The Two Gentlemen of Altona (Playing the Fool, #1) Page 15

  “Pants stay on!” Henry promised, holding up his hands. “Just sayin’, Mac, it might be good therapy for you to do the Kiss Me, Kate version.”

  Mac opened his mouth to say he most definitely was not going to spank Henry. Then he looked at Henry’s ass in those too-tight jeans, and suddenly he couldn’t say it.

  “Come on. Just for fun.” Henry nudged him. “We’ll take it back to your speech about my beauty on the previous page, and go to ‘kiss me, Kate.’ At which point I’ll slap you again. And you can do whatever feels right after that.” His grin widened. “There’s no FBI rule against spanking your witness is there?”

  “Only because it hasn’t come up before.”

  “Well look at that. I’m a trailblazer.”

  “Wouldn’t’ve thought this was your kink, Henry.”

  Henry laughed. “No. In most cases, if anyone tried to spank me, I’d kick their face in. But I’m willing to suffer for the sake of art.” He dropped his voice. “Come on, Mac. I’ll bet you want to.”

  Mac swallowed and started reading, still ninety-two percent sure that when the time came, he wasn’t actually going to spank Henry. Though his heart rate quickened as he read.

  “‘’Twas told me you were rough and coy and sullen, And now I find report a very liar; For thou are pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous . . .’” This time around, the words made more sense. He even looked up once or twice to make eye contact with Henry as the speech went on. “‘. . . by this light, whereby I see thy beauty, Thy beauty, that doth make me like thee well.’”

  Before he could second-guess himself, he reached out and touched Henry’s face. Cupped his cheek and smoothed a thumb over Henry’s lips. Moved his hand into Henry’s hair and stroked gently.

  Henry closed his eyes and smiled. “You keep doing that, and I won’t have any reason to slap you.”

  “I don’t want you to slap me.” He pushed his fingertips slowly across Henry’s scalp. Set the book on the arm of the sofa, and drew Henry close. Didn’t kiss him, though it was hard not to. Henry rested his face against Mac’s shoulder and let Mac hold him. Wrapped his arms around Mac too. Mac slid his hands down his back. “Hey,” he whispered, as Henry shuddered. “It’s all right.”

  Henry stepped back, out of the embrace. “Sorry, Mac. Sorry, I need to—to not.”

  Mac felt a little confused and a little angry. Hadn’t Henry been trying to get him to mess around with him since they’d arrived here? “Okay.”

  Henry swiped a fist across his eyes. “Mac?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’ve been thinking. About all this. I want to help you with the Maxfield thing. And I want to believe I’ll be safe if I do. But I don’t believe that, not really. And I’m worried I’m gonna . . .”

  “Gonna what?”

  “Gonna r—” A twig cracked outside.

  “Henry!” Mac grabbed Henry’s shoulder. “Get away from the window.”

  They backed up toward the bedroom and stood there, listening.

  Footsteps.

  Definitely footsteps.

  “Mac,” Henry whispered. “You have your niece’s shirt on your head.”

  “Shut up. Stay down.”

  Henry hunkered back in the bathtub, and tried not to think Joe Hitman was about to get his chance to shoot him in a shower. Because it probably wasn’t even Joe Hitman out there. Maybe it was a fisherman, or a lost camper, or Mac’s family, or a ranger, or . . .

  Anyone. Anyone except Joe Hitman.

  Mac pulled the shirt off his head and dropped it on the floor.

  Good. Because if Joe Hitman was coming for them, Henry wanted his protector to look more like a hero and less like a guy wearing a shirt on his head.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. He should have run instead of hanging around just because he liked spending time with Mac. He’d told himself to wait until night because it was safer, flee under the cover of darkness. But really, he’d stayed for Mac.

  And now he was going to get killed for it.

  He tried to listen, but couldn’t hear anything over his heartbeat. It was exactly as fucking loud as it had been the night he’d watched Dean Maxfield shoot Pete. And Henry had slipped away silently, back up the stairs. Locked his door, grabbed his phone, and hid in the closet while he dialed 911. He’d waited it out. Clever Henry. He’d overridden his urge to run straightaway because he didn’t want to be busted for running from the scene of a shooting. So, so clever. When really, the smartest thing would have been to stay in his closet until morning, not call the fucking police in the first place, and work on the theory that Dean Maxfield knew what he doing and would have had the kitchen cleaned up by dawn.

