Chapter 19

 

 

Sour mash and cheap wine

Smokestack lightning, bathtub gin

Took me for a slow ride

Damn woman ’most done me in

Popping corks in long black limos

Champagne giggles and lots of skin

Breaking hearts more than a million times

Just like my own has been

—Riding Low

 

“WHERE’S YOUR phone? I want you to call emergency while I check things out. Landline’s in the living room. We might not find it in the dark.” Connor grasped Forest’s hips to slide him off. In the black, the world seemed to flow and tilt around him, but Con’s hands were firm and steadying. “Can you get to it? Mine’s dead. I’ve got it charging in the bedroom.”

“In the kitchen. It’s on the charger too.” He tried to peer through the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. “Maybe the streetlight‘s still on. The hedges are too high, dude. I can’t see shit. Is it just the house?”

“Looks like it. Could be the fuses, but I’m not going to chance it.” Con stood, a darker shape against the already dark shapes around them. “Grab a hold of my waistband. I want to make sure you’re safe. Flashlight’s in the garage somewhere. Shit. I forgot it out there.”

Outside, in the distance, lights shone down the hill, and there was a bit of a glow coming from someplace beyond the high boxwoods lining the backyard, more than likely coming from a streetlight in front. Built on a cul-de-sac, the Victorian sat on one of the city’s many serpentine tiers, its back facing an open view of the harbor and the streets below.

The rain made it difficult for ambient light to seep past the house’s partially drawn heavy curtains, and Forest felt his way to the kitchen, keeping his fingers hooked into Con’s pants. He was tired. Hell, Con was probably worn down to the bone, and he would love for it to be as simple as something inside of the garage. His hopes were dashed when the sound of breaking glass came from behind them. Connor’s back went rigid under the light brush of Forest’s knuckles, and Con grabbed for the doorframe.

Con moved quickly, a silent rush of muscle, and forcibly dragged Forest along behind him. They hit the swinging doors to the kitchen fast, and Forest bit down a yelp when the shutter-style doors nearly struck his back. With its windows facing the side yard and its high fence, the kitchen was nearly pitch, but Forest had a good idea of where his phone was.

The house moaned, creaking as the wind outside kicked up. The family room lights flickered a few times, then went dark, and over the kitchen’s saloon-style doors, Forest caught sight of a tree branch scraping at one of the slender windows facing the backyard.

“It’s okay, Con. It’s a tree.” Forest found his phone and turned it on, illuminating a small area of the kitchen. “Not much charge but plugged in….”

A blast shattered the window over the sink, peppering the kitchen with shot. Something stung Forest’s face, and a burn cut through his right shoulder. It was a deafening wave of terror and sound, fire flashing up from the side yard. He caught a glimpse of a silhouette before Connor dragged him down to the floor. Rolling him over, Con tucked Forest under the thick-legged oak table set against a wall.

Another boom came upon them, tearing through the kitchen. Wood flew from shattered cabinets, and some of the shot must have hit a stack of dishes because it began to rain porcelain and glass. The shooter wasn’t alone. Moments later, there was a shout—a man calling out to someone else to get into the house and take care of things.

Forest’s stomach knotted up tight around itself. He was probably one of those things.

He’d held onto his phone, but it’d been ripped from the charger when they’d gone down. Even though Forest could make out Con’s mouth moving in the phone’s pale light, he couldn’t hear a damned thing. The ringing in his ears ululated, then died away, leaving his head with a deep throb. Up against the wall, there was nowhere for him to go, and a part of him—a long-buried frightened little boy part—panicked at being trapped between a warm body and a hard place.

Taking a deep breath helped. The fear receded, slinking off into the crevices it’d come from. The dark held something more than shadows. There was a malevolent stillness to it now. Even through the buzzing echoes in his ears, Forest felt the weight of something—something dark—pressing in on him.

“You okay?” Con asked gruffly. His hands were running over Forest’s limbs and chest.

“My shoulder hurts. The right one.” Forest kept his voice low and then bit his lip to keep from whimpering when Con’s fingers explored his shoulder. “Not bad. Not until you touch it.”

“Sorry, love. Okay, you call 911,” Connor whispered. “I’m going for my gun.”

