The Lords of Lettuce: In the Kingpin's Shadow, #2

By Ofelia Gränd

Old tunnels, lurking threats, and a race against time.

Creed wants his happily ever after with Grayham. They've faked his death and it should be as simple as that, right? But before his body double has had time to cool, there's a knock on the door, and it looks like he and Grayham's troubles are just getting started.

For reasons no one understands, a young boy has come to ask their help. He isn't a normal boy, he's a meta, able to see mere moments into the future, and to see how every action alters that future. He knows men are out to get him, he also knows Creed's friend is in danger.

Grayham does not want to hunt for some wayward agent. He couldn't care less if the agents of The Bureau of Whatever killed each other off, but then there is this look on Creed's face, and he knows he'll do everything he can to make him smile again. Being around Creed has made him soft, and it's a weakness he can't afford. But weakness or not, he'll do anything for Creed.

Together Grayham and Creed set out to find Sal Minotti before it's too late. They search the city of Carona, but he's nowhere to be found, sadly that can't be said about the gang members from the eastern side.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ofelia Gränd
• Release date: Apr 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386710424

Book preview

Chapter 1

Grayham hadn't more than closed his eyes before there was a soft tap on the door. He frowned into the dark and glanced down at Creed who was sleeping next to him in the big hotel bed. Maybe he had slept for a while. Maybe he'd dreamt the knock. He rubbed his eyes, trying to rid them of the green tint that came with looking around in complete darkness.

Creed made a soft sound and turned over on the bed. Grayham held his breath and listened. Yeah, probably dreamt it. No one knew they were here apart from Lou. Cham knew they were about but not exactly where. The fewer who knew, the better.

He turned and was about to reach for Creed when a new knock followed, still soft but a little more insistent than the first.

Lou would knock properly, and the police would probably burst through the door without bothering to knock at all.

Grayham slipped out of bed and grabbed the jeans he'd dropped on the floor. He didn't bother buttoning them, but grabbed his gun on the bedside table.

Could someone have followed him from Howorth's residence? Kitt had stayed behind; surely even someone as useless as he would notice if someone trailed after Lou and him.

The knock came again.

Who's there? Grayham leant against the wall next to the door. He didn't trust whoever it was on the other side not to start shooting. Shit, he should've woken up Creed. He wasn't used to having to think about anyone else in situations like this. He needed to get better at it.

Erm...Kira. The whisper was followed by a heated wave in his chest—truth. But what the hell did it help. He didn't know any Kira. One of the working girls maybe? But how the hell would she know they were here?

Creed stirred in the bed. He squinted towards Grayham then rubbed his eyes and tried again. He couldn't see in the dark. Grayham didn't regret taking his lenses, but if they had to run now, it would've been good if Creed could see properly. How bad was the short-sightedness anyway?

What do you want? Grayham stared at the white door. Didn't hotel doors usually have peepholes? Grayham hadn’t spent any amount of time to speak of in places like this, so he didn’t know. He’d only booked the suite to put a smile on Creed's lips.

I...we...erm...who are you? The female voice hardly made it through the door.

Grayham’s eyebrows creased as he took a step away from the wall. Who are you?

Kira.

Yeah, I heard the first time, but who is Kira? Grayham shook his head. Why the hell was he talking to her? They needed to get out of here. He'd been looking forward to fucking Creed in the swanky shower with the million shower heads but knowing when to slip away was what had kept him alive this long. He edged away from the door and towards the bed. Get dressed; we need to go.

Creed nodded and started fumbling around in the dark. Grayham bit his lip—he hadn't realised the consequences of Creed not seeing well. To the right, your shirt is to your right.

Creed's lips formed a thin line, and Grayham threw on his t-shirt before going back to the door.

—and he said to knock on this door, and I'm sorry, but it's really, really important, and... The woman sucked in a breath, her voice wobbly as if she was about to burst into tears.

Could you repeat that? Grayham glanced at Creed to see how far he'd come.

Which part? Definitely close to tears. Grayham pinched the bridge of his nose.

Look, woman. Creed took a tentative step away from the bed, and Grayham tried to push down the frustration wanting to come out in a growl. Fuck this shit. He hit the light button, and Creed blinked in surprise. Grayham must have failed to hide his frustration because for a second Creed smiled at him then hurt smashed into his face and he turned to look at the floor. Fuck.

Grayham ran a hand through his curls then he unlocked the door and pulled it opened in one swift motion. With the gun aimed at the woman's forehead, he looked around the corridor.

Ms Hardin? Grayham almost removed the gun when he looked down at her. The short black hair wasn't as neat as when she'd been to the interview two days ago, or was it three now? Time melted together in his head.

