9. Under Arrest
9
Under Arrest
Grimm released me as everyone turned toward where my brother stood on the landing above the sunken room. I was grateful for the shadows obscuring most of his face because I imagined it showed the same betrayal I heard in his voice.
“Where have you been, Donnie?” Grimm asked.
“About ten miles from here,” Donovan answered, stepping gingerly down onto our level. “I got lost.”
“Yeah, and you should’ve stayed that way,” I grumbled, earning a side eye from Grimm. “How’d you get here, anyway?”
“I thought you and Fitch were coming together,” Grimm cut in.
Donovan shook his head. “I was running late. Had to call a cab.”
My brow creased. Why was he covering for me?
“A cab?” Grimm repeated.
I swore under my breath. Of course, he’d called a ride. I’d been so worried about my own phone getting blown up with calls asking where we were that I’d forgotten to take Donovan’s.
Grimm’s head swiveled from my brother to me, then back. He must have known the story was a lie, but that wasn’t what he questioned when he spoke again.
“You brought a cab? Here? Did you give them the address?”
Donovan’s lips parted, but he gave no reply.
Avery snickered in the background while leaning against the dolly.
Grimm threw up his hands. “The valet yesterday and a cabbie today?” His eyes squeezed shut as though he were physically pained. “You Farrow boys will be the goddamn death of me.”
Still giggling, Avery steered the dolly past us. “Sounds like you fellas need a minute.” He bumped his cargo up the step into the hall. “I’ll see you back at the motel.”
Donovan watched, forlorn, as Avery wheeled Jacoby Thatcher’s limp corpse out of sight.
Vinton moved next, picking himself out of the rubble on the floor to stand and glower at me. If he wanted a third round, I welcomed the challenge, but Grimm put a stop to that before either of us could make a move.
“Go with Avery. Take care of Thatcher,” Grimm told the bald man. “I’ll send the boys along shortly.”
It took a moment to register why we weren’t all leaving: Grimm was replacing Jacoby Thatcher right now. Good news for me because it meant the boss wouldn’t be around to give me hell about the disaster I’d made of tonight.
The bald man aimed another fleeting glare at me but obeyed Grimm’s command. As he stomped past on his way out of the room, he caught the front of my shirt and pulled me nose to nose with him.
“You’d better sleep with both eyes open,” he seethed, his breath hot on my face. “I’m in charge, so you’re my bitch now. ”
He shoved me back, then spun away, marching out of the house.
I jerked my thumb in the direction Vinton had gone. “I don’t take orders from him.”
Grimm’s eyes narrowed. “You will,” he replied. “While I’m away, I expect you to treat him with the respect he is due.”
“Only that much?” I snorted. “I may be able to manage, after all.”
“Enough!” Grimm snapped, his voice a low roar. “Enough of your mouth and enough of your lies.” He aimed that last bit at Donovan, who looked suddenly stricken. “I don’t want another word out of either of you unless it’s an explanation as to why you decided to leave your brother behind tonight, and why you both tried to keep that fact from me.”
His queries posed were not ones I was willing to answer, so I said nothing.
Donovan followed suit but couldn’t help but squirm. He was mad enough at me, and loyal enough to Grimm that he would inevitably confess but, when he opened his mouth to speak, a squawk from a bullhorn rang out.
“Attention! This is the Capitol. We are responding to a distress call from this address. Come out immediately, or we will enter by force.”
Distress call?
“The cabbie?” Donovan whispered, his face as pale as a sheet.
No. There hadn’t been enough time for that.
I looked at Grimm. “Not all of us have trouble with security, huh?” I said. “Avery got the cameras and doorbell, but did anyone check for a silent alarm?”
Grimm shook his head. “I’m not sure.”
There were no windows in this room—no way to see how many investigators had arrived or how prepared they were. A welfare check on a tripped silent alarm brought a different level of law enforcement than the riot squad that would turn up anywhere the Bloody Hex was sighted. But twenty plus minutes was a long time to not have a squad car on site. Had they been here earlier? Seen me or my car—parked next to Thatcher’s mailbox so plainly Grimm would have a conniption if he knew?
I hadn’t seen the back door yet, but there had to be one. Down the hall, possibly. We could go out that way, jump the backyard fence, and run. The Porsche was forfeit, so anything we did would have to be on foot. Then Avery and Vinton could pick us up down the road.
Beside me, Grimm’s appearance slowly shifted. His body shortened and slimmed, and his hair slicked back into the gel-combed ducktail practically trademarked by Jacoby Thatcher.
When he spoke, he did so with an imitation of the dead man’s voice. “Time to go, boys.”
I caught Donovan by the arm and pulled him behind me in a mad dash toward the back of the house. The hall opened to areas previously unexplored, including the dining room and kitchen. Next to whitewashed cabinets, the back door stood open. But the entry—or exit, in our case—was crowded with men in black tactical gear. Donovan and I skidding around the corner started them shouting. Assault rifles rose and cocked in a series of clattering clicks.
