Page 77 of Deceive Me
All the anger she carried, all the pain and terror and grief of the last twenty-four years coalesced in her as she lifted the hand that held Kivuli’s knife. She didn’t aim for his throat or his chest, though. No, she wanted him to feel it, to hurt, to realize his life was draining from his body before he finally died.
She aimed for his groin.
The strike hit true. Kivuli hunched forward, mouth gaping, his hands automatically covering the wound as she pulled the knife away. Blood poured through his fingers.
She smiled into his incredulous eyes.
“I told you you’d never breed again, didn’t I?”
This time she made it a gut strike. Mansa grunted, eyes sliding closed.
Elliot brought her face down until her mouth was at his ear. “That was for my mother, you son of a bitch. I hope you rot in hell.”
One more strike, this one merciful: the jugular.
The room behind her was filled with the noise of men fighting, shouting, sounds of pain and anger and fear and triumph. Elliot knelt beside Mansa’s throne, watching the life flow from his body, his blood hot and sticky on her hands, and felt a strange void slowly swallow her. The man who’d fathered her was dead. Deacon and Sydney were safe. Her mother had been avenged; all of Mansa’s victims had been avenged.
She’d finally accomplished her life’s objective. Mission complete. So why did it suddenly feel like it wasn’t enough?
Leaning back on her haunches, she stared down at her bloody hands and couldn’t hold back the hot tears rushing to her eyes, the whispered words escaping her shattered soul.
“I love you, Mama.”
30
A small stack of paper slapped down on the table next to Elliot’s hand. The number of sheets was deceptive—that stack meant a minimum of two hours more work. “Really, Dain?”
Her boss shrugged. “You create the problem; you complete the paperwork.”
She’d gotten herself beat to shit, killed two men, and what thanks did she get? Fucking paperwork. “Dickhead.”
“You’ve always been my favorite little headache,” Dain countered as he moved toward the other side of the room.
“You didn’t have to kill him, you know,” Saint said mildly. “That always adds to the paperwork.”
The remembered feel of Mansa’s blood on her hands, of knowing her mother was finally at peace, filled her mind. “Yeah, I did have to kill him.”
A heavy hand landed on her shoulder, making her jump. King gave her a quick squeeze and moved on, but not before she read the understanding in his expression. It was echoed by her other team members when she looked at them, the knowledge settling something inside her that she hadn’t realized was a worry until that moment.
They got it. They understood, teasing or not.
She released the breath she’d been holding.
“You still have to do the paperwork,” Dain told her, “even if you are one scary woman.”
And don’t you forget it. “Dain?”
“Yeah?”
She raised a hand and gave him a middle-fingered salute. Laughter came from every corner of the room, at once reassuring and somehow incongruous. The strangeness would pass, she knew. She’d been here before, but hopefully never again.
Her demon was dead. And now all she wanted to do was tie up the loose ends and get the fuck out of here before Deacon showed up again.
Mansa’s shot had gone wide, thank God. While the men with him had wreaked havoc on the guards, Deacon had fought his way to the throne, toward Mansa, but it had been too late by then; his enemy was beyond his reach.
He hadn’t spoken to her since.
Granted, there hadn’t been much opportunity. Between subduing Mansa’s hired guards and dealing with the local police, they’d all had their hands full. Elliot’s injuries had made it perfectly believable that she’d killed Kivuli and Mansa in self-defense. There’d been hours of questioning, followed by a trip to the hospital. King and Saint had brought her back to GFS for more prodding, more X-rays, and then finally to Dain, but after two hours of sitting in this office she was beginning to think her fears had been right on target: Deacon didn’t want her anymore, not after she’d kept the truth from him again.
