53. Vaughn

Chapter 53

Vaughn

" Y ou know that thing I told Garrison I wouldn't do? Well, I'm doing it. Come on. I need your help in the computer room." I push myself to my feet, my chair legs scraping along hardwood floors.

"Vaughn?" Frost calls after me as he trails me from the kitchen.

I give the staircase a long look as I pass it. Resa is upstairs in a spare room. So is Garrison.

If Resa had wanted to go to a free heat clinic, we'd have taken her and spent the next four days camped outside watching the door of her suite to make sure no one stepped foot in it.

We'd have kept her safe .

But after an alpha abducted her from a heat clinic, I'm not surprised she chose Garrison. It's a choice she shouldn't have had to make, and the thought has been pissing me off with each passing second. Time to do something useful with this anger.

"Vaughn." Frost grabs my arm and I swing around, glaring.

"It's not safe, and yes, I fully accept all the blame Garrison levels our way, but?—"

"You're walking too slow. Move." Frost nudges me aside. "Also, you type like an old lady."

I hide my relief that I don't have to waste time trying to convince him this is the right thing to do as we head for the computer room.

Roman is watching Everleigh's mother. Blaine is at Frost's house, and I don't know what his head is going to be like after this, but not good. Lex is with Marie since none of us wanted him around if shit hit the fan at the house, so it's just me and Frost.

I'd gotten used to seeing Resa at the computers. When Frost swings the door open, revealing an empty room, I get angry all over again.

She was supposed to be safe here, and some prick scales a tree and hits her with drugs so strong it triggers her heat.

"Why'd you think he did it?" Frost's fingers fly over the keyboard. "The drug and not a bullet."

"She killed Nathaniel Lang's son," I say.

If he could make a shot like that, from a tree on the main road, about five miles away, he could have put a bullet in her head. Killed her. Easily . Instead, he gives her a drug that might kill her baby. She takes out his son, and he pays someone to take out her child.

He wants her to suffer through that loss, and then he'll kill her. We sent Lex away and both Frost and I are carrying because we expect the next shot to be a bullet.

I'm not waiting for that shot.

Garrison has principles and morals, and ordinarily, I would too. But not about this. No one shoots at Resa and lives through it. Like Resa said, I'd rather be the one making a mess.

Frost tears through surveillance footage from our garden. Then there's the research into Hancock Security that Blaine started and saved in our shared drives. Stuff on Nathaniel Lang who spends his days in his mansion and his nights attending galas with his wife.

I don't care about any of that shit.

I just want an address for the guy who shot Resa.

I hadn't thought Resa was capable of killing before she admitted it. That doesn't change my opinion of her, but I worry. Some people can shrug off a kill and move on with their life. An experience like that leaves scars and Resa has enough from what was done to her. I don't want her to have more.

"You think her baby is going to be okay?" Frost stops typing to look at me.

I nod, but I don't know. None of us do. Not Garrison, and probably not even Sadie. We can only hope.

Frost turns back to the monitor and pauses security footage of a thin man with dark hair in khaki fatigues. He perches on a tree with a rifle scope pointed into our garden.

He didn't trip our motion sensors because he stayed firmly on the other side, and our cameras only caught him because we had an exact place to look for him. Just because we have security doesn't mean everyone else does.

"Billy O'Brien of Hancock Security. He's the one in charge. When he was through shooting Resa, he was down that tree and in a white sedan under two minutes later." Frost resumes scrolling through reams of intel.

I could call in some of the Ever Safe staff. John would have my back if I asked. Cynthia doesn't know how to shoot, but she wouldn't hesitate to say no. Zach would drop everything and come running. And Bee? Bee would have cooked up something explosive with her fancy degree. The fewer people involved in this, the better.

I need Roman to watch the house, and Garrison needs to focus on Resa.

I'll see about Blaine after, but for him to bolt for Frost's house does not bode well for his state of mind. Frost has a keypad lock on his front door, so he never has to worry about losing keys. If Frost's phone hadn't pinged when Blaine let himself in, none of us would have even known where he'd gone.

"Send that list of known addresses to my phone. The same for Nathaniel Lang." I glance at the clock hanging over the wall. 2 p.m. doesn't leave me a lot of time to do the reconnaissance I need to.

" Alone ?" Frost's face is expressionless.

I push myself to my feet and walk away before he can tell me how bad of an idea this is. I know. Will it change my mind about what needs to happen? Not a chance in hell.

"Yes, alone. I doubt anyone will try anything so soon, but stay inside and keep a close eye on the monitors. Call if anything happens."

I make a quick detour to one of the reception rooms that we turned into a mini shooting range, complete with fully soundproofed walls, and a closet where I store the bulk of my weapons.

