Marc’s tail twitched, a play of shadows in the night, and something heavy thumped to the ground on my right, just ahead of us and out of my view. Marc’s eyes slid to the side, peering past me at whoever had dropped from the trees.
Miguel grabbed my left arm with his free hand, tightening his grip on my neck at the same time. He twisted backward and to the side, dragging me with him into the center of the path. From my new position I could see Marc on the left edge of my vision, his tail swishing along the ground slowly, angrily. Parker now stood on the path in front of me.
“Come out!” Miguel shouted almost directly into my ear, and I cringed away from the sudden deafening sound. “I know you’re all up there. If you want your tabby to live, come down now!”
While I watched, my left ear still ringing, Vic dropped onto the path fifty feet behind Parker, from Marc’s side of the woods.
“There are more, mi amor,” Miguel whispered, his lips brushing my hair. “Who are they?”
I shook my head as much as I could with my throat in his grip, refusing to answer.
“Who are they?” His fingers tightened, and my windpipe began to close.
Marc growled in Vic’s direction, and Vic stepped forward. “Lucas,” he said. “There’s only Lucas.”
“Lucas, come join us!” Miguel called, loosening his grip on my neck.
A moment passed in silence, then footsteps sounded from around a sharp curve in the direction of the cabin. Lucas stepped into view, walking slowly and carefully, as if afraid that any sudden movement would startle Miguel into killing me. Maybe it would have.
My heart jumped painfully as I watched him approach. Where’s Ethan? And for that matter, where was Anthony? But as soon as I thought the question, I knew the answer. Anthony was gone. His dying cry was what drew me outside. The Di Carlos had now lost their youngest son, as well as their only daughter, and it was my fault, because this had been my idea. My stupid, stupid idea.
“And the one in the house?” Miguel asked, stroking my cheek with his free hand. “The one who shouted your name?”
He already knew about Brian, so it would do me no good to lie. “Brian,” I called, but my voice came out hoarse, so I cleared my throat and tried again. “Brian, come on out.”
A soft, low-pitched growl met my ears, and I felt Miguel twist to glance behind us. Brian had Shifted. That’s what had taken him so long.
“Over there with your friends,” Miguel ordered, and Brian complied, growling as he eased past us to stand between Marc and Parker, just as Lucas joined them. “This is quite a gathering, but I can only think of one thing we have in common.” His free hand slid down my left arm, over my waist, and around my hip.
Marc stepped forward, still growling. The hand around my throat tightened even more, making my breaths short and shallow. “Get back,” Miguel ordered, and his voice made it clear why Eric and Sean had followed his orders. His was not a voice to be ignored.
But Marc stood his ground. His eyes were spheres of reflected light, focused just above and behind me.
“You wouldn’t want anything to happen to your tabby, would you?” Miguel adjusted his grip on my neck, his fingers forcing my chin up. He was no longer choking me. Instead, short, jagged fingernails dug into the skin to the left of my windpipe, his thumb mirroring them on the other side. He wouldn’t bother with breaking my neck now. He would just crush my throat. Or rip it out altogether. Of course, if he did, the guys would make short work of him. That wouldn’t help me though, would it?
Marc’s eyes flashed at me as if in apology, and he stepped back. But he never stopped growling.
“What do you want?” Parker asked, his voice taut with tension.
“Why ask foolish questions?” Miguel’s accent was crisp in my ear. “Ask me what happened to your other cat in the woods. Ask me where Sean is. Ask me where Luiz is. Ask how I got this deep into your territory without getting caught. But don’t insult your own intelligence by asking for answers you already have.”
Unperturbed, Parker tried again. “Where’s Luiz?”
“That’s better,” Miguel said, sounding legitimately pleased by the new inquiry. “Instead of answering, let me ask you a question.” He barreled on, without waiting for a reply. “Have you had any trouble with humans? Any women missing? Any bodies found partially consumed? Because Luiz has a…a taste, shall we say?” Delight resonated in his voice, and my chest tightened. He was entirely too happy with his word choice. “Yes, he has a taste for human women. He likes them young and pretty. And raw. And three days ago I sent him on a project in your territory.”
