The Wild Charge (Dartmoor Book 9)

Twenty-Four

"Oh, darling," Ian said with feeling, "I'm sorry," and Tenny found that his eyes were burning.

He blinked hard and said, "I have a name. And I need..." To kill him; to push my thumbs into his eyes; to take him apart bit by bit. "Information."

"Well, not to self-aggrandize, but you did come to the right person."

"Marshall Hunter. I need to know everything about him."

"Marshall Hunter," Ian repeated, memorizing it. "Give me twelve hours."

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Tennyson. Are you okay?"

Tenny thought about pouring all the ugly, black emotion sitting like a bomb in his chest out onto the desk, and down the phone line. Thought about saying I'm scared and I care too much, why does caring have to hurt? He said, "I will be when that bastard's six feet under."

~*~

The second time Reese moved to go after Tenny, Fox let him go.

And then wished he hadn't, had perhaps used him as a human shield instead, because Walsh pointed to him and said, "Outside."

"That sounds rather dangerous," Fox drawled, as he followed him through the house and out onto the front porch.

Walsh didn't speak again until he'd shut the front door a little too forcefully, and then the porch lights provided enough light to illuminate his ugly, Tenny-like snarl as he whirled on Fox. "Nothing's going to happen tonight. That would fuck up their plan."

Fox leaned a hip against the rail. "Oh, so you know their plan, now? Care to share?"

Walsh closed the gap between them, fuming. "Tonight was nothing but a psy-op for them, and you know it."

"Who's 'them', King? Abacus? This other guy?"

"It's all of them, it's – no, you know what, fuck you. Fuck you, Charlie."

It was an effort not to laugh. "Raven was right," he deadpanned. "You are drunk."

"Yeah, I fucking am. Ghost has been letting you run point on this, letting you play Secret Agent, and look where that got us. The whole city's going to wake up tomorrow" – he flung an unsteady arm toward the darkened pasture – "and think the Dogs have brought street violence right into the heart of downtown. None of us'll be able to get a cup of coffee without getting stared at. The bar's supposed to have it's grand opening in a few weeks, and who do you think's going to want to come drink at a place we very publicly own, huh?"

Fox folded his arms. "You're worried about the bar?"

"I'm worried," Walsh snapped, somehow bristling up even more, "that my wife and kid are going to get fucking killed because we pissed off the wrong people!"

There it was.

Fox straightened, and laid a hand on his shoulder – after which they both froze, because he'd never done that before. He shook off the surprise at himself and said, "I know you're scared about that. And I know none of this is ideal–"

Walsh took a swing at him. One that Fox easily dodged – and then watched Walsh stagger and catch himself against the rail, breathing in harsh, loud pants that steamed in the chill air.

All of Fox's amusement drained away. After Phillip, Walsh was the most responsible of all of them. The one with the stern looks, and the long-suffering eye rolls; the one who thought things through, and never indulged in impulsive, stupid reactions. The sane one – the sober one...usually.