Although the roar of his bike wasn’t as loud as Outlaw’s, it didn’t mean he had stealth on his side. Seeing an upstairs light flicker on as he halted in the driveway of the Redding mansion came as no surprise. As he grabbed his kit from his saddlebag, the door swung open.
“Where’s my husband?”
Cash had met Charlotte Redding, on several occasions. In theory, he’d known her most of his life. Or women like her. For instance, his stepmother. Cassandra McCall had been a raving lunatic, driven insane by his father and her mother. Fuck, his step-grandmother. Helen Sanderson was a wicked old bitch, who he’d come to an uneasy truce with, for Georgie’s sake.
“Answer me, Mr. McCall,” Charlotte demanded, attempting to block his entrance.
“Let me inside and I’ll answer your questions. Ma’am,” he added, just to piss her off.
Tightening the belt of her silk robe, she glared at him. “I’ll call 911 and have them dispatch a unit immediately.”
“Then, call the funeral home, Charlotte. That’s where your husband will be.”
She lifted her chin. “What do you want?”
No bullshit, but he doubted that request would be fulfilled. “No more questions. Let me in. I’ll tell you what I think you need to know, then I want you to leave.”
“You must be out of your mind. I’m not leaving my house, especially on your orders.”
Cash brushed passed her, ignoring her outraged yell. He surveyed the high ceilings, wooden ladders, and drop cloths. Paint thinner and wood varnish would aid in the explosion.
The sound of a dial tone broke through his contemplation. “Calling Brooks?”
“No! The cops.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Get fucking dressed and put as much distance from this place as possible.”
Before Charlotte responded, the door opened and Brooks stumbled in. One of his jaws was swollen and discolored. He was ashen, as if he’d already seen a demon, and survived to tell the tale. His dazed gaze fell on Cash and fear crept into his eyes.
“Brooks!” Charlotte cried with panic, rushing forward, still gripping her phone. “What happened to you?”
“Ch-ch-charlotte,” he got out, from the side of his mouth, as if he couldn’t bear to speak in any other manner. “W-w-we h-h-have to l-l-le—”
“Leave,” Cash finished in a hard voice.
“I’m not talking to you!” Charlotte spat. “Now that Brooks is home, he’ll take care of you.”
Instead of agreeing with his wife, Brooks’ eyes widened in horror and he shook his head. Fed up with Charlotte’s attitude, Cash drew out his gun and aimed it at Brooks’ head.
Charlotte screamed and Brooks ducked, wrapping his hands around his head.
“Now that I have your attention, kiddies, you have ten minutes to get the fuck out. Otherwise, I’m tying you two together and attaching the explosives to your rope. Allow your blood and guts to sizzle in the fire.”
Her mouth opening and tears rushing to her eyes, Charlotte paled. She sobbed against Brooks.
“C-Cash, pl-please,” Brooks pushed out.
“Get your wife and leave while you still can,” Cash ordered without sympathy. Charlotte had been the impetus behind Kendall’s behavior and Outlaw’s extended jail time. Besides, he needed to vindicate Fee’s blackmail and Daphne’s death. “I’m losing patience.”
“Brooks.” Charlotte grabbed him and clutched him. “What’s going on? What happened to you? Why is he here?”
“Have more sympathy for your banged up husband,” Cash advised, returning to his study of the walls, flooring, and ceilings but keeping his weapon on Brooks.
Outlaw didn’t give a fuck how Cash brought the house down. Instead of going the easy route, Cash decided to amend his plan.
He cocked the hammer. “You like living, Brooks?”
“Pl-please,” Brooks begged on a sob.
“Do you, Charlotte?” Cash asked. “I can blow you the fuck away and not lose sleep over it.”
Cash moved his weapon from one motherfucker to the other and back again, pretending to consider who to shoot first before aiming it at Charlotte and firing over her head.
She screamed, and Brooks pulled her behind him, shaking and sobbing. “K-kill m-me. D-don’t h-hurt…”
He wasn’t sure if Brooks was stuttering from pain, fear, or a combination of both, and he didn’t give a fuck. Cash fired again. “Shut the fuck up,” he ordered, the report of the gun dazing Charlotte.
“She’s g-gotten the p-point,” Brooks yelled, sobbing wildly, right along with his wife. “D-don’t h-hurt h-her.”