Page 18 of Rough Road

“How?” Carr’s voice faltered until it was almost a groan.

All along, Grier had thought Carr killed Jez. But it must’ve been Sedotal. That Carr didn’t know it could work to his favor, at least until Carr pushed the knife hard enough into Fiona’s throat that a bloom of red appeared, and a small line of blood trailed down to her collarbone.

“I thought maybe you could tell me, but I guess I’ve been blaming the wrong guy.” He shrugged again. “Must’ve been him.” He jerked the gun toward Sedotal. Goddammit. He should’ve known it was Sedotal. A death like the one Jez endured had Sedotal’s prints all over it.

Carr stared at Sedotal. “You?”

Sedotal stared at his father. “She… I had to.” Carr pushed Fiona aside so that she landed on the floor. Then he lunged at Sedotal, knife poised to strike. Sedotal fired at the same moment Carr thrust the knife into his son’s neck. Fiona crawled toward the baby and Grier caught Carr as Sedotal shoved him away. Sedotal made for the door as Grier laid his father on the ground. Torn between staying with Fiona and catching that bastard, he looked down at his father and blocked all emotion. This was the same man who’d beaten his mother badly enough she’d had no choice but to hide him away in a foster care system where he was beaten and abused. In this moment, he couldn’t let anything in. Fiona needed him strong. Decisive. Ready to kill for her.

Fiona stayed by the baby, huddled in on herself, her body surrounding the baby’s chair as if to shield London from the ugliness in the room.

Grier shoved his Glock into his waistband and slid the other gun across the floor to Fiona.

She glanced up and spoke through gritted teeth. “Get Sedotal and kill that bastard!”

Grier ran from the room and before he reached the parking lot, he heard the shot and knew what Fiona had done. God, what they must’ve put her through. He watched Sedotal speed down the street and climbed onto a bike that belonged to one of the Omens. A BMW tricked out with a speedometer that went to 210 and by God, if he needed to, he’d push it that far.

He took off, through the back gate, weaving in and out of traffic, knowing if Sedotal got away he might never find him. Sedotal took a left. Grier followed. He weaved around a car and into the path of a truck, quickly back to his own side of the road and Grier stayed close.

The tracks ahead, with a train stopped over the crossing, gates down, wouldn’t stop either of them. Grier knew Sedotal’s next move and planned his. There would be a turn. A right toward the harbor, parallel to the tracks, between the train and the old rail yard where they kept the no longer used cabooses and empty cars. He would stay between them until he could cross into the shipyard at the harbor and try to lose Grier in the maze of trailers and freight. He was back to seeing three moves ahead and it made that same calm feeling settle in, gave him the confidence to speed up.

But Sedotal made the left, not the right. Took them toward the city, the alleys and side roads that would allow him cover and make killing him without risking other lives impossible. He pictured Fiona, broken, bruised, probably more damaged mentally than physically. The calm vanished and the rage surfaced, pushed Grier to a point of not giving a fuck about collateral damage. Sedotal would pay. Every Omen he found would die for what happened to her. He raced ahead and Sedotal turned onto a side road then again into an alley, wound between two buildings. He slid to a stop at the fence ending the throughway and whipped the bike around, aimed and shot. Could’ve been blood loss or just that the fucker had bad aim, but the bullet ricocheted off the brick building.

Grier wasn’t Evel Knievel. Wasn’t a stunt man. Wasn’t ready to die. He revved the bike again and took off. One of them was going to end up in hell. Now.

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God bless morphine and the painless bliss it gave Fiona. Three days worth of feeling nothing. And three days since she’d seen Grier. Hamilton, on the other hand, hadn’t left her side. They’d had to change London over to formula. She vaguely remembered hearing someone say that to her, vaguely remembered Hamilton helping her hold the baby. Everything was vague. Hazy.

She blinked her eyes. So dry. Tried to lift her head. Too heavy. With the drug, she felt weightless. Without them, she couldn’t move. And everything ached. No, not ached. Agonized. Tortured. Worse than the beatings.

“Ham.” She had said it. She was sure. But no sound came. “Ham.” She was screaming but still no sound. “Hamilton!” A tear slipped down her cheek and she tried to lift her hand to wipe it away but no matter how hard she concentrated, she couldn’t move. “Ham! Ham! Help me!”

He sat in the chair next to her bed watching the TV. Jesus. Was she even blinking? Was she alive?

She tried again to move, tried again to lift her arm. Her head. A foot. And nothing. Her fingers fluttered, wrapped around the lower rail on the side of her bed. She loosened them then gripped again, trying to make a noise so Hamilton would look at her, see her.

She breathed out as hard as she could. She tried for a wheeze or a whimper or a cry, but nothing came.

She closed her eyes but could see everything, every light, every machine hooked to her body. She could see London in a small bed by Hamilton. A nurse at the desk across from her open door. A window with moonlight streaming through. And she knew it had been three days because... she just knew.

The picture of her father sat beside the bed in her room. A picture of Grier next to it.

She was lying on her own pillow. In her own room. There wasn’t a rail, but a pillow supporting her broken hand.

“Ham.” There. A whisper. And he looked at her.

“Shit. Fiona.” He put his hand on her forehead. Even that gentle touch echoed through the cavern inside her skull. For such a big man his tears were normal size.

“Grier?”

“He... he’s... in jail.”

“Sedotal?” Every word cost her.

“In the wind. Cops got called for the shots. They got Grier on a gun charge. They found him with a Glock and a bike stolen out of Vermont.” He brushed her hair off her forehead. “His friend’s girl is coming to help. Don’t worry. Then you’re all getting out. He’s taking you somewhere safe.”

“Safe?” She couldn’t process. Jail. Gun charge. Vermont. Friend’s girl. She had to take it down to small phrases. Work her way through them one by one.