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“No, boy, not this trip. You stay and guard Dave. He’s a very important man,” he told the dog while he pulled on dark clothing and stepped into his soft black leather boots. Shoving shit into his backpack, he left the room and jogged down the stairs with Grit at his side.
All was quiet and he found a paper and pen in Dave’s desk and started writing a note. Grit trotted over to where Dave normally sat.
“Where are you going?”
“Hell! Why are you lurking in the dark?” Ice spun toward the double chairs near the wall of windows—beyond the glass lay the night sky with sparkling stars.
“Can’t sleep,” Dave said, shifting in his favorite chair.
“I’ve got a job tonight. Solomon paired me with Stone.” Ice flipped on the tiny desk lamp and returned the pad of paper and pen into the drawer and walked over to take a seat. He dropped his duffle at his feet.
“How far?”
“Las Vegas. Can Grit stay with you?”
“Yes. You should get going, that’s a long drive.”
“Stone is picking me up.” His eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting just enough to see Dave’s face and the outside light from the garden helped a bit.
The man turned his face away and back toward the night beyond the window. Ice knew Dave wanted to ask how Stone was doing, but wouldn’t. Those two were so fucking stubborn.
“He’s fine, by the way,” Ice said. “He got a cat.”
Dave’s eyes snapped to him. “A cat?”
“No,” Ice chuckled. “When have you ever known Stone to have an animal?”
“Never,” Dave admitted with a slight smile and slowly ran a hand over Grit’s big head. “He’s away from home too much.”
Ice could relate. In this line of business, it was hard to have a hearth and a home.
Across town that same night, Echo jumped from the ground to the scaffolding and climbed upward.
This hit was on the fourth floor of the rundown apartment building and climbing the outside was as easy as eating pie. This was something he’d been doing since before he’d been of legal age. When a person grew up on the streets, climbing almost went with the territory. That, plus fighting for every scrap of food you could find.
His childhood had been spent clawing and fighting every human being whether or not they meant him harm.
Living free and wild became his way of life.
He fucking loved it.
Plus, he relished not having feelings like those other sorry bastards.
He wasn’t nice and had never been. He hated everything and everyone equally.
Why not do something constructive with the hate?
He shook off that fucking voice.
At eight years old, he’d made his first kill. At ten years old, he’d been caught while eating a stolen bag of chips of all things. He’d lived two years on the streets and it never occurred to him that he was being watched.
It happened when he’d grabbed a package of whatever he could get his hands on inside a convenience store and had fled out the door with the store owner screaming at him. He’d darted around the building, flew down the alley and careened around the corner. Running down a walkway, he slipped inside an open doorway. It was there that he had crouched, tore open the bag, and stuffed handfuls of nacho cheese chips into his mouth. So fucking hungry that tears had started to fall.
He had suddenly choked when hard hands grabbed him and he screamed, not from fear, but from fury when his bag of chips fell and scattered on the ground.
“Stop,” a hard voice ordered, but Echo fought like a wild thing with clawed hands and kicking feet.
Shit.
