“I’ll tell you only once more, bub,” Monk warned. “Step off.”
One of Bryce’s group tried to intervene, but Gray blocked him with a shoulder and fixed him with an icy glare. Unlike Monk, Gray’s six-foot frame was not hidden under a thick sweater but was accentuated by a tight jersey. He had also not shaved in the past two days. He knew the dark stubble made the hard planes of his face stand out even harsher.
Plainly sensing the predator in their midst, Bryce’s protector backed off.
“We done here?” Monk asked his captive.
“Yeah, man, okay.”
Monk released his grip on Bryce’s fist, but not before knocking him to the side. Monk stepped over him with a glower but winked at Gray as he passed. “Now we can go.”
As Gray turned to follow, the only warning was a darkening of Bryce’s complexion. After being humiliated in front of his group, the guy obviously needed to save face. He lunged up, fueled with a toxic mix of whiskey and testosterone. He dove toward Monk’s back, intending to blindside him.
Enough already . . .
Gray caught Bryce’s wrist as the man bowled past him. Using the attacker’s mass and momentum, he expertly wrenched and trapped the limb behind the guy’s back. He lifted Bryce up onto his toes and held him there, careful not to rip out his rotator cuff.
With his target subdued, Gray prepared to lower the man to his heels. But Bryce was not done. He struggled, trying to throw an elbow at Gray, all but spitting with rage.
“Fuck you. My friends and I are gonna mess you—”
So much for judicious restraint.
Gray yanked harder on the arm. The shoulder popped, loud enough to be heard as pain choked off the rest of the man’s threat.
“He’s all yours!” he shouted and shoved Bryce into the embrace of his friends.
No one bothered to catch him.
With an agonized cry, Bryce sprawled headlong to the floor. Gray stared down the others, silently daring them to come forward. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. His lanky ash-brown hair was disheveled. His face was shadowed and dark, making his ice-blue eyes seem to glow with threat.
Recognizing the danger, the group retreated into the depths of the bar.
Satisfied the matter was resolved, Gray turned and headed out. He met Monk on the stoop in front of the bar. His friend, who had a notorious bottomless pit for a stomach, eyed the glowing sign of the Indian restaurant next door.
Without turning, Monk asked, “What took you so long?”
“Had to finish what you started.”
He shrugged. “Figured you needed to let off a little steam.”
Gray frowned, but he had to admit the brief altercation had succeeded in distracting him far better than the many pints of Guinness.
Monk pointed to the restaurant sign but Gray cut him off. “Don’t even think about it.” He checked his watch as he stepped to the curb. “Besides, we got four ladies waiting on us.”
“True.” Monk joined him as Gray hailed a cab. “And I know two who will not go to sleep without a good-night kiss.”
He was referring to his two daughters—Penny and Harriet—who were being babysat by their significant others. Monk’s wife, Kat, had brought the girls over to Gray’s home in the Takoma Park suburb of D.C. Monk’s family was staying overnight in order to spend Christmas morning with Gray and Seichan, who was eight months pregnant. The two men had been chased off earlier in the evening. Kat had used the excuse that the women needed to wrap presents, but despite Captain Kathryn Bryant being a former intelligence officer, Gray could easily read the subtext of this excuse. Seichan was unusually tense, clearly overwhelmed by what was to come, and Kat wanted to talk in private with her—from experienced mother to expectant mother.
Gray suspected the outing this evening had as much to do with calming his own nerves, though. He reached over and squeezed his friend’s upper arm, silently thanking him. Monk was right. He had needed to blow off some steam.
As the cab pulled to the curb, the pair piled inside.
Once they were under way, Gray leaned his head back with a groan. “I haven’t drunk that much in years.” He cast a scolding look at Monk. “And I don’t think DARPA would be too keen to learn you’re using their latest hardware to scam free beer.”
“I don’t agree.” Monk made a coin appear as if out of nowhere and flipped it in the air. “They encouraged me to practice my fine-motor control.”
