He continued to stare at the house. “I don’t know who in the fuck Jones is.” He had a friend in there. He didn’t have many, but Drucella Chapman was one of them and she’d gone back to face a poisonous snake.
In the back of his mind, he felt it . . . that sluggish brain rousing, so black and ugly and awful.
Full of rage. Anger. The need to hurt.
A snarl peeled his lips back from his teeth. He shouldn’t have thrown it off so soon.
Pressing the heel of one gloved hand against his temple, he stared at the house, focused, locked in on the brain.
* * *
DRU was almost to the car when she heard it.
Her brain didn’t want to process it.
Her body already had.
A gunshot.
The hairs on her arms, the nape of her neck stood on end, and she didn’t recall running, but she was.
The air was tight—charged the way it was right before a bad storm, and although it looked like rain, she suspected this was more. A lot more. A thunderstorm had never felt like this.
If lightning had struck in that very moment, she wouldn’t have been surprised. Not surprised at all.
The car—so close—
And then, the only thing she was close to was the ground. And Joss. Trapped between him and the hard-packed earth.
He was still . . . so very still.
Time slowed to a crawl.
Everything merged together . . . voices . . . places. People. Dreams and reality.
Don’t let him take you away again . . .
You must run . . .
As his weight crushed the breath out of her, shock froze her. For one very, very brief moment. She stared up at his face. “No.”
He didn’t move.
With a strength she didn’t think she had, she shoved him off her, half wiggling, half pulling, until she worked free of him. And he didn’t move. Crouched over him, her hair falling in a tangle, she cradled his head in her hands.
“Joss,” she whispered. “Wake up.”
Nothing . . . that harsh, unrelenting face, so still.
Their voices came to her through a hazed fog. “. . . put the gun down . . .”
Patrick’s voice, barely sounding like him, as he shouted, “You don’t walk away . . .”
“Put down the gun and come out.”
Blinking, Dru looked down. Joss’s gun was still tucked inside his holster. Too big for her hands, but she didn’t care. Slipping it free, she paused a minute to stroke his face. “I really wish you’d found me a couple of years ago,” she whispered, her voice thick and broken.
As she lifted the heavy gun, she focused. She couldn’t see Patrick. He was hiding behind the door, miserable twat. But she didn’t need to see him.
The cold, ugly weight of his presence was like a stain on her soul.
“I promised I’d bloody you.”
Then she squeezed the trigger.
A split second later somebody saw what she was doing.
But it was too late.
She’d already fired.
And before the gun was torn away from her, she saw what she needed to see . . . Patrick’s body, half sprawled in the doorway. His face turned toward her. Eyes open, but empty. Lifeless.
The enormous ache in her heart ripped open and a sob tore out of her. Huddling over Joss’s body, she hugged him. Damn you . . you told me not to let him take me away. But what about you?
Curling her fingers into his shirt, instinctively seeking out the warmth of his skin, she came across something else entirely. Before her mind could process that, though, hands gripped her arms.
“Ease back a minute, girl,” a soft, familiar voice murmured in her ear.
“Let me go,” she snarled, jerking away from Tucker. They were going to take him away. Panic settled inside her. They couldn’t take him away, not yet, not yet—
But there they were, gathering around Joss’s big, still body, and Tucker was hauling her away, and she didn’t even have the strength to fight him. No, no, no—
“I will . . . in a minute. Come on, honey. Let them help him.”
“Let me go . . . help . . .” She stopped and went slack in Tucker’s arms as the blond guy jerked open Joss’s shirt, revealing the black body armor.
“He had on body armor, honey,” Tucker murmured, absently stroking her arm. “Calm down a minute. Breathe, just breathe. He’s okay.”
“But . . .” She shook her head. He was so still. Not moving.