Feral Vengeance

Declan will die if he kills me. The community I belong to—my tribe—is strong and ruthless. Vengeful.

Consuela or Declan could kill me right now. I don't have a gun. Either of them could raise their weapons, aim, fire.

But they don’t want to and not just because they don’t want to die. They like me and, honestly, I like them.

Behind me, one of the drugged police officer’s radio crackles. I hold up a hand, silencing Declan’s response but I can’t make out the words.

Mulberry speaks into my ear. “They’re asking if one of the men can come down and assist. Apparently, the disturbance has turned into a bit of a brawl. You need to leave now. Plan B.”

The original plan, A, was for me to just stroll out of the hotel, walk to the helipad on the East River, where Robert Maxim offered to give me a ride over to New Jersey, dropping me off so I can board a trawler and head north up the Hudson.

Plan B means I’m taking the stairs to the service exit. That’s fine. But I need to go before someone comes to check on this situation.

“We’ve known each other a long time,” Declan says. He's still not making a point. Is Declan buying time?

“That doesn’t mean anything, trust isn’t linear, Declan.

His lips press together, Declan does not like that truth. “We won’t hurt you.”

I laugh again. “Declan, if there is one thing I trust, it’s that you won’t hurt me.” I give him one more grin before turning away into the shadowed living room. Blue’s nose taps my hip.

My long, warm overcoat with its big hood drapes across an over stuffed chair. My gaze tracks briefly to the police officers passed out on the couch. They each lean against an armrest, their legs spread wide, knees almost touching.

I swing my coat on, adjust my backpack over it, tightening the straps. Then I get the f*** out of there.