Chapter Sixteen
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“...and Duncan has the puck, lines up the shot—Henderson out of nowhere, smashing him from behind!
Oh, Duncan didn’t like that, he’s taking a swing—he’s got Henderson’s helmet off, you can see the red on the ice, and now West is getting involved with Grande, this is looking like a big one, folks—
Hang on, we’re getting word that a fan has just collapsed, possibly fainted. Paramedics are rushing into the stands and—
Are you kidding me? Who brought an empath to the game?”
—TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT, HOCKEY NIGHT IN CANADA brOADCAST
“What the hell was that?”
“What was what?”
Reece gestured behind them. “You just flew over that bridge without slowing at all. Don’t you know an overpass can ice in inclement weather?”
“This is Seattle. All of your weather is inclement.”
“It is not .”
“I got here last night and it has yet to stop raining.”
“Then you should know the rain could have frozen on the overpass and you need to exercise a little caution and stop driving like you’re on some sunny country back road—although I hope you also know your current speed isn’t legal on any road in Texas either.”
“Maybe you’re trying to backseat drive your way behind my steering wheel,” Grayson said, “but, sugar, you can keep right on trying ’cause it’s not gonna happen. I’ll just add unrepentant backseat driver to your EI file and keep the keys.”
Obviously Reece wasn’t trying to annoy Grayson into handing over the truck keys. Obviously he was way too mature for something like that.
He sat back against the seat with a huff, then huffed again. He’d swapped the giant Texas hoodie for a warmer fleece, and folding his arms was now annoyingly less satisfying without the dramatic flare of too-long sleeves. “But you’re not even driving her in the right terrain mode. It’s like you don’t even care about traction control or throttle response or public safety.”
There was a moment of silence, then Grayson fiddled with the buttons. “There. Weather mode. Better?”
Grayson wasn’t sharing emotions, but that hadn’t felt passive-aggressive. It felt like Grayson had actually listened to his empath bitching and taken him seriously. “Maybe a little,” Reece grudgingly admitted. “EI already knows I’m a backseat driver anyway, don’t they? Everything I’ve done from birth to today is in some EI file.”
“It’s supposed to be.” Grayson had kept his eyes fixedly forward as he said that.
“That’s not exactly the same thing as saying yes ,” Reece pointed out. “Is there something you know isn’t in my file?”
“Why would there be?”
“Don’t dodge the question,” Reece said. “I don’t care if you’re the Dead Man—that won’t work on an empath. What’s missing from my file?”
Grayson didn’t answer for a moment, like he was choosing his words, because it didn’t seem to matter that Reece couldn’t hear the difference; Grayson tended to evade or misdirect instead of outright lie. An echo of who he’d been, perhaps? Maybe he’d been an honest person before he’d become the government’s tool?
“You already know I’ve never met another empath like you,” Grayson finally said. “One who’s got some of the enhanced abilities but kept the pacifism. It wasn’t supposed to be possible.”
“Okay,” Reece said slowly. “So what are you saying? You haven’t told EI yet that I accidentally projected emotions last night? Or you haven’t added any of my new weirdness to my EI file?”
Grayson cleared his throat. “That would be the second one.”
Reece stared at him. “EI doesn’t know any of it? You’re keeping government secrets from me—and secrets about me from the government?”
Grayson shrugged, like that wasn’t a huge fucking deal that probably broke who knew how many laws and put Grayson squarely against EI. “You’re not supposed to be possible, and a lot of people would treat you like a science experiment if they knew. But you’re not anyone’s lab rat. Look, I’m gonna slow down on this bridge, just for you,” he added, like he hadn’t left Reece reeling.
They left I-5 a bit before Tacoma and drove through neighborhoods and retail strips until the city thinned out. Grayson finally turned into a gravel parking lot full of Jeeps and more pickup trucks and pulled his own truck into an empty patch of wet grass.
“No Challenger,” Reece observed.
“Can’t imagine he’d drive a Hellcat into this mud.” Grayson put the truck in Park. “If you’re coming in with me, I’m gonna need a favor.”
“Sure,” Reece said easily.
Grayson cut the engine and turned to face him. “Look me in the eyes and say, Evan, I’m not gonna wander off .”
Reece opened his mouth, then closed it.
“You want me to phrase it another way?” Grayson said. “How about I could be in danger, Agent Grayson, so I promise I’ll stay with you . I’d even take I know you’re trying to keep me safe, Mr. Dead Man, so today I’m gonna make good decisions for a change. ”
Reece folded his arms. “Why do you want me to say those things?”
