Page 194 of The Final Cut

Delia doesn’t look away from Isabel. “You should have retired when you had the opportunity, old woman.”

Isabel laughs again, uglier this time. “Thinking you could force my hand in this manner. In this place. With Russians watching and whores’ sons standing guard.” Her gaze skims Nash, Ever, Deacon, then me. “You mistake borrowed men for power.”

“Borrowed?” Reva asks.

One word. Quiet enough that it has no business crawling under my skin. It does anyway.

Isabel smiles at her. “Yes, child. Borrowed. Men like that return to whatever keeps them fed. Yours will tire of guarding a wound.”

I step forward before I think better of it. Ever’s hand clamps around my forearm. Smart man but super fucking annoying sometimes.

Reva doesn’t turn her head. “You don’t know them.”

“I know men.” Isabel’s gaze slides to Marisol. “Your mother knew men too. Frank. Cal. Such sentimental creatures, both of them. Cal more than most. I will deal with him when this embarrassment is finished.”

That is the moment. I feel it happen before it happens.

The room tightens. Reva’s breath stops. Delia’s fingers flex around the gun. Marisol’s face collapses around fear and fury so old it should have turned to stone by now. Deacon’s eyes go black.

Isabel reaches for Delia’s gun. My mind goes blank and then focuses on a single thought.

What the hell does this old bat think she’s going to accomplish with that move?

She is close, I’ll give her that. Faster than a woman her age should be. One gloved hand snaps out and clamps around Delia’s wrist, trying to twist the weapon up and away. Delia reacts, but her knees are still damaged, her balance compromised for one fatal sliver of time.

The whole church explodes into motion.

My hand is already moving beneath my jacket. Ever reaches too, faster than me because Ever is built out of competence and grim thoughts. From the edge of my vision, Deacon closes the distance with murder in every line of his body. Nash steps toward Reva, not Isabel, because Nash sees the board faster than the rest of us.

All of us move.

None of us reach them in time.

BANG.

The shot cracks through the church so loud it seems to hit the icons first.

Isabel jerks.

For one suspended second, she remains upright, hand still on Delia’s wrist, eyes wide with insult more than fear. Then blood spreads across the front of her black dress, bright and obscene against the fabric.

She crumples to the stone floor, scarlet blooming beneath her like a flower.

I whirl. Reva stands in the aisle with both hands on a gun I didn’t know she had.

Her face is blank. Too blank.

Ever is already moving beside me. “Reva got her.”

The gun drops from Reva’s fingers.

“Reva—”

It hits the stone and fires again.

The second shot punches into a pew with a crack that makes half the room shout and duck. Wood splinters. A woman screams. Someone swears in Russian. I throw myself toward Reva as Ever reaches her first.

He kicks the gun away and wraps both arms around her from behind, lifting her off balance before her knees can fold. She doesn’t fight him. Her hands hang empty in front of her, fingers curved like they still remember the weapon.