  In the aftermath, he hadn’t known what was more shocking: that he’d just seen a man get killed, or that he had called the cops when the shit hit the fan—or the brains hit the fridge. Like a good citizen.

  Fuck. At least in Gloria’s house he’d had a place to hide. He’d had a chance to run. What did he have here? A bathtub, and Mac.

  He tried to control his breathing. Maybe it hadn’t been footsteps after all, or at least not human footsteps. Maybe it was a raccoon or something.

  The porch boards creaked.

  He wanted to close his eyes again, but he couldn’t make himself do it. He watched Mac instead. Standing inside the bathroom door, his gaze fixed on the narrow slit between the door and the frame, his gun held ready.

  It was dusk. The shadows were lengthening minute by minute. The light was changing, fading. It would be dark soon. It already seemed darker than it should have been.

  By th’ clock ’tis day,

  And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp.

  God. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want Mac to die either.

  There were things he had to do, to sort out; things with Mac and not with Mac.

  I’m worried I’m gonna run, he’d wanted to tell Mac before. Was it only minutes? It felt like a lifetime ago that they’d been laughing and having fun, before it had slipped into something different. Something comforting and terrifying at the same time. Standing there with Mac’s arms around him, wanting to pull him closer and push him away at the same time, because Henry didn’t let anyone get close like that. Didn’t let anyone near Sebastian.

  Not even Stacy. Not even Remy. Just, once upon a time, Viola.

  And look how that had ended.

  She’d tried to protect him too, and look how that had ended.

  “Maybe it’s Val coming to tell us everything’s fine,” Henry whispered.

  Mac didn’t respond.

  In the stillness, they could hear someone on the porch. A man muttered, and another man responded.

  “So . . . not Val?”

  Mac shook his head, jaw tight.

  “She’s the only one who knows we’re here?”

  Mac nodded.

  The front door rattled. Henry strained to see through the darkness of the bedroom.

  Mac squeezed his arm. When Henry looked at him, Mac indicated the tiny window above the tub. “Can you get through?”

  He glanced at it. “Probably.”

  “Then go.”

  Henry stared at him. “No, I . . .” I’m not going without you? When had he become that cliché? When had he started pretending to be something better than he was? “What about you?”

  “Go. Right now.”

  “No. I don’t need you to try and save me.”

  “Who said anything about saving?” Mac fairly snapped. “I want you to create a diversion, get them away from the cabin so I can attack from behind.”

  Okay, not the best plan he had heard all day. Perhaps a cut above Hey, let’s go back to Indian-mole-polis and see what Val knows. But he was glad Mac wasn’t pulling any of that save yourself bullshit.

  Even though he really wanted to save himself.

  He grinned weakly. “They probably have guns, don’t they?”

  “I’d imagine so.”

  “I hate guns, Mac.”

/>   Mac smiled and brushed back his bangs, which were slipping from their barrette. “Don’t get shot, and the guns can’t hurt you.”

  He snorted. “Thanks.”

  Mac took his hand away, but he was still looking at Henry in the dim light. Why did he do that? Look at him like he was . . . anything? “I won’t let them shoot you.”

  Henry didn’t bring up the obvious: they had no idea how many were out there, or what kind of weapons they had, or where they might have stationed lookouts.

  “I’ll give you a boost.”

  Mac stepped into the ancient tub beside Henry. He made a cup with his hands for Henry’s foot and lifted him to the window. Henry slid it open. Winced when it squeaked. Mac pushed him a little higher, and he started to pull himself over the sill.

  He heard the front door open as he did.

  “Shit,” Mac whispered. “Go.”

  He hesitated only a second, then wriggled the rest of the way through, flinching as the window scraped his back and hips. He tumbled inelegantly to the ground and landed with a thud. He scrambled to his feet, then bolted in the direction of the road, stepping on as many twigs as he could. At first he was afraid it wouldn’t work—they wouldn’t hear him. But then someone pounded across the cabin porch and started down the drive after him.

