Page 111 of Tamed Enemy
Things are changing here
All good
Danilov no longer a problem
You and Nate can come home any time
She surprises me by writing back immediately.
Nate and I live in Indonesia now
Because we want to
Not because of any stupid Russian
Did you know they have monkeys here?
I think I like them even more than pandas
Come and visit soon?
I type as fast as I can.
I’d like that
A lot
Talk soon
And I add three hearts, because I know my sister will like that.
The sun has set by the time we arrive at the house where I grew up. It looks like a deserted castle, not a light on in the place. There’s no guard to stop us at the gate.
“Go on, then,” I say to the driver. “Use the keypad.” As I give him the six digits that haven’t changed since I was a child, I wonder what Cole would think about such a lapse in security.
Drew Cameron extends an arm across my body after I unlatch my safety belt. “Stay here,” he says. “We’ll go in first.”
I shake my head. “This is Lynch territory. I’m safe here.”
“We’re paid to guarantee that. Let us do our jobs.”
After I reluctantly agree, the two Sawgrass soldiers head for the porch. Before they reach the first step, a massive shadow detaches from the building. Both men train their weapons on the dark shape that settles into the form of a man.
The yoke is tall. He’s broad through the shoulders, like he spends his spare time chopping down trees. His hair is dark and his eyes too; in the moonlight, both look black. The planes of hisface might be handsome, if a jagged scar didn’t slice from his left ear to his chin.
“Robbie Malloy, I assume,” I say, as if I always find giants waiting outside my childhood home.
“Kaitlín Minola Lynch.” It’s the same rumbling voice I heard on the phone, the same Irish lilt, managing the vowels in a way no American ever gets quite right.
Taking his time descending the steps from the porch, he moves like a panther, his muscles rippling subtly under his skin. When he reaches the drive, he holds his arms out at his sides, like he’s showing he’s innocent, or maybe like he belongs on some wooden cross. “Let’s get this bit done,” he says, nodding to give the Sawgrass men permission to approach.
They frisk him with cool efficiency, taking extra time to check his hair, his belt, and the insides of his dark leather work boots. Malloy tolerates the attention like a patient getting jabbed with a vaccine.
“Clear the house too,” Malloy commands. “And then I’ll speak with Herself alone. There’s a woman tied up in the parlor. You won’t want to slip off her gag.”
He’s the one giving orders now, here in the heart of the Canton Crew. At least Cameron waits for me to nod acceptance before he sends in his men.
“That’s Mam you’ve got tied up?” I ask.
