I was just about to call Sloane to get her thoughts when my phone rang. I practically turned a backflip to tug it out of my pocket, then deflated when I saw that the caller was Tyler, not Cole.
“Anything?” I demanded.
“He’s at BAS,” Tyler said, referring to Black, August, Sharp Security. “Just unkeyed the door with his code. I’m going.”
“No,” I said. “I am. I’m at Evan’s condo. I can be there in less than ten minutes.”
“Do you know what’s going on?” Tyler asked. “What’s he doing at the office? Why the hell did he schedule the jet for tonight?”
The jet.
I thought of the weapons room at BAS. And then I thought of the fact that a private plane didn’t have to deal with airport security.
“Where is he going?” I asked, feeling a little sick to my stomach as the pieces started coming together.
“Flight plan logged for Atlantic City,” Tyler said, and I cursed.
“I know what he’s doing,” I said. “He’s going to kill Ilya Muratti.”
twenty-five
I found him in the weapons vault tossing boxes of ammo into a duffel that already held two pistols and a revolver.
“Are you planning to take out his entire staff?” I asked softly. “Or just the man himself?”
He didn’t turn, but I saw his shoulders stiffen.
“Dammit, Cole, you can’t do this.”
“The hell I can’t.” He ground the words out, raw and rough and so filled with pain they seemed to drip like blood. “It’s the only goddamn thing I can do.”
“No.” I took a step toward him, then another. When I was standing right behind him, I pressed my hand gently to his back.
I’d expected him to flinch away from my touch, and when he didn’t, I closed my eyes, the motion like the physical manifestation of a sigh of relief. Maybe I haven’t lost him yet.
“Please,” I said. “Turn around and look at me.”
At first I thought he would ignore me, but then he turned slowly, his eyes finding mine. They were cold and determined, dangerous and wild.
I shook my head. “You can’t.”
“You saw the photos?” His words were clipped, harsh. They were full of anger, but it seemed directed more at himself than at Muratti. “Saw the fucking hell I shoved you into?”
“You? You think this is somehow your fault? Dammit, Cole, this isn’t your fault any more than what happened to Bree was on your shoulders. It’s nobody’s fault except Muratti’s and the prick photographer who trespassed on my property.
“And,” I added, because I was on a roll, “if you think I did anything with you that I didn’t consent to one hundred and twenty percent—that I didn’t enjoy at least twice that much—then you are a fucking idiot.”
Some of the tension left his body then, and he sagged back to lean against the table on which the duffel bag lay.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“Don’t go to Atlantic City,” I said, then tossed the envelope onto the table before handing him the stone. He took it, and as he did our fingers brushed. As always, I felt that shock of connection. More important, I saw in his eyes that he felt it, too. “Don’t kill him, Cole. Not even for me.”
He ran his hands over his head, then drew in a long breath. He had changed out of the tux he’d worn to the wedding and now wore jeans and a simple gray T-shirt that accentuated the muscles in his arms and chest. Even without a gun, he was deadly. With one, he was unstoppable.
I intended to stop him anyway.
“Talk to me, dammit,” I said. I wanted to shake him. To slap him. I wanted to kick some sense into him. But the moment was charged—hell, he was charged—and every ounce of reason in me told me that I needed to talk him down. That raging against a man who could so easily give in to rage would be like pouring gasoline on a flame.