Devil's Cut

by J. R. Ward

  Staring sightlessly ahead, every time she blinked, she saw Richard's face. And then her father's. And then Richard's...until the two men became as one, an amalgam of each other--

  "Gin."

  At the sound of the disembodied voice, she jerked to attention and once again looked up through the sunroof's transparent cover.

  "Put down the gun, Gin," it said.

  Opening her mouth, she gave voice to her confusion: "God?"

  --

  As Samuel T. lay on top of Pford in the mud about six feet past the Mercedes's driver's-side door, he thought, Well, he'd been called a lot of things in his life. Never God, though.

  He'd also never saved someone from being riddled with bullets on a flying tackle, either.

  So it was a night for firsts.

  "Stay down, motherfucker," he bit out.

  While he spoke into Richard Pford's ear, he kept his voice low, but just to make sure he got his point across, he palmed the back of the man's skull and shoved the bastard's face into the marsh.

  Although maybe that was more on principle than to ensure comprehension.

  "I have your gun," he said to the man roughly. "If you move, I will shoot you--and I've killed deer bigger than you. Gutted them, too--and I have no problem revisiting that skill. Nod if you understand me."

  When the nod came, Samuel T. spoke more loudly. "Gin, I need you to put down the gun, okay? You're safe. Do you hear me? Gin. Say something."

  There was a long, long period of silence. And he prayed that it wasn't because she was reloading and about to stick the gun out of that broken window and fill him full of lead.

  Or because she was dead from a bad-luck lead slug to the head.

  "Samuel T....?"

  He closed his eyes. His name sounded like it had been spoken by an eighty-year-old, the syllables weak and wobbly. But he didn't care. She was still alive.

  "Yes, it's me. And I've got Richard."

  Shit, he wished he still had a tie on. He'd feel better if he could secure the other man's hands with something.

  "Why are...you here?" she said from inside the car.

  Samuel T. cursed, having wondered that himself--all the way down River Road until he'd seen the two sets of brakes lights off in the marsh.

  "Because I can't not be," he muttered. "With you, I can't not be here, goddamn it."

  He gave Richard another shove for good measure and then slowly lifted himself up and off. Before he stood up fully, he said to Gin, "I'm going to approach the car, okay. At the window. If you've ever wanted to put a bullet in me, now is your chance."

  Samuel T. was keeping things light because he was afraid if he didn't, he was going to break down. He still couldn't believe what he'd come up on after he'd parked on the road and run into the trees: Richard rearing back and pointing a gun into the car, the promise of death in his eyes and his stance...and his weapon.

  Without thinking, Samuel T. had rushed forward and jumped the guy, taking him out of range just as bullets went flying inside and out. The pair of them had landed hard, and he could still feel the wet flapping of their clothes in his face as they had fought for control over the gun.

  Samuel T. had won that one.

  And now he needed to control the other weapon.

  Slowly, he straightened up. He had taken Richard to the ground on a forward trajectory, so he was in front and just off to the side--and that meant, through the spidered windshield, he could see Gin inside the car.

  She remained in shooting position on the passenger side, the muzzle pointed in the direction of the driver's window, but the gun was not stable because she was trembling so badly. He had a feeling her finger was still on the trigger and the fact that no bullets were coming out suggested the clip was empty. Except he wasn't prepared to bet his life on that.

  "Gin." He spoke sharply now. "Put the weapon on the dash so I can see it. I can't help you until I'm sure I'm safe."

  He had no fucking idea how he was talking so slowly and reasonably, but some outside force was governing him, controlling his movements, his voice.

  Thank God.

  "Gin. Put the gun on the--"

  From out of nowhere, a car came crashing into the swamp, and as the headlights pierced the Mercedes's rear window, they cast a hard illumination on Gin's bloody face, startling her so that she turned the gun in that direction.

  Samuel T. ducked, and as he recognized the car, he called out, "Stay in the car, Lane! Stay in the car!"

  Gin was pulling the trigger again--her eyes wide with terror, her mouth opened in a silent scream--and still nothing was coming out of the muzzle. But was that luck or running on empty?

