view. James couldn’t see the beach itself past the property’s elaborate gardens and gazebos and fences.
They’d taken half the night to figure out which Lemon Beach house was the target. The neighborhood was gently crammed with luxury vacation homes, each bristling with security tech. James had visited most of them for birthdays, business mixers, and charity functions. First with his family, paraded around as Evelyn Zhou’s honor student son with a knack for computers.
Then by himself, in the bloody shadow of his inheritance.
James hadn’t visited this house. A hasty one-hour search, with Carla helping remotely, hadn’t turned up the owner’s name. But they’d found Darius’s duffel bag outside the fence. Empty.
The dawn was peaceful. Idyllic. The salty air touched some primal, homecoming instinct. James belonged here. Sure, he grew up half an hour from the beach. But anyone from San Corvo belonged to this liminal space.
Just as naturally as the heavy pistol belonged in his hand. Anticipation heated, waiting for its boiling point. Not the calm before the storm, because James was not calm.
Hopefully soon, he would get to kill someone.
James surveyed his surroundings. He was on the edge of a barbeque pit and seating area. All of it far too clean—either never used, or extremely competent groundskeepers. There was an outdoor bar that would make a good stopping point before James reached the side door he was aiming for.
All clear. James nodded over his shoulder, gestured a two followed by a thumbs-up, then moved towards the bar. Carefully across the dry mulch, which was prone to cracking underfoot. Then carefully around the two dead bodies face down in the blood-soaked gravel.
Yeah. James looked forward to killing someone—if there was anyone left to kill.
He crouched behind the bar. Seconds later, Bishop crouched next to him.
“Looks like Darius’s work,” Bishop said, barely audible.
James snorted. “Darius’s work is ‘generic assassin.’ Could be anyone.”
Whoever it was had made infiltrating this place a lot easier. A dozen guards were a lot for your basic rich person vacation home. Less secure when all dozen of them were dead. James had set up signal jammers at four corners of the property, so there shouldn’t be any backup coming either.
The new and improved jammers, inspired by the guy he and Darius killed in that warehouse. Even James’s phone wasn’t working now, which was why he’d sent a last text to Kit an hour ago.
James:Cutting comms now. Everything’s going great. Love you, babe
James:Also I’m fucking serious, don’t have a meltdown over me saying everything’s going great, okay???
Not that that probably helped. His sweet boy liked to worry. But at least Kit wasn’t alone…
Ugh. James should have locked Holden in the cellar.
Gritting his teeth, James leaned around the bar to peer at their destination. A discreet brown side door. One more bodyslumped in the bushes next to it. James gestured one, then another thumbs-up.
Then he moved forward at a crouch, finger on the trigger. Quick steps. Cross the exposed space. Get to the—
The door swung inward.
“Wait!” Bishop barked.
James’s gun was already swerving sideways. His arms trembled with the misfired jolt of adrenaline. “For fuck’s sake! Don’t surprise a guy like that.”
In the doorway, Darius stood haloed by shadows. “Look who’s talking. Something tells me you weren’t planning on knocking.” He waved a phone. “Get in—and turn the fucking jammer off. I’m waiting on a text.”
James straightened up but couldn’t follow. Surreality pinned him in place. After a day and night of frantic searching—after scaring Kit—Darius was right here. Button-down shirt barely rumpled. Tired but calm, like the wavering sunrise over whispering waves.
“James,” Bishop said at his shoulder. He made a movement, then must have thought better of touching James.
Smart man. James’s trigger finger was still twitchy.
Too twitchy. Fuck. James holstered his gun, because he didn’t fucking trust himself. “You’d better have a damn good explanation,” he growled, storming inside. “Whose house is this? Did you kill everyone on your way in?”
His questions weren’t loud, but they filled the laundry room they’d ended up in. Darius braced his hands on his hips. Near his own gun. His gaze fell, and now that they were closer, James saw he wasn’t calm at all.
