Page 26 of Pulling Strings

Donovan followed suit but couldn’t help butsquirm. He was mad enough at me, and loyal enough to Grimm that he would inevitably confess but, when he opened his mouth to speak, a squawk from a bullhorn rang out.

“Attention! This is the Capitol. We are responding to a distress call from this address. Come out immediately, or we will enter by force.”

Distress call?

“The cabbie?” Donovan whispered, his face as pale as a sheet.

No. There hadn’t been enough time for that.

I looked at Grimm. “Not all of us have trouble with security, huh?” I said. “Avery got the cameras and doorbell, but did anyone check for a silent alarm?”

Grimm shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

There were no windows in this room—no way to see how many investigators had arrived or how prepared they were. A welfare check on a tripped silent alarm brought a different level of law enforcement than the riot squad that would turn up anywhere the Bloody Hex was sighted. But twenty plus minutes was a long time to not have a squad car on site. Had they been here earlier? Seen me or my car—parked next to Thatcher’s mailbox so plainly Grimm would have a conniption if he knew?

I hadn’t seen the back door yet, but there had to be one. Down the hall, possibly. We could go out that way, jump the backyard fence, and run. The Porsche was forfeit, so anything we did would have to be on foot. Then Avery and Vinton could pick us up down the road.

Beside me, Grimm’s appearance slowly shifted. His body shortened and slimmed, and his hair slicked back into the gel-combed ducktail practically trademarked by Jacoby Thatcher.

When he spoke, he did so with an imitation of the dead man’s voice. “Time to go, boys.”

I caught Donovan by the arm and pulled him behind me in a mad dash toward the back of the house. The hall opened to areas previously unexplored, including the dining room and kitchen. Next to whitewashed cabinets, the back door stood open. But the entry—or exit, in our case—was crowded with men in black tactical gear. Donovan and I skidding around the corner started them shouting. Assault rifles rose and cocked in a series of clattering clicks.

In theory, I could stop bullets. It required anticipation or at least a lucky guess about when the gun would fire. This brute squad was less than fifteen feet away, and with multiple gunmen came a flurry of potential trigger pulls I couldn’t possibly predict.

“Get on the ground!” one of the masked men bellowed.

Donovan yanked free of me and dropped to his knees in immediate surrender.

Still standing, I hissed a breath. The lead commando repeated his order, then followed it with, “Put your hands where we can see them!”

Great idea, actually.

I thrust both palms toward the clustered men. The sweeping blow knocked them back into a dogpile. One of the rifles fired into the far wall, flashing muzzle flare and filling the room with the smell of gunpowder.

Donovan cupped his palms to his ears until I grabbed his elbow and hauled him up.

“Move!” I shouted.

My heart pumped as we ran back to the den. Sounds and shouts chased us, creating a tangle of noise.

Curse words chased every panted breath as we came to a stop in the den where Grimm—now Jacoby Thatcher—watched with wide eyes.

Donovan looked over at me. His whole body trembled so hard I feared he might fall to pieces.

I turned a rapid circle, trapped by walls on all sides while investigators poured into the house from every direction.

No way out.

Well, maybe one.

I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out the glass marble Nash had given me the night before. Grabbing Donovan’s hand, I pressed the potion into his palm.

“Break this, or eat it, or something. It’ll take you to Bitters.” I stumbled over the words.

Donovan gaped at me. “What?” he stammered. “What about you?”

“Fitch, no.” Grimm shook his head. “Youhave to leave. If they catch you—”

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