Project? Was he talking about the girl murdered in Oklahoma? Had Miguel ordered a hit on a human woman? Or women? Why?
Parker and Vic exchanged a glance. They knew about the human murders. We all knew about them. We just hadn’t known enough about Luiz.
“He’s a friend of yours?” Vic asked, stepping slowly toward the far edge of the path.
Miguel’s chin scratched my neck as he spoke. “My brother, and my business partner.”
“Who do you work for?” Lucas asked.
“We work for no one. We are…independent dealers.”
Independent dealers. Riiiiight. As if what he did could ever be defined by such a benign term.
Lucas frowned. “Who hired you?”
“Our client list is confidential.”
What the hell? Was Miguel under the delusion that grand phrasing made his business legitimate? Or honorable? Or valuable? As different as the U.S. Prides were from those in Central and South America, they did have a few things in common. Like strays. No matter how important Miguel thought he was, the truth was that he was a stray, a second-class citizen. His “clients” might be willing to let him do their dirty work, but they’d never invite him to their table. Never.
“Any idea where we can find Luiz?” This came from Parker.
“Follow the trail of bodies. Each time he fails, there will be a new one.”
That was enough for Vic. He didn’t care about Miguel’s cryptic answers. He didn’t care about Luiz and his human women. He only cared about getting me away from Miguel so he could avenge his sister and brother. “You know we won’t let you leave with her,” he said.
Miguel laughed against my cheek, and my skin crawled with revulsion. “You won’t let me leave without her, either, so I’ll take my chances with the bitch.” His tongue slithered into my left ear, and I tried to jerk my head away, but his grip on my neck stopped me.
“You want the truth?” Vic asked, his voice cold and hard with hatred. “You’re right. We won’t let you leave. But if you let her go, we’ll make it fast and easy. No pain. You have my word.” He paused, and I saw the lie in his eyes. He wanted Miguel to suffer, and he was not alone.
When Vic continued, I could barely hear him. “But if you touch her again, I swear we’ll rip you apart one piece at a time and show you the bits as they come off.”
Miguel laughed again, his chest shaking against my back. “I’ve already had my hands all over her. Haven’t you seen her face?” His right hand tilted my chin toward Vic while his left hand slid beneath Carissa’s halter top and across my bruised ribs. I hadn’t worn a bra because of the spaghetti straps, so when he cupped my breast, he touched bare skin. He squeezed, and tears blurred my vision. Not from pain, but from humiliation and the first infant flames of true rage.
I snatched his hand out from under my shirt, squeezing his wrist as I pulled. Bones ground together, and Miguel gasped. His right hand tightened around my neck, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe.
“Watch yourself, mi amor.” His breath teased my ear as I tried desperately to suck in one of my own. In my panic, I squeezed his wrist harder, almost horrified to hear a tiny crack as one of his bones fractured.
Miguel flinched but didn’t loosen his grip. “You don’t breathe again until you let go,” he whispered, nudging my earlobe with his nose. His nails bit into my neck, seconds from breaking through my skin.
Marc hissed and took a step forward, but there was nothing he could do until Miguel released my throat. So I let go.
Miguel’s left arm dropped out of sight, and his opposite hand relaxed around my neck. I drew in as much air as I could, fighting not to hyperventilate now that I could breathe again.
Marc’s tail whipped back and forth across the ground in warning, but Miguel didn’t seem to notice. “Is this your tabby?” he asked. “Are you the stray I smelled all over her? And I do mean all over.”
Marc growled and inched forward, but Miguel only chuckled, dismissing him for the moment to address Vic. “If this tabby belongs to him, which one was yours?”
Vic’s teeth gnashed together. He didn’t answer, but even in the poor light I saw the muscles of his jaw bulge.
“Well, since the big guy has Abby’s pretty, red curls, I’m guessing Sara meant something to you. That little kitty was something special.” His accent thickened as his words ran together. “Do you know she spit in my face? And bit me?”
