Ilona Andrews - Wildfire

It was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.

Frank dropped to his knees. I let him go. He collapsed facedown. I stumbled, groping for my gun. People were running toward us.

Leon dashed into the frame next to me, the Sig 210 in his hands. He raised it and fired. I thought it took only a second. It was more like two or maybe two and a half. He fired as fast as he could pull the trigger.

Eight people dropped as if cut. The rest turned around and fled for their lives.

Nobody said anything.

“One shot, one kill,” Mom said finally.

“You think he ranks around Notable, like your father?” Grandma Frida asked her.

Mom squinted at the recording. “That’s what, fifty meters between them?”

“He’s higher.” I got out my phone and showed Mom a picture of two of the bodies.

Her eyes widened. “Every single one?”

I nodded.

“What?” Catalina asked.

“He shot them all between the eyes,” Mom said. “Instant kill. He did it at a fifty-meter distance, rapid fire. He is at least Significant.”

Grandma Frida whistled.

Bern grabbed Leon and crushed him into what could’ve been an excited brotherly bear hug or a judo submission hold. It was hard to tell for sure.

“This is special, Leon,” Mom said. “You’re special.”

Leon turned red in the face.

“You’re choking him,” I told Bern.

Bernard let go.

“Are you going to register for trials?” Arabella asked.

“No,” Leon said.

“What the hell is wrong with this family?” Arabella waved her arms. “Why would you not register?”

“Because I don’t need to,” Leon said. “It’s better that I don’t.”

“Why?” my sister wailed.

“Kurt explained it to me.”

Mom looked at me.

“Ex–Navy SEAL,” I explained. “Rogan’s PTSD specialist.”

“Sometimes bad shit happens, and you have to protect the people you love,” Leon said. “It would be nice if you can do that and keep your hands clean, but life doesn’t work that way. Life is messy, and sometimes you must do what needs to be done to keep your family safe. It doesn’t make you a bad person.”

I’d have to thank Kurt.

“One day some other Prime will threaten our House, and when that day comes, I’ll kill him.”

What?

“I’ll do it quiet and clean, and nobody will ever know.” Leon smiled. “I’m going to be a dark horse, House Baylor’s secret. I’ll be the best assassin. A legend. They’ll never see me coming.”

I would kill Kurt. I would strangle him with my bare hands.

I stomped up the stairs to the second floor of Rogan’s HQ, where Heart and Bug waited for me. Napoleon saw my face and ran behind Bug’s chair to hide.

“Where is Kurt?” I growled.

Bug blinked. “I’m not sure I should tell you this information.”

“Bug!”

“Kurt is a valuable member of the team, and you have murder on your face.”

“What did he do?” Heart asked.

“He talked to Leon, and now my sixteen-year-old cousin has decided to be an assassin when he grows up.”

Bug pondered it. “Well, you have to admit it’s not a bad option for someone with his particular skill set.”

“Bug!”

“What else is he going to do? Competitive shooting?”

I looked for something to throw at him, but nothing was close.

“I doubt Kurt would suggest Leon become an assassin,” Heart said. “That’s not Kurt’s philosophy.”

“And, before you go on a warpath,” Bug added, “your dinner is in seventy-two minutes, so you’ll have to hunt Kurt down after your date with Garen.”

“It’s not a date.”

“Pardon me, your worship. I meant your business meeting in a romantic French bistro with a young single millionaire Prime for which you’re wearing a sexy pantsuit,” Bug said.

“I’m not wearing a sexy pantsuit, I’m wearing a run-away-fast-if-necessary pantsuit. For your information, I bought it at Macy’s, on sale, for two hundred dollars, because occasionally I have to do surveillance in the city and it makes me look like I’m on my way back to my cubicle. Garen Shaffer probably finds two hundred bucks when he empties loose change from his pockets.”

“Fine!” Bug raised his hands in the air. “I was wrong. What equipment are you carrying?”

“Why would I tell you that?”

“I just want to know if you’re packing good stuff or one of those cheap-ass ten-frames-per-second garbage cameras.”

“I’m a PI. Surveillance is my bread and butter.” Dad had always stressed the importance of good equipment, which was why I updated ours every year. “I’ll transmit live feed to Bern.”

“But I want to watch.”

“You can watch with Bern.”

“But my screens are bigger.”

I ignored him. “Where is Rogan?”

“Somewhere on I-10,” Heart said.

“I thought he said he would take a jet to Austin.”

“He did. There is a hailstorm and the planes are grounded. He’s driving back,” Bug said.

I really wanted to see him before the date. “Okay.”

“What precautions are you taking?” Heart asked.

“I’m bringing Cornelius, and he’s bringing Bunny.”

“Who’s Bunny?” Heart asked.

“Doberman.” Bug raised his hands, right hand above, left below, fingers curved and touching, imitating opening and closing jaws. “Teeth.”

“Molly’s Pub is in the same plaza,” Heart said. “Three of our people will be there. One of them is an aegis. How will they know if something goes wrong?”

“If I need help, I’ll cover the camera with my finger and hold it for a second. Bern knows what it means.”

“Good,” Heart said. “Then we’re ready.”

“I still say my screens are bigger,” Bug muttered.

I walked into Bistro le Cep at five to six. The reviews described it as cozy, quaint, traditionally European, and they didn’t lie. White walls offering French-themed art; white ceiling, crossed by golden pine rafters; large windows. Elaborate pine shelves showcased dark wine bottles. Rows of tables, each covered with a red tablecloth, topped with white linen, and flanked by padded chairs, offered comfortable seating. The stagecoach lanterns glowed softly with intimate light. The busy streets of Houston faded. It was like stepping into a different world.

The restaurant was two-thirds full. Cornelius sat two tables down from the entrance, on the left. Bunny discreetly lay at his feet. Normally, getting a dog into any restaurant in Houston would be out of the question, unless it was a service animal, but people made exceptions for animal mages.

A manager smiled at me. “Good evening. Mr. Shaffer’s party?”

“Yes.”

“This way, please.”

He led me around the pine shelves to a different section of the restaurant. Garen sat at an out-of-the-way table, engrossed in his menu. He wore a grey suit that fit him like a glove. His blond hair had that slightly tousled look that happened when you casually dragged your hand through a thousand-dollar haircut. He held himself with a quiet, effortless self-assurance; there was nothing flashy about him. When Rogan walked into the room, his presence punched you. He emanated danger. Garen emanated . . . I wasn’t even sure what it was. Charm seemed too smarmy to describe it. You just knew that this was a man who was perfectly comfortable in his own skin and sure of his place in the world. He was always where he was supposed to be, he wasn’t easily rattled, and if he showed up to a formal event in jeans and a T-shirt, they would let him in without a pause. He would still look elegant, and everyone else would feel horribly overdressed.

He raised his head. Our stares connected. Garen smiled.

Wow.

I bet he would order in French.