Page 167 of Burn Like An Angel

“This isn’t a horror movie. Why the cleaver?”

“Shut up, Xan. A knife’s a knife!”

Together we creep through the apartment, following the sound of the obnoxiously aggressive knocking. When Lennox leans in to check the peephole, his wide-set shoulders still don’t relax.

“It’s Warner.”

I remain poised, mirroring his suspicious stance. “Alone?”

“Yes.”

Ripley trusts him far more than we do, and if recent accusations are anything to go by, Bancroft has moles planted all over the place. Warner hasn’t earned my unequivocal trust yet.

“What do you want?” Lennox yells.

Warner braces a hand against the door. “Let me in, Nox. It’s urgent.”

“Then tell us urgently.”

“Not here.”

“Then we’re not opening the door,” I fire back.

“For fuck’s sake! Let me in. I think your location may be compromised.”

We exchange glances, both wavering. I make a fast judgement call and open the door, allowing Warner to step inside. His eyes blow wide at the sight of us clutching weapons, but he quickly nods.

“Good. You’re prepared.”

“Prepared for what?” Lennox demands.

“Where are Ripley and Raine?”

I gesture down the corridor. “Kitchen.”

“Let’s talk together. Hurry.”

We return to the living area where Ripley is still standing in front of Raine. He’s been backed into the corner beside the TV. She visibly relaxes at the sight of Warner, red-faced and jittery in our doorway.

To be fair to him, my least favourite agent looks rough. His blue eyes are bloodshot, face sagging with tired lines and his clothing rumpled. Even his gun holster is fastened lopsidedly.

“Warner!” Ripley rushes towards him. “You’re okay.”

He waves her concern off. “No time. Sabre raided the Blackwood reopening last night. Bancroft is dead. His known associates are being arrested as we speak.”

Surprise stiffens my muscles, holding back the barrage of questions I intended to hit him with. Bancroft. Dead. The man who hurt us all so badly and forced us to flee for our lives… is gone.

Why don’t I feel relieved?

This is what we wanted. But the emotion never comes. It can’t be me because I’m still feeling all kinds of fucked up about what’s driven Warner to our door. My brain is trying to tell me something.

Bancroft’s death may have kicked the hornet’s nest. There’re plenty more below the head of the snake. Far more harrowingsecrets will come to light now that he isn’t here to hold them back.

“That’s… good, right?” The uncertainty in Raine’s tone is palpable.

“It was.” Warner swallows hard. “Until I got word that Jonathan Bennet’s bank accounts, the legit and offshore holdings we’ve identified, were emptied at eight o’clock this morning.”

I connect the dots faster than he can explain. “Shit.”

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