Grayham? Oh, thank God. A tear escaped the corner of her eye, and she hugged a kid to her chest. Thank God? He didn't think anyone had used those words when coming face to face with him.

He lowered the gun and motioned for them to get inside the room. With one last glance around the corridor he closed the door.

What's going on? He hadn't meant to growl but how the hell had Ms Hardin been able to find them? They needed to go; it wasn't safe to keep Creed here when people could find them.

Our flat has been trashed. Someone is guarding it. The kid looked up from where he'd had his face hidden against Ms Hardin's belly. Grayham forced away the emotions that wanted to surface when he took in the red hair and the blue eyes. It could've been him twenty-five years ago. The boy couldn't be more than five or six, just like Grayham had been when Cham picked him up.

He swallowed around the lump wanting to form in his throat. Since when had he turned into such an emotional mess? He glared at Creed with narrowed eyes. It was all his fault.

He was about to ask Ms Hardin to continue when the kid's eyes turned white, completely white. Both irises and pupils were entirely gone. Then he blinked and the blue eyes were back again.

Mummy. The boy grabbed Ms Hardin's hand.

Time to go?

The boy nodded, and Ms Hardin sent Grayham a pleading look.

Precog? Creed asked in a soft voice.

In a way. Ms Hardin glanced between them. There is no time to explain now.

Creed grabbed the overnight bag. We're leaving?

The look he sent Grayham made him realise he was still staring at the boy. Yes. Back door.

The little boy started shaking, his eyes going white, then back to normal, then white again. What's happening? Why Grayham whispered he didn't know, but he did.

The outcome is changing. Ms Hardin reached for the door handle.

What outcome?

Every outcome.

They're here. The boy's whisper made the hair at the back of Grayham's neck stand on edge. He could handle this world; a little boy shouldn't have to.

***

The little boy's whispered words kick-started something inside of Creed. He didn't know who they were, if they were here because of Creed, Grayham or the boy, but they needed to get out of there.

If it was agents from the Bureau of Metaphysical Supervision coming, Creed knew all too well what they were capable of. For years he'd helped them collect metas, thinking he'd been helping when he, in fact, had sent innocent people to institutions where God only knew what happened to them—Howorth probably knew too, but it only made it worse.

He'd been on his way to bring Grayham in, but then things had escalated, and Sal, his colleague, had found some extremely disturbing evidence of what was going on in the institutions.

Creed would miss being an agent, but since he now was dead—at least he hoped Commander Howorth would believe he was dead—he could never go back to the Bureau of Metaphysical Supervision. With Sal on the run, he didn't know if he wanted to. Someone should stand up for the metas, though.

Go. Creed ushered the woman and boy out the door.

Where are you going? Grayham reached for him, but Creed had already moved out of range.

Go with them. I'll come after. I just need to grab my ID from the bedside drawer.

Fuck the ID, let's go. Grayham moved towards the open door, his red curls tangled from sleep—at least he hoped Grayham had managed to get a few minutes of sleep.

Help them get out. Imagine what they would do to the boy if they got hold of him. Creed's stomach lurched as images of other children he'd help put away flashed before his useless eyes. I'll be right out.

Grayham was about to object when the boy whimpered right outside the door. Without another word, he stepped away, and fear clogged Creed's throat the moment he was alone in the room. The happiness that had bubbled inside when walking into the suite the night before was long gone.

He was so fucking stupid. How could he have believed this was over? He'd gone to sleep thinking he'd live in some happily-ever-after bubble with Grayham from now on—so fucking naive.

Burning a body did not solve any problems. Or maybe it solved some problems, but if someone found his shiny new ID, then it would all be for nothing.

The drawer opened easily. Creed grabbed the card and jogged towards the suite door. He peeked outside. The lift door was open, and Creed held his breath as he exited the room and moved towards it.

After a few steps, he could see inside. The black-haired woman was clutching the little boy to her chest, and Grayham sent him a desperate look as he moved his hand away from the sensor keeping the doors open. The moment they started to close footsteps came from the stairs.

Creed increased his tempo, but Grayham shook his head and pointed in the opposite direction as he mouthed 'back exit'.

Whirling around, Creed tried for a casual walk down the corridor, but who the fuck was out walking in the dead of night? The white doors shone brightly in the overhead light, fancy art hung on the walls—or maybe not so fancy, but not many buildings had art on the walls these days.

He could hear the steps coming closer but forced himself not to increase his speed. Instead, he pretended to stagger a little, searched for his key card as he leant against the wall by a door close to the other set of stairs. The light was harsh but what did that help when Creed couldn't see shit?

Two blurry forms stopped outside their suite. It looked like one of