Vic growled. It wasn’t the same sound Marc had made, because a human throat couldn’t produce such a low pitch. Still, it was a great approximation for someone on two feet.
“Each girl is special, of course,” Miguel continued, wrapping his free arm around my rib cage, heedless of his injured wrist. His thumb brushed the underside of my breast through the nightshirt, and I couldn’t suppress a shudder.
He liked it. Miguel liked forcing a reaction from me. He pressed me tighter against him, his breath brushing my neck. “Yes, they each have their own style. Some fight up until the very end, like your Sara. Or I guess she’s our Sara now, no?”
Fury flashed in Vic’s eyes, and Parker put a warning hand out to calm him. They were waiting for a shot at Miguel, and were clearly running out of patience. But then, so was I.
“Some are too scared to resist at all, but those are mostly the human girls. I think that’s why Luiz likes them. Then others—like little Abby—make a lot of noise at first, hissing, and crying and trying to crawl away. But once you get in one good thrust—” he rammed his hips into me, and I would have lost my balance if he hadn’t been holding me up “—they kind of give up, like there’s nothing left worth fighting for. And Abby was fresh. Untouched. Muy dulce.” Very sweet.
Lucas’s arms bulged as his huge hands curled into fists. His cheeks flushed in outrage.
Marc slipped silently forward while Miguel was focused on Lucas, but Miguel caught the movement, even on the edge of his vision. “Uh-uh,” he said. “Don’t come too close. I don’t want to have to break your tabby’s neck. At least not before I’m done with her.” He slid his free hand down my stomach and beneath the low waistband of my borrowed pants, careful with his injured wrist. His fingers hovered just above my pubic bone.
My hands clenched around material from the sides of Carissa’s pants, and I took shallow breaths, afraid the slightest movement of my stomach would nudge his hand farther down. Only the memory of fighting to breathe kept me from removing his hand myself.
“She and I have unfinished business. Don’t we, mi amor?”
Yeah, I thought. Your death.
His grip forced my chin even higher as his lips brushed my ear. “But I tell you what,” he said, now speaking to Marc. “If I don’t like my free sample, I’ll return her. Used, of course. But then, we strays are accustomed to secondhand goods, aren’t we?”
If Miguel thought he could bait Marc with jabs at his heritage, he was wrong. Marc had long since developed emotional calluses, and remarks like that didn’t even faze him. But sticking a hand down my pants did.
Marc hissed, arching his back as his tail swished furiously. He took several gliding steps toward us, his fur glistening in a beam of moonlight shining through a hole in the clouds. He leapt to one side and landed gracefully on all four paws, several feet from the guys on the path.
Miguel turned toward Marc, now keeping all five of them easily in view.
I stared at Marc, confused because his movements seemed pointless and panicked, like a hostage dancing during a bank robbery. But his eyes never left mine. He was up to something. We had come to a standstill. Miguel wasn’t going to let me go, and they weren’t going to let him take me. So something had to change.
“Skittish, kitty?” Miguel asked, chuckling at what he mistook for nervous indecision on Marc’s part. But Marc never did anything without a reason, even if no one else understood his motive. What the hell was he doing?
Marc hissed again, showing off long white canines, both top and bottom. His ears flattened against his head as his whiskers arced forward. Leaves crackled as he pierced them beneath his claws. He was posturing, doing everything he could to keep my attention.
No, wait. Not my attention. Miguel’s. He was trying to distract Miguel, but from what?
“One move and she’s dead,” Miguel said, finished playing now that Marc clearly meant business. He pulled his hand from my pants and wrapped it around my upper arm, just beneath my shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise, in spite of the pain it must have caused him.
Marc hunkered against the ground. He grew absolutely still, moving nothing but his eyes. He was watching, waiting for the opportunity to pounce.
Marc’s tail twitched. Miguel’s right hand clenched around my throat. His fingernails sank into my skin with an eerie popping sensation, followed immediately by sharp pain and darkness on the edges of my vision.
