Page 108 of Prodigal Son

“I mean,” Mercy said, “does anybody ever stop wanting to be powerful just because it’s too difficult to get there?”

“This guy,” Devin said with all seriousness, pointing at Mercy, “is the smartest one here. They shaped us for assassinations. For quietly, efficiently killing the leaders of things. Leaders of other countries, of businesses, of our own government. The targets don’t make a difference at this point: the same group of assholes is still trying to kill people, and they need us out of the way so we don’t expose them or come after them.”

“Which is exactly what we have to do,” Phillip said. “That part of the plan hasn’t changed.”

“No,” Ian agreed, “but perhaps we could refine some of the vaguer details.”

Through all of this discussion, Reese had stood just in front of Mercy, hands linked behind his back in an eerily still parade rest that lacked any sort of tension. As young as he was, with his hair slipping out from behind his ears, he should have looked like an eager young cadet, vibrating with nerves. Instead, he was like some sort of machine that had been switched off. Except for the eyes – those tracked around the room, thorough, unhurried, emotionless.

“Mercy,” Fox said – Phil was talking, and cut off mid-sentence; oops – “why did you bring your little murder doll?”

Reese didn’t react to that; he didn’t even glance over like he knew Fox was speaking about him.

Mercy grimaced delicately. “Reese…needed to get out from under the spotlight in Knoxville for a little bit. And I thought he could maybe help us here.”

Abe made a low, considering sound in his throat. “I like the look of him.”

Mercy chuckled. “Thought somma you crazy bastards over here might.”

“Alright,” Phil said, motioning with his cigar, drawing everyone’s attention again. “First things first. Obviously, our guest in the fallout shelter isn’t just a pawn, but an agent for these clowns. We need to find out what he knows.”

“That didn’t work the first time around,” Miles said.

Mercy’s grin was wide and terrible. “Oh, just wait, kiddo. I’ll find out what he knows.” He rotated his wrists, cracked his knuckles.

Walsh’s mouth twitched to the side, not quite a smile. “Yeah. Go ahead and get on that, monster.”

“Perfect,” Mercy said. “Anybody got a sledgehammer?”

~*~

They’d decided to turn the big dining/conference room across from Phil’s office into a command center of sorts. Raven was in charge of getting it all organized and set up.

She’d just settled the big coffee machine on the buffet table and plugged it in when she saw someone approach from the side. A blond someone, hands in the pockets of a dirty old denim jacket.

“You smell like a barn,” she told Walsh as he sidled up to her.

“Take that as a compliment,” he said easily. “Phil said there were biscuits.”

“There.” She pointed to one of several plates, right there in front of him, obvious.

“Hmm. Butter?”

“Lemon.”

“No chocolate?”

She turned to him, hands on her hips.

He looked back at her, blandly pleasant expression, those blue-white eyes, paler than the others’, scruff on his cheeks and thick, thick dark blond hair mussed from several run-throughs with his fingers.

She’d been doing a remarkable job – if she did say so – of keeping her emotions locked up tight. Weeping and cursing and trying to slap Albie wouldn’t help Cass. Or Albie, now. Or any of them. But Walsh’s presence brought a rush of hot tears to her eyes.

He smiled, soft and sad. “Hello, love.”

She tipped her head back, and closed her eyes. Concentrated on breathing, in and out, until the tears had receded. When she finally faced him again, she felt more in control, even if her voice came out shaky. “What took you so long to get here?”

His smile widened, flashing teeth. “I had to convince Ava I wouldn’t get her husband killed.”

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