Page 130 of Prodigal Son

This felt wrong, somehow, but Eden was trying not to dwell on that. When she arrived, riding shotgun in a police van full of a SWAT team ready to charge into the Pseudonym building, the place was already thoroughly under assault.

As it was supposed to be.

People were pouring out of the doors on the ground floor, everyone in elegant evening wear, fleeing the ballroom and a fashion show that Eden knew had been invaded by a particularly raucous street gang. It was a family group, ranks swelled by people loyal and people owned: the Hennesseys. Ian Byron, Shaman, had brokered a very sudden, very lucrative drug deal with them, and now here they were, playing their agreed-upon role in this whole thing: creating enough chaos to cripple Pseudonym, while not harming any civilians.

Eden turned to Detective Hendricks, who she was squeezed in beside, an old friend from her police days, before she’d joined MI5. “No arrests on these guys tonight,” Eden reminded. “We promised them that.”

Hendricks snorted. “A bloody shame.” But she nodded.

Other emergency vehicles screeched to a halt around them, forming a perimeter, lights spinning.

But it didn’t feel right anymore, she thought, almost sadly, being on this side of the law again. The right side, really – the legal side.

But it wasn’therside. Not when all the people she cared about were on the other side.

~*~

Fox wasn’t showy, ordinarily. Showing off was the fastest way to get yourself killed, and wasted effort besides. But he felt showy tonight. Felt positively theatrical.

The glass wasn’t bulletproof. He burst through it with his arms tucked over his face, elbow pads taking the brunt of the impact, and he leaped into the penthouse amid a shower of glass. The others came with him; glass flew, a thousand sparkling shards catching the light, and, too slowly, a group of armed guards turned to meet them.

Easy. So pathetically easy. Fox’s gun felt like a part of his hand. He raised his arm, and squeezed the trigger, and his muscles absorbed the recoil, old habit. His brothers sat at one end of a long table, clustered together, weaponless, he knew. They ducked down when the windows shattered, but they didn’t need to; he wasn’t going to hit them. He never missed.

One shot, two, three. He took out three guards himself, and the others fell to Abe, to Morgan, to Dad. Then they were down, and there was only the old man left, cowering in his chair at the head of the long table.

Fox prowled deeper into the penthouse, ignoring him, looking for the door that would lead to the stairwell. He found it, and he heard shouting and the clack of shoes coming up concrete stairs on the other end. He flipped the lock, but knew it wouldn’t be able to hold for long.

He turned back to the table.

Abe had a hand fisted tight in the old man’s collar, muzzle of his gun pressed to his temple. The difference between them, in that tableau, hit Fox like a slap. Morris was no doubt a few years older, but he lookeddecadesolder: stooped, paunchy, his face jowly and sagging, the backs of his hands spotted. He looked like someone who used a cane; like someone’s grandfather, with a medicine cabinet full of prescription pills, and a tremulous smile, and a tendency to get confused in the middle of loud, crowded gatherings.

And Abe, even iron-haired and sun-damaged, looked like a weapon, lean and hard, even after all this time.

And then Abe lifted his head, and looked right at Fox, and nodded.Go ahead, that nod said.Run this.

And even if Phil was the president, Fox slipped into the role of leader now like it was custom leather, butter-soft and clinging to his skin.

He strolled up to the table and aimed his gun at Morris, casual, one hip cocked. “We don’t have long,” Fox said, and his tone sounded bored, because hewasbored. He was tired, he realized, physically, and mentally, sick of all this protracted drama. What was the use of it? The only reason people like him – like his dad, and all the others from Project Emerald – existed was because people like Morris always wanted to pull one over on someone else. Since the dawn of civilization, men had been trying to gain power over one another.

It was fucking stupid.

“If I shoot you right now, does this all stop?” Fox asked, point-blank.

“Ah, smooth,” Phillip muttered.

“No, I’m done,” Fox said. “This ends now. You’ve got five seconds to tell me who I’ll have to kill after you’re gone. Answer, or I shoot you in your old wrinkled dick instead of your head.”

“Ooh,” Tommy said, softly, and Fox made a mental note to hug his little brother later, thankful for his relentless irreverence.

Morris tipped his head back, so Fox’s aim was even truer, his shot set to go right between his eyes. He smiled, close-lipped, like he had a secret. “So, you’re the one, then.”

Fox smirked. “Great. He’s got dementia.”

But Abe’s arm flexed, and the muzzle of his gun pressed in harder at the man’s temple.

“You,” Morris continued, “are the one he promised us. The Prodigal Son, at long last.”

Outwardly, Fox didn’t so much as twitch. But inwardly, he felt a jolt. A fast frisson moving under his skin, anxiety that threatened to rattle his professional calm.

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