But his grip loosened almost immediately, and I could breathe again. It had been a spasm, I was almost sure of it. Marc had spooked Miguel, whose hand inadvertently clenched around my throat. It was good to know Miguel wasn’t impervious to fear, and that he wasn’t ready to kill me yet. But if Marc pushed him too far, he might do it anyway, by accident.
And dead by accident isn’t much different than dead on purpose. They both look pretty much the same in the end.
Blood trickled down my neck, pooling in the hollow above my collarbone. The smell was sharp and immediate. Marc’s whiskers wiggled as he sniffed. He smelled my blood.
A moment of stillness enveloped us as Marc and Miguel faced off, neither moving or making a sound.
Leaves crunched behind me. At first I thought Miguel was shuffling his feet, but then someone panted. Someone close to the ground. Marc’s distraction had worked.
Miguel froze. His head moved away from mine as he turned, trying to look over his left shoulder. He couldn’t do it without turning his back on everyone else, but that didn’t matter anymore, because he was surrounded.
The growl began behind me, deep and soft. It rose in a rapid crescendo, ending in a roar of fury that was both familiar and terrifying. It was familiar because it was Ethan, and terrifying because he was enraged.
Miguel whirled us both around, heedless of the un-Shifted cats now that they were clearly the lesser threat. He stiffened against my back and I heard his heart race. He was finally scared. And as his confidence faded, his concentration began to slip, just as it had in the basement cage.
My own pulse sped up. I was going to get a shot at him. I could feel it.
“Nice kitty,” Miguel whispered, backing us slowly away from Ethan. His head whipped to the right, then back to the left. He was dividing his attention between Marc, Brian, and Ethan, which left little to focus on me. Perfect.
I glanced at Marc, trying to communicate with him through my eyes. His ears perked up. He knew I was trying to tell him something, but that was as good as it was going to get. As long as I’d known Marc, I’d known Ethan longer.
My fists clenched and unclenched at my sides as I shifted my focus to my brother. I blinked at him twice, resurrecting a signal we’d established as children. He blinked back once. He understood. Just to be safe, I did it again. Again he returned the signal. He would wait for my move. He was ready.
“Open the gate,” Miguel said.
What gate? I thought, searching behind Ethan for something I’d missed.
“Open it now, or I’ll bite off her ear.” Miguel’s teeth sank into the top of my left ear and I flinched as he tugged.
Marc nodded to Vic, who took off down the path at a jog, moving quickly out of my sight. Metal screeched behind me, and I understood Miguel’s demand. The fence had a gate. Why on earth had I jumped over the fence if there was a gate?
Miguel let go of my ear. “Now go stand by your cat. The stray.”
Marc nodded at the edge of my vision, and Vic’s footsteps drew closer until he walked into sight and past us. Without taking his eyes from Miguel, he stopped beside Marc, fists clenched, arms bulging, and teeth grinding.
“We’re going to back slowly toward the house, and if any one of you gets heroic, I’ll tear her head off,” Miguel said. I didn’t think he could actually carry out such a threat in human form, but even a good attempt would be enough to finish me off, so I kept my opinion to myself.
Miguel tightened his already bruising grip on my throat. I sucked in short, desperate puffs of air. He took a step back, dragging me with him. Gasping, I stumbled. He pulled me up by my neck, completely closing my throat for one terrifying moment.
Adrenaline scorched through my veins, urging me into action. I couldn’t let him get me into the house; I knew what would happen then. He’d lock the door, knock me out, drag me to the van, and take off.
I was not leaving with Miguel. Not again.
He took another step, and another. The guys watched us go, inching forward with us but not daring to charge while Miguel had me by the throat. Ethan drifted slowly to one side, his fur blending with the darkness of the encroaching forest. Several torturous minutes later, Miguel and I were only feet from the fence. I could see it in Vic’s face. In moments, I’d be out of reach. I had to do something, and I had to do it now.
The slant of Miguel’s head told me he was watching Marc and the guys instead of Ethan. I gave my brother a short nod. He nodded back.
