Page 33 of Sharing Silence

“There’s the Brat’Ya Manor House,” I suggest, turning my laptop on my knee to show Zayden. Bullet is curled up against Xavier’s back, snoozing. “It looks run down to hell, but it has the panic room and features other places don’t. This is the biggest, too, which means even if we’re found, we have more chances of getting out through the tunnels.”

The Brat’Ya Manor House was owned by a Russian Pakhan in the nineties. He was given a life sentence, but bribery had him carrying that out under house arrest, so he frequently made his way out of the property using coal tunnels. He lived a pretty wild life in that house, according to the stories. When he died, we snatched it up, buying it through a shell corporation. We’ve only visited once or twice, but I remember it being creepy as hell.

“Okay.” Z nods. “How long’s the drive?”

“Six hours, if we leave now. We can beat rush hour and be out the city, but we’d have to move fast.”

“Then let’s move.”

Instead of waking Xavier, I go over to my house and pack our things, only taking essentials, including extra battery packs for my laptops and any equipment I’ll need to check the security systems.

By the time I’m back across the property line, Z is carrying a sleeping Silence and placing her in the back seat of the car, with Xavier and Bullet just behind.

“I need to grab my jacket,” I say, but as I’m about to head inside, my brother takes my arm.

“No. We’re going now.”

He closes the door, and I watch him round the hood. “Why?”

“Because Grant is dead, and I didn’t kill him.”

“I don’t get it. How can he have all this access?” I whisper to Zayden, trying not to wake Silence or Xavier. The house is way beyond our rearview, but my foot is still heavy on the gas. “I know the systems were new, but … to get in and out of the house without us knowing? We were upstairs, for fuck’s sake.”

Zayden stares out the window, quiet, tense. It’s not often that he doesn’t have control, so I understand his unease.

“I don’t know, but Grant’s wrists were cut. Unless he managed to get that glass himself, it means someone was in our house. Why not attack us there and then? And why does he want us so badly?”

I shake my head. “The reasons most people target others for. Money, revenge. Power.”

“Or all three.”

I glance back at Silence. She’s curled up, a blanket over her, fast asleep. Her adrenaline has likely worn off and she’ll be beyond tired. I feel on the brink of exhaustion too, but fresh life is pumped into me when I once again note the bruises developing on her face. She cracked her nose back into place with barely a wince, but she’ll have black eyes for a while.

“There’s no point in dissecting money or power. It’s obvious why people want that. How about revenge?”

Zayden rests his head back. “The list of people we’ve pissed off is endless. And that’s not even including the people who have wanted a piece of the Agency for years and won’t like that we were handed that power.”

Refusing it would’ve been foolish. We couldn’t turn down the chance to own something so sought after. Another practical decision analyzed by me down to the minute detail, and one I’m now regretting.

“He said he’d waited years for this moment. That narrows it down a bit.” I tap the steering wheel thoughtfully, merging onto the freeway. “Maybe he knew one of our hits. A partner, maybe? That could explain his interest in Silence. Wife for a wife.”

“Maybe,” Z hums thoughtfully. “Hopefully Cleo can come up with something, and while she’s doing that, we plan how to eliminate the fucker.”

Refocusing on the road, I exhale deeply. “And fast.”

Chapter 11

Xavier

Exhaustion is fucking with my head. Twice I’ve nearly fallen asleep, the vodka still swimming through my veins, but the pain in my stomach and back yanks me back into consciousness. Yale is driving, Zayden is on and off the phone to Cleo while balancing a snoozing Bullet on his lap, and Silence hasn’t said anything. We stop twice in four hours, for gas and snacks that none of us eat. We’re quickly on the road again, and night is on us when I hear a sniff.

Glancing to her side of the car, I watch Silence’s reflection. Eyes shining. Tears clearly desperate to fall.

“Q,” I whisper, and she glances at me. Against my better judgement, I hold my arm out. For a few seconds, she watches me, as if unsure what I mean. She’s clearly uncertain, but unclips her belt, slides over, and cuddles into my side.

My walls are thick. They have to be. There have been too many drunken occasions over the years where I’ve almost slipped, where distance made it safe to want this, where alcohol made it rational to say words about my brother’s wife that should never be spoken into existence. In nine years, I’ve resisted touching her like this. I’ve hated her. Kept my distance. Pushed her buttons and made myself unbearable to be around.

And in seconds, my walls are torn down.