The Overseer (11 page)

They spun again as Devin grabbed a fistful of long hair, tugging hard—swinging for Angelo’s throat.

Angelo blocked, knocking away a series of perfectly executed moves—saw an opening—kicked Devin in the back of the knee.

Devin hit the floor, landing on his knee. Felt an arm reach across his chest and grabbed on—performing an expert throw, sending Angelo tumbling onto his back.

Vicious blows traded from one to another as Devin came in fast. Punches turning to grappling as they tumbled across the office floor, grabbing for throat, gouging at eyes, delivering elbows and punches.

They hit the side of the desk. Papers falling. A picture toppling—glass cracking as the frame hit the floor.

Devin lost control—not certain what had happened in that moment. Both sitting—sides pressed against the desk. Angelo was behind him—arm around Devin’s throat, squeezing tight. Vision blurring. A blood choke.

Devin coughed. Losing strength. Punching over his shoulder directly into Angelo’s face, causing him to flinch. Devin capitalized, lifting to his feet—Angelo on his back—flung his back into the tall windows.

Lightning. Glass crashing.

Angelo shoved off the glass, pushing forward, trying to send Devin face-first into the floor.

Devin captured the momentum—spinning all the way around—Angelo slamming into the glass again.

Glass flexing in expanding cracked circles.

Devin broke free—pressing the advantage—throwing punches. Shoved back with precision—slamming into the desk. Back hitting the desktop. Breaking free of Angelo. Rolling away—off the other side.

A moment of hope—looking for a way to make the most of—

Angelo was charging him—shoulder slamming hard— ramming Devin into the bookshelf again. More volumes tumbling—hitting the floor in a flapping mess.

A blow to the side. Devin sucked air, unable to breathe.

Angelo reached for the desktop—grabbed the lamp. Devin saw it coming in full swing—raising his arm to protect the side of his head—pain shooting through his forearm in a slicing pulse—the lamp striking hard. Devin hit the floor—arm trying to block the incoming swings.

The lamp hit him—over and over again.

Pain—in waves.

He kicked at Angelo’s leg—fighting his way to his feet—vision going blurry. Another impact.

Devin grabbed at Angelo—trying to hold his arms.

They hit the bookshelf again—books dumping out by shelffulls—the shelf tipping forward. Angelo pulling away. Devin tried to run.

Too late.

The falling case came slamming down.

Devin’s world went dark.

Hannah stepped into her apartment on the first floor, moving out of the rain. Light glowed between the drapes, and thunder rumbled outside.

She walked to a lamp, firmly ensconced on the wall, and clicked it on. The room filled with light.

She hugged her arms and tried not to feel cold as she looked around the room. Her things were still here—her books on the coffee table. Textbooks. History. Science. English. None of them had been opened. She was two weeks behind on most of her work, and there was no way to explain it to her professors. Not really. There was no way to explain that she had been given a vision—by
God
—of teenage girls being lured into…

Hannah shook from head to toe, trying not to think about it.

Life was too complicated for any one person these days—at least hers was. She had her college fund for her education, but the majority of her grandfather’s estate was tied up in the ranch— property she didn’t dare sell until the real estate market recovered. And that meant she had next to nothing to live off of.

The TV came on with a fuzzy snap, and she scanned through the channels. She really should have been studying—she knew that—but didn’t feel like it. Not after the day she’d had.

There must have been three dozen channels, but they were all music videos from bands she’d never heard of, or infomercials. She stopped on a movie. A romantic comedy with some guy standing in the rain, declaring his love in the most adorably awkward way possible. Hannah watched for a moment, letting a hungry feeling fill her as she watched the romance unfold.

Hannah snapped the television off. Devin Bathurst had warned her about what would happen to her life. Isolation. Overwork. She had thought she could avoid it—maybe. But the needs were so great. How could she not respond?

She sat on the arm of the sofa for a moment, then moved to the bathroom. A shower was calling to her—a chance to wash the day away and feel like a real person again.

Devin existed out of space and time for a moment—the world blurry. He blinked. Focused. Let his mind work through where it was.

He let his body feel itself and was once again aware of his physicality.

His body was on the floor. He hurt.