“You know why.”
“Because you think they’re going to be lies ?”
“Are they?”
“No.” Lie. Reece winced.
“That’s what I thought.” Grayson leaned toward him. “You gonna make me remind you that you got stalked and chased last night by someone who might be somewhere around here? That you need to let me deal with him?”
“What do you mean, deal with him ?”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Grayson said. “Reece, I gotta do my job. I’m trying to make sure you stay an angel, but I don’t know what that man wanted with you and you know I can’t let Seattle end up with another serial killer. You would have let your kidnapper right into your home, so tell me something that’s gonna convince me I don’t need to literally handcuff you to me today.”
“I told you already, I want to be with you,” Reece said heatedly. “I don’t trust anyone but you right now. Do you need to hear that this means I don’t want to wander off anywhere you’re not? That I plan to glue myself to your side? That if touching was an option I’d happily get so close I’d be inside you—” He stuttered, his face going red. “Um. I mean. Metaphorically only, obviously.”
Lie.
Oh, come on .
There was a moment of silence, then Grayson cleared his throat. “Well, I’m convinced,” he said, a little more gruffly than normal, as he opened his door.
There was a small building at the end of the parking lot that looked to be both the airsoft course check-in and a store that sold gear. Past the building, the course itself was fenced off with chain-link, with shipping crates and hollowed outbuildings disappearing off into the tall trees. Beyond the fence came a chorus of excited shouts and the sound of air guns popping, over and over again, meant to sound like real gunfire. Getting closer. Getting louder.
Reece’s feet didn’t seem to want to move. Not real , he frantically told his blood pressure, which was rising so fast he could feel it. Air guns. Not real guns. Not real, not real—
A hand suddenly grabbed his, fingers intertwining with Reece’s gloved ones.
He looked up in surprise.
“You didn’t hear me calling your name,” Grayson said, squeezing Reece’s hand.
“Oh,” Reece said weakly, and wow, hey, the air gun fire was ever-so-slightly lost to the new rhythm of his heart beating in his ears.
“I got something that might help.” Grayson dropped his hand, then pulled something out of his pocket. “If you don’t have a playlist, you can listen to one of mine.”
He handed Reece a small white box. “You saint ,” Reece said, scrambling to get the earbuds out. “Put on whatever you got; anything is better than gunfire.”
Reece popped the earbuds in and the world was instantly, blessedly muffled. He exhaled in a rush. “How can I say thank you?” he said, tilting his head back to look into Grayson’s face.
“Stay put for once,” Grayson said wryly.
Reece huffed but couldn’t help smiling up at him.
“The fuck ,” a man’s voice said, from their left. “Take that fucking gay shit back to Seattle.”
Reece turned, pulling out an earbud and opening his mouth, but Grayson was faster, straightening to his full six feet and five inches. “Come say that to my face,” he called back, voice particularly flat and gravelly.
The man’s mouth worked uselessly for a moment, then he ducked into his SUV.
“The speed limit in a Washington parking lot is fifteen miles per hour!” Reece yelled after him, as the man’s taillights disappeared too quickly. He looked back at Grayson. “It’s like I walk around with a big sign that says Awkward Annoying Bisexual ,” Reece said, scuffing at the gravel with his tennis shoe. “I can’t, um. Can’t believe he actually thought you were my boyfriend, though.”
“I know,” said Grayson. “Hell of a compliment, that he thought I could bag a guy like you.”
That startled Reece into a laugh.
“Come on,” said Grayson. “Earbuds in, music up, and let’s see what we can learn.”
Reece followed close behind Grayson into the building, steady beats in his ears. Most of the space seemed to be used for the store, with racks of camouflage coats interspersed with other clothes and tactical gear—balaclavas, goggles, knee pads. On the far left was a wooden counter, a brown-haired woman behind it.
Grayson went over to her. Reece averted his eyes from the archway that led into the next room with its big Guns for Sale sign, and quickly walked over to the display of tactical gloves instead. He found the brand, reading the feature list on the tag: hard shell protection, textured for grip, touch-screen technology, top rated for anti-empathy defense—effective as what the empaths themselves wear!
Reece swallowed hard. He didn’t want to make anyone afraid at all, let alone so afraid they’d pay this price to con men to defend themselves against empaths they’d probably never meet.
