cup, waiting.
I look down at the gold liquid swirling in my glass. None of the goons move, they’re all waiting.
Waiting for me.
Nothing’s gone according to plan today.
Slowly, I look at Grace. She doesn’t have a clue what’s happening, but she’s watching me with huge glassy eyes, pleading against what I’m about to do.
That’s the problem, though.
If it means saving her, keeping her safe, giving her back a life...I’d do a hell of a lot worse than drink poison.
“Bottoms up,” I say, throwing my shot back in one go.
Shit.
No sooner than I swallow, they tip their own cups, greedily sucking down the expensive booze.
Supposedly, the stuff is fast-acting. I loaded a smaller dose than what I gave Linus Hammond that night, knowing we just need to bring these fucks to their knees, not kill them outright.
It didn’t hit Hammond for several hours after he’d left the bar, though, so Tobin combined it with another chemical. It should hit the bloodstream faster.
Clay Grendal and his crew only have minutes.
And so do I.
What worries me is if it doesn’t hit them simultaneously. If several men see the others dropping...we’ll be in for a world of hurt.
I need a diversion.
After pouring them another shot and setting the bottle down, I glance around. The horses are backed up in their stalls, nervously, like they can feel the tension.
The only thing moving around is Cornelius. He’d walked back inside the barn a minute ago, but now he’s strutting around my feet in careless circles.
Damn this bird and his terrible timing.
Unless...
I take a messy step forward, pretending I’m a lightweight, totally unable to hold my liquor. Cornelius squawks and leaps in front of me.
Grendal laughs, and so do his men, slinging back their second shots.
They’re cringing a second later when the rooster belts out an earsplitting call, telling my idiot feet to watch where they’re going.
I make a show of almost tripping over him again and glare at Grace, telling her not to move.
They’re roaring at my stupidity now, and I’m picking a fight with my own angry cock—words I never imagined in this context. Or any, really.
It’s even more ridiculous that it’s working.
I’m herding the chicken away from them, step by pissed off, screeching step.
Now, I just have to let Faulk know.
“Get over here already, you goddamned bird!” I shout, stumbling around like a buffoon, hitting the ground as I run him out of the barn, arms out to catch him.
Several of the goons follow, standing over me thrashing around in the dirt while Corny lets off a final warning screech. He’s several inches away, circling me like an angry wrestler.
“I’ll give you till the count of three!” I roar, flinging my fists in his direction, then pulling them back.
Corny flaps his wings furiously, stabbing the air with his beak.
Grendal follows a minute later, the scotch bottle in hand, fully glued to the shitshow circus act I’m putting on.
“One.” I swing my arms at Cornelius just as I see a silhouette peeking around the corner of the storage shed.
Faulkner.
“Two!” I swoop my arms again, scooping up Cornelius this time, trying like hell not to get scratched to bloody pieces.
“I’ll make it up to you later. Do your worst, buddy,” I whisper to the rooster before shouting, “Three!”
I don’t even have to toss him, just turn him around.
Cornelius goes flying at Grendal like a bat out of hell, screaming so loud they’re holding their ears.
Or is it something more than damaged hearing they’re worried about?
I get my answer a few seconds later when three of the men go down, dropping their guns, clutching their stomachs in agony.
“Grace!” I scream, but she’s already taking cover, rushing to the other side of the barn.
Just in time.
Cornelius brings down hell, landing on Grendal’s head with his spurs extended. The crime boss bellows like a bear covered in bees, at the full mercy of Corny’s feet and a beak that won’t quit.
Suddenly, I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears.
Time slows down and my vision fogs up.
I hear the FBI guys charging in, shouts, screams, grunts, and gunshots. They overwhelm the crippled, falling force of goons easily, but Grendal is still on his feet, fighting back somehow.
He’s mine.
I don’t know how I fight through the fog in my brain, and something that feels like a hot knife jabbing me in the gut, but I do.
My first strike is a kick to his right hand, knocking away the gun he’s struggling to pull.
My second is a hard right punch to his