Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,102
know, meat skewered on a stick. Lamb or beef, sometimes fish or chicken. That was good, better than the barracks food. They had this stew called Qeema, too.”
“I don’t like soup,” Henry says, wrinkling his nose.
“I don’t like soup, either,” I tell him. “But stew, if it’s good and thick, that can be a real meal. I bet you get hungry, a big kid like you.”
“Yeah, all the time.”
“I was that way, too. Always growing. Are you hungry now?”
Henry nods, eyes bright.
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Ice cream.”
I start the car engine again.
“I bet there’s someplace open that serves ice cream . . .”
Right then, my phone starts buzzing next to me. I see Simone’s name, and I pick it up, thinking that she noticed my call, or saw that Henry was missing. I’m planning to tell her that he’s with me, he’s safe.
“Simone—” I start.
A male voice replies instead.
“Dante Gallo.”
It’s a smooth voice. Almost pleasant. Still, it sends a sick electric pulse across my skin.
I know who it is, though I’ve never heard his voice before.
“Christian Du Pont,” I say.
He lets a little hiss of air, halfway between annoyance and a laugh.
“Very good.”
He already knows I’ve figured out his name, because he saw me in his little cabin.
It’s me who’s flooded with a nasty sense of shock.
Du Pont called me on Simone’s phone. That means he has her phone. And he probably has Simone as well.
“Where’s Simone?” I demand.
“Right here with me,” he says, softly.
“Let me talk to her.”
“No . . . I don’t think so . . .” he replies, lazily.
My brain is racing, and so is my heart. I’m trying to stay calm, trying not to antagonize him. My voice is like a steel cable, stretched to the breaking point.
“Don’t you hurt her,” I growl.
Du Pont gives that huffing laugh again, louder this time.
“She’s a true beauty,” he says. “Even more than her pictures. That surprised me.”
I’m gripping the phone so hard I’m afraid I’m going to shatter it in my hand. Henry is watching me, wide-eyed. He can’t hear the other side of the conversation, but my expression is enough to terrify him.
“What do you want?” I demand.
“That’s an interesting question,” Du Pont says. I can’t see him, but he sounds pensive, like he’s leaning back in a chair, smoking a cigar, or just looking up at the ceiling. “What I actually want is impossible. You can’t bring someone back from the dead, after all. So then I have to look at other options. Other things that might make me feel just a little bit better . . .”
“Simone has nothing to do with this!” I snap.
Du Pont doesn’t respond to my anger. He stays perfectly calm.
“I don’t think that’s true, Dante. You know, when I came here, I had a simple and specific purpose. Revenge. I planned to do it cleanly. Callum Griffin, Mikolaj Wilk, and Marcel Jankowski. Kolya Kristoff deserved to die as well, of course, but Fergus Griffin had already taken care of that. So I intended to work my way down the list and be done with it. But you got in my way.”
“I didn’t even know who you were trying to hit at the rally,” I tell him.
“That’s what’s so interesting about fate, isn’t it, Dante?” Du Pont hisses. “I knew all about you in Iraq, even before I ended up in a unit with your spotter. You were a hero to those boys. To me too, when I first got there. I wanted to meet you. A couple times it almost happened. One night we were both at the al-Taji base, close enough that I could see your back, sitting in front of the fire. But something always intervened to keep us apart. And after a while, I started to think it was better that way. Because I wanted to beat your record. I thought it would be so much more fun if the first time we met, face to face, I could tell you that. Then you went home, and I thought, ‘Perfect. Now I know exactly what number I have to beat.’ ”
I’m in agony listening to this bullshit. I don’t want to hear about this ridiculous military rivalry between us that existed only in his head. I want to know where Simone is right now. I need to hear her voice to know that she’s safe. But I’m clinging to every shred of patience I can muster, so I don’t antagonize this psychopath more than I already have.