“Still, that drunken frat bro was right. You were cheating.”
“It’s not cheating when skill’s involved.”
Gray rolled his eyes, which only made the inside of the cab spin. Monk had undergone a procedure five months ago to have an experimental brain/machine interface surgically implanted. Dime-sized microelectrode arrays had been wired into the somatosensory cortex of Monk’s brain, allowing him to control his new neuroprosthesis by thought alone, even “feel” what it touched. By being able to better sense and manipulate objects in space, Monk was able to fine-tune his motor control, so much so he could flip a coin with enough precision to know how it would land.
At first, Gray had been amused by this “trick,” but with each toss, a vague sense of misgiving had grown. He could not say exactly why. Maybe it had something to do with the loss of a woman he once loved, who died upon the flip of a coin that had landed wrong. Or maybe it had nothing to do with the coin flip, but simply his own growing anxiety about his impending fatherhood. He never had a great relationship with his own dad, a man who was always quick to anger and who stoked the same in his son.
He again heard the pop of that lout’s shoulder. He knew deep down that he could have subdued the bastard without real damage, but he couldn’t help himself. Knowing that, he was plagued with doubts.
What sort of father will I end up being? What will I teach my child?
He closed his eyes to stop the cab from spinning. All he knew at the moment was that he was glad to be headed home. He pictured Seichan. Eight months along, she was a sight to behold. Pregnancy had only made her more beautiful, even seductive. He had heard of the glow that pregnant women exuded but only came to believe it as each month passed. The almond complexion of her skin—marking her Eurasian heritage—now shone with a luster that took his breath away. Her emerald eyes smoldered; her black hair shimmered, like a raven’s wing in flight. And all the while, she maintained a rigorous regimen of exercise and stretching that left her body strong and capable, as if toning her entire being to protect what she grew inside her.
Next to him, Monk whispered, “Tails.”
Gray opened his eyes and watched the quarter land in his friend’s hand. George Washington’s silhouette shone from the palm. Gray lifted an eyebrow at Monk.
Monk shrugged. “Like I said, I need more practice.”
“Or the promise of a free beer.”
“Hey, quit complaining. You better start saving every nickel, dime, and quarter.” He flipped the coin again. “Cuz Pampers ain’t cheap.”
Whether it was his warning or something about the coin toss, Gray again felt that flicker of anxiety. Still, they soon turned onto his street, which helped settle his nerves.
To either side, an idyllic mix of quaint Victorians and Craftsman bungalows lined the road. The evening had turned cold, misting the air with an icy fog. Stars shone weakly overhead, failing to compete with the chains of Christmas lights, the glowing reindeers standing in yards, and the shine of bright trees in windows.
As the cab pulled up to his bungalow, he stared at the porch lined by icicle lights, softly twinkling. Monk had helped hang everything a couple of weeks ago. Gray tried to picture raising a family here, playing catch in the yard, bandaging scraped knees, admiring report cards, and attending school plays.
Still, as much as he wanted to believe it could be real, he could not. It all seemed impossible. With so much blood on his hands, how could he ever hope to live a normal life?
“Something’s wrong,” Monk said.
Distracted by his worries, Gray had failed to spot it. He and Seichan had decorated a Christmas tree, their first ever together. They had spent weeks picking out ornaments, settling on a Swarovski angel as a tree top per, paying a ridiculous price. Seichan said it was worth the cost, that it could become a family heirloom—another first together. They had placed the Christmas tree in the front bay window.
It was gone.
The front door was ajar. Even from the street, Gray noted the shattered door frame. He shoved forward to the cabbie. “Call nine-one-one.”
Monk had already bolted out of the car and headed toward the front door.
Gray chased after him, pausing only long enough to pull a SIG Sauer P365 from an ankle holster. As terror ratcheted through him, he knew he had been right all along.
He could never have a normal life.