Chapter Forty

 

RYAN

 

I don't have time to check my phone for the time. I might be able to, I couldn't say, but I'm not about to waste it. Logan's Harley might have a clock built-in. The thing's designed for comfort and convenience.

My old Indian, though, isn't as new-fangled as that. No clock laid into the front readouts. So I don't know how long it takes exactly to get from that rest stop to Brian's apartment, but it's more than five minutes, less than fifteen.

I should have been faster, but the old girl will only be pushed so hard, and I can't afford to get pulled over right now. Not when it's so important that I get to him and I get there five minutes ago.

The building looks calm as I walk up. As if nothing's going on. Maybe nothing is, for most of them. The placid exterior, though, doesn't match what I know. There's shit going on in there, and it's about to get turned up to eleven.

Well, there's no time to worry about any of that shit. I don't have a choice in whether or not to go in there. That's about the only question that I need to answer.

Can I avoid it? No? Then don't worry about it.

My heart is thumping hard in my chest, and I can feel the heavy weight of the pistol on my hip. I'll need to reach for it, and fast. But now, as I step into the elevator, I can't afford to show my hand.

If a civilian were to freak out about it, then the only thing I have going for me—the exact time I show up might be a surprise—is gone. Never mind that I need time before the cops start showing up.

The second-floor hall is empty. It always is. I have heard people talking in their rooms, have heard televisions run. So I know that Brian's not the only one on this floor. But you wouldn't know it to look at the hallway.

His door is on the far side of the building. My hands are starting to itch. I'm incredibly conscious of the gun on my hip. The stillness in the hall has me on edge.

I can feel it getting to me. Even the tiniest movement might set me off, now. It's getting to the point where I don't even know if I could stop myself if I tried.

I fish for his key, out of my key ring. It's silver, unlike the others that are brass-colored, so it stands out. The key goes in easy, turns easy. I can't figure out a way to do it quiet, so I do it quick.

My shoulder goes into the door hard as I turn the handle, and the door slams open. My hand moves to my hip, feeling like it's moving through molasses.

I keep repeating in my head. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. I bring the gun up. Nobody visible from the door, but I can't guarantee there's nobody hiding right around the corner.

I close the door behind me, only a second or two passed after I stepped inside. I check the apartment. It doesn't take long to be sure that the place is empty.

Nothing in the closets. Nothing in the bathroom. Nothing under the bed. Or, perhaps, not nothing.

There is one thing, something that twists my stomach up in a big ol' knot. There's a big God-damned dark spot in the middle of the carpet, red fading into black. I don't need to confirm that it's blood. I can see it with my eyes.

I touch it, smell it. Still wet, but drying sticky. I take a deep breath. I don't know that it's enough blood to have meant anything. It could have been a little injury that they made to look bad.

The feeling of nausea washes over me again and I'm going to be sick. My mind rebels against the lies I'm trying to tell it. Like hell, it could be something little. The God damned floorboards are going to be stained from that.

What did they do to my brother? My teeth grit together. What did they do to him, where did they take him, and how could I do a hundred times worse than that in retaliation?

I slip the gun back into my holster and take a breath. I'm not going to find him running around like a chicken with my head cut off. There's nothing I can do for him if I'm panicking.

He called me after he was hurt. I could hear it in his voice. I could hear the way that he tried to confirm every answer with his eyes, to find out what he was allowed to say.

So they knew he was calling. It wasn't a secret thing. He didn't 'barely get a message out.' They wanted him to get word to me, and they wanted me to run out and try to save my brother. Just like I had done.

So why did they leave, now? Where did they go?

The idea that they're leading me by the nose occurs to me. I know they wanted me to come here. I know they wanted me to find this bucket of blood in the middle of my brother's floor.

I know they wanted me to blame myself for it, and by God they got what they wanted. But I'm not going to waste any more time punishing myself over it, not when there's someone else needs punishing.

I need to look around. I can feel my head fogging back up again. Hard to think. But I shake it off. I don't have time for it to be hard. I have to do what I have to do. I can feel the phone in my pocket.

I want to call Davis, or get ahold of Logan somehow. I need to. But whatever she's got going on, she's not answering, and I don't have time to waste on trying to reach her.

The thing I'm looking for finally dawns on me right as my phone goes off in my pocket. I ignore it for an instant as I stare out the open window.

If someone was going to do this kind of damage to a guy, you'd close that window. Sure as hell, they'd have closed the shades before beating the hell out of my brother.

So why are the shades open now? The answer isn't hard to figure. I slip the phone out of my pocket before I miss the call. It's Davis.

I hit the answer button.

"What's up?"

"We need to meet. I found Logan."

"Good. But we've got other problems. I've been trying to reach you."

"I—couldn't answer. I would have if I could, you know that."

"Sure. Look. I don't have time to worry about that right now. They took my brother. The other one. He's hurt bad, and someone's got him."

"You know who?"

"I'll give you a hint: he bled quite a lot on his carpet. That how your guys do things these days?"

"Got it."

"I'll meet you. Give me a place." I rub my hand through my hair. I just need to figure out what the fuck to do, and who's been watching me rifle through this apartment. If I can meet up with Davis, we can try to work through it.

She gives me a spot to meet her. I don't know it off-hand, but I know the area. It's not far.

"I'll meet you in fifteen minutes," I tell her, and then I hang up the call.

I have just enough time to get the phone into my pocket when the door gets smashed in, and a dozen men in navy blue uniforms filter in.