Chapter Eight #2
Iren slumped back in the seat, the handkerchief still pressed to his face. The blood was already slowing. The glass powder on his skin made him look like he’d been dusted for evidence at a crime scene.
“Parsons isn’t this smart,” I said.
“No,” Iren said, voice steadier now. “He’s not even this punctual.”
“Anyone else?”
He shook his head. “I told you, my enemies list is—” He stopped. Something cold passed through his expression. “Never mind.”
I waited. He didn’t offer more so I let it go.
The car cut through the last three blocks in silence, only the tick of the blinker and the hiss of the engine filling the air.
Iren’s head lolled to the side, and I could see him tracing the bullet trajectory in his mind, playing the instant over and over, looking for the point where he could have moved, should have ducked, might have died.
I put my arm around his shoulders, pulling him in. He didn’t fight it. He just leaned, letting the weight of me anchor him. The glass crunched under his elbow as he shifted.
I watched the city through the broken rear window, watching for movement, for anyone tracking us. There was nothing.
Iren’s voice was small. “Am I worth this much trouble?”
I didn’t answer.
He closed his eyes and let his head rest on my chest.
I let him stay there.
We reached the estate in six minutes flat.
The gates opened before Yuri finished the turn.
Inside, the staff was already deployed: Lin at the door, two security on the perimeter, one at the garage.
No one looked at the car, but I could feel their eyes on the shattered window, on the damage, on Iren and the way he was held.
I got out first, scanning the drive. Lin moved forward, but stopped when he saw Iren’s face.
“Medical?” he asked.
“Glass. That’s all,” I said.
He nodded, making a note on his pad. He had already moved on to contingency two.
Yuri shut off the engine and stepped out, walking a slow circuit around the car, eyes everywhere but never frantic. He ducked to look at the impact on the headrest, then at the line of the shot through the window.
“Custom load,” he said. “Illegal in this state.”
“Military grade?” I asked.
“Not American. East European, maybe Czech.”
I filed that away.
Iren climbed out of the car on his own, wobbly but upright. I followed him, staying close enough to catch him if he fell. He didn’t.
The estate’s front hall was empty except for the click of my shoes on the marble and the echo of blood in my ears. The staff was invisible, but I knew every set of eyes was tracking us from the shadow lines and the glass reflection off the stair rails.
Sasha waited at the threshold to the east wing, one hand resting on the newel post, the other loose at her side. She wore black, with pearls, as if the day had required a level of formal mourning.
She didn’t look up when the door opened. Her eyes were locked on a spot just over my left shoulder, calculating the precise moment to begin her performance.
Iren stepped in behind me, trailing the scent of dust and trauma and blood that had already dried on the side of his face. I steered him toward the stairs without waiting for permission.
Sasha’s voice cut the air, low and crisp. “You’re home early.”
I paused. “Change of plans.”
She drifted forward, gaze darting once to Iren, then to the glass dust embedded in the side of his jaw, then back to me. For a half-second, before her face resettled into warm concern, I saw something else there.
Surprise.
Not the surprise of a person who heard an unscheduled car in the drive. Not the surprise of a hostess facing an extra guest. The surprise of someone who expected a different outcome—one with a hearse or at least a silent phone call.
She opened her mouth to say something, but I was already moving Iren toward the living room.
Lin had already prepped a med kit in the front room.
Iren sat on the edge of the couch, head tipped back, the blood slowing to a trickle.
Lin dabbed at the cut with a gloved hand, cleaning it with methodical care.
“You’ll scar,” Lin said.
Iren snorted. “What’s one more?”
He didn’t look at me. He just sat there, letting Lin do his work, hands clenched in his lap.
I took Yuri aside, out of earshot. “Lock it down. No one in or out. No phone calls unless you make them. Full perimeter, all shifts.”
He nodded. “What about the spotter?”
“Find him. Quietly.”
He left.
I went back to the couch. Iren was staring at the ceiling. The glass powder had migrated down his neck, glittering at the hollow of his throat.
“Come upstairs,” I said.
He hesitated for a moment and then stood to go with me. I guided him upstairs and into the bedroom, shut the door, and surveyed the space.
It was too large, too well appointed, to feel like sanctuary, but the thickness of the walls and the privacy glass made it as close to safe as possible.
I stripped the glass-dusted shirt from his back, tossed it in the trash, and wrapped him in a new one from the wardrobe. He let me, docile, hands limp at his sides.
He crossed to the window, looked out at the grounds. The glass here was triple-thick, bulletproof. He knew it, but he checked anyway.
I went to the bathroom, filled a glass with water, and brought it back. He took it, drank half, then set it down. “You’re safe here.”
He laughed, sharp. “That’s what they say in horror movies, right before someone loses a head.”
I crossed to him, set a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. “Safe,” I said again.
He nodded, but I could see on his face that he didn’t believe it.
I wanted to shake him, to force the belief into his bones, but I didn’t. I stood behind him, hands on his shoulders, and let the silence do the work. The ruined headrest and the blood on the handkerchief were all the proof he needed. For now, that was enough.
Tomorrow, I would start the hunt.
I pulled out my cell phone and called Lin. “Bring hot chocolate.”
He didn’t ask why. He just said, “Yes, sir,” and hung up.
I watched Iren. He refused to meet my eye. He was processing, running the tape of the ambush over and over in his head. I wanted to force his brain out of the spiral, but I knew better.
So I waited.
Lin arrived with the chocolate in a wide ceramic cup. He set it on the bedside table, close enough for Iren to reach, but not so close as to imply coddling. He bowed—an actual bow, which I didn’t know he was capable of—and left the room.
I sat in the armchair, my hands steepled, and my eyes on the fire.
Iren sat on the side of the bed and sipped the chocolate, then looked at me over the rim. “You’re not going to ask if I’m okay?”
“You’re not,” I said. “So there’s no point.”
He smiled, brittle but real. “I appreciate the honesty.”
We sat in silence, the only sound the tick of the fireplace and the slow, even breaths I forced myself to take. I finally said, “You will not leave the estate.”
He set down the cup. “For how long?”
“Until I say.”
“Is that an order?”
I nodded.
He shrugged. “Fine. It’s not like I have anywhere better to be.”