“Dude—” Forest swallowed his protest. Connor was a cop. An injured one, but a cop just the same. “Be careful.”

“Sure thing, babe,” Connor promised solemnly, and then he was gone. “You too.”

The bite of wind coming through the blasted window cut through Forest, and he curled up as tight as he could, crouching under the heavy table. Fingers shaking, he dialed emergency and waited for someone to answer.

 

 

WHEN HE’D converted an oddly placed half bath into a pantry for the kitchen, Connor’d wondered if he’d been smart to put his gun safe there. Now, standing in the eerie green glow of the safe’s battery backup lights, he pondered if he shouldn’t have built in an entire armory instead.

Because he really could have used an AK-47 right about then.

The trembling in Forest’s body nearly broke Connor. The last thing he’d wanted was to leave the man, but shit had come to his door, and he was going to do his damned best to shove it right back out.

His arm was unwieldy, and not for the first time that day, he silently cursed Miki’s kill instinct. The light set above the keypad was barely bright enough for him to see the numbers, and Con quickly punched in the code, letting out an unexpected sigh of relief when the safe door clicked open. Unthinkingly, he reached in with his right hand and winced when he banged the cast against the edge of the safe.

“Okay, beat the shit out of Miki,” he muttered, grabbing his Glock with his left hand. Tucking the weapon into the back of his pants, he pulled out his spare piece, a Beretta his father’d given him. He slammed a load into the Beretta and headed back out.

Connor stopped long enough to grab his armored vest off its hook by the garage door. It was a short struggle to put it on, and when he glanced beneath the table, he was relieved to find Forest looking up at him, his lover’s phone shining over his pale face.

“They coming?” he asked.

“Yeah, they told me to stay on the line,” Forest murmured. “She also said to tell you not to do anything stupid.”

The sound of more glass breaking reached the kitchen, and Connor growled back, “I’m not the one doing something stupid. Get into the pantry and close the door.”

“I’m not leaving you out here,” he argued.

Of course Forest would argue. Connor’d learned quickly the man gave in only when it suited him. Apparently, the situation didn’t suit him.

“I’d rather you get into the bathroom and get into the tub, but it’s too far. They’re already in the house.” He didn’t need much light to see Forest’s stubborn scowl. There wasn’t a lot of time, and Connor didn’t want to waste it arguing. He had to find the men breaking into his house, and he couldn’t do that while worrying if Forest was safe. Pulling a trick out of Brigid’s guilt bag, he asked softly, “Please?”

“Fucker,” Forest grumbled as he scrambled into the pantry, then closed the door behind him.

“Lock it from inside. And don’t come out for anyone but me. Tell dispatch I’m armed.” Connor pressed his hand against the narrow wall between the pantry door and interior hall. Casting his eyes up quickly, he beseeched, “Keep him safe for me, God. That’s all I’m asking in this.”

Rollins’s actions didn’t make any sense. Revenge? Killing Forest wouldn’t gain him anything. Not any more than killing Marshall had. There had to be something else there—something broken inside the man that somehow gave the whole mess perspective.

At that moment, he couldn’t care about motive. Hell, Connor barely had the patience to hunt down the men coming for his lover. The only reason he didn’t grab Forest and beat a path to the door was he couldn’t be sure there wasn’t someone else waiting outside to mow them down. At least in the house, he had the advantage. He knew every turn and hallway in the Victorian, as well as the areas he hadn’t quite gotten to—like the living room with its creaky joists and iffy floorboards.

He’d thought about going into the garage to fetch the flashlight for Forest, but he didn’t know if the pantry door sat flush to the floor. A strip of light would draw someone to his presence. No, Con thought, better he stay as much in the dark as possible.

Reaching the foyer, Connor was thankful for the soft ambient glow coming through the half-moon window above the heavy front door. Keeping his back to the wall, he let the shadows cover him, then called out to the rest of the house.

The interior of the Victorian was still a warren, a Z of a hallway with rooms connected to one another with nested doors. There’d been a plan to open up the space, eliminating as many of the jogs as possible, but for now, they served as a baffle. There’d be bottles of whiskey sent to his brothers for being too busy for serious wall demolition.

