The King(20)

And that was it.

As his brain began to short out again, his vision closed in on Beth until all he saw was her face.

For no good reason, he felt like he hadn’t seen her in a year or two. And the significance of her features, the big blue eyes, the dark lashes, the long dark hair … resonated in his chest.

Not romantically, no.

This was something else entirely—and yet just as powerful.

Too bad he couldn’t hang on to consciousness any longer to figure it out.

“We are ready.”

As Assail finished his second line of cocaine, he straightened from his granite countertop and regarded his cousins: Across the kitchen of his glass house on the Hudson River, the two of them were dressed in matte black from head to foot. Even their guns and knives didn’t catch the light.

Perfect for what he had planned.

Assail screwed the top of his vial shut and tucked the stash into his black leather jacket. “Let us go, then.”

Leading them out the back door by the garage, he was reminded of why he’d brought them over from the Old World to Caldwell: Ever prepared and never questioning.

In that regard, they were exactly like the autoloaders they carried upon their able bodies night and noon.

“We’re going south,” he ordered. “Follow my signal.”

The twins nodded at him, their perfectly identical faces composed and grim, their powerful bodies prepared to uncurl and dispatch whatever was needed for any situation. In truth, they were the only ones he trusted—and even that pledge, grounded in their communal blood, wasn’t an absolute.

As Assail pulled a black mask over his face, they did the same—and then it was time to dematerialize. Closing his eyes to concentrate, he regretted the coke. He hadn’t really needed the buzz—considering where they were going, he was amped up more than enough. Lately, however, doing the powder was akin to pulling his coat on or holstering a forty under his arm.

Rote.

Focus … focus … focus …

Intent and will coalesced a heartbeat later and his physical form fragmented into a loose association of molecules. Zeroing in on his destination, he clouded toward it, sensing his cousins traveling through the night skies with him.

In the back of his mind, he recognized that this excursion was out of character. As a businessman, life for him was calculated on the basis of ROI: everything he did was predicated on a return for the investment made. Which was why he was involved in the drug trade. Hard to have better margins than selling black-market chemical products to humans.

So, no, he was not a rescuer; he was the anti– Good Samaritan. And when it came to vengeance? Any he wielded was on his own behalf, never another’s.

Exceptions were going to be made in this case, though.

His destination was an estate in West Point, New York, a venerable old stone house that was set back on acres of lawn. Assail had been on the property once before—when he’d been following a certain burglar … and watched her not only break in through a very viable security system, but traipse throughout the mansion without taking a goddamn thing.

She had, however, pivoted one of the Degas sculptures about an inch out of position.

And the consequences for her had been dire.

Things were, however, going to be reversed.

Violently.

Assuming form at the lowest corner of the vast front lawn, he masked himself in the line of trees that bordered the estate’s far edges. As the cousins materialized next to him, he recalled that first trip here, picturing Sola in the snow, her white parka blending in as she cross-country skied up toward her target.

Simply extraordinary. That was the only way he could describe every single thing about the woman—

A proprietary growl rose up deep in his throat—one more thing that wasn’t like him a’tall. He rarely cared about anything other than money … certainly not about females, and never, ever about human women.

But Sola had been different since the moment he had caught her scent as she’d trespassed on his own property—and the idea that Benloise had taken her? From her home? Where her grandmother slept?

Unacceptable.

Benloise was not going to live through this choice he had made.

Assail began to stride forward, measuring the landscape with his sharp eyes. Thanks to a bright, winter moon, it might as well have been daylight as opposed to two in the morning—everything from the eaves of the house to the contours of the terraces to the outbuilding in the back clearly visible before him.

Nothing moved. Not around the exterior nor past any of the darkened windows of the house itself.

Closing in, he proceeded around to the back, reacquainting himself with the layout of terraces and floors. So old money, he thought. So established. As un– drug wholesaler as one could get.