The Lies That Bind

34: Godfather Death

Smug bastard.

As he moved, his coat, unbuttoned, opened—revealing the gleam of a gun holstered at his hip.

An intentional flash. Calla stiffened, appropriately wary.

"Just a precaution," he said cheerily, taking note of her reaction.

You can lie better than that. Calla eyed the cheap silver chain around his neck, the flashdrive dangling in plain sight. "I see you have what I came here for." She dipped her hand in her front pocket and produced a black USB the size of her thumb. "Here it is. The last moments of Jeannette Michaels."

A muscle in his cheek spasmed. He closed the door behind him. "I see." She tracked his every breath as he moved around the couch, across the room and over to the grand piano in the corner, wedged between the windows and the door to the inspection room, cold and dark and empty, now that the funeral procession had moved on. "You must think I'm a horrible hypocrite."

"Pretty much, yeah."

He bent over the piano, head tilted curiously, and pressed a finger to one of the keys. A pure, sweet note hung in the air, suspended—before it guttered and died. "Lovely," he mused.

"Wow." Calla folded her arms, tucking the flashdrive against her elbow. "You've really got the whole creepy crazy asshole thing going for you right now. I'm impressed."

"And here I thought Cooper was the one with all the jokes." Michaels clasped his hands behind his back. Smiled at her from across the room. "You two make a cute couple."

"Is that really the only card you have left to play?" she asked dispassionately. "Cooper isn't here."

"Pity."

"Pity about your wife, too."

His left eye twitched. "That was an accident."

"Oh. So you accidentally bashed her over the head with a tire iron?" Calla pressed a hand to her chest. "Funny story. You see, I accidentally ripped your son's throat out with my teeth—"

He laughed. A high, cold sound. "Still running that mouth," he hissed, brushing back his coat, his hand coming to rest on the butt of his gun.

"What? You don't want to hear about your dear son's last horrific moments?" she asked, feigning surprise. "Well, I can tell you this. He made the strangest little choking scream when I bit down." She snapped her teeth together and shuddered. "Shame I missed the vocal chords, though. That boy was chatty."

"Bitch," he whispered, unholstering the gun. What little gray light that filtered through the front windows cast strange shadows on his face as he strode across the room.

Calla held perfectly still as he pressed the gun to her temple, the barrel longer than she remembered, and for one terrible moment she thought that this was not the gun from the safe, it couldn't be, but—but of course it was, and with that knowledge came relief. Michaels had only added an enhancement to his little toy.

A silencer.

"Give." The cold metal digging into her skin. "Me." His finger caressing the trigger. "The flashdrive."

She licked her lips. "Why the rush, old man?"

But of course, there was a rush. Maybe not for him. Calla, on the other hand—Calla had a deadline to keep.

She desperately wanted to check the time. Instead, meeting Michaels' unwavering gaze, she unwound her arms and held out her hand, the flashdrive nestled in her palm.