Page 110 of When the Smoke Clears
My grip tightens. “You’re a goddamn sociopath.”
“No, Luke.” Even choking, his eyes burn with fanatic certainty. “I’m a realist. I do what it takes to win. You’ve always been too weak for that.”
“Did you kill Gretchen Tanner?”
His gaze sharpens. “Her death was…unfortunate.”
“What did she have on you?”
“In my world,” he says, voice cracking as he fights for breath, “accidents happen.”
My stomach churns. “And me? Why was I supposed to die?”
Something flickers in his eyes—regret, fear, or just the moment he calculates a new lie.
“You were never supposed to get hurt, Luke. But you just had to keep digging. I never wanted it to come to this!”
“You were fine up until my murder? That’s where you draw the line, huh?”
“Walk away, Luke,” he whispers. “Let me fix this. They’ll leave you alone. I can reason with them.”
They. The word strikes cold.
The weight of my gun drags at my hip, but I don’t reach for it. Not yet. I want answers more than I want justice.
“Who are you working with? Why are you tied to Ares?”
At the name, his mask fractures. His skin drains of color.
“Ares is not someone to challenge,” he snaps, not in anger, but fear.
“Was he here? In this office?”
I realize too late he’s slipping—his eyes glazing, knees starting to buckle. My grip has turned vicious without me meaning it to. I rip my hand away.
Nathaniel folds forward with a strangled gasp, both hands flying to his throat. He coughs and chokes, spit stringing from his lips as he drags in desperate, broken breaths. His shoulders seize and shudder, the sound of him fighting for air sharp and ugly in the room.
For a moment, he looks less like the man who’s orchestrated half my nightmares and more like something wounded and cornered.
I step closer. “The person listening outside your office at the party—is that who wanted me killed? Someone who overheard me asking questions?”
“I’m begging you to stop asking questions, Luke. Just go back to handling small, mundane crimes and leave my business alone.”
“What are you scared of?” My yell of frustration bounces off the polished floors.
“If you had a clue,” he roars, “you’d be scared too!”
He lunges.
Not with the precision of a fighter, just the raw, reckless violence of a man who sees no other way out.
He swings toward the gun case. I intercept him, shoving him sideways. His shoulder slams into the desk, sending papers and a crystal pen set crashing to the floor.
He recovers faster than a man his age should. His fist cracks across my jaw, snapping my head sideways. Pain explodes through my skull, stars bursting in my vision.
I stagger.
He doesn’t hesitate. He shoves me hard, driving me back into the edge of the oak desk. My gun slips from its holster, skittering across the floor and disappearing under a chair.
