Page 5 of The Devil's Reward
“Sounds like a plan. Hopefully, they send us some good people, because we need a few.”
“We’ll get Cryos to run them, but I’ll give him a heads up on anyone so he can put that on the top of the list.”
With a solid plan, I’m feeling a hell of a lot better than I was last night. Some of my anger has dissipated, leaving mostly anticipation. Our mole’s days are numbered. The hunt that’s coming is going to make catching him that much sweeter.
And if he ends up with a few extra holes from Syn’s hellhounds? Even better.
FOUR
QUINN
Save me from headstrong five-year-olds.
“Macy,” I say with the very last of my patience, “stop that or I’m putting you in time out. Got it?” I rarely use that threat, so it’s enough to stop the tantrum in its tracks and have her look at me with an angry, but slightly worried, expression. If there is one thing about my daughter, it’s that she’s five, going on fifteen, and she’s headstrong to the core. She’s the kind of stubborn that makes me want to find a time machine and skip the teenage years entirely.
I don’t think I can handle what I know is coming. Not without a lot of wine, anyway.
Today is a professional development day at her school, which means Macy is with me at work. I don’t have anyone else to watch her, but thankfully, I’m a social worker at a private military clinic here in town. I can set my own hours and also bring her to work with me if needed. Today should be a quieter day and give me time to work with Macy on her homework between clients, but she’s not having it. Apparently homework on a non-school day is sacrilege, and she’s about to tell the devil himself all about the sins I’m committing, so he’ll send me straight to hell.
Too dramatic? Maybe, but right now, I don’t care.
“Yes, Mommy,” she mutters, still sounding defiant as she crosses her arms over her chest. “But it’s a day off. Why do I have to do work?”
“Because your teacher assigned you homework,” I answer patiently. “The sooner you finish it, the sooner you can do what you want.”
“Why couldn’t Parker come?” she pouts. Parker is her friend, a little boy in her class I watch when his mother needs a break. Lately, that’s been more often than not. Not that Parker is a bother. He’s a very sweet boy and absolutely no trouble at all.
“Because I’m only allowed to bring one person to work with me,” I answer as I grab her coloring book and crayons out of my desk drawer. “How about you color for a bit and we’ll try this again later?” I glance at my computer screen for the time. “I need to check on a client, okay?”
Macy’s eyes light up when she sees the coloring book. “Okay,” she says excitedly, all evidence of a tantrum gone as she takes them and immediately dives in.
“I’m just down the hall in the same room as before if you need me,” I tell her, though she completely ignores me as she colors. I roll my eyes and head out of my office.
Macy is the spitting image of me, right down to the green eyes and wide smile, but she has her father’s blonde hair and personality to a T. Even at almost six, she knows what she wants, and she reaches for it with both hands.
A pang hits me, but I push it aside. Thinking of Macy’s father never ends well, so it’s best to forget about it right now. I need to focus on the client I’m meeting.
I grab his chart and quickly review it. Being a social worker for Vets being thrust into civilian life is both rewarding and challenging. It’s nothing I ever thought I could do. Especially not after everything that happened.
No, no, I need to stop thinking about it and focus on helping my new client. He needs my entire attention, and everything else can wait.
I head down the hall to the waiting room door and open it, smile in place. “Mr. Owens?” I ask softly, as I look out into the mostly empty waiting room.
Slowly he looks up at me, and then stands, revealing how large he is. I put him at six-six with broad shoulders and chest, thick arms covered in tattoos, and long legs that end in a pair of biker boots. His face has a thick beard with silvery colored eyes that are completely void of any emotion. I know immediately that this is the last place he wants to be, but he doesn’t strike me as the dangerous type. Still, I’ll be careful.
“You’re the social worker?” he asks, voice dark and rumbling. He sounds more like a lion than a man, actually.
“I am,” I say, holding out my hand to him. “I’m Quinn Holt. Just follow me and we’ll get you sorted as quickly as we can.” Turning, I can feel him following me the entire way. For a big man, he walks quietly. When we reach the room I like to use, I open the door and step inside. One of the first things I learned with Vets was they don’t like others at their backs if they can help it, so I rarely ever ask them to go ahead of me into a room. “Please, have a seat,” I say as I step towards the two couches facing each other. “Did you want anything to drink?”
My nerves are bouncing in my stomach. I’m not naturally a social person, and actually horribly shy. But I have to be talkative for my job, so I force myself to take a deep breath and focus on my work, and pray I don’t make a fool of myself.
“No, thank you,” he says as he stiffly sits on the couch. “Look, Ms. Holt, I know you’re here to help me, but I don’t see how you’re going to.”
I don’t take offense at his words. I’ve heard them often, and sometimes more rudely put. I calmly set his file aside and look at him. “Mr. Owens—”
“Just Mack or Crypt is fine,” he interrupts.
“Which do you prefer?”