They should be afraid of you , a little voice in his head said. Not just afraid. Terrified.
Reece’s fingers tightened on the glove, his teeth clenching.
“Hey.”
Grayson’s voice was barely audible over the music, but it drove away the awful thoughts. Reece turned to find Grayson only about a foot away. He pulled one of the earbuds out, just a little.
“Apparently the manager didn’t show up today.” Grayson pointed to the wall.
Reece followed his hand, eyes landing on a framed portrait above a small plaque reading Keith Waller, Manager . He stared at the man in the picture: close-cropped blond hair, a lighter shade than Grayson’s honey-brown; broad shoulders with a familiar tense set; pale eyes that were narrowed at the corners.
Reece had seen those eyes, boring into him above a balaclava.
He quickly pulled his gaze back to Grayson. “I think that’s him,” he said quietly.
Grayson straightened up, looking out the shop windows and into the airsoft course. Reece followed his gaze and groaned out loud.
A small stand-alone structure, like a garden shed, sat a little ways into the course and off the edge, with a big sign reading Manager’s Office . No way to reach it without crossing some of the ground currently full of shouting and air gun–armed airsoft enthusiasts.
Reece wrapped his arms around himself. “We have to search that, don’t we?”
“I’ll think of something,” Grayson said, which was not at all the no Reece had wanted to hear.
Jamey parked Liam’s car close to the coordinates Parson had given her, seeing yellow tape and a crowd of uniforms up ahead. The air was wet and cold as she approached, coat zipped shut and a warm winter headband over her ears, her curls pulled into a messy bun.
Parson was waiting for her at the edge of the yellow police tape.
“Has anyone talked to Stensby yet?” she asked.
Parson shook his head. “Still no contact since last night’s AMI dinner. I’m told he hasn’t appeared at the station and he’s not answering his phone.”
Someone had called her last night from Stensby’s number, someone who’d known he’d sabotaged Reece’s car. Could Jamey’s caller have been with Stensby at the Leviathan? Could they still have the phone? Jamey had tried calling back several times the night before, and again that morning, but no one had answered, not Stensby, not the man with the Texas accent like Grayson’s. Apparently all her mysterious caller had felt like communicating was the one cryptic request to save Reece.
Parson handed her a pair of latex gloves and took her past the yellow tape. She recognized several of the officers on scene, their confused gazes following her as she walked with Parson.
As she approached the car, her eyebrows went up. From Parson’s description and the pictures, she’d assumed the cruiser had been in an accident, maybe hit a tree. But up close, there seemed to be no single point of impact—in fact, there were too many to count. Every window was broken, every door smashed, the hood dented and crunched in multiple places.
Jamey tilted her head. “How did this happen?”
“To be honest, we’re not sure yet,” Parson said. “Damage is spread over the vehicle like it was done systematically, but at this level...”
He trailed off, but Jamey understood. The force had seen its share of cars smashed by the baseball bat or golf club of a drug dealer’s goons or an angry ex, but Jamey didn’t know many people strong enough to total a car to this extent. She could do it, and Grayson could. Diesel, the McFeely’s bouncer, possibly.
Stensby himself? Maybe. He was taller than she was, close to Grayson’s height, and in good shape. But this amount of damage had an unhinged edge to it that left her uneasy.
She opened the driver’s door with glove-covered hands before she crouched and put her head inside. She closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose.
Whiskey. Not strong, but definitely present in the cloth seat, like traces of a spill. Had Stensby gone on a drunken rampage, destroyed his car, and was now somewhere sleeping it off?
She scanned the cabin. There were crumbs on the floor by the pedals, and a few crumpled napkins on the floor in front of the passenger seat. She gingerly cracked open the top of the center console with gloved fingers and found a pack of gum and a couple of folded bills. She snapped several pictures with her phone, then straightened up and shut the car door.
“Stensby’s laptop was still on his desk at the department,” said Parson. “The Empath Initiative has it now. He’s going to be pissed as hell if he comes back to find EI in his business. I’m not happy about it either.”
Parson gestured to the back of the cruiser. “There’s a suitcase in the trunk.”
The trunk no longer closed, the latch busted like the rest of the vehicle. Jamey found the suitcase, a carry-on that was already unzipped by whoever had searched before her. She lifted the top and delicately ruffled through the contents: tank tops and T-shirts, shorts and flip-flops.
“He’s packed for somewhere a lot warmer than here,” Jamey observed, uncovering what looked like a bathing suit. “Was he planning a trip?”