  "Turn off the engine!" he yelled to her brother. "Kill the lights!"

  Samuel T. prayed, prayed, that his old friend heard him, and Lane must have, because everything went dark and quiet again.

  Of course, now Samuel T. was blinded, and with the storm clouds still so thick, it might as well have been pitch black out.

  To settle his concern about what the fuck Richard was up to, he threw a foot out, stomped on the guy's shoulders, and then put his weight on them.

  As his vision gradually returned, and Lane didn't get out of his vehicle, Samuel T. refocused on Gin.

  "Sweetheart," he said, "put the gun on the dash. That's just Lane. I called him when I couldn't get ahold of you."

  "What," she said. Or at least, he thought that was what she said.

  "I called Lane when I couldn't get ahold of you. Please put the gun on the dash where I can see it."

  For shit's sake, he had meant to stay out of this. And that resolve had lasted about...two minutes. After he had called Gin one more time and gotten voicemail, he'd dialed Lane, who had gone looking for her in the house while they were on the phone--only to find Easterly's front door wide open in a storm and the photographs of Samuel T. and Gin scattered all over the wet marble.

  Samuel T. hadn't waited any longer than that.

  "I'm coming closer, sweetheart."

  He really wanted her to put that gun away, but he had a feeling they were going to be at this standoff for quite a while--and there were now three cars off the road, lead slugs littering this marshy stretch of trees and undergrowth, and at least one, most likely two, injured people.

  The last thing he wanted was the cops showing up.

  Moving into position at the busted glass of the window, he put his face into the hole that Richard had either punched or blasted through. And in response, Gin swung that muzzle right around and pointed it at him. Her eyes were positively insane, blood dripping down her forehead and face, her body shaking so hard her teeth were clapping together.

  Everything stopped. Time, thought...the universe itself.

  At this range, if she hit him, she was going to blow the back of his skull off.

  "Samuel T.?" she gritted out. "Is that really you?"

  He was careful not to nod too fast, and he kept the gun he'd taken off Richard down at his thigh. "Yes, honey. It's me."

  She blinked.

  Then she started to breathe harder and harder. Until she began to sob.

  "I'm so sorry about Amelia. I'msosorryaboutAmelia. I'msosorry--"

  As that gun lowered, Samuel T. took a chance and dove through the broken glass, forcing his hands out until he grabbed the weapon and took it from her.

  And then she was in his arms, albeit awkwardly as he hung half in and out of the car window.

  "It's okay," he said as he went numb all over his body. "It's all right..."

  As soon as Lane saw Samuel T. lean in through the driver's-side window, he leapt out of his own car and raced for the Mercedes. Dear Lord, Gin had hit a tree, and Richard was facedown on the ground and--

  He couldn't really hear what Samuel T. and Gin were saying to each other, but she had to be alive or her voice wouldn't be coming out of there.

  So he focused on Richard.

  The man wasn't moving much on the ground, but he was breathing.

  There
was a click, and then Samuel T. backed out of the window and opened Gin's door. Wait...there was a gun in each of his hands?

  Lane snapped into action. "What the hell happened--Gin! You're seriously hurt!"

  As Samuel T. helped her across the seat and out of the car, it was clear she was in trouble. There was blood all over his sister, and she couldn't stand on her own.

  "Where have you been shot?" Lane asked roughly. "What the hell happened?"

  Gin stuttered a whole lot of words that Lane couldn't understand. But then Samuel T. filled things in--

  The man didn't have the chance to get the full story out.

  Lane cut him off by rolling Pford over in the muck and dragging him to his feet. Slamming him against the car, Lane put his face into the other man's.

  "Did you shoot at my sister? Did you fucking shoot at my sister!"

  "Okay, okay." Samuel T. grabbed Lane's shoulder and jerked him back. "Enough. We've got a cleanup problem to deal with right now--because I know we want to handle this privately. Don't you agree, Richard."