“Rollins? That you?” His voice bounced, echoing around the enclosed space. “Tell me you brought more than one guy to take me out!”

From the sounds coming from the back of the house, Connor guessed his intruders were having a difficult time getting up over the window boxes built along the outer sills. A bout of heated swearing and pained cries followed by wood cracking lightened Connor’s worry. The boxes wouldn’t be able to hold up a full-grown man, but obviously Rollins and whomever he brought with him didn’t know that.

“Hey, whoever’s with that asshole, did he tell you I’m a cop?” Con slid down the wall and switched over to the short L in the hall, bringing him in line with the downstairs bedroom. Another few feet, and he’d be able to wedge himself into a corner at the back of the house and see into the long family room.

“He’s a fucking cop? You came here to rip off a fucking cop?”

Con smiled, glad for the reaction. He heard another man cussing the first out, but no one else chimed in. The rain thickened, muting anything else the men said.

“Your friend Gary didn’t come here to rip me off.” Con risked peeking around the corner to see if the way was clear. Drawing his gun up, he slid forward another foot. “He came here to kill me. Like you killed Frank Marshall and everyone else who got in your way. You’ve got a lot to answer for, Rollins.”

“I came here for that fucking faggot whore.” A weedy male voice broke through the sound of the rain. “You can walk away from this!”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Another step and he froze. They’d brought a flashlight with them, and Con could see the powerful beam cut across the hallway opening. If he could make it past the doorway, he’d be able to get enough cover on the other side to bring the men down. “Kind of fond of Forest.”

“Fucking bitch put me in jail,” Rollins—if Con guessed right—screamed back. “He started this whole damned thing. A couple more minutes, and he’d have been begging me for my dick. Fucking Marshall should have minded his own business!”

Connor remained silent, watching the beam cut across the hall again. The second the light passed back toward the front of the house, he was off, his bare feet moving across the slick wood floor. Grabbing at the shadows on the other side, he pressed his shoulders against the bathroom door at the end of the hall. Bringing up his matte black gun, Con took a deep steadying breath and waited for Rollins to move into his line of fire.

 

 

SOMETHING WAS wrong. Forest could feel it. Or at least he guessed it was. There’d been some muffled scrapes coming through the walls, but after that, nothing. Not until he heard a loud thump.

“I’m going to put the phone down,” he whispered to the dispatcher. “Just tell them to hurry the hell up, okay?”

He turned the volume down as much as he dared, mostly to drown out the dispatcher’s increasingly aggressive orders for him to stay on the line. Leaving the phone as close to the jamb as he could without it being stepped on, Forest slowly eased the door inward and peeked outside.

Then he jerked his head back into the dark as soon as he spotted the large bulky shape crawling through the shot-out window.

Forest braved another look as the man nearly tumbled back out. The intruder grabbed at anything he could to anchor himself, snagging the sink’s faucet handle. Water gushed from the spigot when he pulled on it. He grumbled in surprise, then slapped at the elongated handle until it turned off.

From what he could see, the guy crawling through the window wasn’t Rollins. Not unless he’d gained a hundred pounds since he’d been let out. The phone’s screen really didn’t give Forest enough light to see by, and the safe’s sickly green illumination barely extended beyond its own door. The man’s bulk was going to be hard to take down, and Forest couldn’t see if he was armed.

“A gun,” Forest murmured, standing up quickly. “The safe!”

Ignoring the creaks in his knees from crouching on the hard floor, he scrambled to the safe and carefully swung it farther open.

Only to stare at a very disappointing emptiness.

“Not like I know how to fucking shoot a gun, but shit, Con,” he grumbled. “Throw me a damned bone here.”

Going back to the door, he peeked again, trying to see if the man’s hands were free. Since they appeared to be mostly flailing about as he worked to get through the tight space, Forest thought they were empty. From the writhing and the man’s windmilling arms, Forest suspected the heavyset man was stuck.

“Doesn’t mean he can’t have a gun on him.” He chewed on his lower lip, trying to work out a plan. “Think, dude. What the hell am I going to do?”