It takes five minutes to fill a duffel with everything I need, stuff a black hat on my head to cover my distinctive blond hair, and leave the house, heading for my Jeep.

On my way to my car, I call Blaine. It's not my first attempt. The result is the same. It rings out. I'd send a text but it would be a waste of time. He wouldn't read it.

I hang up and scan the addresses Frost sent to my phone. I skip over the addresses registered to Hancock Security. That would be too obvious. Instead, I start with the addresses connected to their employer, Nathaniel Lang.

I strike out at the first two addresses. I'd known I would. When you work security, it's good to have a few addresses no one knows about.

The nasty-looking office space in the not so nice part of town has no connection to Hancock Security, but it does to Nathaniel Lang.

He leased the office space three years before. There's no reason why he would.

As I drive past, I spot a white sedan parked out front. I don't slow or even turn my head. I note the other businesses on the road before I park a few feet from the office space. Then I cut the engine and drag a large map from my glove compartment.

I'm not looking at the map. I have all my attention focused on that ugly ass office with the tinted glass window.

No one enters or leaves in the ten minutes I sit in my car.

I return my map to the glove compartment and grab my duffel from the passenger seat. I climb out of my car, heading for the laundromat across the road. The front shutters are twisted, like someone broke into the rundown and closed building at one point and no one cared enough to fix it, which makes it perfect.

I slip my knife from my pocket, give the quiet streets a cursory glance one way, then another, and do what I came here to do.

Breaking in takes seconds.

I walk into a dust-filled stale smelling space covered with old trash and rusting washing machines. Bypassing the mess, I walk up the stairs to the second floor.

Finding a window that offers a nice view of the front of that office building takes longer than it took to break in, and that's only because I check to make sure no one is watching when I force a window open a crack.

Only then do I assemble my rifle, peering through the scope to make sure I have my angles right.

Then I shrug out of my jacket, put my phone on silent, and settle in to wait.

I've never been a patient person, but some things are worth waiting for. This is one of them.

Thirty minutes later, my stomach rumbles.

I don't move.

Then the office door starts to open.

I press my eye to the scope, take in a breath, and release all the tension in my body with it.

The first man to step out isn't Billy O'Brien. This man is young, dressed in similar combat gear to the men from the alley opposite Ever Safe. He's carrying a heavy looking dark gray duffel similar to mine. Why do I have a feeling I know what he has in that bag and exactly where he's going with it?

I have my priority list and he is not number one, so I wait some more.

Another man steps out. Again unfamiliar.

But the third…

I aim for the center of Billy O'Brien's forehead, breathe in, and exhale as I squeeze the trigger.

He drops.

I don't see him land. I've moved on to the first man, then the last.

Before he's dropped, I'm breaking apart my rifle. Twenty seconds later, all the pieces are back in the duffel, and I'm jogging down the stairs of the abandoned laundromat.

I keep my head down in case any cameras are pointing at me, walk down the road, back to my car, get in and drive away, leaving three bodies outside the office.

It is not an easy thing to kill. Sometimes, it's the right thing to do, and I will sleep all the better for knowing Resa is safe.

I take my time driving to Frost's house, wanting to be sure no one is trailing me.

I jog up the front steps and knock on the front door.

Silence.

I tap the security code in the keypad beside Frost's front door and I step in, closing the door behind me as I shout, "Blaine?"

No answer.

My unease growing, I nudge the door closed, lock it, and make my way through Frost's stainless steel and matte black townhouse, pushing doors open as I go.

Blaine isn't in the living room, the bathroom, or the kitchen.

Then I push open the bedroom that Frost turned into a home gym and I breathe out a sigh. " Blaine …"

He's sitting on the floor, chin on his chest, an empty bottle of vodka beside him.

I walk over to him and crouch, my hands on my knees. "You don't make it easy, you know that right?"

No response.

"I'm going to pick you up," I warn him.

He won't like what I'm about to do, but you don't leave a friend like this. Even if that friend prefers if you don't touch him.

I throw my arm around his shoulder, wrapping my other around his middle, and push to my feet. He's dead weight, so lifting him isn't easy.

This is the first time I've touched Blaine since we last sparred before the car crash.

I stagger and nearly go down feet from one of the bedrooms. After huffing and puffing some more, I get him inside and on the bed.

Wrestling his sneakers off takes more effort than I thought it would, and I nearly fall back as I yank one off. I get him settled on the bed, as comfortable as I can make him. He'd be more comfortable out of the turtleneck instead of sweating through it, but if he woke up without that shirt on, he would never forgive me.

I leave his shirt and go looking for a bucket, a couple of towels, and a bottle of water from the refrigerator for when he wakes up.

