hoped to stay like this, warm and at peace, with the city lights reflected in each sliding raindrop. He’d have to be content with just a momentary thrill.
“I should get going. Unless you are taking me in.”
“Yeah, let me call Williams.” He hadn’t meant for the words to come out as a slap. Because he couldn’t take them back, Mac got up off the couch, uncomfortable with the still blatant need for her.
His jeans lay in a tossed heap by the steamed up window. The exposed needle glistened on the floor where he’d knocked the syringe out of her hand.
She shoved her arms into his leather jacket. “I don’t know what else I can say.”
Nothing to cover himself with, so he laughed, raw, harsh, and ugly. “I’m not strong enough to stop you. You can say I failed.”
“You didn’t fail. Williams set Nicky up—I don’t need Night Rook anymore to get the answers.” Lightning snapped in the distance and she winced against the pain, but didn’t back away.
“Just Williams? Or all of San Mike PD? You’re going to go after all of them?” Freezing cold, Mac stalked across the room to get his clothes.
She lifted up her chin in icy determination. “I’m going to destroy him.”
“Kill him?” Short word, an abyss of dark meaning. Mac watched her face, that hard, glittering gaze.
“If it comes to it? Yes.”
He forced his voice to remain calm while the wind outside rose up to screaming. “Heroes aren’t meant to become judges.”
“It’s a good line. And it’s a load of crap.” Lightning slashed over pale fingertips peeking out of leather. Her fists clenched on the opposite lapels to keep his jacket closed. “Haven’t you ever wanted it? Vengeance? Justice? When you think about it, it all sounds the same.”
He didn’t know how to reach her. Mac feared that he never would. Power. That hot, bubbling bitch could save lives or destroy them, but it did nothing to make her understand.
“My father died to save me. He let me tag along—supposed to have been an easy enough transpo gig.” This time, he didn’t fight the surge of grief. “If I knew, then, how to use the power…. I’d probably have killed every damned one of them.” The yells, the burn of gunpowder. The blackened teeth bared in horrid screams.
“Well…then you understand.”
“Vengeance wouldn’t have brought him back.” Dead limp form lying still on the ground. Soldiers with grim faces pushing on his shields to keep him back .
“I know what I have to do.” Soft words spoken with steel behind them. Regal in trailing black, she stepped over the exposed needle and headed for the bathroom, leaving Mac standing naked in the dark.
He dressed with the accompaniment of running water. Under the beat of rain, he shoved open the wooden panels of the armoire that always stayed locked. Automatic running lights glided over an old fedora, with a black cape neatly folded underneath. And there was Dad, Old Spice, and mild Jamaican coffee.
“What would you do?”
His blank eyes stared back at him from the small mirror. The exposed needle of the syringe screamed at him from the floor.
“What would you do?” he asked again, and reached out to run a fingertip over the hat, the felt just as soft, just as smooth as when Mac brought it back. He never thanked the staff for getting rid of the bloodstains.
And then he knew the answer. The one that made him pick up the syringe as Lana came out of the bathroom, her damp curls swept away from that heart-shattering face.
She didn’t say a single word. Instead, she tilted her head sideways.
“I’m not strong enough,” he answered to the silent challenge. And then Mac shoved the needle into his own neck.
***
His scent lingered on her skin as if he sat next to her in the silent taxi. Under the whir of motor, the city jerked by, sharp lights stabbing past tight closed lids. The Night Rook didn’t carry sunglasses while working.
Her body still hummed from his touch, her muscles
“I should get going. Unless you are taking me in.”
“Yeah, let me call Williams.” He hadn’t meant for the words to come out as a slap. Because he couldn’t take them back, Mac got up off the couch, uncomfortable with the still blatant need for her.
His jeans lay in a tossed heap by the steamed up window. The exposed needle glistened on the floor where he’d knocked the syringe out of her hand.
She shoved her arms into his leather jacket. “I don’t know what else I can say.”
Nothing to cover himself with, so he laughed, raw, harsh, and ugly. “I’m not strong enough to stop you. You can say I failed.”
“You didn’t fail. Williams set Nicky up—I don’t need Night Rook anymore to get the answers.” Lightning snapped in the distance and she winced against the pain, but didn’t back away.
“Just Williams? Or all of San Mike PD? You’re going to go after all of them?” Freezing cold, Mac stalked across the room to get his clothes.
She lifted up her chin in icy determination. “I’m going to destroy him.”
“Kill him?” Short word, an abyss of dark meaning. Mac watched her face, that hard, glittering gaze.
“If it comes to it? Yes.”
He forced his voice to remain calm while the wind outside rose up to screaming. “Heroes aren’t meant to become judges.”
“It’s a good line. And it’s a load of crap.” Lightning slashed over pale fingertips peeking out of leather. Her fists clenched on the opposite lapels to keep his jacket closed. “Haven’t you ever wanted it? Vengeance? Justice? When you think about it, it all sounds the same.”
He didn’t know how to reach her. Mac feared that he never would. Power. That hot, bubbling bitch could save lives or destroy them, but it did nothing to make her understand.
“My father died to save me. He let me tag along—supposed to have been an easy enough transpo gig.” This time, he didn’t fight the surge of grief. “If I knew, then, how to use the power…. I’d probably have killed every damned one of them.” The yells, the burn of gunpowder. The blackened teeth bared in horrid screams.
“Well…then you understand.”
“Vengeance wouldn’t have brought him back.” Dead limp form lying still on the ground. Soldiers with grim faces pushing on his shields to keep him back .
“I know what I have to do.” Soft words spoken with steel behind them. Regal in trailing black, she stepped over the exposed needle and headed for the bathroom, leaving Mac standing naked in the dark.
He dressed with the accompaniment of running water. Under the beat of rain, he shoved open the wooden panels of the armoire that always stayed locked. Automatic running lights glided over an old fedora, with a black cape neatly folded underneath. And there was Dad, Old Spice, and mild Jamaican coffee.
“What would you do?”
His blank eyes stared back at him from the small mirror. The exposed needle of the syringe screamed at him from the floor.
“What would you do?” he asked again, and reached out to run a fingertip over the hat, the felt just as soft, just as smooth as when Mac brought it back. He never thanked the staff for getting rid of the bloodstains.
And then he knew the answer. The one that made him pick up the syringe as Lana came out of the bathroom, her damp curls swept away from that heart-shattering face.
She didn’t say a single word. Instead, she tilted her head sideways.
“I’m not strong enough,” he answered to the silent challenge. And then Mac shoved the needle into his own neck.
***
His scent lingered on her skin as if he sat next to her in the silent taxi. Under the whir of motor, the city jerked by, sharp lights stabbing past tight closed lids. The Night Rook didn’t carry sunglasses while working.
Her body still hummed from his touch, her muscles
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