“I don’t know. Give me a minute.”
“Sorry,” he said to Sullivan. “I guess he heard about the explosion somehow.”
Sullivan’s pale skin was streaked with soot and ash, a slice under his eye bleeding freely. “How?”
“How did you know there’d been an explosion?”
“It was on the radio. I guess someone called it in.”
Sam relayed the information to Sullivan. As he did so, the driver’s door swung open, and Bellinowski leaned in. “Turner’s alive but unconscious—he needs the hospital. None of the rest of our guys are hurt.”
“There was an assassin,” Sam said, voice scraping in his raw throat. “He was going to shoot us, I think. Did you see him run out?”
Bellinowski shook his head. “No, but with the smoke and the fire…shit.”
Sullivan seemed to have regained his composure, not that he’d lost much of it to begin with. “See that Lenny gets the best care possible. Then take us back to my house, and get word out to the sub-lieutenants to meet me three hours from now.”
Bellinowski nodded, then leaned back and spoke to some of the gang members crowded protectively around the vehicle. Two of them rushed off, and he climbed into the driver’s seat and glanced back at Sam.
“What about Choirboy here?” he asked.
Choirboy—what Turner had called him. Turner who might be dying even now.
Sullivan put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “He’s coming with us.” No doubt reading the look of confusion on his face, he added, “You saved my life. Don’t worry, Sam. I’m going to take good care of you.”
3
Alistair’s pulse thudded in the base of his throat as Wanda drove her red Playboy Roadster up to the gates in front of Sullivan’s Gold Coast mansion. The last time he’d been here, it had been for a lavish party thrown in honor of Mrs. Sullivan’s birthday. Tonight, the enormous house looked much more somber.
Several men and women in dark suits stood in front of the gate, no doubt armed to the teeth. As one of them approached the car, Wanda called, “It’s Wanda and Alistair Gatti. Mr. Sullivan is expecting us.”
One of the men opened the rumble seat and checked inside. Alistair silently applauded their caution—Sam was in that house, and after tonight, he wanted the guards to be inspecting every last vehicle and person who entered.
When the guards were satisfied they weren’t smuggling in another bomb, they were waved through. Wanda parked behind a line of vehicles already there—Sullivan had clearly called in the troops.
She shut off the car and turned to him. “You need to keep your temper in check tonight, brother,” she said, looking him in the eye so he knew she was serious. “Sullivan is on a hair-trigger, and we don’t need any more trouble than we already have. We go in, say whatever we need to say, collect Sam, and get the hell out of here. Understand me?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I’m serious. If you don’t watch your mouth?—”
“I know, okay?” He held up his hands. “I just want to see Sam.”
She gave him a long look, then nodded. They climbed out and went up the stairs, past marble columns and yet more guards, including one at the door who ushered them through. The grand foyer was as ostentatious as the last time they’d been there, full of Persian carpets, extravagant vases, and Roman busts.
The greenery that had once dominated the décor had been replaced by wreaths of black crepe. A photograph presided over the room, showing a small boy in knicker-bockers and a cap, smiling broadly as he held a toy pistol. The gilded frame bore a plaque reading Michael Sullivan, Jr., 1917-1924, and was surrounded with more black crepe.
Alistair’s heart twinged. Poor little mite. He didn’t know what had been wrong with the kid, other than it was beyond the reach of modern medicine, both mechanical and magical.
The panacea hex could have saved the child—but only at the cost of someone else’s life. Though Bobby Watts had already been…not dead exactly, but not alive. Certainly beyond saving.
That had never been a choice, thanks to Vic Nagorski. And if Sullivan had gotten his hands on the panacea hex, how many would have died later to create a cure for those ruthless and rich enough to afford it?
Still, he wished things had been different for Mickey Jr.’s sake.
A woman in a somber black dress emerged into the foyer and indicated they should follow her deeper into the house. As they walked, Alistair looked around at the sumptuous décor, pretending he hadn’t slipped covertly into these very halls during the birthday party. A funereal hush hung over the mansion—or was he just projecting onto the ordinary quiet of a nighttime home?
The servant stopped in front of the door to one of the many guest rooms, gestured to it, and departed without speaking once. Pushing aside thoughts of the dead, Alistair opened the door.
