The Given (13 page)

“What an accomplished Life Enrichment Coordinator,” Grif said flatly.

“Who are you?” Mr. Allen said.

“The guy with a gun pointed at your chest.”

Allen's gaze flicked to Grif's hands, empty and hanging at his sides.

“Oh, yeah.” Grif rolled his eyes, pulled the gun from his pocket, and pointed it at Allen's chest before the other man had even blinked. He'd taken it from his ankle holster and readied it when Allen had slipped into the bedroom. “
Now
I'm the man with a gun pointed at your chest. Question is, who are
you
?”

Because he wasn't merely some assisted-living helpmate.

“Fuck you.”

“That seems to be a very common name these days. And how long have you worked here, Fuck You?”

Allen responded by ducking low and stomping on Grif's right foot at the same time. Grif curled forward automatically, and by the time he saw Allen's uppercut, it was too late. Stars danced before his eyes as his jaw cracked. Were he 100 percent mortal, he'd be out. As it was, he managed to pull Allen with him as he went down, then flipped and stilled the struggling man by tucking his gun in his left ear.

Grif bore down on the guy, breathing hard. How the hell had Allen hit him? He'd read the other man's body language. He should've seen the blow coming. Growling, he shook the worry off for later.

“Why are you watching Al Zicaro so closely?”

Mr. Allen didn't move at all, but Grif was a P.I. with two lifetimes' worth of experience in reading people, and he caught the triumphant cast in the other man's gaze.

“And why,” Grif said slowly, “don't the other residents have any idea who you are?”

That drew a smile from Allen, though it was far less kind than the one he'd shared with Grif before. “You have no idea who I am, either.”

“Sure I do.”

“Who am I then, smartass?”

Grif flipped his gun in one quick motion and walloped Allen in the temple twice, once to get the job done and a second time as payback for the blow he'd unexpectedly delivered to Grif. The big man dropped face-first onto the thin carpeting, and a sick crunching sound came from where his nose used to be. Grif left him facedown as he rifled through his pockets.

“You're Justin Allen,” he said, reading from the wallet. “A.k.a. Fuck You.”

And he dropped the wallet back on the ground so the man would see it when he came around. Then, locking the door behind him, he went in search of Kit.

K
it often said that she was born at least thirty years too late. She'd have preferred to roam the Las Vegas Valley in its heyday, when the Rat Pack was crooning cool at the Copa and when dressing up for a night out meant donning more clothing and not less. Yet despite her love for crinoline and cocktail culture, rockabilly music and the mid-mod sensibility, Kit had to admit that her nostalgia for all things rockabilly was just that. Everything she'd gone through in the past year—starting with the murder of her best friend and culminating with the loss of Grif, a man literally of that era—had forced her to admit that there was no era unmarred by greed or corruption or just plain meanness. Reality was? Those things touched every life and every time.

Sure, Kit would continue thrifting and jiving and swing-dancing, but the cat's-eye glasses she donned were no longer rose-tinted, and it was with clear vision that she spotted trouble coming from the corner of her eye as she pushed Al Zicaro's wheelchair down a thin walkway behind his home at Sunset.

And this time, Kit was ready.

“How badly do you want to get out of here?” she asked Zicaro, picking up the pace.

He caught the direction of her nervous glance and leaned forward in his chair, eyes bulging behind his bifocals as he spotted the two orderlies rushing their way. “You didn't say nothing about getting out of here.”

“You're saying you want to stay?” she said dubiously.

“I'm saying . . . I don't know.” He pursed his lips, looking sullen.

“Then why did you grab that?” She jerked her head at the unnatural bulge in his pants, and he covered it with his hands like he was ashamed.

“I bring this with me everywhere. It's the most valuable information I own,” Zicaro said, patting his pants to reveal the outline of the plastic container he'd shoved in his pocket. “I even sleep with it under my pillow.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, glancing behind her, then ahead, mentally calibrating how far it was to the parking lot. “I have a feeling your most valued information is held in your head.”

“Got that right, missy,” he said proudly.

