Sure enough, all of the Brotherhood was milling around and arming themselves like they were about to head off to find his sorry ass before dawn made shit too late.

All eyes swung toward him, and as he saw the surprise and shock on those familiar faces, a load of aw-shucks hit him hard.

To cover that up, he gave ’em a sly grin. “I’m back, bitches—miss us?”

There were some shouts and then people were coming up and there were hugs and other malarkey that, under normal circumstances, made him want to scratch. Not tonight, though. Not tonight. After everything he had been through with Jane, and all that he had both lost and found, he wanted to hold on to his true family, to this moment, to this place in life he found himself. Sure, the war sucked, and the future was unknown, and danger was all around, but with Jane at his side and his brothers and the fighters of the house coming up and embracing him? He couldn’t help but think it was all going to be okay.

As Fritz announced he was going to go gather Last Meal for everyone, and the brothers headed to the bar for celebratory drinks, Vishous put his arm back around Jane and kissed her on the mouth.

Leaning into her ear, he whispered, “I want to rechristen our bedroom.”

“So do I. How long do we have to stay?”

“Dinner, no dessert.”

“Deal.”

He was following the crowd into the billiards room when something had him look over his shoulder.

Lassiter was standing in the far corner of the foyer, his face grim, his eyes intense. There was absolutely no fooling around to the guy. No laughing. No joy, either.

A warning tightened V’s shoulders and shot down his spine into his ass. Something was just not right here, he thought. But he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“V?”

As Jane spoke up, he shook himself—and the fallen angel disappeared into thin air.

“Are you okay, V?” she prompted.

“Yeah,” he said, turning back to the poolroom. “S’all good. It’s all…perfectly fine.”

No doubt it was only the aftershocks of everything making him paranoid. The angel was probably upset that Stranger Things Season 3 had been delayed or some bullshit.

All Lassiter really cared about was himself and TV.

THIRTY-THREE

The dawn was beginning to hint at its arrival with a blush of pink on the horizon when Vitoria determined that they were on a fool’s chase. She, along with Streeter’s failing set of lungs, had mounted the foot of Iroquois and progressed, as instructed, what had to be over a half mile. Or two. Or twelve. Yet no lane, or even the offshoot of a trail, had appeared.

As Vitoria stopped, she did some panting herself—and knew a frustration that was so deep, she was cursing in Spanish in her head.

“Go…back…?” Streeter wheezed.

She looked all around and saw nothing but this singular snow-covered road that continued farther up toward whatever was at the peak—picnic spot, observatory, park ranger station.

There was a desire to blame the intel Streeter had brought to her, but that was counterproductive. And this was a lesson learned. Her desire for a given outcome had colored her analysis of the information and led them on this wild-goose chase.

A waste of time and energy.

“Yes.” She allowed one, single curse in her native tongue to escape her lips. “Back to the car.”

Resuming the lead, she made a little circle and continued along, putting one snowshoe in front of the other over the track they had made. And though there was some relief that came with a downward course, her anger did not permit any appreciation of the aid.

Perhaps it was best for her to abandon the search for the bodies of her brothers. If she were honest, the reason she wanted to find them was not so much the closure and burial, although she would feel she had done a right and dutiful thing if she could put them in proper graves. No, she was desirous of the knowledge that they were well and truly gone. That she didn’t have to worry about her reinstating the business only for them to miraculously show up and steal her future away—

Vitoria slowed and then halted.

“What?” Streeter groaned behind her.

Well…there it was. The cut-through they had been looking for, the lane so narrow and unmarked that she had missed its appearance on the ascent due to the snow’s masking properties: It was only thanks to this different viewpoint that she could pick out the break in the forest, the hole in the evergreens.

“We have found our drive,” she announced.

Success gave her a burst of energy, and it certainly improved Streeter’s respiration. The pair of them made quick time through the man-made tunnel in the forest and then there it was. Yes, this had to be her brother’s bolt-hole: The structure was single story and unadorned, only a row of thin windows just under the roofline allowing light into the interior. A snow-covered car was parked off to one side and there was a petroleum tank the size of an outhouse cozied up to the opposite flank.

Although none of that was what told her it was Ricardo’s.

The door was the telltale. It had no handle, no knob, just a security keypad that offered a choice of either a numerical grid or a thumbprint reader.

If this were just a hunting cabin in the woods almost at the border of Canada, why would you need such security?

Vitoria went forward, the piff, piff, piff of the snowshoes loud in her ear. She had never been much for premonitions, but as she came up to the door, she had one that was very clear.

Bad things happened here. Very bad. Although…not recently: the snow cover was utterly undisturbed by tire track or human print, and God knew that snow-impacted car hadn’t been driven anywhere in quite a while.

Before she attempted the numerical lock, she paused and looked to the heavens. After offering a prayer in Spanish, she put in their mother’s birthday—

The shift of the lock was automatic, and as if forces from the other side of the grave wanted to urge her entry, a release of interior pressure pushed at the door, causing it to open a crack.

Vitoria clicked on her headlamp, the beam a bright, burning blue that hurt her eyes until they adjusted. Extending her hand, she opened things wider, that shaft of light from her forehead penetrating the dense dark.

“Whattaya see?”

She didn’t bother answering Streeter. Bending down, she released the snowshoes and stepped free of them. “You stay here,” she told him.

“No problem.”

As she put one foot over the threshold, she turned…and her headlamp illuminated a severed human hand that lay on the floor, just inside the door, like something one might find in a gag gift store. The shriveled fingers were curled up around the palm and frozen in place, the decayed flesh gray and white.

It had been cut off cleanly.

“Be on guard,” she heard herself say.

“Yeah. Okay.”

As Streeter answered, she frowned and realized she’d uttered that to herself. Forgetting all about him, she went in farther and closed the door most, but not all, of the way. God knew she wasn’t about to take a chance on getting locked inside…except there was no need to worry. There was the same keypad and thumbprint reader on the interior—

That was what the hand must have been used for, she thought. Someone had escaped from here, getting free of her brother’s vengeance by cutting that hand off and using its print. Because they hadn’t known the code.

Taking a deep breath of air that was as cold as that of the outdoors, she smelled mold and must, but not the telltale sweet stench of mortal decay. Then again, given the layer of dust on everything? Nobody had been in here in a long time—so whatever bodies there might be had gone through their decomposition process already.

She saw the boots first. Then the legs, long legs encased in blue jeans that were stained—so this was not either of her brothers, as neither Ricardo nor Eduardo ever wore those kinds of pants. The male torso plugged into the denim was clothed in a loose sweatshirt, and there were hands at the base of each arm. So this was also not the one whose fingerprint had been used for escape.

As she inspected the grimacing face, she winced. The man had been in great pain as he had died, his gray, frozen visage bearing a stunning wound in one eye’s socket.

A burn, she thought. Someone had stabbed him in the eye with a torch or a flare.