  Pford didn't seem injured. There was no blood on him--except on one of his hands--and other than him weaving like he was in a stiff wind, he was clearly going to be fine.

  But Lane could fix that.

  "Can I borrow your gun," he demanded of his attorney. "The one with a bullet left in it?"

  "Back off, Lane," Samuel T. barked, "and let me take care of this."

  Lane shook his head. Yet he had to follow his attorney's very sage advice. After all, there were other, far more sane ways of ensuring his sister's safety and freedom.

  "Work your magic, counselor," he said gruffly.

  Samuel T. put himself between Gin and Richard.

  "You two are getting an annulment." Samuel T. looked at her. "I will file the papers tomorrow on your behalf." He looked at Pford. "You will grant this without contest. There will be no financial obligations for you. You're free, and so is she, provided you do not retaliate in any way, and that includes behind the scenes with the BBC. Do you agree?"

  There was a pause as Pford didn't respond.

  Lane was about to start yelling, when Samuel T. took a gun and put it underneath Pford's chin. "Do. You. Agree."

  As the man's eyes popped, Richard nodded as if his life depended on it.

  "I can't hear you."

  "Yes," Pford stammered.

  "Good." Samuel T. didn't lower the weapon. "And I'm throwing a private order of protection in there for good measure. You get within one hundred feet of her, and her brother and I are coming after you. You won't know when or where or how, but he and I will make things extremely mortal for you. Do you understand? This is not something to test, trust me."

  When Pford nodded again, Samuel T. eased back and disappeared the weapon.

  "Go," Lane said to the sonofabitch. "I don't want to see you on the property again. I'll have your things returned to you--"

  "I'm keeping the ring," Gin interjected. "I get to keep the ring."

  As Samuel T. seemed to wince, Lane got up in Pford's space again. "The ring is hers. No conversation. You got it?"

  "Yes," Richard said.

  "You keep this to yourself and stay away from her, and there will be no problems for anybody. It will be like nothing ever happened."

  "Yes."

  "Now get the fuck out of here."

  As Richard walked off toward the Bentley, Lane watched him until Pford was in his car and back on the road proper, driving away. Then he turned around. Samuel T. had an arm around Gin, and she was up against him, but they both had run out of gas, their shell-shocked expressions the kind of thing that was going to take a while to dissipate.

  Shit, his sister's wounds needed to be dealt with.

  Lane took out his phone. "We can't take her to a hospital. And she can't go up to the house, the police are there."

  Samuel T. blinked. "Why?"

  "Long story." He went into his contacts and hit send on a local number. "I want you to put her in your SUV and take her where I tell you to--hey, hi, how're you--what? I sound weird, huh? Well, there's a reason for that. Listen, I need you to do a favor for me...."

  --

  Max waited in his cottage on staff row for the worst of the storm to pass and then he carried his saddlebags out to his Harley. The rain was still falling, but not nearly as bad, and what the fuck did he care? He had ridden wet loads of times, and it had never killed him: He had his waterproof chaps to put on, and his leather jacket was impervious to all kinds of weather.

  Strapping the bags to either side of the seat, he was glad that no one had messed with his bike when he'd had to leave it outside that bar. As he'd Uber'd it back to the beer joint at four in the afternoon, he'd had no clue what he was going to do if the thing was jacked up or just plain gone.

  Lucked out again, though. He'd come home on the Harley just fine and packed up his things--only to get waylaid by the storm.

  Forced to chill out, he'd passed some of the time in the shower because he didn't know when he'd have a chance to get his next one, and then he'd eaten everything that had been in the refrigerator and the cupboards--also on the theory that he didn't know when and where his next meal was coming from, either.

  Now, as he measured the sky, he figured he'd head west, because according to radar, the storms were moving east and there was nothing behind them. If he could make it to St. Louis, that would be great. He could bunk down somewhere cheap and decide what he felt like doing from there--

  Straightening, he frowned and looked to the staff road. A fully blacked-out SUV was coming up the rise at quite a clip, and the Range Rover slowed as it approached him.

