Three Libras - BLACKBIRD book 4

3. the ghost

"Bomb removed and secured," said Aldana.

"Towers down in two," said Kurt.

"Cavalry ten minutes away," said Hank.

"Roger," Gillian breathed, sitting on the windowpane to bring her legs in.

Once in the master bedroom, she tiptoed to the door. There was music coming from the back bedroom, but no other sound.

She heard Cassidy helping Brock through the window, but she didn't want to turn around. Not while her burning cheeks reported her face was rotten-tomato red. She breathed deep and kicked herself to snap out of it. There was a sick piece of work behind that door, and they had to take good care of—shit. The carpet muffled the footsteps, so Brock's cologne was like a finger poking her shoulder—Hello! I'm here! The stupid man was hardly a step behind her.

"Ron, Al, start evacuating people," she whispered on the radio.

"Reg," called Fred, in that low voice that meant he had his eye to the scope. "He's using a laptop and just moved out of my line. Bring him back to the window."

"Got it."

"Phones out in three... two... down," said Kurt.

"Connor?" she murmured.

"We're ready when you are, Mom."

"Do something to piss'im really off. And be ready to kick'im out."

"With pleasure."

"How d'you wanna do it?"

Gillian didn't dare to glance back at Cassidy and find Brock's piercing eyes. "I'm going in. Give me a moment alone with him."

She thought she heard Brock breathing in. So she hoped her face was only chili red and finally looked back. And there they were, his disapproving scowl and his cold stare. "I'll lure him out for you to catch him."

He set his jaw without a word, already feeling a little spot of burning ice in his chest that promised to expand in a flash. After all, maybe it was better if she didn't tell him her plans in advance.

Gillian sneaked out of the master bedroom. Brock and Cassidy drew their Glocks and followed. She paused before the door and listened. Now she could hear the fast typing. She pushed the door and it opened without a sound. Right then, a loud thread of curses came from inside the room, along with the noise of a fist smashing a keyboard. She took one step into the room.

Trevor Bolton Junior, the Ghost, was a slim young man in his late twenties, all bones and nerves, wearing nothing but some old shorts and an even older T-shirt. In his small room, there was a bookcase at the furthest corner—a mess of books, magazines, CDs and collector's miniatures. Half of the shelves' content was spread on the floor, along with pizza boxes and empty cans. The place stank musty.

"Oh, you little shit! I'm so gonna crush you! Take that!"

She stood behind the Ghost with her hands in her pockets and said, "Kick'im out, son."

The Ghost squirmed around, sweaty and panting. "Who the...!"

A sound alert made him squirm back to the computer. He moved like a fish wriggling out of the water. "What!? NO!" He started typing at full speed, incapable of registering the situation. "You douche!"

"Hey, watch your mouth. It's my son you're talking about."

"WHA...!? NO! NO! NO!!"

Several alerts went off. He jumped around, wide eyes and open mouth, lips moving without a sound. Gillian thought he was about to have a seizure. Well, like she cared.

"Good job, lads," she said on the radio, always smiling.

The young man almost had a heart attack when Connor's voice came from his own computer. "Anytime, Mom." His calm tone was like an insult, and she heard cheering yells in the background.

The Ghost lashed his head to look from his computer to Gillian and back a couple of times. She waited, a mocking little smile pursing her lips. It took him about a minute for the situation to sink in. Then his eyes widened even more and he jumped to the desk beneath the window.

Gillian stepped back, to give him way to snatch his phone. "I'm afraid that won't work."

The Ghost wore a crooked smirk and pressed the phone screen.

Gillian looked up, like listening. "No boom, right? We cut the service, you know. And removed your little bomb from your father's chair."

He kept pressing the screen, refusing to believe it. Then he dropped the phone and tried to grab something else. Before he did, Gillian's Glock pointed at his face.

"Freeze!"

Cassidy hadn't even moved his feet when Brock stormed into the room. The Ghost stepped back at Brock's scowl behind the barrel of his Glock. The young man tripped on his own foot and flapped his arms around to keep the balance. But as he did, his hand moved to the desk.

Gillian's voice lashed like a whip, startling him. "Drop it!"

He froze, hands in the air, but one of them held a small remote control with a switch. Cassidy came in.

The Ghost flashed a confident smirk at them.

Gillian saw the way Brock narrowed his eyes. "Drop it, Trevor," she said.

The young man turned his smirk to her. "Make me. Your pretty son will pick you up with a spun."

Brock cocked his Glock.

"You ain't gonna shoot me, old man, so why threaten?"

Gillian breathed in and moved. She didn't even bother to check with Fred—she knew Brock was ready. She lowered her gun and took a stride across the room to the young man. He turned an inch to her, his thumb moving to the switch. Brock shot.

The Ghost dropped the switch with a loud cry, blood gushing from his hand, pierced through by Brock's bullet. But he bent over to pick it up again with his spare hand. There was a soft crack from the window and Fred's bullet hit the young man's shoulder, pushing him forward. Cassidy caught him and grabbed his hair, then turned him roughly around to stand behind him and tightened an arm around his throat.

Gillian grabbed the Ghost's face to force him to look at her. "The rest of the explosives. Where are them?"

The Ghost kept crying, his spare hand keeping his injured arm tight to his side, as it bled from the two wounds.

"Oh, shut up!" snarled Cassidy.

He moved to push him against the closet. Brock noticed the insane spark in the Ghost eyes as he glanced at it. So when Cassidy tried to push the young man, Brock became a blur of motion across the room and got to hold Cassidy back. Gillian moved at the same time. She didn't know what was going on, but she saw something in Brock's eyes and just followed. So she grabbed the Ghost's T-shirt and pulled him away from the other two. The young man fell to his knees, crying even louder.

Cassidy glared at Gillian and Brock. "What the hell?"

Brock swallowed his heart and nodded to the closet. "The explosives are in there."

Cassidy scowled deeper for a moment, then shrugged. "Whatever. Cuffs?" he asked, grabbing the Ghost's hair again. "Up, cry-baby! You just screwed up your one chance to skip solitary confinement for life."