Then, yanking my cell phone from my pocket, I take a seat on the floor beside the bedroom door and spend the next several seconds checking messages.

Everything is quiet at Ever Safe, so at least the trouble today was limited to us.

I've had a couple of texts from Frost asking me to check in.

Me

I'm at your place now with Blaine. I'll be staying. If Garrison needs me, he knows where to find me.

Frost

Any trouble?

Me

Nothing I couldn't handle.

Frost

How's Blaine?

I look at Blaine. Not good is how he is .

Me

He'll be okay

Frost

Lex wants to know if you need anything

Me

What's he doing back there?

Frost

Said it was home and we're fam. He wasn't staying away.

My frown melts away.

When shit hits the fan, we've always pulled together. I can't be angry at him for doing what we all would have.

Me

Tell him to stay inside. Text you later.

I place my phone on the floor and pull Bessy, my Beretta, from my pocket and leave it on my other side. I doubt trouble will find us here, but it never hurts to be prepared.

Ding-dong.

I'm up, gun in one hand, straining to listen through two doors and a wall. Suffice to say, I don't hear shit.

Then my cell phone vibrates.

I consider ignoring it until I read the message that flashes up as a notification.

"Lex…" I grumble.

I take my gun with me, leave a snoring Blaine on the bed, and go answer the door.

A delivery truck is pulling away as I open the front door. Lex must have figured out what state Blaine would be in from the contents of the paper bags outside the door: water, juice, a fruit basket, and crackers. Enough to last a couple of days.

A pained groan rumbles from behind me. Sounds like Blaine is awake. And it only took three hours of waiting.

After making a brief kitchen detour to empty the contents of the bags into the refrigerator, I return to the bedroom to find Blaine hanging over the side of the bed, throwing up in a bucket. His glasses are on the floor.

"Need a hand?" I walk over and pick up the glasses.

"No," he slurs as he tips out of the bed.

I catch him, re-settle him, and try not to notice how tense he is. As soon as he's no longer in danger of tipping out again, I hand him his glasses and back up. "I am trying to?—"

"Don't need help," he slurs.

I wait for the next bout of vomiting to pass and retreat to the wall beside the door, crossing my arms as I watch him drag a towel over his mouth and roll onto his back.

Neither of us speaks for several seconds.

Then he clears his throat, sounding almost as raspy as he did after the car crash. "Resa. Is she?—"

"Fine." I hope . "She's with Garrison at the house."

Blaine swallows hard. "Did she?—"

"Blame you?" Easy enough to figure out what he would think. "No. She isn't busy blaming you for something that's not your fault. Only you're in the habit of doing that."

It's not fair to say this now when I know he's feeling like shit. But for the first time, he won't be walking out mid-argument. Not with a bottle of vodka sitting in his belly.

"That's not altogether true now. Is it?" He hasn't put his glasses back on. They're on the bed beside him as he stares up at the ceiling, but I expect there's an ocean of guilt in his eyes.

Over the years, I've fallen into a pattern with Blaine. We talk about the small things or about work, and more recently, about Resa and how we can do the best for her and the baby.

We don't talk about Violet or the car crash. Yet no matter what we're talking about, I always get the sense he's thinking of her as much as I am.

We're not lovers, Blaine and I, but we've always been close. Now there's an invisible line in the sand neither of us crosses.

He blows out a breath and swallows right after, as if to keep from throwing up. "I don't mean to be difficult."

Which is about as close to an apology as I've gotten before. Mostly, he changes the subject or walks away. It's slow progress, but it is progress. "I know."

He makes a sound of frustration in the back of his throat. "I just?—"

"I know , Blaine," I interrupt.

He angles his head to look at me. His eyes are bloodshot and his face is as pale as that time when we made a mistake eating oysters that didn't smell great.

"A bottle of vodka… What the fuck was I thinking?" He swallows again.

I snort. "Yeah. Not your best idea. You remember those oysters?"

We spent the better part of a day running to the bathroom. It was years ago, and none of us have gone near an oyster since. We probably never will again.

As expected, his face turns green.

"You prick," he mutters.

Yep.

And he rolls onto his front and shoves his head in the bucket for another explosive round of vomiting.

"Better out than in," I mutter. "No one needs that much vodka rotting their belly."

That almost apology confirms something I've always known, was less sure about years before, but am more certain of it now. Blaine isn't broken, and he doesn't need fixing. He needs to learn to forgive himself for something that wasn't his fault.

He took Violet out on that surveillance job. But none of us could have foreseen how it would go. Not him, me, or Garrison. None of us.

The only person to blame was the alpha who hired us.

I wish Blaine would see what the rest of us do.