“Good,” she said, and left the path to make a beeline across the grass.

The orderlies broke into a loping run. They'd catch up well before she could gain the corner of the building, forget about reaching the car.

“What the hell is he carrying?” she said, more to herself than Al. The larger man held his right arm in front of him, and was careful not to let it swing as he ran. His hand was folded around something that glinted in the thin sunlight. It looked like . . .

“Oh, that's a gun,” Al said matter-of-factly, and Kit stumbled. “They all carry them.”

“At an end-of-life care facility?” she said incredulously, and picked up her pace.

“They take their jobs very seriously.”

Heart revving, Kit searched for signs of Grif, but there was no other soul nearby. She wondered about angels, though. She worried about plasma.

And she knew she was going to have to use the dark experiences of the past year to handle this herself.

“Just follow my lead,” she told Zicaro, and while the guards—not orderlies—were still a hundred yards away, she pulled her lady's pistol from her bucket bag. Then she swiveled the wheelchair around, and held the gun to Zicaro's head.

“Hey!” he tried to climb from the chair while it was still moving, scrawny limbs flailing.

“It's not loaded,” she muttered, grabbing his shoulder and yanking him back into his seat. “Now take mental notes, my attentive friend. Because if my hunch is right, you're going to be starring in your next feature story.”

The old man's mouth opened and closed a few times, which made him look like a fish pulling at air, but curiosity finally won out and he snapped it shut. Shooting her a saucy wink, he turned back around and put his hands in the air.

The two orderlies—the guards—reared back on their heels.

“Don't come any closer,” Kit told them, pitching her voice loud and low, hoping she at least sounded sure of herself. This was improvisation; she and Grif had planned for her to be out of reach well before anyone had noticed Zicaro missing. Again, she wondered what had happened to her reluctant angel.

“Just put the gun down, lady,” one of the orderlies said. He was so ginger he was almost blond, florid in the face where he wasn't pockmarked, and destined to wear a boy's face on his man's body for long into old age. He held his free hand out before him, the other poised at the small of his back.

“Since when does an assisted-living facility require armed guards?” she asked, backing away. The two men mirrored the movement but angled their footsteps in opposite directions, trying to flank her. She tapped Zicaro on the shoulder. Getting into the spirit of things, Zicaro flapped his arms a little.

“No, I mean, help me.”

“Oh.” Zicaro reached for his wheels.

“Just put it down,” said the second guard. His gun was still out, and it was all Kit could do not to stare solely at him, yet the other man, though smaller, was moving fast, and she had to keep him in her sights as well.

“No,” she said. “Why don't you call the cops instead?”

Neither moved to lift the radios at their waists.

“Maybe we already did,” the smaller guy said. His name tag said
ERIC
. The other's? Harry . . . Barry . . . Larry . . .

Zicaro would know, so Kit let it go for now and bared her teeth, an approximation of a smile. “I hope so. I like the police. I have a lot of friends on the force.”

For some reason, that made both men chuckle. “Honey, none of your friends can save you from this mistake.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Kit answered, “but they are powerful enough to come out here and investigate this facility and everyone working in it.”

“You have no idea what you're doing,” Eric said, teeth gritted.

“
You
have no idea what I'm doing,” she corrected, and leaned forward. “Here.”

She handed Zicaro the gun so that she could pull him backward over the grass. He looked at it for a moment, then cocked back the hammer and pointed it at Larry. He'd drawn close enough for Kit to make out his name now, but he fell back at this and froze as he stared at Zicaro.

The reluctant show of respect emboldened the old man. He flicked the barrel of the gun at Larry, shooing him away. “You thinking about rushing us, buddy?”

“No,” Larry said, falling back again. “No.”

“Good,” Kit said, pausing long enough to meet Larry's hard gaze. “Now I just have one question for you. Why'd you kill Barbara McCoy?”

Zicaro sucked in a sharp breath next to her.

“I don't know what you're—”

Kit jerked her head, cutting him off. “You think I don't recognize you? I was there last night! I saw you.”