In theory, I could stop bullets. It required anticipation or at least a lucky guess about when the gun would fire. This brute squad was less than fifteen feet away, and with multiple gunmen came a flurry of potential trigger pulls I couldn’t possibly predict .
“Get on the ground!” one of the masked men bellowed.
Donovan yanked free of me and dropped to his knees in immediate surrender.
Still standing, I hissed a breath. The lead commando repeated his order, then followed it with, “Put your hands where we can see them!”
Great idea, actually.
I thrust both palms toward the clustered men. The sweeping blow knocked them back into a dogpile. One of the rifles fired into the far wall, flashing muzzle flare and filling the room with the smell of gunpowder.
Donovan cupped his palms to his ears until I grabbed his elbow and hauled him up.
“Move!” I shouted.
My heart pumped as we ran back to the den. Sounds and shouts chased us, creating a tangle of noise.
Curse words chased every panted breath as we came to a stop in the den where Grimm—now Jacoby Thatcher—watched with wide eyes.
Donovan looked over at me. His whole body trembled so hard I feared he might fall to pieces.
I turned a rapid circle, trapped by walls on all sides while investigators poured into the house from every direction.
No way out.
Well, maybe one.
I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out the glass marble Nash had given me the night before. Grabbing Donovan’s hand, I pressed the potion into his palm.
“Break this, or eat it, or something. It’ll take you to Bitters.” I stumbled over the words.
Donovan gaped at me. “What?” he stammered. “What about you? ”
“Fitch, no.” Grimm shook his head. “ You have to leave. If they catch you—”
“They’ll mount my head on a plaque. I know.”
But, if they caught Donovan, he would be labeled a criminal. Caught at the scene of a break-in or attempted murder, however they decided to frame it, with the Bloody Hex mark plain as day on his hand, he wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Side effects,” I continued to my brother. “Nash’ll want to know.”
I couldn’t stand him staring at me, teary and scared stiff. More than that, I couldn’t risk him stalling this with awkward goodbyes. I grabbed his hand again and squeezed his fingers closed.
The marble popped, oozing liquid I barely felt before it was gone. Donovan disappeared in a blink, leaving me with my boss wearing Jacoby Thatcher’s face and a look of rage.
“Damn it!” Grimm shouted. “You better pray you live long enough to regret that.”
Something metallic bounced then rolled down the hall toward us, spewing smoke. I reached for the collar of my shirt to keep from breathing the fumes, but not before the canister exploded with a burst of light and ear-shredding sound.
My vision washed white, so bright that even closing my eyes couldn’t block it out. I thought every curse word I knew but couldn’t be sure if I said any of them. I heard nothing but pain—if pain had a sound, and I was suddenly certain it did.
I staggered back, blinking furiously.
Magic fizzled out in my fingertips, sucked away with the adrenaline rush that scrambled my thoughts until they made as much sense as alphabet soup.
Sight returned in blurs of color. I turned a slow circle, trying to orient myself as the room reappeared. Grimm—or rather, Jacoby—hunkered on the floor while black-suited bodies rushed down both hallways, funneling toward the den where I remained profoundly trapped.
Red lasers swirled with the stars still cluttering my vision. I looked down at the glowing red dots grouped on my chest. I had no doubt there was at least one fixed on my head, as well.
“Mister Thatcher!” someone shouted. “Are you all right, sir?”
Another called to his squad mates. “Where’s the other one? There were two of them!”
“Search the house!” came the reply and, for the first time in several long moments, I could breathe. If it was Donovan they wanted, they’d never find him. A small victory, but an important one.
“Fitch Farrow,” the megaphoned voice from outside squawked. “You are under arrest by order of the Capitol. Surrender or we will use deadly force.”
How many were there? Fifteen? Twenty men? With enough firepower to capture the whole gang, or to execute us on the spot if given an excuse to do so. We were wanted dead or alive, and dead was always easier.
I had to make a choice: fight back and die now—gunmen with itchy trigger fingers would be praised for splatter painting this room with my gray matter—or surrender to die later on the Capitol stage, kneeling before a guillotine while a crowd jeered.
I didn’t want to die now. I wasn’t ready for that. Maybe it wasn’t so difficult to decide.
Hands up first. Lacing my fingers on the back of my skull helped hold them steady. I started to kneel, but my knees gave out halfway down. I hit the ground with a thud .
Thick-soled boots stomped in while the men shouted, “Now, now! Go, go!”
My pulse beat inside my aching ears as the commandos circled. I counted ten of them before one came up behind me and used the nose of his rifle to shove my face down to the floor.
Gloved hands grabbed my wrists and secured them behind my back with zip cuffs. They hauled me up, my knees still weak, and snapped a cold, metal collar around my neck.
When electricity zipped down my spine, I bucked back. Fists plunged immediately into my gut, driving the air out in a grunt. I stumbled forward, but whoever held the ring around my throat clung on, pulling against it till pressure swelled in my head.
The shuffling, staggered journey out of the house became a battle for air. Thoughts wicked away while my brain stretched tight as a balloon. It filled up until I fell down, collapsing unconscious on the dew-damp grass.