  He veered into the brush just as his pursuer fired the first bullet. It didn’t come anywhere near him, but the fear was enough to turn his breathing ragged and wheezy. Only one set of footsteps behind him, so that meant at least one guy was still in the cabin. He heard gunfire from inside, and some crazy part of him almost wanted to turn back, wanted to help Mac fight. But he was unarmed, and Mac was right—running was his specialty.

  The man chasing him fired again, and Henry dove into a thick clump of brush near the base of a tree. He struggled up and started climbing, not sure why the fuck he was doing it—this was a man with a gun, not a fucking grizzly. But he was up to the thicker branches before the other guy even made it to the base of the tree. Bullets whizzed through the leaves around him. He straddled a branch, his back against the trunk, and froze. It was dark enough that maybe the man couldn’t see him.

  He wished he knew what was happening inside the cabin.

  The man fired again, and Henry jumped, which shook the branch. Three more bullets followed, each one closer to him than the last.

  And suddenly he heard Mac’s voice, not far away at all. “FBI! Drop your weapon.”

  Mac did a good job delivering that line.

  The man fired again, but not into the tree—in the direction of Mac’s voice. Henry heard what he assumed were Mac’s footsteps, running toward them. He pictured Mac’s arms flapping and almost smiled. Maybe they would get out of this okay. Maybe Mac would take this guy out, and they’d—

  Another shot. A grunt of pain that was most definitely Mac’s. Henry’s body seized with panic. More gunfire, but he couldn’t tell whose.

  He scrambled down the other side of the tree and took off. No plan, no looking back; he was operating on pure terror now. He kept imagining he heard footsteps behind him, kept flinching every few seconds, anticipating the sound of a gun.

  And then he heard them, but they weren’t following him. They were going up the gravel drive, toward the road, while Henry made his way deeper into the woods. A few minutes later, he heard a car start. Tires spraying gravel.

  He kept running.

  At Quantico, Mac had been second in his firearms training class. Consistently second. Because Dylan Cheung had superpowers. One of the other students in the class had called him a ninja. “Fuck you! Ninjas are Japanese, and I’m Chinese, you fucking racist asshole! Can’t tell the difference, huh? We all look alike, huh?” Afterward, when Mac had taken him out for a pizza to calm him down—Dylan also carb-loaded like nobody Mac had ever known—he’d asked him what his secret was.

  “I like to bait assholes.”

  “No, I meant about the way you shoot.”

  “Dude, I’m Asian. I was born attached to a Nintendo.” Then he’d jabbed a finger in Mac’s chest. “And yes, before you ask, the Asian thing is just like the n-word. I get to riff on it, but you don’t, and neither does that dick in class.”

  Dylan Cheung could outgun Dirty Harry in a heartbeat, he left everyone in the dust at driver training, and he owned Hogan’s Alley. Coming consistently second to him in firearms training had been no shame at all, because he was a freak of nature.

  Mac was good with firearms. Better than good. He knew his shit as well as any mob-bought hit man.

  But sometimes that wasn’t enough.

  He’d taken out one guy in the cabin—left him dead, his blood spilling onto Mom’s favorite rug, the same rug Mac and Libby had sat on as kids, playing video games and whining about being stuck at the cabin—but killing that first guy didn’t mean Mac was unstoppable. Didn’t earn him a power up and super strength. Just increased his chances of making it to the final level unscathed, really.

  He’d raced out of the cabin in pursuit of Henry and the second guy, desperate to get the guy’s attention fixed on himself instead of Henry.

  “FBI! Drop your weapon!”

  At least the diversion part had worked.

  Mac had been shot once before, but it hadn’t really counted. It had hurt like all fuck, and had left a bruise the size of a grapefruit, but it hadn’t counted because he’d been wearing his vest. Even Val had said, “It doesn’t count unless you get a hole.”

  This . . . this counted.

  This hit him like a punch in the chest, spun him, and then he was down. There was no pain yet, just pressure, and a fuck-ton of blood. No pain was good. Meant that he could still function.