And though the details were hazy—a jumble of ringing blasts and smoky air and stars that realigned themselves and her fate before her eyes—Kit knew she had seen this man dressed in black, looming over Grif in the moments after Barbara's death. He'd killed a woman in cold blood . . . and Kit? Kit had used the gun that Zicaro now held to fire a warning shot back his way when he was about to do the same to Grif.

And now here he was again, alive and watching over Al Zicaro . . . and looking once more like he wanted to kill her.

“We don't know what you're talking about,” Larry lied.

“You will,” Kit swore, jerking her chin. “The world will.”

And that's when she spotted a giant of a man sprinting toward them all, one arm pumping at his side for speed, the other at his head as if trying to keep it from falling off. His furious expression was visible even three hundred yards away.

Shit. Kit's gaze darted back to the building as if she could see through it to whatever may be happening inside. Where was Grif?

Seeing the other man, Larry returned the gun to the small of his back and folded his arms over his chest. Eric held up his hands and even backed a few steps away, though his gaze had gone predatory. Kit swallowed hard as the giant joined them. At least she knew who was in charge.

“Your move,” Larry said, mouth curling in a knowing smile. He was right to be smug. Two on one was a chess match. Three on one, even with a gun in play, was plain stupid. Besides, she didn't even have Zicaro to use as a foil anymore. It was pretty evident that she wasn't going to harm him the moment she handed him the gun.

“Here we go,” she warned Zicaro in a low voice, and he made a high-pitched sound in the back of his throat. Kit was having a bit of trouble breathing herself. Muscles tensing, she darted around the building, pushing the wheelchair. The chase was on.

The wide front parking lot was just as Grif and she had left it, absent of any other vehicles, which gave the front of the building an aspect of abandonment. The leafless trees and wilting perennials sat forlornly in the arid chill, and even the birds had fled. The wheels of Zicaro's chair rattled across the pavement, as did his breath, and Kit waited for the shouts to rise behind her . . . and even looked for the plasma that Grif was always going on about. Running, she cast about for the effervescent purling of a mist that was supposed to be invisible to the human eye. If she were about to die, she wanted to know it.

The figure stepped forward, emerging from the redbrick building so quickly that they collided. Kit rammed into the back of Zicaro's head, and her gun flew from his hand. They both squealed . . . but Grif steadied her. Hand gripping her arm, he swiveled so that she was behind him, and then flipped Zicaro around.

“Where the hell have you been?” Kit asked, rushing to pick up the gun.

“Had to make a phone call,” he said, moving fast with Zicaro.

“Make a—?”

“Hurry. We gotta get him in the car,” Grif said, rolling the chair backward, and Kit hurried to open the Duetto's passenger door. Eric and Larry reeled around the corner just as Zicaro finally managed to swivel in his seat and see who had taken the reins. He took one long look at Grif, let out a strangled squeak, and passed out. Grif caught the old man before he could fall from the chair, lifting him like he weighed no more than a feather.

Kit helped him wedge the old man into the passenger's seat, and it took all of her willpower not to turn to see how close the three men were now. Though they were armed, she had to trust Grif to protect them. She even thought she heard the sharp cutting sound of blades slicing air, and imagined his wings snapped wide to shield them. Even so, it would be an automatic reaction to danger, and though it was effective against supernatural foes, here he was bound by the same laws of nature as everyone else who wore flesh.

As evidenced by what came next.

“Duck,” he said, just as the first bullet flew. She fell atop Zicaro and he did the same, so that they all lay flat against the seats. That shielded them from the second bullet as well, but the footsteps were growing closer.

Then, suddenly, everything grew too silent. Kit lifted her head. Zicaro groaned beneath her weight, and she shifted as she looked at Grif, now in a squat at the open door. “What—?”

But they both heard the engine by then, and Grif glanced down at his feet as if looking for something.

“Plasma?” Kit asked.

“Not even a bit.” He blew out a breath and offered a hand to Kit. “Looks like we'll live to piss these guys off another day.”