A knife was out of the question. A wood block of blades was out on the kitchen counter, too far for him to snag one and defend himself against the intruder, and short of grabbing one of the spindly wooden chairs at the table, there wasn’t anything he could really use to bash the man’s head in.

“Crap, Miki can do this, and he’s….” Forest trailed off his thought. “’Cause Miki’s psycho. Okay, focus. Do something, Forest. And don’t get shot doing it.”

His phone was nearly out of juice. It’d been pining for the fjords when he’d plugged it in after he retrieved Con’s eye drops from the fridge. With the line open, he’d soon lose not only the squawking dispatcher but any light it could give him. Bending down, he rifled through the partially full shelves lining the walls, looking for something heavy and portable.

There had to be something he could use in the pantry. A Roomba. A brick. Something.

His fingers closed over a thick-rimmed large gallon can on the bottom shelf. Picking it up, he huffed under its unexpected weight, and his injured shoulder whined a bit, but he sucked up the pain with a hissing breath. Unwieldy for sure but hefty enough to do some damage if he had enough leverage.

“Got one shot at this, dude.” Forest braced himself and balanced the enormous can against his hip. “Okay. Go.”

Barreling out, Forest hefted the can over his head. The pinprick of pain along his shoulder reminded him again about being creased by one of the shotgun pellets, but he kept going.

Forest didn’t know who screamed louder—the man stuck in the window definitely had an elephantine bellow, but his own warbling pitch wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. Either way, he rushed in close and slammed the can down as hard as he could on the intruder’s head.

The man quaked in his prison, his torso twisting about and his arms flying around uncontrollably as he took the shock of pain. He lifted up, nearly perpendicular to the kitchen floor, and his eyes were wide pale moons in his partially shadowed face. Up close, his breath stunk of onions and beer. His body wasn’t much better, and from the wave of aromas coming from his twitching arms, he held a grudge against deodorant in general. His ass wiggled as he kicked at the side of the house, and glass from the broken window fell from the frame.

Forest’s shoulders shook from the hit, and it felt like he’d taken a sledgehammer to a solid granite block. But the can held, and the man groaned, his head lolling back and forth. Forest brought the heavy can up, then hit the man again, silencing his distressed moans.

This time, the can’s thinner sides gave in, and it burst, sending a gush of nacho cheese down the man’s unshaven round face. It pooled in his nostrils, bubbling up when he exhaled. Giving one final twitch, the intruder moaned once more, then slumped down against the kitchen sink. Blood dripped from his waist where he’d cut himself on broken glass, and a red river sprung up from a wide cut on his forehead, fighting the violently orange ooze for space on his stubbled jowls.

A shout of victory welled up from inside Forest’s belly, and he almost let it go, but a chillingly harsh laughing came from the next room, cutting off any celebration and driving a spike of fear into his guts. The glow of a flashlight popped up over the kitchen’s saloon half doors, hitting Forest in the face. Blinking against the harsh light, Forest could just barely see a dark, dangerous shape slicing up into the beam, aimed for his head.

“Shit.” It was all he could get out. Then the gun went off and everything went black.

 

 

IT SOUNDED like someone let loose a pack of flying monkeys. There was a high-pitched screeching reminiscent of a hair band and a deep walrus-inspired howl. A mighty thunk echoed out of the kitchen, then a moment later, another weaker thunk. Connor couldn’t imagine what the noises were. Then a thought dawned.

“Fucking Forest.” He swore softly as a man he recognized as Rollins stepped into his line of sight. “God damn it! Forest!”

Rollins was unimpressive. He looked more like Riff Raff than anything else, but his rawboned face turned toward Connor, and there was clearly not a drop of humanity left in the man’s eyes. They burned nearly black, even in the light of his companion’s flashlight. Bringing his own lantern up, Rollins peered over the kitchen’s swinging half door, and his deep chuckle set off every alarm in Connor’s brain.

His Beretta was uncomfortable in his left hand, but Connor didn’t have time to switch it out for the Glock. It wouldn’t have made much of a difference. He’d practiced shooting with his off hand, but he wasn’t a sharpshooter with it. He could hit a target’s inner rings eight times out of ten, and he figured that was all he was going to need if he could get off a clear shot. Connor moved into position.

