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.
Mayhap Benloise was less than proud of the way he made his paper.
“We penetrate here,” Assail said softly, nodding to the plate-glass windows of a sitting porch.
Ghosting in through them, he re-formed in the interior, standing motionless as he listened for footsteps, a scream, a scramble, a closing door.
A glowing red light high up in a corner informed him that the security system was on and running—and the motion detectors hadn’t yet been triggered by their sudden appearance. The instant he moved? All hell was going to break loose.
Which was the plan.
Assail first knocked out the security cameras. Then he triggered the alarm by reaching into his pocket and pulling free a Cuban cigar—in response, that light immediately started blinking. And whilst it discoed along, he took his time lighting his smoke, fully expecting any number of thick-necked strong-arms to come racing in.
When that did not occur, he exhaled over his shoulder and strode forward, going throughout the first floor with the cousins tight on his heels. As he went along, he ashed on the Oriental rugs and the Italian marble tiles.
A little calling card in the unlikely event they didn’t meet up with anyone: Considering the retaliation the man thought appropriate for a statue’s reorientation, cigar debris was going to send the bastard right over the edge.#p#分页标题#e#
When he found nothing in the public rooms of the house, he headed for the servant wing and discovered an empty kitchen that was modern and utterly uninspiring. God, how boring—the gray-and-chrome color scheme was like the pallor of the elderly, and the sparse furnishings suggested decor was not a priority in spaces Benloise did not frequent himself. But more to the point, and as with the reception rooms, there was no scent from Sola’s presence nor that of gunpowder or fresh blood. There were also no dishes in any of the three deep-bellied sinks, and when he opened the refrigerator just because he could, he found six green Perrier bottles on the top shelf and nothing else—
A set of headlights washed across the windows, flaring in his face, casting sharp shadows among table legs and chair backs and stands of cooking utensils.
Assail puffed out a mushroom cloud of smoke and smiled. “Let us go out and welcome them home.”
Except the vehicle passed by the house and zeroed in on the outbuilding—suggesting that whoever it was had not come in response to the alarm being set off.
“Sola…” he whispered as he dematerialized onto the snow-covered lawn.