Serious physical trauma? No. But he had been knocked unconscious. A dangerous occurrence that worried him. Devin looked around.

He was on the floor of his office—rain falling just beyond the glass window—the sound chopping loudly through an empty section the shape of California that had broken free from the spider-webbed glass. There was water on the floor. Books everywhere. A lamp with a broken lightbulb nearby.

He was alone in the dim room.

Something pinched the lower half of Devin’s body, and he looked. The bookshelf pinned his legs to the floor.

He strained for a moment, pushed against the heavy case, pulled his body free. Devin stood, touching his head—blood.

Angelo had beaten him hard. What was it that he had wanted anyway? To keep from protecting the senator? To not help Hannah?

Devin felt sudden concern.

—Hannah—

The faucet came on with a twist, and hot, steaming water tumbled down the drain. There was a sound from the next room, and she paused, straining to hear. She turned off the faucet and listened.

The room was silent for a moment—then her phone rang.

She stepped into the room—and stopped.

Angelo stood in the middle of the room. “I need to talk to you,” he said with a strange intensity.

The phone, tossed on the sofa, rang again. Hannah turned her eyes to the phone. “I should answer that,” she said timidly.

Angelo nodded.

Hannah reached out, just past Angelo, and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Miss Rice.”

The voice was unmistakable—
Devin Bathurst
. “Yes?”

“I was just attacked by the man named Angelo. He came to the office demanding that I not pursue my calling.”

Hannah eyed Angelo, his face eerily stoic. “What happened?”

“He subdued me.” There was a momentary pause. “He beat me unconscious.”

Hannah’s heart raced. Devin was the most physically powerful and skilled man she had ever known. If Angelo had subdued him…

“You need to be careful. I think he may come for you too.”

Angelo continued to watch her.

“I’m sorry,” Hannah said, watching Angelo watch her, eyes never breaking, “now isn’t a good time to talk. Someone is here.”

There was a crackle of static across the phone line.

“Angelo? Is Angelo there?”

Hannah blinked. “Yes.”

“Hang on, Hannah. I’m already on my way.”

The car smashed through the curtain of splashing water, wiper blades swinging madly.

Devin steered the car with one hand, dialing his cell phone with the other. It rang a moment, then connected.

“Hello?”

“John Temple, this is Bathurst.”

“Devin, I—”

“What do you know about Angelo?”

“Nothing, really. He helped Hannah after—”

“He came to my office,” Devin reported quickly. “Demanded that I not pursue the Warren Foster issue. There was an altercation, and I was subdued temporarily.”

“Angelo?”

“Yes,” Devin continued, spouting rapid-fire facts. “He was violent and nearly incoherent at moments, followed by bouts of undeniable lucidity.”

“He attacked you?” John asked.

“Yes.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s with Hannah in her apartment,” Devin announced, shifting sharply as he cornered at a rainy intersection. “I need you to get to there ASAP! I’m on my way now, but I’m going to need help.”

“Devin, I—”

“He’s dangerous, John. Very dangerous. We have to stop him now.”

Devin closed his phone.

Hannah stood in front of Angelo, waiting for him to talk.

“How did you get in here?” she asked, surprised that her curiosity was so much more overpowering than her fear.

“I’m quiet,” Angelo said emotionlessly, and left it at that.

“What did you need to talk about?” Hannah asked.

He blinked, then took a step forward. “I understand that you and Devin Bathurst plan to prevent the assassination of Senator Warren Foster.”

Hannah considered her options. The only thing she could think of was to keep him talking. “We had discussed it,” she stalled, “but there is something I need to do also.”

“Don’t do it,” he insisted, tone almost violent.

“But they aren’t the same—”

“He’ll listen to you,” he said, face intense, taking another step. “And he’s walking into a trap, Hannah Rice, a trap set by the Thresher. It’s a trap that you cannot allow Devin Bathurst and the Firstborn to fall into.”

Hannah nodded slowly. It was like petting a rabid dog. Scruffy, greasy, and scary. With sympathetic eyes and bared teeth. In need of tenderness, but only a moment away from biting you. “We should talk,” she said with a nurturing tone. She sat on the couch slowly. “I’m afraid that I don’t understand, and I need you to explain it to me. Can you tell me more about the Thresher?”