“The French doors to the patio on the east side are wide open. Gimme a second.” A pause, and the low murmur of voices. Several moments pass before her voice echoes in my ear again. “Same on the other side of the house. Not French doors, but the ground-floor windows are open. I don’t trust it.”
Yeah. Even with the lack of security, leaving the house vulnerable is suspect as fuck.
Me, Corey, Crystal, and Murk crouch down on either side of the front door, waiting for Makeda’s signal to move. Impatience and a little unease crawl through me. This was supposed to be as clean and simple as Xavier’s. But it’s not shaping up that way, and it’s worrisome.
“Can you see anything?” Eli asks.
“Negative,” she says. “Too dark.”
I glare at the keypad next to the front door, running the information and possibilities through my head. “What do you suggest, Makeda? What’s the play?”
“Let me and my teams go in first and clear the house. If it’s all good, we’ll come to the front door and let you in. And, Eli, on my word, you enter through the mudroom.”
“Got it.”
Silence beats down our connection for the next ten minutes, and I can’t lie. Nerves twist my stomach in knots. Not because I don’t have faith in the skills of my enforcer and her teams. Nah, Makeda is the best at what she does. But something… call it sixth sense, instinct, or a primal sense of self-preservation… call it that warning of family being involved in the attempted hit… something crawls over my skin, leaving a slick trail of unease in its wake.
The sound of a lock disengaging interrupts my thoughts, and I stiffen, laser focusing on the front door. It slowly opens, and I draw my weapon, extending it toward the dark space,but Makeda stands in the entrance, wearing an inscrutable expression.
Though she doesn’t step back and allow me into the house, I still catch a glimpse of forms darker than the shadowed depths littering the floor behind her like Raid-sprayed roaches. Turning a questioning gaze back to Makeda, I arch an eyebrow.
“They’re all dead. Nah, I didn’t do it,” she adds, answering my next question. Not that I would’ve cared if she had handled it; that’s literally her job. There just hadn’t been any report of shots. But this did solve the mystery of the lack of security. Makeda briefly glances over her shoulder before returning her attention back to me. “If I had to guess, it was some kind of gas, maybe carbon monoxide. None of ’em have any signs of violence or injuries. And it would explain why the windows and doors are open.”
Finally, she shifts backward, and I step into the palatial foyer that is as familiar to me as my own home—maybe more so. About ten bodies sprawl across the gleaming black marble, and farther down the hall, a pair of booted feet protrude from a room. I don’t recognize the faces, but from the black shirts, cargo pants, and weapons riding their hips, I can only assume this is the missing security detail.
“This is some fucked up shit.” Corey whistles, moving into the house and standing to the left of me, his hand wrapped around the butt of his rifle. Shock covers his face, brightens his dark eyes. Shock and maybe a little bit of fear. I don’t blame him. I have no idea what the fuck we’re dealing with. “Like some Jonestown-drink-the-fuckin’-Kool-Aid shit. You think that’s what’s going on here?”
“No,” Makeda flatly says.
I tear my gaze away from the men and women, who almost appear to be sleeping, if not for their unnatural stillness, and look up at Makeda. She crouches next to one of the bodies, a younger guy with cornrows and piercings dotting his face.
“Why do you say that?” Again, not doubting her, but that “no” was so definite, without any room for argument.
“Because of what else we found,” Eli answers for her, striding down the hall from the rear of the house. His face, like my enforcer’s, is smooth, clear of emotion. But unlike Makeda’s indecipherable gaze, shock glistens in his. “It’s Deacon. He’s in his library.”
I don’t waste any more time talking. Stalking forward, I circle the bodies and head for the library. Within moments, I approach the cracked door and, without hesitation, push it open.
At first, it’s déjà vu.
Deacon, perched behind his wide, imposing desk like a king.
But then, stepping farther into the room, I realize that’s where the similarities end. Because Xavier had been alive. Deacon is dead as fuck.
“Gotdamn,” Crystal breathes, drawing to an abrupt halt next to me.
Yeah.
I walk closer and closer until the edge of Deacon’s desk presses against the front of my thighs. This close, the sight doesn’t change. Doesn’t become less gruesome.
I flinch at the black, empty holes that remain where his eyes used to be. His tongue, bloated and heavily veined, hangs outside of his mouth. Dark red, sticky fluid trails from nose and over his swollen lips. Deep, raw scratches—damn near gouges—crisscross his throat. And a glance down at his curled fingers on top of the desk reveal bloodstained nails.
This wasn’t an easy death. And it for damn sure wasn’t natural. I’m used to death, but this… this is on another level. I search inside me for some kind of sympathy for the man who I once respected. A little sympathy for the torture he must’ve endured.
Yeah, nothing. Fuck him.
The longer I stare at what used to be Deacon, the looser my chest grows. The lighter I feel. The harder it is to control the amusement swirling deep in my stomach and rising for my throat.
“What the fuck happened here?” Corey murmurs.