Seize the day, I thought. But what I actually seized was much more painful—for Miguel.
I grabbed one of the fingers around my throat with my right hand and his crotch with my left. I jerked back with my right hand and squeezed with my left. Miguel howled into my ear an instant before I felt, rather than heard, his finger snap.
Ethan raced toward us, pausing several feet away.
Miguel’s still-functioning digits dug into my throat. They reopened the wounds on my neck, cutting off what little air I was receiving.
Desperate to breathe, I broke two more fingers. Miguel’s howl rose in pitch, sounding remarkably like a cat’s screech. I squeezed his crotch tighter, and felt something pop. His shriek rose into tones beyond the human range of hearing. And finally he let me go.
I threw myself onto the dirt path, gasping for air. Ethan pounced, his fur indistinguishable from the night as he leapt over me. Moonlight flashed in his eyes. Miguel’s keening ended in a wet gurgle. Metal crunched and squealed as Ethan drove him to the ground, flattening a lengthy section of the chain-link fence.
For a long moment, I lay still on my stomach. I gulped air through my mouth, gorging like a half-starved child at a banquet. Every breath hurt, like swallowing fire. My neck felt thick and slippery, and I kept touching it to find out what was wrong. It was slick with blood. My blood. Other than that, it felt okay from the outside. On the inside, my throat hurt like hell.
But it was over. Finally, it was all over. We had him, and once we had answers, Miguel would find out how the American Prides dealt with their enemies.
A hand appeared in front of my face. Glancing up, I saw Vic’s face clearly in the moonlight. I took his hand and he hauled me to my feet. Wrapping my arms around his chest, I clung to him, glad to share my simultaneous grief and relief with someone who clearly understood. He hugged me, rocking me gently. I knew he was thinking of Sara.
“Do you want to watch?” Vic asked, lightly stroking my hair.
“Wha?” My voice came out creaky, like I had laryngitis.
He turned me around gently, slowly, and leaned down to whisper into my ear. “They’re going to do it now. Do you want to watch?”
Miguel lay on the ground, not three feet away. Marc stood next to him, his muzzle hovering over the jungle cat’s belly. Ethan sat by Miguel’s head, his open mouth inches from the criminal’s throat, where blood ran from four deep puncture wounds, one set on each side of his Adam’s apple.
“No!” I croaked, still clinging to Vic as I stared at Miguel in horror. As I watched, his body shuddered, his legs convulsing. “They can’t do it yet.” I shifted my gaze to Marc, who was already watching me. “You can’t do it yet. We have to question him. We need to know where Luiz is, and who hired them.”
Marc shook his head slowly. Deliberately.
“What? What’s wrong?” I asked, twisting to look up at Vic.
“His throat’s crushed.” Satisfaction and regret battled for control of his expression. “He can’t talk. He’ll be dead soon anyway, but he deserves to suffer before he dies. If they’re going to do it, they have to do it now. In a few minutes, it’ll be too late.”
I turned back to the man on the ground, studying his neck carefully in the moonlight. Vic was right. His throat was dented and misshapen. I wasn’t sure how he was even breathing.
Miguel stared up at me, blinking in fear, and I returned his gaze. There he was, the man who’d taken me from my home and beaten me senseless for fighting him. The man who’d killed Sara and left her disfigured and exposed for her brothers to find. The man who’d stolen Abby’s innocence and ruined her life.
Now he lay helpless in front of me, his eyes were wide with comprehension. He must have known it would end this way. There was really no other possibility.
“Do you want to watch?” Vic asked again, and Marc turned to look at me, waiting for my answer.
Sara’s face flashed in my mind, blue eyes shining at me from within my own memory. I saw Abby, bruised, violated and psychologically scarred. I nodded. I did want to watch. He deserved it. I’d earned it.
Lucas and Vic had wanted a shot at Miguel, but there wasn’t time now to beat him to death. Since neither of them had Shifted, the honor went to Marc and Ethan. They shared the kill. We all watched.