  When the thing turned in and stopped behind his bike, he put his hands up and went into full-blown no-way. "Hey! I'm leaving--"

  Samuel Theodore Lodge got out, and the guy did not look right. Wait, was that blood all over his clothes? "No, you're not going anywhere."

  "Look, man, I don't have time for whatever this is--"

  The passenger side opened, and as Max saw what got out, he forgot about his bike and his shit and his travel plans for a moment. "What the fuck, Gin."

  His sister was covered in blood, limping and in a ruined, stained silk dress that had probably been peach at one point. Now it was a Pollock painting.

  "We need to go inside," Samuel T. said as he put an arm around the woman and helped her toward the open door. "She needs a doctor."

  "So why isn't she going to a goddamn hospital?"

  They didn't answer him. They just went into the cottage--as, next door, Gary McAdams came out of the identical unit, got in his four-by-four truck, and went roaring off down the staff road.

  "What the hell is going on here?" Max asked absolutely nobody.

  He glanced over at his cottage's open door, and thought...whatever, he didn't have to stay. All he needed were his wallet and his keys, and both were just sitting on the counter in the galley kitchen. There was nothing under that roof that was his, and no reason for him to stay a moment longer, even if his sister looked like she'd been in a car accident.

  He had never wanted to come to Charlemont, and now that Lane knew the secret, Max had basically done his job: Someone else in the family was aware of the truth, and hell, Lane was getting a reputation for being pretty fricking reasonable. So no doubt, the guy would find the right time and the right words...and get Max off the hook.

  It was fine to go.

  Really. It was absolutely fine.

  With a curse, Max marched into the little house and headed directly past where his sister was collapsed on the couch with Samuel T. bent over and pressing a dish towel to her head.

  He got his keys and his wallet. Oh, right, his jacket and chaps. Where were they?

  "You're leaving," Samuel T. snapped. "Seriously. You're going now?"

  "Looks like you're taking care of everything. Besides, I've got somewhere I have to be."

  "Your sister was almost killed just now."

  "Well, she's still
breathing, isn't she."

  Before Samuel T. and he really got into it, Max went farther in to the little kitchen and picked his jacket and chaps up from the back of a chair--

  "I could lose my medical license for this."

  At the sound of a female voice he knew all too well, Max had to close his eyes. Maybe he'd just imagined it. Yeah, that had to be it. Surely, the one woman he had not wanted to see wasn't--

  He pivoted around.

  Well, hell. Tanesha Nyce, the preacher's daughter, was standing in the open doorway, her white coat and hospital scrubs doing absolutely nothing to disguise her perfect body, her makeup-free face and simple haircut just as he remembered them, her beauty still as arresting as it always had been.

  "Oh...hi, Maxwell," she said as she noticed him, too.

  But then she was all business, focusing on Gin. "What the hell happened to you?"

  Keep on going, Max told himself. You just keep right on working your plan--which is to get as far away from Easterly and these people as you can get.

  Nothing good was going to come if he stayed.

  Nothing.

  Gin looked over to the door of the staff cottage as Tanesha Nyce arrived--and even through Gin's haze, she could tell the doctor was not happy. And that bad mood got even worse as the other woman looked at Gin.

  "Here," Samuel T. said. "Hold this."

  For a second, Gin wasn't clear on whom he was speaking to. But then he lifted her arm and put her hand on the towel he was pressing against her forehead.

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  As he backed off so the doctor could come over and inspect things, Gin followed him with her eyes. After a little pacing, he settled across the way, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms--and then saying something to her brother Max.

  Samuel T.'s shirt was ruined, blood and mud staining what had been bright white Egyptian cotton.

  Even though he had plenty of other monogrammed button-downs in his closet, she felt an absurd need to pay for the dry cleaning--even though given the extent of the mess, that wasn't going to help much. Maybe she would just order him a new one. Did he still get them from Turnbull & Asser? No reason to think he'd changed.

  Tanesha knelt down in front of her, put a red box with a red and white cross on it on the floor, and laid her hands lightly on Gin's knees. "May I take a look at your head?"