  He raised his firearm, pointed it, and squeezed the trigger. One, two, three times.

  And missed.

  Fucking missed.

  Dylan Cheung wouldn’t have missed. No. Because he was like a goddamn ninja, although you weren’t allowed to say that to his face.

  The guy ran, cutting back through the woods toward the road.

  Shit.

  A few minutes later, he heard the sound of tires spinning in gravel.

  That was good.

  That was the thing to focus on here, and not on the amount of hot blood that was pumping out from underneath his fingers. Not the panic that was rising in him. And not the fear that if he tried to stand up, he’d find he couldn’t.

  “Henry? Henry!”

  Shit. Who was in the car? Had Henry taken it? Was the shooter still loose in the woods? Or had the shooter taken the car? What if Henry was lying somewhere nearby, bleeding or already dead?

  He winced as the pain found him at last. White hot, ripping into him like claws. He tried to roll over, to get his knees under him, to stand. If he could stand, he could walk. If he could walk, he could get back to the cabin. Maybe get the car, and get himself help. But he couldn’t stand. Couldn’t even fucking roll over. The pain was too crippling to push through. If he tried, he knew he’d pass out. And if he passed out, he knew he wouldn’t wake up.

  He lay on the ground, staring up into the trees. It was getting dark.

  “Henry?” he called again, but wasn’t sure if he’d even made any sound.

  Nothing.

  “Your phone!” Henry shouted at the driver. “I need your phone, please!”

  Warily, the guy handed it over.

  Henry punched in the numbers. Scrubbed at his tears with the heel of his hand. Instantly hated the calm voice on the other end of the line asking him what his emergency was.

  “I’m outside Altona. Someone’s been shot. Please, I think he might be dead!” He looked at the driver. “What’s this road called?”

  “Sir,” the woman on the phone said, “you need to calm down and tell me where you are.”

  “Fuck you, I’m trying!” Henry was almost sobbing. “I think Mac’s dead. He’s FBI. You need to help him, because he’s FBI.”

  “Sir, what is your location?”

  “I don’t
fucking know!” He shoved the phone back at the driver. “Tell her! You tell her!”

  He turned his back on the guy, leaned against the truck, and slid down so he was sitting on the road. He buried his head in his hands, only half listening to the guy as he spoke to the dispatcher.

  “Yeah, I’m on the road out to Haynes Lake. This guy flags me over, says there’s been a shooting. Nah, I haven’t seen nothing, but he’s pretty shook up.”

  Haynes Lake. It was really called that?

  That had to be an omen.

  “Yeah, he came running off the road that leads to one of the cabins,” the guy continued.

  “The McGuinness cabin!” Henry said sharply. “It’s the McGuinness cabin!”

  The McGuinness cabin, full of old furniture and children’s books and DVDs about dinosaurs. That back closet with its pack of cards, and its board games with the missing pieces, and that jumble of mismatched clothing. It was a family place. It was more comfortable than anywhere he’d been in a while, including the Court. Because Mac had been there, looking out for him. Indulging him in his silly games and his impromptu Shakespeare performances. Looking at him like he was someone who mattered.

  “The McGuinness cabin,” the guy repeated for the dispatcher. “It’s on the south side of the lake. Yeah, I’m parked right on the road up to the lake. I’ll have my hazards on.” He listened intently for a moment. “Yeah, I understand.”

  Henry should have stayed. Should have made sure Mac was still alive. Except what if he wasn’t? What if he was already dead, his head blown apart like Pete’s? Worse, what if he was just dying? Because Henry couldn’t do blood. Couldn’t stand death. Couldn’t sit there and comfort someone, when he wanted to be comforted himself. Couldn’t be the calm one in the storm.

  Couldn’t watch the light fade from someone’s eyes.

  Not again.

  “Viola? Viola? Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me! Wake up, please!”

  He was afraid, and he was selfish. That was all he ever was, and all he would ever be.

  A most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise breaker, the owner of no one good quality.

  Henry wiped his nose on his sleeve, and climbed to his feet. Started walking.