Page 119 of Lesson In Forgiveness

The house was three hundred feet away, give or take. What would be the garden was still a tapestry in chaos with leftover construction materials scattered in piles, and debris waiting to be gathered. A few pieces of equipment hadn’t been collected yet, so there were a couple of cement mixers, a small dump truck, and a forklift still to go.

Everything was still. She saw no movement around the outside of the house, but she didn’t have a view of the front or the driveway. She was too far away to catch any activity inside the house, which meant she had to get a hell of a lot closer.

There were floodlights on each corner of the house, she noted, and lots of smaller ones set along the freshly laid paving slabs in the drab yard. If they were working and attached to motion sensors, they might cause her an issue once night fell.

One of the lights was not like the rest. Tucked underneath the guttering, it flashed subtly in a steady one-two, one-two-three rhythm. Small, circular, white. Was it some variation of a floodlight? A new brand of alarm system she wasn’t familiar with? Was it even functioning correctly?

Retreating back into the undergrowth, Tabitha made her way cautiously around the pond, bringing herself into a better position nearer the house. She heard no voices, saw no movement, and the lack of both set the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

From where she crouched behind a bush, she had an almost full view of the driveway. Empty, although there were what appeared to be fresh tire tracks in the gravel. Gravel, she thought with a roll of her eyes. Just what she needed when her life depended on being silent.

Were the trio even here? If she was Evander, she’d have driven her vehicle into the garage attached to the house, keeping her presence hidden. Both he and Elias were smart enough to do everything possible to keep Callie safe, so either they weren’t here or they were locked down.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she whispered, “said the rabbit to the stars.” Carefully, she eased forward, mentally plotting her route from bushes to house. She estimated she’d be exposed for around twenty seconds; not ideal, but it was worth the risk. “When you hear the crack of the gun, you gotta run, run, run.”

A soft rustle, little more than leaves brushing together, stopped her in her tracks. Slowly, she scanned the area thoroughly, seeing absolutely nothing out of place, yet her skin was beginning to twitch.

Bending, she picked up a small stone and, with just a short movement of her wrist, winged it toward the house.

It smacked sharply against one of the gleaming windows with a hard clack.

“There you are,” she murmured, feeling her body come alive as her enemies revealed themselves for an instant. She counted six at first glance, with four of them stationed around the front of the house.

Another was in the bushes to her left, twenty feet away and heading in her direction.

The sixth slid around the side of the dump truck, barely in her peripheral sight.

None of them were Donaghue.

Six on one. They’d provide a nice little warm-up exercise for her, especially spaced out the way they were. With any luck, Donaghue was being accompanied by another dozen bad men, and these were just some toys he’d left for her to play with.

Stilling the joyful hum brimming in her throat, Tabitha reached slowly for her waist, sliding her fingers around the hilt of two knives. Her favorite blade fit into her right hand, a hunting knife in her left; she heard the metal hiss as she drew them from their sheaths and grinned when her heart jumped in response.

This was her calling.

This was where she performed best.

This was how she would die one day—weapons in hand, blood pumping with adrenaline, and her mind so focused on the kill, she didn’t realize she was dead.

Easing back into the overgrown jungle, she locked her sights on the idiot trying to sneak up on her. He was too heavy-footed, bulling his way through the bushes, cursing in a blatant New York accent when he—at a guess—tripped over his own feet.

She saw the gun muzzle first, swinging from side to side as he clambered through the long grass. Lowering to her haunches, she held her right hand out to the side for balance, keeping her left down by her side.

He’d see her—the question was, how quickly.

It turned out the answer was not quickly enough.

The gun swung to her left as he stepped forward, and she met a pair of blue eyes as she surged upright. His weapon came back around to train on her, but she brought her left hand up, blade extended to the side, and slashed across his broad wrist without hesitation.

Blood splattered and, with the tendons severed, the gun slipped from his limp fingers. Even as he opened his mouth to shout, she thrust her other hand up, driving the ridiculously sharp blade into the soft flesh between his lower jaw bones.

Blood erupted from his mouth along with pained cries.

Blood, blood, blood.

The thing she’d been taught to spill in so many ways.

Losing herself in the scent of it, she forced the blade back until it sliced down through his throat to the divot between his collarbones. Air whistled through the huge open wound with every panicked breath; he was so shocked, he hadn’t even tried to fight her off.

---