Page 107 of The Evening Wolves

A familiar sound came from behind him: a door opening.

He turned his head, the movement instinctive, checking the new threat.

Jonas Cassidy stood there: white-blond hair, a big smile. He’d traded the Auburn PD polo for a painted-on t-shirt and jeans. He’d always been a showoff.

That was probably why it seemed like it took so long for the gun in his hand to come up. Nice and slow and dramatic. Or that’s what it seemed like, anyway, as Emery’s brain tried to stop time. But the gun kept moving, drifting through the air like it was weightless, until it was aimed at Emery. Cassidy’s smile brightened. And then he shot Emery in the back.

24

The gunshot tore through the hallway, loud enough to hurt John-Henry’s ears even over the klaxon. If Koby noticed the loud clap, though, he gave no sign—his attention was fixed on John-Henry, on the knife he was trying to bury in John-Henry’s throat. The smaller man was panting, obviously still struggling to breathe through his broken nose. His eyes were webbed with the red of broken blood vessels. And he was winning. By fractions of inches, for now, but it didn’t matter.

“Ree?” John-Henry grunted. Nothing. He tried again, his ears still ringing from the shot, “Ree?”

Something twisted Koby’s mouth, and it took a moment before John-Henry recognized it as a smile.

“He can’t hear you now.” The voice was amused—happy bordering on gleeful. And John-Henry recognized it as Jonas Cassidy’s. “Big old dumb fuck. I should have shot you in that fucking garage. Would have made everything so much easier.”

What the words suggested—what they meant—met a blank wall in John-Henry’s head. No. No. Not that. The knife dipped toward him. “Ree?” The next time, it was a shout. “Ree!”

“Arrogant cock-sucking piece of shit.” The muffled thud of a blow came. “All the bullshit I had to put up with from you. All that fucking work being nice to you. And then you turned around, you motherfucker—” Cassidy’s voice rose into a scream. “—and told my dad!”

The words hammered against John-Henry’s consciousness. He refused to let them in. The knife. Koby’s battered face. The smug little knot of his mouth that could barely be called a smile. John-Henry’s shoulder throbbed with the effort of holding back the blade. Worse, the mental energy of corralling his thoughts, of refusing to let those words inside himself, meant less energy and focus for the fight. The knife slid down another quarter inch. John-Henry’s hands felt greasy on Koby’s wrists, ready to slip.

Another of those muffled blows came again. “You told my dad!” Cassidy screamed, his voice unhinged now, the words distorted with fury. “And you ruined everything!”

Blackness speckled John-Henry’s vision. A door at the back of his head opened, and raw, animal fury poured through him. He couldn’t feel his shoulder. He couldn’t feel anything except a wind blowing through his mind. He was screaming, a part of him noticed in a clinical voice. His spittle flecked Koby’s face.

He bucked, dislodging Koby enough to begin to sit up. It took Koby by surprise, but the smaller man rolled with the force of John-Henry’s movement and pulled John-Henry with him. John-Henry didn’t mind. He didn’t have anywhere else to be. It was just him and that black wind. It was just him and the cold.

With better leverage, now, John-Henry brought his weight to bear on the knife. He forced Koby’s arms down. Somewhere, Cassidy was still talking, but the roar in John-Henry’s head was too loud for him to hear anything else. He leaned forward, transferring as much of his weight to his arms as he could, pinning Koby and the knife. And then he released one hand from Koby’s wrist and punched Koby in the broken nose.

Koby screamed.

John-Henry took the tiny opening. He scrambled back, trying to disengage. At the edge of his awareness, Cassidy was rolling Emery over. Emery flopped onto his back. Unconscious, John-Henry thought, the words barely on the horizon of the defenses he’d erected. Please, God, he’s only unconscious. But the next thought was clearer as fear seeped through the barriers: a stab vest can’t stop a bullet.

Still screaming, Koby got upright and scrambled across the floor. He was going for the kama, the trench knife still clutched in his other hand. John-Henry launched himself across the hall toward where the Glock had fallen when Koby had attacked him.

Koby reached the kama first. He came up onto his knees and slashed out with the trench knife. It felt like a whisper of cold air passing John-Henry. The kama spun so fast it blurred in his hands.

John-Henry landed on his bad shoulder. The world went white. His fingers closed around the Glock’s polymer, and he brought the gun up and fired.

The sound was enormous in the hallway. John-Henry scooted backward as his vision cleared. In his mind, he could see the kama coming for him, the hiss of matte steel carving the air. But nothing. Nothing. And then he could see again.

Koby was still on his knees, slumped against the wall, the kama hanging from its strap in one hand. He’d lost the trench knife, and his other hand was pressed against his belly, where blood streamed between his fingers. The boy—he really was a boy, John-Henry realized—stared at him in disbelief, a hint of outrage forming on his lips, almost like a pout. The ridge of scar tissue on his neck was livid.

“Put that fucking gun down,” Cassidy said.

John-Henry’s gaze shifted to the Auburn chief of police. He was straddling Emery, the pose bizarrely sexual, and he held a pistol aimed at John-Henry. John-Henry knew he’d never be fast enough; if he moved, Cassidy would fire, and that would be the end.

“Drop it,” Cassidy said.

John-Henry released the pistol.

Cassidy smirked. The fluorescent scattered rainbows over his white-blond hair. He turned his gaze down to Emery and said, “I’ve been dreaming about this for a long time—”

Emery’s hand speared upwards: fingers rigid and pressed together, driving straight into Cassidy’s throat. Cassidy reared back. His free hand went to his throat as he made a gagging noise. The hand with the gun went wide, John-Henry forgotten. Cassidy made another of those noises, this one deeper and longer. His color dropped as he scrambled backward, still clawing at his throat. Emery struggled into a sitting position, and John-Henry could tell from the way he moved that it was more than the bulky vest he was wearing, that he was hurting, probably badly. But he wrested the gun from Cassidy’s hand without any trouble, and then he shoved Cassidy off him.

Legs scissoring across the carpet, Cassidy continued making those retching noises, raking his throat with his nails. Biscuit had once tried to eat a rock, and the sounds she had made trying to dislodge it from her throat had been similar to the ones Cassidy made now. John-Henry got to his feet and checked Koby again—his face was gray, and the steady pumping of blood between his fingers had slowed—before moving over to Emery.

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