The Price of Winning: London Calling Book Four by Kat Faitour Read Free Book Online

breath. Then he tightened again. “Or I’m going to kill you. Either way, you’re a dead man.”  
    The man went limp. Sebastian cursed, not nearly ready to give up his chokehold. The exquisite anger coursing through him settled into a cold and cutting need for brutality. He tamped down the urge, breathing deeply to push back the blackness.
    He eased off, letting the man drop to the floor. Sebastian stood, rotating his neck to relieve the tightly corded muscles there. He quickly moved to Madeleine’s mother. Beneath the bloodied and torn fabric of her blouse, her chest lay still. Nearby, Madeleine’s father stared upward, his eyes unseeing. Both of their bodies were coated with a fine layer of ash.  
    He was too late. A headache started to pound in one temple.  
    A movement, a scrape behind him caused Sebastian to spin.  
    The gunman, no longer unconscious, scrabbled for the police officer’s weapon. With deadly intent Sebastian swept in and landed a punishing kick to the shooter’s face. Blood was everywhere as Sebastian yanked the man’s hair to pull him to his knees. Grabbing the man’s wrist, Sebastian pulled it behind his back at an impossible angle. Just as he heard the satisfying crack of bone, his enemy cried out.
    “I guess it’s going to be me, then.” Sebastian grated the words.  
    Except there was a final gunshot. Sebastian reeled back, dropping the man as fragments of skull and brain matter sprayed to the side of him. Without his hold the gunman’s body slumped to the ground, the dead police officer’s pistol in his uninjured hand. Half his head was blown off.
    Sebastian looked up. A police sniper stood in the doorway of the building, gun lowered. Sebastian raised his hands, palms out.
    “Step away from the bodies. Walk slowly toward me.” The sniper unsnapped the chin guard to his helmet. Speaking into his radio, he said, “Subject down. All clear.”
    He patted Sebastian down then faced him. “You were going to kill him.”
    “Yes.” There was no denying it.
    “Then you can thank me for saving you a trial.”  
    Sebastian nodded, outwardly calm but riding high on an emotion that was as recognizable as repugnant to him.  
    Disappointment.
    ***
    Madeleine dreamed of them.
    Hands linked with hers on either side. Her parents laughed along as they swung her up from the ground to hang suspended between them. Still laughing, they were suddenly at an ice cream truck, buying bomb pops to stain their lips blue. Then they all melted back into the living room of their Cincinnati house, her father pinning a tender corsage to her pretty pink dress before they set off for a father-daughter dance.  
    She’d been eight.
    As dreams do, one scene morphed into another, and then another.  
    Next came a night at the play—her debut on Broadway. There were roses, dozens of bright red roses. Again, she saw her parents laughing and hugging each other. Crying with joy.
    Or was it sadness?
    The kaleidoscope images of her dream melted again, this time to the other flowers—bright orange and russet—because he said they matched her hair. Her mother was crying again. Why was her mother weeping? And who was he—the one who sent her flowers and presents every day?
    The lilies, once beautiful, curled and died, dropping blackened petals everywhere.  
    Then there was blood, scarlet and dripping from her hands, hair, and body. She looked down to see her father, covered in bullet holes that welled and overflowed as he lay dying. His gaze fixed on hers.  
    Madeleine screamed, her eyes flying open. Blankly, she took in the sterile hospital room with its ecru walls, cream linoleum tile floors, and tan privacy curtains. Blankets covered her from neck to toe.
    A nurse pushed open the door to her room, her white shoes squeaking on the clean floor. With her caramel colored hair and light brown eyes, she unintentionally echoed the comforting blandness of the room.
    “Ms. Price, you’re awake.” Even her voice was