Page 9 of Treasured By Them
Grandfather made the phone call and set up a meeting place and time—the docks at Mirarosa, eleven p.m. Now we’re here, waiting.
Our speed boat is tied to the dock, the engine silent. We rock gently in the water. If the situation weren’t so tense, it would feel peaceful.
All lights on the boat are off as we watch the dockyard beyond.
Of course we’ve got several guys hidden. Eyes are everywhere. We’ve reviewed past security footage to make sure there are no booby traps, no suspicious strangers milling about during the day.
This should be a talk. Nothing more.
Why they had to kill Jon to arrange it is beyond me. My guess is they wanted to get our attention.
They fucking got it. They would’ve had it without killing Jon. The fact they were less than fifty yards from Danica has my hackles raised. They knew we were there. They know who she is.
She thought moving in with Troy and me was temporary.
She’s never moving back to that house, as far as I’m concerned.
I flick a glance at Troy. “See anybody?”
“Nope.”
“If this is a fucking trap...”
“It’s no trap, Edmund.” It’s my grandfather who speaks. “They’ll be here. They’re doing their own reconnaissance. Just give it time.”
On land, long shadows are cast by buildings and ships backlit by the bright security lights. I’m not worried about the shadows—our soldiers are in those shadows.
“There.” Troy jerks his chin toward the dockyard entrance—a rattling gate in a chain-link fence.
Two figures walk through the gate. Completely alone. Bold of them to feel safe enough to do that. My father was ready to tear off heads in retribution for Jon’s death.
My grandfather is more practical. He wants to see where this leads.
The two men get closer, their footfalls thudding hollowly on the dock. Troy steps out of our boat and walks over to “greet” them. He pats them down for weapons and wires. He’s a full six inches taller than their bigger guy and has at least forty more pounds of muscle on him. I hope they’re shitting their pants with fear.
“Clear.” Troy’s voice sounds extra loud in the darkness.
I step off the boat first, followed by my grandfather.
The two Vorsong assholes smile in greeting. But we all know the friendliness is faked.
“At long last,” the taller guy says. He has a big, gray mustache and pinched, dark eyes. “I was wondering when you would finally respond to my request.”
Finally respond? Were there other attempts to arrange a meeting? I don’t dare look at my grandfather. The Vorsongs shouldn’t witness any confusion or dissent in our ranks, especially not between my grandfather and me.
But now I’m wondering how much my grandfather is hiding from the rest of us—particularly from my father and me.
Grandfather clears his throat, dismissive. “You’re Allen, aren’t you? Perry and Cressilda’s boy?”
The taller guy with the mustache offers a short nod.
Perry might be the leader, but we’ve learned that it’s Cressilda who makes all the decisions.
“Good. You can bring this message back to Cressilda.” Grandfather doesn’t even pretend that Perry is involved in the process. He smiles, but there’s no humor or kindness in it. “We have nothing to say to each other. Your organization is trespassing on our established neighborhood. We have been tolerant, but that tolerance ends now.”
His English is even more crisp and polished than usual. The implication is probably lost on the Vorsong men, but I know what it means. He’s in command of everything and everyone here. Every last detail, including his clipped and precise vowels, is under is control.
“Cressilda’s dead. Perry no longer runs things.” The other man, more muscular and more heavyset than Allen, speaks up. “Everything comes to me, now.”
