“Something distracted him. He’s backing off.”
“He can’t see me, damn it.”
“No, no, it’s a car going by. He’s waiting it out.”
She took that opportunity to get to the door, and behind it.
“I’m at the door.”
“He’s rushing it now. Through the gate.”
“Wait, wait, let him get inside. Move in on my go.”
Feeney’s voice dropped to a whisper. “At the door.”
She watched the doorknob turn, slow, slow. Held up her left fist with her weapon in her right hand to signal the rest to hold positions.
Inside, she thought, come inside. All the way in.
The door opened a crack.
From the kitchen, music playing cheerfully. Peabody let out a quick laugh.
Good. Smart. Lure him in.
The crack widened; she waited.
He came in fast now. Eve moved faster, had her left arm around his neck, her stunner at his throat.
“Drop the knife.”
Instead he pivoted, jabbed it. While it bounced off her coat, he shot an elbow back.
It hit her jaw, and she welcomed that bright pain.
She’d have welcomed a fight, relished one—recognized that dark need, and made herself suppress it. Instead, she gave him a light jolt so his body jerked in response.
Before the knife clattered to the floor, both Feeney and Peabody moved in, weapons drawn.
“On the ground!” She kicked his feet out from under him, dropped him to his knees. She heard the pound of feet as others rushed in, from the front, from the back.
“Cobbe’s contained.” Feeney alerted the rest of the team. “He’s contained.”
He fought her. For the sheer satisfaction she twisted her wrist, put the point of the stiletto in his eyeline.
“Keep it up, you could get a taste of your own.”
Yanking his hands behind his back, she slapped on restraints, then patted him down. She took a folding knife from one pocket, a spring-action stiletto from the other. A jagged-edged combat knife from a sheath at the small of his back.
“Check the boots,” Roarke suggested, and his voice had Cobbe’s head swiveling.
“Getting to them. Somebody bag this fucking arsenal. Lorcan Cobbe,” she continued as she took knives from the inside of each boot, “you’re under arrest on multiple charges of murder, murder by contract, conspiracy to murder, possession of illegal weapons and transport of same, hijacking aircraft, and so on. These charges are brought by multiple jurisdictions globally, including the state of New York. You have the right to remain silent.”
She recited the Revised Miranda as she continued to pat him down.
“You will be remanded into the custody of the International Police, represented here by Inspector Abernathy.”
“Fuck the fucking lot of you.”
Roarke stepped up to help Eve haul Cobbe to his feet. “Well now, it’s looking like you’re the one fucked, isn’t it?”
“It’s you without the balls to face me. It’s you hiding behind a woman.”
Roarke only smiled. “She’s a hell of a woman.”
When Cobbe spat in his face, Roarke didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. He simply kept his eyes locked on Cobbe’s and swiped his sleeve over his mouth.
Eve felt fury rise in the room, from cops, from family. But it was nothing against what rose in her. Every cell in her body flamed.
She’d wanted a fight, she’d had that need.
And she knew the man she’d married.
She looked at him. “You want?”
Roarke’s gaze snapped to hers, read her meaning. “Oh aye, more than I can say.”
“Then you got.”
“It’s no wonder you’re the love of my life. Not in here,” he added. “I’ve too much respect for the homeplace to kick his sorry arse in the house.”
“Out back. Let’s move.”
Abernathy all but leaped in front of her as she pulled Cobbe along. “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t let Roarke beat a prisoner. A man in restraints.”
“What do you think I am? I’m taking them off.”
“You certainly will not! This man is in my custody.”
Fierce, furious, she rounded on him. “I haven’t turned him over yet, so back off. You back the hell off. This is family.”
She turned to Whitney, not sure even his command could stop her. “This is family,” she repeated.
Her detectives made way as she hauled Cobbe through the house, fell in behind her.
Brian stood at the back door, a wide grin on his face. He opened it, swept his arm in a flourish.
“Any other time I’d be making book on this bout. I’d still back you, mate,” he said to Roarke. “I’ll always put my money on you in a fight, fair or foul.”
“Fair! With bloody cops ready to blast me when I get the best of him?”
Eve dragged Cobbe out into the thin rain, across the spongy green grass. “It’s you and Roarke, Cobbe, because he earned this. Nobody uses a weapon unless you try to run. That’s an order.” She leaned closer, whispered, “He doesn’t need us, you miserable fuck.”
She used the stiletto to slice off the restraints. “Give them room,” she ordered, and stepped back.
“You put a mark on my woman,” Roarke said conversationally.
“I’ll gut the slag throat to cunt before I’m done.”
Cobbe charged—that was rage, Eve knew, hot and blind. Roarke had his own, but he knew how to contain it.
He did so now by shifting aside, graceful as a dancer, then booted Cobbe in the ass.
That brought on a roar from the onlookers.
The grass, slippery as soap in the rain, had Cobbe sliding, pitching forward. Humiliation joined rage. He jumped to his feet, charged again.
This time Roarke didn’t shift aside, but met him straight on.
A fist to the face that had Cobbe’s mouth dripping blood, his teeth coated with it. Another to the midsection, a follow-up to the jaw.
She’d sparred with Roarke enough to know his style, his moves. Cobbe had the more muscular build, a brawler’s build, but his style was brute force.
He’s playing with him, she realized when Cobbe landed a blow.
The blow rang like church bells on Sunday, and Roarke tasted blood.
He’d wanted to, needed to.
Tasting blood made a fight worth having, and this was a long time coming.
He heard the shouts around him, and they were a bit like music, that mix of West County and New York accents. Not Eve’s voice, she stayed silent. But he heard her in his head.
Do what you need to do.
So he would, and he did.
“Our boy can take a punch.” Robbie slapped a hand on Eve’s shoulder. “And give one. Show the bleeding jackeen what a Clare man’s made of!” he shouted. “Our boy’s more Clare man than Dubliner, and make no mistake of it.”
“Plenty of New York in him, too,” Jenkinson claimed. “Fucking ring that fucker’s bell! Sorry for the language,” he said to Sinead.
She smiled. “Not a’tall.”
Blood in his eyes now, and ribs singing, Roarke plowed a fist into Cobbe’s throat, barely dodged a kick aimed at his balls.
That move incited boos and colorful objections from the crowd.