“Not one the force was aware of,” Parson said flatly. “He didn’t have any time off scheduled.”
Whatever Stensby had been packing for, he hadn’t included so much as a sweater. He’d clearly been planning to cut town for somewhere warmer. He wouldn’t have driven his police cruiser out of Seattle—maybe a flight, then?
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught an outline of something deeper in the trunk, something small and dark and hard to see in the pale gray of a winter morning. She lowered the top of the suitcase and reached over it, hand closing around a small cylinder wedged into the crack where the carpeting met the side of the car.
She withdrew the item: a black metal pen, with a firearm logo and the phrase got your six .
The logo matched the one Grayson had sent her that morning—the airsoft course that sold the so-called anti-empathy gloves, where he and Reece were headed.
She snapped a picture of the pen. “What the fuck is going on, Stensby?” she muttered under her breath.
Once upon a time, Grayson had enjoyed an occasional game of airsoft. Obviously not with his empath brother, but he’d gone a few times with friends in college. On a course like that, he could let go more than usual, not hide his own differences quite so deep.
That had been in the Before Days. Now he didn’t enjoy anything, and he was a lot more familiar with actual guns than air guns. But he remembered the rules, and he could aim an air gun as well as any other weapon.
“Come on,” he said, after he’d paid for gear for both himself and Reece. He kept Reece’s air gun for himself—Reece wasn’t gonna touch even a replica firearm without possibly puking right on the spot—and led the way out to the edge of the course.
Reece had gone very pale as they crouched behind a crate. “I don’t know about this, Evan,” he said, and it was possible he was gonna vomit even without touching the replicated gun.
Grayson quickly scanned the field. Eight players dashing around the course, with more possible in the buildings or woods. The trees helped make decent coverage to the manager’s office, but he’d need to clear the path—preferably without Reece seeing any of it. They weren’t sneaking in anywhere if Reece was having a nervous breakdown in the middle of the course.
He crouched again. “It’s gonna be okay,” he promised Reece. He handed over his phone. “Keep those earbuds in and crank the music up until you can’t hear anything else. Just trust me.”
Reece furrowed his brow, but he took the phone, gloved fingers brushing Grayson’s. He fiddled with the phone for a moment, then flashed Grayson a shaky thumbs-up.
Grayson straightened just enough to see over the crate, his gun in his right and Reece’s gun in his left. Respawn point was in the opposite direction of the manager’s office and he could send all eight players there at once.
He glanced down at Reece, who had closed his eyes and was lightly bobbing his head along to the music. Probably the best chance he was gonna get. He cocked both their guns and stepped out from behind the crate.
Three minutes later, he was diving back behind their hideout. He grabbed Reece by the hand again, and Reece’s eyes flew open.
Come on , Grayson mouthed at him, tugging.
Reece reached for his earbud with his free hand. “I hear shouting. Did you piss someone off—”
“Keep that in,” Grayson ordered, and pulled him to his feet.
They darted across the course, Grayson stopping just once to push Reece behind a plywood structure while he fired at a group of three who’d just emerged from the woods. Then they were running up behind the manager’s shack on the edge of the course.
Reece pulled out the earbuds. “How are we getting in?” he asked, as Grayson examined the dead bolt. He was still slightly too pale but looked a lot steadier on his feet now that the air gun fire had stopped. “We don’t have long before everyone’s back, right?”
“I might be able to kick this down,” Grayson said, as he accepted the phone and earbuds back. “Wouldn’t be subtle, though.”
“And I bet we can get in without any destruction of property.” Reece pointed up to one of the high windows. “Is that unlocked? I could climb in through there, if I had a boost.”
Grayson eyed the window. “You sure? It looks a tight fit to me.”
Reece cleared his throat.
Grayson gave him a flat look. “That’s a serious question that’s pertinent to your safety, not just a sex joke.”
“I promise I take you talking about tight fits very seriously,” Reece said. “Come on. You keep bragging about all that enhanced strength; can you lift me up?”
Grayson stood on his toes and tried the window, which slid to the side to make a narrow opening. He looked back at Reece consideringly. “Lifting you is never gonna be a problem. Lifting you without touching you might be.”
“But shoes should be safe, right?” said Reece. “And let’s be real—if it goes awry, you can still kick down the door, with the bonus that your day will probably actually be easier if I’m unconscious.”
