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The icy malice in his voice froze Hartley’s blood, but she wasn’t about to let him see it. “It’s not Anya, apparently.”
His lip curled in a savage grin. “No. Unless she turns up dead. That might cure Karol once and for all.” He crawled over to where she lay, his meaty breath making her stomach coil. “Karol is weak. He whines about love like a child. But I’m not weak. I will have what I desire, no matter how many more people have to die.”
“More people. Where is Pierce? He was helping you,” she asked, her mind whirling.
“Unconscious,” Jackal replied. He held up something. One of the phones. “But everybody thinks he’s with me.” Jackal giggled, turning Hartley’s blood cold.
“You don’t really want to hurt anyone, do you? What good will that do?” She tried to keep her voice low and unthreatening. She didn’t expect to get through to him, just to delay whatever he had in mind. Monty would find her. She didn’t doubt that for a moment.
Jackal barked out a laugh. “I wanted to hurt that pop star. Her death would have brought all this to an end. But it didn’t, which is sad. I trusted Lawrence to push her out a window. He paid for that mistake. As did Rogue. Poor, poor Rogue. He was my masterpiece! I told you to doubt him, and you did!”
He roared in laughter, rising to his knees and looking up through the charred faux branches of the tree.
Revulsion roiled through Hartley. “You’re a monster.” She moaned, the words coming from the deepest part of her.
Rage flashed across Jackal’s face, and he dropped on all fours over her, fisting a hand in her hair. “You know nothing about monsters,” he hissed. “Yet.”
He released her, and Hartley collapsed, heart hammering against her ribs. Jackal prowled the ruined Treehouse platform, muttering under his breath. Then he turned to face her. His body slackened, and his eyes were holes that looked through her. “Why won’t she love me?” The broken, childlike plea stole Hartley’s breath.
“Karol?” she entreated. “Karol, let me help you find Anya. We can end this.”
His eyes seemed to focus, a spark of hope flickering in their depths. Then it died, replaced by a yawning void. He blinked rapidly, and the empty eyes were Jackal’s once more.
“You can’t reason with him. He’s beyond that,” Jackal said, the words wet with disgust. “But I pity him, and since he’s a part of me, we will find peace together.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“Ashes to ashes to ashes to ashes…” The words dissolved into a muted whisper as his hand disappeared behind his back.
Her heart stuttered, expecting to see a knife. But whatever he held, it didn’t glint like a blade when his hand reappeared.
“Jackal, listen to me. Violence won’t ease your suffering, it’ll only—”
“Suffering?” He shook his head and gave her a pitying laugh, the lifeless sound raising the hairs on Hartley’s arms. “Violence eases everything. I will wring every ounce of suffering from the ashes. Your suffering, your man’s suffering, if he’s awake to feel it.”
She closed her eyes, relieved that Monty was still alive. Jackal hadn’t killed him.
“Your friends—everybody will suffer,” Jackal continued, then held up his hand. In it he clutched a small black box. Hartley’s breath froze in her lungs. Jackal leaned closer to her face, his feverish eyes boring into hers. “What do I want, deep in my soul?” he whispered. “You think you’re a smart lady? Tell me.”
Hartley held his gaze, terror morphing into weary understanding. “Death,” she answered dully, her eyes shifting to what she was sure was a detonator.
Jackal leaned closer, his cheek grazing hers. “Almost, but not quite,” he murmured in her ear, his breath fetid and hot. “What I want is pain.”
CHAPTER27
Frigid air enveloped Montgomery, the dim light near the stairs just enough to show him his breath pluming in and out.
Getting to the stairs had been a waste of time. He couldn’t get higher than the first step the way he was bound. Grunting with effort, he pushed away and flopped to his side, relieved that the throbbing in his head had lessened. He shivered on the icy stone floor as he twisted his wrists, trying to break the plastic ties. They just dug in deeper, slicing his skin until his hands became slippery with blood.
“Fuck,” he cursed.
He maneuvered himself closer to the bookshelf. His body inched across the damp stones, the rustling of his clothes sounding like whispers. Craning his neck, he tried to see if the lowest shelf had any edge to it. As he wiggled closer, he made out something else. Something hopeful and frightening at the same time.
A metal box. A military-grade metal box.
He could see the D-shaped metal handle, along with white letters stenciled on the side. Tufts of straw poked up, bent over the side by the low shelf. All that straw was protecting something dangerous.
He hunched and rolled and bent until his hands faced the box. He moved his fingers until they found the metal handle, then shuffled his body to pull it out. Glancing over his shoulder, he could just see what was in the box. Oval shapes with pins lay nestled in straw. Based on the depth of the box, he had to think there were close to twenty grenades inside.
