Page 69 of What We Had

Deacon had told me he was flying out to Boston. After that text came through, I never heard from him again. The heat between Bennett and me went nuclear shortly after Deacon had told me his travel plans and I hadn’t given it a second thought. My focus had been entirely on Bennett. Yet now, here he stood. In Massachusetts, as promised.

“Who the fuck areyou?” Holt demanded.

“I’m Deacon. I was sent to keep an eye on you.” He tutted like a disappointed teacher as he looked around. “You struck the target. This will not look like any normal overdose. And he is a cop, yes? Perhaps overdose was not the best choice. Were you not watching for this one?” Deacon asked and pointed at me.

Holt’s eyes went wide. “The hell… who sent you? I work alone.”

“Not when there’s an ungodly amount of money on the line,” Deacon said.

I had both my hands on Bennett’s shoulders to try and still him. His upper body continued to move erratically. I devoted some attention to Deacon, reading his eyes, willing my mind to go into his so that we could share thoughts and instincts.

“What are you talking about?” Holt asked.

“Everything is tied to Winnie Bridgewater,” Deacon said, “and keeping her clean. If she isn’t clean, then all the money wrapped up in her box office potential goes down the drain, yes?”

Holt appeared to consider Deacon’s words, then shook his head. “I don’t give a fuck about any of that. I only do what they pay me to do.”

Deacon gave an over-exaggerated sigh. That was unlike him. I only ever saw him give two emotions in the years I had known him: friendliness and apathy. “Then you have not done what it is you are paid to do.”

Holt made a face. “What?”

Deacon took a step toward him. “Tinted windows. Jersey plates. People in small towns talk. You think they have not noticed you?” Deacon pointed at me. “And you have a witness now. What do you plan to do with him?”

Holt sneered, then jiggled his gun. “I have this, don’t I?”

Another sigh from Deacon. “We do not use guns. You know this. Guns are messy. Leave paper trails. Can be tracked. Draw too much attention.” Again, Deacon gestured toward me. “He is needed alive. The studio needs him alive. This is why I am here.”

A pang of fear shot through me and mottled with a sense of betrayal. Had Deacon been surveilling me on the side? Keeping track of my movements so that I was left untouched by Holt’s ineptitude?

But Deacon worked squarely in the music world. He didn’t touch film and television. Until now? Clearly, as he stood before me, convincing Holt, Deacon had ventured into other industries.

“No guns,” Deacon said. “Connor Clarke needs to live, and we take care of his silence the old-fashioned way.”

“Which way is that?” Holt asked.

“Credible threats.” With his chin, Deacon motioned toward Bennett who moved more, secured to the floor by my hands on his shoulders. The Narcan was working. “We take care of the cop as designed, with an overdose. As for Clarke, he has family.” Deacon put his eyes on me and I saw… a twinkle of something? Amusement? The way his right eyebrow cocked a fraction of an inch. “He is very close with his mother. A vibrant woman with many years ahead of her. Many years of threats.”

Holt nodded slowly. “Okay. Yeah. I’ve taken a lot of pictures of that huge ass house. I think I know a way inside.”

Deacon smiled, something sinister. “Good, very good. Now you are thinking the right way. You left enough heroin to make a second dose, right?”

“Right there, yeah.”

“Good, good,” Deacon said. “He is waking up from the Narcan. He will be disoriented. We need to trash the house. Make it look like he fell and hit his face while shooting up. Deacon stepped back and looked around as if to survey the room.

Bennett stirred more violently. His mumbling became actual words asking where he was and what was happening. His eyes fluttered open, his pupils completely swallowed by the blues of his eyes. But I watched Deacon. Saw the glimmer of something twitch on his face. When he stepped back, he angled his body in a certain way—right foot back, left forward, arms slightly raised.

“You should put the gun away,” Deacon said. “There is two of us here now. Clarke only knows how to fight in movies. It is fake.”

“Stop talking like you’re my friend, asshole,” Holt said. “And shut the fuck up while I call my handler. I still don’t know who the fuck you are.”

I saw Deacon brace himself. The next moment moved in slo-mo.

Holt’s eyes dropped to his free hand as he pulled out his cellphone. The barrel of the gun was still pointed at me, but my body and Bennett’s were right on the other side of the ottoman. I made my choice as quick as light at the same time Deacon acted. Already coiled for a strike, Deacon surged forward when Holt looked at his phone. He blasted through the air like a cannonball at the same moment I dove atop Bennett and rolled us together to come to a slamming stop against the ottoman.

Thankfully—blessedly—I heard no gunshot. A scuffle ensued and I dared a peek over the ottoman to see Holt and Deacon grappling with each other. The gun had fallen and laid between them and me. I dashed and snatched it up as Deacon snaked his legs around Holt’s upper body and held his head against his upper abdomen. Holt’s arms flailed uselessly in a mad attempt to stop Deacon. His face burned red hot as Deacon exacted the chokehold with a disconnected, careless ease, as if he were folding laundry.

Seconds passed and Holt’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. More seconds, as Deacon verified the man had passed out. Then, he stood and fixed his stare on me.

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