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“Wait on Smith.” He grabs my arm and I grab his shirt.
“Back off, Asher. I know him and we don’t need a bomb expert. We need me. Because this is personal, and a bomb isn’t Wes Casey’s style any more than a booby trap is. He wants to kill me after he kills Candace.” I release him and stride long and hard, adrenaline pumping through me.
“It’s personal,” he says, catching up to me easily.
“Yeah. It’s personal.”
“How personal, Savage? I’m going along with you on this, so tell me what I’m up against.”
“I killed his woman.” I round the corner, to Candace’s street.
“Holy Mother of Jesus. Why?”
“She needed to die,” I say, and that’s the truth. It’s not a kill I regret, not that I regret many. I don’t explain myself to Asher. If he wants to judge me a waste of air again, like he once called me years before, I don’t care.
“What did she do?” he asks, actually assuming I had good cause for the kill. Or he’s diplomatic. It’s another SEAL thing. So damn polite.
“Not in the mood to have this conversation,” I snap, approaching Candace’s house. “Stay behind. I got this.” I step onto the driveway and he follows. Damn fish face.
Once I’m at the front door I realize I don’t have a key. Asher motions to his phone and makes a call. “Code.” He listens and hangs up. “2255.”
I punch it in and open the door, entering the house without any hesitation, without fear. I then go exactly where Wes wants me to go. I charge into the master bedroom, and Asher is right on my heels, proof he trusts me more than either of us ever thought possible. Or he’s a fool. I don’t care which. I flip on the bedroom light and walk to the bed, where a note is stapled to a photo that sits next to a wet spot.
Anger prickles in every pore of my body to the point I barely contain a scream. I pick up the photo of Wes jacking off on the bed and read the note: She’s next if you don’t do your job. He means to kill Gabriel. I hand the damn thing to Asher. “A picture of the dick I’m going to chop off. I don’t plan to use my surgical skills. Just an ax.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Savage
I turn and walk into the bathroom, making my way to the closet, where I grab a suitcase and the start filling it with Candace’s things. She’s not coming back here. “What are we doing right now and how can I help?”
“I want her out of here.”
“What is Honest Gabe going to say about that?”
“Fuck Honest Gabe,” I say. “She’ll meet him at the event if I don’t kill the bastard first. He’s why she’s in this mess at all.” The suitcase I’m loading is now full. I grab another and start filling it. I have no idea what all I’m pulling off hangers. I just do it. I want her out of this house. “Right now, I don’t want her to have a reason to come back.”
Asher doesn’t question me. He just repeats, “What can I do?”
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve pulled into the driveway, loaded up the car, and when Asher intends to pull open the passenger door, I grab his arm. “I’m going to see Tag. Go protect Candace.”
“If you’re going to see Tag, I’m going with you.”
“If you go with me, you become a target. One that has to be eliminated before this is over.”
“You underestimate my skills, man, and my willingness to kill those who deserve to die.”
“Think about your wife.”
“Think about your future wife,” he counters. “If you’re dead, who’s going to protect her? Because let’s just face it, the asshole who jacked off on Candace’s bed can do your job for you. It doesn’t come with the scorned lover cover-up, but they’ll improvise.”
“You aren’t going with me, asshole.”
“Do you know where Tag is right now?”
I grimace. “No, fucktard, I don’t.”
“I do. Let’s go.”
“Fucktard,” I repeat, and release him, clicking the locks open before I round the Porsche 911. I climb inside and he’s already there. “Where are we going, you dumbass?”
He gives me the address and I reply with, “You’re going to end up dead.”
“I like you, too, Rick Savage. Now drive.”
***
Twenty minutes later, we pull into a residential neighborhood and Asher indicates a blue, one-story house shrouded in trees but not the midnight hour. The place is lit up and glowing like a sore thumb that I slammed with a hammer. “Looks like they’re expecting me,” I say, approaching the driveway.
“What’s the plan?” Asher asks.
“This,” I say, hooking it into the driveaway, slamming us into park, and with the engine running, opening my door. “Time to party.” I exit, drawing my favorite Glock as I do.
