Page 123 of Prodigal Son

They stepped forward, arms out to the side, and submitted to a patting-down that was really more of a groping, heavy hands slapping at them, and grabbing between their legs, under their arms, searching for weapons.

“Hey,” Tommy protested, and Phillip shot him a quelling look. Not now. They couldn’t do this now. They had to rely on their brothers – blood and club – to pick up the necessary slack.

They were led down a nondescript hallway, through two turns, past offices and cubicles, and into another elevator. A big service elevator, with room for all of them. The thug in charge pressed the P for the penthouse level.

“Fancy,” Tommy said.

One of the thugs turned his head a fraction and glared. Or maybe that was just his face.

When they reached the top level, the doors opened to a vast space that, while along the lines of what Phillip had expected, given the rest of the building, still managed to have him murmuring an internalJesus. Windows on all sides, dark hardwoods, white and gray rugs. A freestanding fireplace, and little clusters of minimalist furniture. The entire thing was open concept down to the floating kitchen, and the big bed on a raised dais way, way off to the side. At a long, black wood dining table, with a modern, angular chandelier hanging over it, a stooped, elderly man sat, waiting, two more security goons flanking him. Beyond the windows, Phil saw a rooftop terrace, a garden formed of raised beds, a lighted pebble path wending through it.

Extravagant.

“Welcome,” the old man called, and Phillip was nudged out of the elevator and toward the table.

He sent up a silent prayer that Fox and the others would all do their parts, and did as he was told.

Thirty-Four

Albie…was in a considerable amount of pain. He liked to think of himself as someone who was tough, who could pop a few aspirin and go on with life, not wallow in self-pity and let physical hurts drag him down. But the last time he’d hurt this badly, he’d been a teenager and just laid his bike down across the asphalt. His head throbbed, and his eyes ached, and it hurt to swallow. On every inhale and exhale, his broken ribs crackled, a fiery, stabbing pain that took his breath.

It hurt toexist. And that in and of itself muddled his thoughts and made it hard to concentrate. But he couldn’t deal with the fog of drugs right now. Not if he was going to pull this off.

He played cards while the others left. Forced himself to say “go fish,” and take new cards, and pretend like he gave a damn as he listened to the rattle, and thump, and creak, and last shouted instructions before his family and his club brothers all left Baskerville Hall and headed out to Pseudonym for the big showdown. Phil had at least been kind enough to come see him before, to outline the plan to him. Then he’d patted him on the knee, smiled, and told Axelle to keep an eye on him.

Axelle was being a sweetheart, yes, but he was ready to leap out of his own skin.

Instead, he sat upright against his mountain of pillows, and with a great amount of wincing and cursing, rotated around and swung his legs down over the side of the bed. Axelle had gone to fetch him some tea and a fresh ice pack, and he meant to make the most of her absence.

Getting upright involved gritting his teeth, sweating, and pushing up inch by inch, his knees threatening to buckle the whole way. It was the pain, and the concussion, and his general exhaustion. And it waspathetic. The ice had helped with the swelling on his eye, but he still couldn’t open it properly, which meant he was half-blind.

He was standing with one hand on the bedside table, the other grasping at empty air, working up the nerve to walk across the room to the duffel of his things someone had left on the dresser when the door opened and Axelle froze in the act of coming in.

They locked gazes.

Half a gaze, in his case.

She blew out a breath. “Are you kidding me?” she asked, tone flat.

“I have to go.”

She threw the ice pack at him. A soft, underhanded toss, but still he fumbled it. It smacked down onto the floor with a sound that was accusing.

“You can’t even catch that,” she said, matter-of-fact. “What would you do there? Fall down? Get captured? Be a liability?”

He gritted his teeth. “They’re my family, and this is the most dangerous thing they’ve ever done.”

“Yeah. You getting blown up is evidence of that.” So quiet, and calm, and reasonable. Like a parent laying down the law with a child too tired to know what he was saying.

Albie ducked his head and walked forward. His legs worked, though they were weak, and he couldn’t stop shaking. But the movement sent fresh bolts of pain through his torso, and the room tilted, dizziness taking hold. He got to the dresser, and unzipped the bag, movements clumsy, sweat sprouting up at his hairline, on the back of his neck, between his shoulder blades.

“Albie,” Axelle said, coming to stand beside him, emotion edging into her voice. “I know you want to help, but we’ve talked about this. Phillip talked to you about this. You can’t go. You need to lie back down, and–”

“I can’t,” he growled. “I can’t – I have to help. I have to do something. I…”

He expected her to interrupt with another reasonable argument, but instead he ran out of steam, and then it was silent save the sound of his own rough, open-mouthed breathing.

When he turned his head, and finally looked at her, her face was laced with pain. And resignation, also. “If you go,” she said, voice heavy, “you know there’s a very good chance you’ll get killed, right?”

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