I’d grown up with the Pride. I’d eaten more fresh deer than birthday cake, but I’d never seen anything like Miguel’s death in my entire life. There wasn’t time for prolonged and excruciating, which had been the plan, so the guys settled for just plain excruciating. And disgusting.
Marc roared in victory, standing over the body of his enemy. The sound was triumphant, and aggressive, and primal. It triggered instinctual longings in my own heart, and made my inner cat beg for the privilege of roaring alongside him.
When the last glorious note faded into the forest, Marc growled and swiped one claw across Miguel’s stomach.
Miguel’s spine bowed, pushing him off the ground as he gurgled and bucked against the pain. Lucas stepped on his fractured left wrist and Parker stood on his right, pinning him down. Four stripes appeared in Miguel’s shirt. Blood poured from the wounds, soaking the material almost instantly. The reddish-black rivulets ran over, flowing to nourish the dirt path with his life force.
Marc stepped back, and Ethan took a turn, crossing the fresh wounds with four stripes of his own, at a ninety-degree angle with the first four. It was disturbingly neat, yet undeniably revolting. Miguel jerked again and moaned, choking on his own blood.
Marc tore into Miguel’s stomach with his teeth, ripping away shirt and skin together. He dropped the hunk of flesh on the ground beside his victim. It reminded me, in a very surreal way, of my own aversion for chicken skin.
Ethan ripped away another chunk, dropping it on Miguel’s other side. They wouldn’t consume a single bite. They weren’t man-eaters, and Miguel wasn’t a meal. He was prey of a different sort. He was a threat eliminated.
I was okay until Marc used his teeth to tug Miguel’s intestines from his gaping stomach. But that was all I could take; I’d had enough of torture and revenge. Vic held my hair while I threw up. I heard him talking to the guys over my back. “Wrap it up. I think she needs to rest.”
Rest. Yeah, that’s what I need. More like shock therapy. I needed to forget the last two days. Have them wiped from my memory altogether. There wasn’t room in my brain next to the complete works of Shakespeare for Marc’s top five ways to torture your enemy before finally letting him die. I didn’t want to have dreams of my boyfriend disemboweling anyone, even Miguel.
“Get me out of here,” I whispered.
“What?” Vic leaned toward my face, his gaze still focused on the spectacle behind me.
My fist clenched around a handful of his shirt. “You heard me. Get me out of here. Now.”
“Faythe…”
I stood up straight, wiping vomit from my mouth with the front of Carissa’s shirt as I looked into Vic’s face. His eyes begged me to let him stay. He was crying, and pleading with me not to make him leave until Miguel exhaled his last tortured breath.
“Just put your head on my shoulder and close your eyes,” he said, trying to draw me into his arms. I stepped back, refusing. Behind me I heard more gurgling and a slick, sliding sound I had no desire to identify.
“Why would you want to watch this?” I asked Vic, swallowing the bile rising in my throat.
He looked at me with unbearable pain and confusion, as if I shouldn’t need to ask. “Because this is what he did to her. He violated her in life, then he mutilated her in death. Now he’s paying.”
Oh. I couldn’t argue his point, but neither could I watch.
Parker took my arm. “Come on, Faythe, I’ll take you inside.”
I met his eyes and saw in them what I wanted to see in Marc’s but knew I would never find. Parker didn’t want to watch it either. He didn’t want any part of it.
He steered me past Brian, who stood watching in fascination, then around Miguel and the cats, and helped me over the chain-link fence, just to be polite. Ethan had flattened an entire section of it, so I only had to walk across a length of mangled metal. Parker stayed to my left the whole time, keeping his body between me and the sight I would never forget, no matter how hard I tried.
Inside, I took a shower in the downstairs bathroom. I stayed in until the water ran cold, trying to scrub away every last molecule of Miguel’s scent. When that was gone, I tried to wash away my memories. But they were sticky little bastards, clinging to me like an emotional odor, no matter how many times I lathered and rinsed.