Spreading his legs to anchor himself, Connor took aim—just as Rollins raised a gun and pointed it over the doors. Its thick, heavy black body was menacing but not as evil as the man’s cackle.

Tamping down the emotions roiling up to choke him, Connor shouted, “Police! Drop it!”

Rollins didn’t even bother to turn. His finger squeezed, and the gun jerked in his hand, the barrel flashing bright in the uneven shadows. With the shot gone, the man twisted and looked over his shoulder, a curling thin smile reaching up to his ears.

Connor took a step into the room, glancing at the other man standing near the window just long enough to verify he was unarmed. Aiming straight for Rollin’s forehead, Connor spoke around the lump of cold fear in his throat. “Put the gun down, Rollins, and get to the floor.”

He couldn’t think about Forest. Not now, but his mind wandered in worry. Connor heard nothing from the kitchen, and his fear grew, sinking its talons into his belly. Forcing himself to shake off his anguish, Connor repeated his warning.

“Drop the fucking gun, Rollins,” he ordered. “Now.”

Rollins responded by lifting his gun up, and Connor pressed the trigger, pulling a few shots out of the Beretta. The man’s body jerked when the powerful round cut through him, one grazing his jaw. Blood splattered the family room’s newly plastered walls, and Rollins stumbled back.

But he didn’t fall.

“Get the fuck down, man!” Rollins’s associate cried out. “He’s a fucking cop! He’s going to kill you!”

Somewhere in the room, the other man whimpered, and Connor tried to pinpoint where he’d gone, but Rollins brought his weapon up again, aiming for Connor’s position.

“I don’t give a shit if he’s a cop. He can die just like his faggot boyfriend,” Rollins replied, and he fired.

Connor slid to land on his knee a few feet in front of where he’d been standing. Anchored to the floor, he steadied his weapon with his cast and let go another burst. This time he hit Rollins square in the shoulder, and the man’s head spun in an Exorcist imitation.

And this time, Rollins went down.

The man’s flashlight bobbled about, then hit the ground, its wide beam catching on the kitchen’s entrance. Rollins didn’t come back up, and Connor rose quickly, bringing the Beretta around as he circled the couch he’d cuddled Forest on less than an hour ago.

The kitchen doors swung open, and Connor jerked his gun up, drawing on a new target. His heart stopped, fear grabbing it with cold fingers when he recognized who’d come through the door.

Forest blinked at him, his eyes widening in panic when he spotted Connor’s weapon. Illuminated in the bluish-white beam, Forest looked like an avenging angel, his blond hair bleached silver in the bright light. Bloodied and worn, he held an industrial-sized can of jalapenos against his chest.

Kicking Rollins’s gun away, Connor gasped in relief at seeing Forest. His lover started to move in, but Connor shook his head and motioned to the scrawny small man quivering by the window. He had to keep focused, and if Forest touched him, Connor wasn’t sure if he’d hug him or throttle him for leaving the pantry.

“Let me get that guy taken care of. Watch Rollins,” Connor ordered. “You have my permission to kick his face in if he moves.”

Rollins lay at Forest’s feet, his eyes filled with agony and blood bubbling up from his torn-apart jaw. He writhed, senseless with pain. Clawing at the floor, Rollins mewled, his chest heaving with the simple act of breathing.

Somewhere off in the rain, sirens were drawing in near, and Connor eyed the man by the window before grabbing a roll of duct tape from a pile of building supplies he’d dumped on a side table earlier that week. He tore off a few strips and secured the man’s hands and wrists, then patted his chest with a solid thump before pulling his Glock out from the back of his pants.

“I don’t know if I should kiss you or beat the shit out of you,” Connor muttered, settling for giving Forest a fierce one-armed hug as he kept one eye on Rollins’s twisting body. “I thought I told you to stay in the pantry.”

“Found out I don’t like being told what to do,” Forest admitted softly when Connor risked giving him a brief kiss.

“Yeah, we need to talk about that,” Connor said gently. “You could have been killed.”

“Sure, we can talk about it, and while we’re at it, can we talk about what the fuck you’ve got in that pantry?” Forest hefted the can of jalapenos he’d been holding. “How much fucking nacho cheese does one guy need?”