Page 92 of Prodigal Son

“Shit, she’s leaving,” Tommy said.

“No, she’s not.” Raven set her kickstand and leaped off the bike, took off down the pavement at a run.

“Shit,” Tommy said again, and she heard him scrambling to follow.

A black Mercedes rolled backward out of the garage. The windows were tinted, but Raven saw a slender silhouette behind the wheel, and no sign of a passenger: Ryan herself driving, then.

Raven made a split-second decision. The most important thing was for that car to stop.

She threw herself on its bonnet.

Ithurt.

She landed chest-and-belly first, and the hard, still-cool metal forced all the air out of her lungs in one big gasp. But the car jerked to a halt, and even if she couldn’t breathe, Raven could still move. She pulled down her goggles and slapped a hand on the windscreen, right over Ryan’s shocked face.

“Wh…wh…wait!” she finally managed, drawing in a big, ragged breath that hurt just as badly as losing it in the first place. “Ryan, stop, it’s Raven. And you’d better not move, ‘cause there’s a gun trained on you.”

Tommy skidded to a halt near the car’s rear tire and pulled his sidearm, gaping at Raven. “What are you doing? Trying to get run over? You alright?”

“Fine.” She pushed herself upright with a wince and slid back down to the pavement. “Bond makes that look much easier in the movies. Christ.” She touched her ribs; at least bruised, but not broken.

“Bloody insane,” Tommy murmured.

“Thank you.” Raven knocked on the passenger window. “Open up, Ryan. We need to talk.”

A pause. Then the window buzzed down. Inside, Ryan had gone white as cream, both slender hands locked tight on the wheel, tendons leaping in the backs of them. Her throat moved, a constant flutter, like she was choking or trying unsuccessfully to swallow.

“Raven?” Her voice just a squeak. The cool, too-good-for-you socialite and fashion empress persona had fled, leaving behind a terrified mortal about to have a panic attack.

Raven didn’t think she and Tommy, even after her car-leaping stunt, were the cause of that much fear.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Raven said, tone softening. “And the idiot with the gun” – he protested with a softhey– “is my brother. Clive Mahoney tried to have me killed today.”

Ryan’s eyes bugged.

“And I came over here all set to yell and threaten you, but I’m thinking now you’re just as scared to death as the rest of us, aren’t you?”

“I…I…they said…” She looked haunted. Like she might faint any moment.

“If these Pseudonym people have threatened you, then we can protect you.” She tipped her head side to side. “Or at least try. We – well, my brothers. They’re going to take them out. I’m staring to think the bloody idiots are running the damn country as this point.” She flashed a fast, fierce grin. “Why don’t you follow us home and we’ll have a nice chat?”

To her surprise, Ryan nodded.

Raven straightened and looked over at Tommy. Lifted her brows. “Damn. You might just have to patch me in, bro.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Let’s see about making it back in one piece first.”

Twenty-Six

“Carl.” Albie toed the vaguely man-shaped lump of blankets and newspapers with his boot. “Carl. Wake up. I brought you something.”

The lump shifted. A paper slid away, and a grizzled head topped with a knit cap poked up out of the shadows, bleary-eyed. “Huh…?”

Albie crouched down beside him and held out his foil-wrapped offerings. “Here. I brought you supper. I need a little information.”

“Supper.” Carl cleared his throat, hawked, spat off to the side. He winced, and groaned, and sat upright, hitched his back up against the cold brick wall he’d been using for a pillow. “Who?” he asked, blinking.

“Albie. Albie Cross. Come on, man.”

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