Page 31 of All Saints Day
“I don’t know when he’ll be back—” Frank confesses, continuing right on with his barrage of fevered warning. “Lou, there’s so much I need to tell you.” He presses his forehead to mine, and I can feel his need for me burning him from the inside out. Fated mates tortured by proximity without being able to properly touch one another. “But there isn’t any time—I don’t know if there willever be time,” he growls, his teeth flashing as he brings his mouth close to mine.
“If you think I’d accept your bite right now—when I don’t know who or what you are, after you nearly killed me—you really are crazy,” I whimper, going limp in his arms just as a handful of Windmill guards and medical staff burst through the door.
Chapter 11
Quentin
Dennis has more than proven himself.
Compton hadn’t scrutinized the cable at all, and within no time, Caz captured plenty of information for our cause.
It wasn’t difficult to acquire all sorts of credentials, and access to spaces Compton had assumed to be private.
Once on the inside, it had only been a matter of time before Caz was able to triangulate not only the Windmill facility that Louise was being held at but also several other facilities of theirs within the continental US. Compton’s location data alone was incredibly illuminating.
Our last meeting had been significantly derailed by talk of fated mates and bonding. Though there had been a degree of heated discussion, the remaining Saints agree that once we have the means to execute our daring rescue attempt, we will approach the process of biting Dennis in, as it will be an undeniable advantage when it comes to breaching the Windmill facilities and coordinating Louise’s rescue during the breakout proper.
While we might have liked to keep the band together, with the three of us working in tandem with Dennis as he continued to keep up his facade at the FBI, it was simply too dangerous. We agree to continue our work separately, at a distance—only gathering in person when absolutely necessary.
Dennis and Caz have been rapidly losing patience—the pair’s work threatening to become sloppy with their increasing desperation. While Sébastien and I refuse to rush off into the lion’s den before we have a proper plan, we agree to meet up with Dennis for the weekend to firm up some plans at a remote safe house. It will take a while to make the requisite preparations for such a delicate operation, and I need Caz and Dennis fully invested, not one foot out the door on their way to hell.
In my increasing paranoia, I insist the four of us meet up at the off-season ski chalet in a sleepy Vermont town in the height of wet, muddy spring.
I sit out on the little rickety deck overlooking acres of unspoiled land, the morning mist still not burned off the valley as I wait for the others to arrive.
Seb is the first to arrive, his dark curls, grown long and unruly, tied back from his sculpted face—a pair of aviator sunglasses obscuring his maroon eyes and dark circles beneath.
“Hey, how was the drive?” I ask, even though I came from the same flop in Liberty City—just via a different route.
“Pretty, once I got off the Pike.” He shrugs, flopping into an old Adirondack chair on one side of me, kicking his feet up onto the wooden railing—combat boots scuffed and worn. “Any word from Cazzy?” he presses, anxiously checking his phone as he pats down his pockets for his pack of cigarettes.
“I haven’t heard from him since he hit a rest stop early this morning.” I check my own watch, then my phone. “Looks like Dennis should be here any minute though.”
Both of us fall silent.
Today, we will be putting a finer point on our plans for the breach. Dennis’s intel had uncovered the mysterious facility in rural West Virginia. While we had some basic information about the facility, gleaned from the goods extracted from Compton’s phone and laptop, it will undoubtedly serve us well to do whatever reconnaissance we can before trying to break in.
Seb and I allow our thoughts to bubble and fizz acrossthe mating bond—the two of us sitting in contemplative quiet. Both of us nearly jump out of our seats when we hear the sound of a motor pulling into the drive.
Within seconds, Dennis is striding through the living room of the chalet—dropping his things before joining Seb and I out on the deck—the sun high overhead, the mist just about burned off the valley.
“Did I beat Caz?” He glances around, looking for the final member of our little quartet.
“You did indeed. How was the drive from Virginia?” I rise out of my chair and pull Dennis in for a hug, each of us sagging slightly against one another as we do our best to find comfort in each other’s arms.
“I’ve had worse.” Dennis shrugs, the pair of us flopping into the wooden chairs—Dennis careful to leave a seat open between us for Caz.
“Have you had any luck with the entrance credentials?” I ask as soon as we are seated, unable to wait until Caz arrives to get into my burning questions. While I’m not feeling as outwardly unhinged as Cazzy or even poor Dennis—I am still overeager to make progress toward our mutual goal; a free Louise, reunited with us, her Saints.
“According to Caz, the ID cards are no sweat—it’s the fingerprint scans and the retinal shit that are going to present a challenge,” he groans, sinking down into his Adirondack as if he’d become totally boneless. “We’ll need Compton himself—in the flesh—to get those particulars. Once we get his ‘measurements,’ so to speak, we can get in touch with a ‘tailor’ who can fashion us some finger tip sculpts, some custom contact lenses, etc,” he continues with an exasperated sigh—pulling his baseball cap from his head to run a hand back through his thick strawberry blond coif.
I was about to ask about said ‘tailor’—when I hear the sound of an engine in the driveway.
All three of us are up and out of our seats before we hear the driver’s side door slam shut.
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Caz manages to huff out—his face half hidden behind his massive bug-eyed mirrored shades; several large duffles slung over his shoulders—an overbearing internal frame pack stuffed to bursting, strapped to him like some kind of absurdist turtle.
I am about to offer Caz a hand, to begin pulling the bag straps from his shoulders to unburden him—when his ice-blue eyes roll backward into his head; only the whites shine back at me as he crumples to the floor.
