Page 110 of What Lies Within

The rattle of my buckles echoes off the high vaulted ceiling and polished floor. I assess the space, check the vantage points, and find security detail posted on the mezzanine walkwayoverhead. Another man steps into the foyer from a small room on our right, his hands linked before him as he locks me in his stoic glare.

“Mornin’.” I give him a quick once over, then check out my assigned seating: an upholstered wooden bench tucked to the right of the doors.Pass.Spend half my life on a leather seat; figure it's a good opportunity to stretch the legs.

Ronan weaves through the cavernous living area, vanishing through a glass side door to the wooden deck beyond. Panoramic views of the valley stretch as far as the eye can see, the winter sky a rich blue that belies the fucking frigid wind out there.

I tug my phone out, note the heavy beside me twitch as I do, and hold the device up for him to see. He lifts his chin the slightest fraction—permission if ever I saw it—and allows me to carry on about my business.

Sure enough, there are six messages and two calls to ignore a little while longer.

I shunt the damn thing back in my left rear pocket and adjust my waistband. Goddamn jeans feel weird without the weight of my weapon, but I'd be a fool if I'd expected to get this far without a pat down. Nope. My handgun is secure back at the roadside, with my keys in the lockable box.

My only lifeline in this place is a pissed-off oldest son stationed two clicks back.

Could have throttled Kane when I saw him tail me up the highway. Thought about kicking him off his fucking bike when he caught up to me at the hairpin intersection that starts Terry's road. But if he's the only one who saw me leave with enough time to follow, I'll take it. Fuck knows—I might need him to call in the truck for my body yet.

The day’s just getting started.

“You’re in luck,” Ronan declares as he re-enters the heart of the home. “He’s in the right state of mind to play.”

My heart rate kicks up a notch.This is it.We can talk, but I'm not here for that. Not today. Nope. Today, I don't leave this fucking house until only one of us is left breathing.

God willing, it’s me.

Ronan leads the way with a jerk of his head, the modern-day golem moving to stand in the center of the small foyer after I begin to move.

We pass through the sitting room, spatially adorned with cushiony furniture, skim the edges of a stone fireplace stacked on either side with firewood cut to a particular set of dimensions, and duck through the narrow door onto the eerily quiet deck. The whole house has a rustic yet clean log cabin vibe—an interesting choice for a man born in New England and raised equally in New Mexico and Portugal before he settled here as an adult.

We never knew much about Terry's parents growing up other than they were near-mythical creatures the town folk struggled to believe existed because of the rarity of their appearance on the streets. The only solid fact I have is that his father globe-trotted due to business, and his mother trailed behind, forced to choose between maintaining a secure future at her husband's side or reveling in motherhood, wondering if the next mistress would be the one to spell the end of her marriage.

Her life.

Guess the fucker and I ain’t so different after all.

Ronan crosses the sun-bleached timber, down a few steps onto a second level that wraps around the hillside beneath us, and heads for the table set center of the massive, circular corner. Terry resides with his back to us—a clear power-play—one leg crossed over the other as he sips on a coffee. He wears denim jeans in a medium wash and a pale orange, almost peach, Polo shirt beneath a dark gray chunky knit cardigan. A strange combination accented by his bare feet.

It always amuses me when people first hear about the guy. They assume he'd be the stereotypical dark-haired Adonis, tall and intimidating in his crisply pressed suit while he chugs a cigar in your face. The kind of stereotype that belongs in Marco’s mafia-born world. Yet he’s not.

Terry looks more at home in a tech store, discussing CPU capability and graphics card options.

The man doesn’t have a spot of ink on his skin.

The first reason I don’t trust him.

"I'd offer you a drink," Terry exclaims, raising his pottered mug. "But I feel you won't be here that long."

I pause at the top of the connecting steps and widen my stance. “All depends on what you got to say.”

Ronan positions himself to the right of the table, near the capped railing. He's flanked by two more stone-faced wannabe heroes with military-style fatigues. I scan the valley beyond and fail to find sign of a sniper on the adjacent hill. But then again, if I could see the fucker, he wouldn't be any good at his job.

“Sit.” Terry extends a leg and pushes a timber-frame seat out with his toes.

The wide feet screech on the wooden decking, a klaxon amongst the otherwise serene setting.

I walk to the table's far side, pausing at the railing to set my hands atop. I ain't about to follow his fucking instructions. Won't do what he tells me like the good little dog he believes me to be.

Nope. Fucker can have my back, same as he gives me.

“I’m sure you know about Fox’s deal with the Devil’s Breed, am I right?”

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