When I finally stepped out of the shower, Parker was waiting with the clothes he and Abby had bought that morning. I couldn’t believe it was even the same day, but a glance at the clock showed me that no matter how long each minute as Miguel’s hostage had felt, time continued to tick by at its normal rate. Time was the great constant, eternally measuring my life in the ticks of a hundred second hands, the tocks of a thousand pendulums. It portioned my life into good times and bad times, the former too short, and the latter too long.
And now it told me that less than two hours had passed since we’d pulled into the Taylors’ driveway. It was ten-thirty. I’d showered for nearly half an hour.
Parker and I sat at the bar in the kitchen, drinking Mrs. Taylor’s gourmet coffee, with imported French cream. It was the middle of June, and I was wearing full-length jeans, but I couldn’t stop shaking. I’d added a purple neck and four fresh puncture marks to my assortment of bumps and bruises. I felt about as attractive as Frankenstein’s monster. And almost as well loved.
“Shouldn’t they be done by now?” I asked, not sure I really wanted to hear the answer.
“They are,” Parker said. “They’re cleaning up.”
“Oh.” That made sense. I wondered how one went about cleaning up a disemboweled body but was afraid that if I asked, he’d actually tell me. I didn’t want to know that badly. But there was something else I did want to know. “Was it Anthony?” I asked, cradling the mug in my hands for warmth.
Parker’s eyebrows arched into matching question marks and he opened his mouth, clearly intending to ask what I meant. Then he took a good look at my face and decided I deserved better. He knew what I meant.
“Yeah, it was.” He stared down into his coffee, as if hoping to read the future from a cup of tea dregs. “Anthony’s gone, and so is Sean. Marc filled me in while you were showering.” Parker told me what he knew, and—true gentleman that he was—he gave me the G-rated version out of respect for my exhaustion and encroaching shock.
They’d come at us from the north, Sean on four legs and Miguel on two. Sean pounced on Anthony from a nearby tree branch, knocking him to the ground. Anthony only had time to make a single sound before he died, but without his dying cry as warning, Marc might not have known he was in danger until it was too late.
Marc took Sean out in silence, utilizing years of training and experience. But his effort was wasted on Sean, who made no move to defend himself. By all appearances, he was ready to die, and Marc believed Sean attacked Anthony mostly to secure his own fate. Marc was going after Miguel when I came between them, blocking Marc’s pounce and nearly getting myself killed.
I listened with my mug still cupped in both hands, thankful suddenly that Marc was around to do what I wasn’t willing to do. If my training involved any of what he’d done to Miguel, I would have to find a way out of my promise. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t.
An hour later, everyone had showered and dressed, and no one said a word about me using up all the hot water.
They’d wrapped Miguel’s body and its various detached parts in a sheet of black plastic from the garage. Lucas taped up the bundle with his ubiquitous duct tape and tossed Miguel into the back of his own getaway van, which Vic had found parked down the road. Sean’s body got the same treatment.
They took far more pains with Anthony, wrapping him carefully and positioning his limbs as if for comfort. But he had to go in the white van, too. Rule number four for cleaning up at the site of an incident: carry all dead bodies in one vehicle so that if both cars get pulled over, fewer people will be caught with corpses. That was also why no one traveled with the bodies except the driver, who, in this case, was Lucas. Vic wanted to do it, to be with his brother, but Marc and I both vetoed his decision. He seemed to be holding up remarkably well, but at some point his grief would sink in, and he shouldn’t be behind the wheel when it did.
After inspecting the scene of the incident one last time—out of habit more than necessity—Marc pronounced us ready to go. Someone had redistributed a pile of leaves to cover up all evidence of violence, including my vomit, and Marc assured me that the first good rain would take care of anything they missed. Then he assured me they didn’t miss anything.
Unfortunately, the chain-link fence was history. Daddy offered to pay for it, but the Taylors refused his money. They said a fence was a small price to pay for securing their daughter’s safety and ridding us all of the men responsible for so much trouble. I thought the term trouble was a bit of an understatement, but the Taylors saw no reason to complicate things with the truth.
And, really, who was I to judge?