Grayson couldn’t really argue with that. He stepped closer to the shack, crouching down so Reece could get his foot up into his hands. They weren’t touching, not really—just three points of contact: Reece’s shoe resting in his cupped palms, one of Reece’s gloved hands on each of his shoulders. No skin-to-skin contact, just light, soft pressure on Grayson’s hands and shoulders.
And Grayson was as aware of every inch of Reece as if they’d been naked in a bed. He didn’t do much touching these days beyond fights, and gloves or not, he hadn’t had someone’s hands this gentle on him in a long time.
“You’ve, um. You’ve got really nice shoulders.” Reece’s fingers curled into him, each one lighting a spark under his skin. “I mean. Just saying. They’re a good, um. Handhold.”
Oh, great. Now he was thinking of a dozen other positions they could get into where Reece would be gripping his shoulders tight.
Reece cleared his throat. “Maybe you better lift me up.”
“I think I better.” Grayson lifted, and confirming how damn easy it was to manhandle him was not helping anything .
Reece twisted, putting his hands on the ledge and poking his head through the window. “There’s a desk just below I can land on. I’m going in.”
“Sure, sure,” Grayson muttered under his breath, as Reece ducked under the frame and levered himself through the narrow opening. “And I’ll just stand here. Watch you squirm in through that window on your stomach. Notice how flexible you are. Think about tight fits . This is fine, this isn’t gonna haunt me.”
A minute later, Reece was unlocking the dead bolt. Grayson stepped inside to join him.
“Waller’s got AMI propaganda—who could have seen that coming?” Reece said, bitter and sarcastic, pointing to a bulletin board with tacked-up flyers.
“I’m not sure AMI is the one who put him up to coming after you.” Grayson crouched, looking under the metal desk for anything taped underneath.
Nothing he could see, but there was an unopened package on the floor, maybe the size of a shoebox. Reece hovered at his side as Grayson picked it up and set it on the desk. It was addressed to Keith Waller with the airsoft course’s address and postmarked two weeks earlier from Vancouver, British Columbia. No return address. Grayson broke the tape and lifted the cardboard flaps to uncover—
Empath gloves.
“These look real,” Reece said, as Grayson picked them up. “Big, though—those would fit you .”
He was right, and he was right that the gloves were the real deal. Grayson could smell the coppery metallic scent, feel the stiffness under his fingers.
“I’ve never met an empath who’d need that size gloves,” Reece went on. “What are they for?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Why?” Reece said suspiciously. “You think it’s something I won’t like—oh.” His voice had tightened. “Of course. They’re not for empaths; I bet Stone Solutions makes these for people who have to handle empaths. Mr. Airsoft Manager was probably supposed to be wearing these when he dealt with me.”
Grayson stilled. “How—”
“That wasn’t insight.”
Reece hadn’t flinched as he said it. But still. “You came to that conclusion real quick,” Grayson pointed out.
“Well, yeah,” Reece said, like it was obvious. “I was manhandled onto a roof last month by non-empaths wearing empath gloves. It left an impression.” He looked up at Grayson with big, earnest eyes. “I’m not using insight,” he said again. “But I’m glad you’re checking.” More quietly, he added, “I keep telling you I want you to watch me, Evan. I know I’m dangerous and I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Reece had successfully lied to Grayson before, but Grayson hadn’t known his tells then. Now he still hadn’t flinched, and his queasiness on the airsoft course had been real, Grayson was certain of it.
“You’re right,” Grayson admitted. “Stone Solutions has a line of gloves intended for folks who handle corrupted empaths and they come in larger sizes. But you can’t order any kind of real empath gloves online, and those are all made right here in Seattle. These were shipped from BC.”
“For all the good it did them,” Reece said bitterly. “This guy still trusted his own brand more than the scientists. A mistake.”
He turned away, toward a filing cabinet. “Want to bet Mr. Paranoid Airsoft Manager doesn’t trust the internet and keeps everything on paper?” Grayson heard a drawer open behind him. “Bingo, he has a file on me. Ugh, with pictures —can I burn this?”
“Let me take a look through it and then I’ll buy you the matches myself.” Grayson set the gloves to the side, going through the rest of the contents of the box. No note, packing slip, or explanation. They were packed in tissue paper that could have come from anywhere. But this had been shipped from Vancouver, meaning the most likely place it could’ve come from was Stone Solutions Canada.
He straightened up. “What do you think about—”
He paused.
Reece had vanished.