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Dammit, and now for the one part I forgot…I grab the only cups in the barn, the cheap red plastic ones we’d kept around for quick drinks of water after bringing in the horses, and walk back over to the group.
Grendal looks at me like I just pissed all over his expensive polished shoes.
“You can’t be serious? You…you expect us to enjoy a scotch like this out of these fucking frat house cups?”
“I’m sorry for the bad presentation. If you’d like to head on over to the house for some real glasses, we can. I’d ask my man, Tobin, but after the way you fucked him up earlier—”
“No. That was a mistake. We didn’t think you’d come to your senses so easily.” Grendal doesn’t wait as I pass out the cups, and then begin filling their glasses, saving one for me.
I give Grace a look. “Ladies last. This is a man’s drink, baby.”
Fuck, do I hate saying those words.
But the raw look of disgust she gives me—which I’m praying is still her playing along—makes the wolf and a few of his pack mates smile.
“To new friends and old acquaintances,” he says, lifting his cup, waiting.
I look down at the gold liquid swirling in my glass. None of the goons move, they’re all waiting.
Waiting for me.
Nothing’s gone according to plan today.
Slowly, I look at Grace. She doesn’t have a clue what’s happening, but she’s watching me with huge glassy eyes, pleading against what I’m about to do.
That’s the problem, though.
If it means saving her, keeping her safe, giving her back a life…I’d do a hell of a lot worse than drink poison.
“Bottoms up,” I say, throwing my shot back in one go.
Shit.
No sooner than I swallow, they tip their own cups, greedily sucking down the expensive booze.
Supposedly, the stuff is fast-acting. I loaded a smaller dose than what I gave Linus Hammond that night, knowing we just need to bring these fucks to their knees, not kill them outright.
It didn’t hit Hammond for several hours after he’d left the bar, though, so Tobin combined it with another chemical. It should hit the bloodstream faster.
Clay Grendal and his crew only have minutes.
And so do I.
What worries me is if it doesn’t hit them simultaneously. If several men see the others dropping…we’ll be in for a world of hurt.
I need a diversion.
After pouring them another shot and setting the bottle down, I glance around. The horses are backed up in their stalls, nervously, like they can feel the tension.
The only thing moving around is Cornelius. He’d walked back inside the barn a minute ago, but now he’s strutting around my feet in careless circles.
Damn this bird and his terrible timing.
Unless…
I take a messy step forward, pretending I’m a lightweight, totally unable to hold my liquor. Cornelius squawks and leaps in front of me.
Grendal laughs, and so do his men, slinging back their second shots.
They’re cringing a second later when the rooster belts out an earsplitting call, telling my idiot feet to watch where they’re going.
I make a show of almost tripping over him again and glare at Grace, telling her not to move.
They’re roaring at my stupidity now, and I’m picking a fight with my own angry cock—words I never imagined in this context. Or any, really.
It’s even more ridiculous that it’s working.
I’m herding the chicken away from them, step by pissed off, screeching step.
Now, I just have to let Faulk know.
“Get over here already, you goddamned bird!” I shout, stumbling around like a buffoon, hitting the ground as I run him out of the barn, arms out to catch him.
Several of the goons follow, standing over me thrashing around in the dirt while Corny lets off a final warning screech. He’s several inches away, circling me like an angry wrestler.
“I’ll give you till the count of three!” I roar, flinging my fists in his direction, then pulling them back.
Corny flaps his wings furiously, stabbing the air with his beak.
Grendal follows a minute later, the scotch bottle in hand, fully glued to the shitshow circus act I’m putting on.
“One.” I swing my arms at Cornelius just as I see a silhouette peeking around the corner of the storage shed.
Faulkner.
“Two!” I swoop my arms again, scooping up Cornelius this time, trying like hell not to get scratched to bloody pieces.
“I’ll make it up to you later. Do your worst, buddy,” I whisper to the rooster before shouting, “Three!”
I don’t even have to toss him, just turn him around.
Cornelius goes flying at Grendal like a bat out of hell, screaming so loud they’re holding their ears.
Or is it something more than damaged hearing they’re worried about?
I get my answer a few seconds later when three of the men go down, dropping their guns, clutching their stomachs in agony.
“Grace!” I scream, but she’s already taking cover, rushing to the other side of the barn.
