Page 36 of Tamed Enemy
“Cole Plutus Wolf?”
A shudder runs down my spine, as if I already know what’s coming next. “Yes.”
“I’m Mara Baker, fromThe Financial Times.”
I wait, because I’m certain she’s not calling about my subscription.
And finally, she says: “I’m checking to see if you have any comment about a document that has just come into my possession. It’s a criminal indictment handed down by a grand jury thirteen years ago, charging you with seventeen counts of fraud.”
14
KATE
The snarl that fills the house makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. As I push back from my computer and run down the hall, I’m terrified of what I’ll find.
Cole stands behind his desk, shoulders heaving as he gasps for breath. His chair has been thrown onto its side, casters splayed like the legs of a dying spider. The shards of a plate spray across the foot of the wall, bits of egg and bacon splattered across glass that used to be a top-of-the-line monitor.
“What—” I start to ask as he throws his coffee cup. Another screen shatters. He grabs a steel cup of pens. “Cole—” I try again, but a third screen shatters.
He tears the landline out of the wall and hurls the receiver against yet another monitor. He sweeps a stack of paper onto the floor, sending pages flying. He rips a surge suppressor out of its socket and uses the strip to beat the edge of his desk. And all thewhile, he’s making that sound—half growl, half howl, the noise an animal makes chewing off its leg to escape a trap.
I reach out to take the surge suppressor from his hand, but he wields it like a bat. His anglepoise lamp goes flying, the lightbulb shattering when it hits the floor.
Nilsson has come running, and Anna too. They’re standing in the door as if they’re watching a wild beast escaping a cage. Nilsson bravely shields his wife, but they both duck for cover when Cole tears open his desk drawer.
The 44 Magnum he comes up with looks as long as a rifle.
I close the distance between us before he can aim the gun at one of the surviving monitors. I shout, “No!” as I close both my hands over his. It takes all my strength to lever the weapon to his side. “No,” I say again, my face pressed to his.
I’ve never seen Cole like this. He’s the poster boy for restraint. Every action he’s ever taken has been measured and calculated, calibrated and recalibrated before he makes a fraction of a move.
But now sweat streams from his face like he’s battling a fever. There’s an animal musk about him, thick and heavy. His shirt has twisted free of his waistband, two buttons have gone missing, and his trousers are splashed with coffee.
Still holding his hand—which continues to grip the revolver—I lean my body into his. “No,” I say a third time. “Let it go.”
I don’t know whatitis. I can’t imagine what has devastated his iron-clad control. I only know he has to set it aside before it destroys him completely.
My mobile buzzes in my pocket. I don’t shift a muscle—whoever is texting can wait. But Nilsson’s phone rings, a summons he stills in seconds.
Cole collapses against me. His hand shifts, and he gives up the gun. “It’s started.”
“What’sstarted?” I ask, taking most of his weight with my shoulder. I maneuver him back a step or two. Without my asking, Nilsson sidles into the room, turning the chair upright and wheeling it close enough to take Cole’s sagging body.
Anna’s phone rings. She’s slower to turn hers off than Nilsson was. Glancing at the screen, she frowns, and then she backs out of the room. “Wait,” I hear her say from the hallway. “Slow down. I can’t understand you.”
My phone chimes, the birdsong I’ve set for Breagha’s calls, the one tone I never allow to be silenced.
“Go on,” Cole says, and he sounds like Atlas, shifting the weight of the world. “It will only get worse.”
I tuck the revolver into the waistband of my sweats before I accept the call. “Breagha? Can it wait?”
“Poor Cole.” She sounds like she can’t catch her breath. “Is he okay?”
“He’s…” I don’t have an answer for that. “What happened?”
“You haven’t seen it?”
“Seen what?”
