Perfect for what he had planned.

Assail screwed the top of his vial shut and tucked the stash into his black leather jacket. “Let us go, then.”

Leading them out the back door by the garage, he was reminded of why he’d brought them over from the Old World to Caldwell: Ever prepared and never questioning.

In that regard, they were exactly like the autoloaders they carried upon their able bodies night and noon.

“We’re going south,” he ordered. “Follow my signal.”

The twins nodded at him, their perfectly identical faces composed and grim, their powerful bodies prepared to uncurl and dispatch whatever was needed for any situation. In truth, they were the only ones he trusted—and even that pledge, grounded in their communal blood, wasn’t an absolute.

As Assail pulled a black mask over his face, they did the same—and then it was time to dematerialize. Closing his eyes to concentrate, he regretted the coke. He hadn’t really needed the buzz—considering where they were going, he was amped up more than enough. Lately, however, doing the powder was akin to pulling his coat on or holstering a forty under his arm.

Rote.

Focus … focus … focus …

Intent and will coalesced a heartbeat later and his physical form fragmented into a loose association of molecules. Zeroing in on his destination, he clouded toward it, sensing his cousins traveling through the night skies with him.

In the back of his mind, he recognized that this excursion was out of character. As a businessman, life for him was calculated on the basis of ROI: everything he did was predicated on a return for the investment made. Which was why he was involved in the drug trade. Hard to have better margins than selling black-market chemical products to humans.

So, no, he was not a rescuer; he was the anti– Good Samaritan. And when it came to vengeance? Any he wielded was on his own behalf, never another’s.

Exceptions were going to be made in this case, though.

His destination was an estate in West Point, New York, a venerable old stone house that was set back on acres of lawn. Assail had been on the property once before—when he’d been following a certain burglar … and watched her not only break in through a very viable security system, but traipse throughout the mansion without taking a goddamn thing.

She had, however, pivoted one of the Degas sculptures about an inch out of position.

And the consequences for her had been dire.

Things were, however, going to be reversed.

Violently.

Assuming form at the lowest corner of the vast front lawn, he masked himself in the line of trees that bordered the estate’s far edges. As the cousins materialized next to him, he recalled that first trip here, picturing Sola in the snow, her white parka blending in as she cross-country skied up toward her target.

Simply extraordinary. That was the only way he could describe every single thing about the woman—

A proprietary growl rose up deep in his throat—one more thing that wasn’t like him a’tall. He rarely cared about anything other than money … certainly not about females, and never, ever about human women.

But Sola had been different since the moment he had caught her scent as she’d trespassed on his own property—and the idea that Benloise had taken her? From her home? Where her grandmother slept?

Unacceptable.

Benloise was not going to live through this choice he had made.

Assail began to stride forward, measuring the landscape with his sharp eyes. Thanks to a bright, winter moon, it might as well have been daylight as opposed to two in the morning—everything from the eaves of the house to the contours of the terraces to the outbuilding in the back clearly visible before him.

Nothing moved. Not around the exterior nor past any of the darkened windows of the house itself.

Closing in, he proceeded around to the back, reacquainting himself with the layout of terraces and floors. So old money, he thought. So established. As un-drug wholesaler as one could get.

Mayhap Benloise was less than proud of the way he made his paper.

“We penetrate here,” Assail said softly, nodding to the plate-glass windows of a sitting porch.

Ghosting in through them, he re-formed in the interior, standing motionless as he listened for footsteps, a scream, a scramble, a closing door.

A glowing red light high up in a corner informed him that the security system was on and running—and the motion detectors hadn’t yet been triggered by their sudden appearance. The instant he moved? All hell was going to break loose.

Which was the plan.

Assail first knocked out the security cameras. Then he triggered the alarm by reaching into his pocket and pulling free a Cuban cigar—in response, that light immediately started blinking. And whilst it discoed along, he took his time lighting his smoke, fully expecting any number of thick-necked strong-arms to come racing in.

When that did not occur, he exhaled over his shoulder and strode forward, going throughout the first floor with the cousins tight on his heels. As he went along, he ashed on the Oriental rugs and the Italian marble tiles.

A little calling card in the unlikely event they didn’t meet up with anyone: Considering the retaliation the man thought appropriate for a statue’s reorientation, cigar debris was going to send the bastard right over the edge.

When he found nothing in the public rooms of the house, he headed for the servant wing and discovered an empty kitchen that was modern and utterly uninspiring. God, how boring—the gray-and-chrome color scheme was like the pallor of the elderly, and the sparse furnishings suggested decor was not a priority in spaces Benloise did not frequent himself. But more to the point, and as with the reception rooms, there was no scent from Sola’s presence nor that of gunpowder or fresh blood. There were also no dishes in any of the three deep-bellied sinks, and when he opened the refrigerator just because he could, he found six green Perrier bottles on the top shelf and nothing else—

A set of headlights washed across the windows, flaring in his face, casting sharp shadows among table legs and chair backs and stands of cooking utensils.

Assail puffed out a mushroom cloud of smoke and smiled. “Let us go out and welcome them home.”

Except the vehicle passed by the house and zeroed in on the outbuilding—suggesting that whoever it was had not come in response to the alarm being set off.

“Sola…” he whispered as he dematerialized onto the snow-covered lawn.

Emotions riding high, he nonetheless made sure to disable the monitoring cameras on the rear exterior—and then he ripped off his mask so he could breathe better.

The non-descript sedan stopped grille-first into the garage, and two white human men got out of the front, clamping the doors shut and going around to the—

“Greetings, my friends,” Assail announced as he leveled his forty at them.

Ah, look. They were such good little listeners, each going statue as they jerked in the direction of his voice.

Walking over, Assail trained his muzzle on the man on the right, knowing that the twins would judge correctly his focus and concentrate on the other one. When he’d closed the distance, he leaned in and peered through the windows of the backseat, bracing himself to see Sola in some form of compromise …

Nothing. There was no one back there, nobody bound and gagged, knocked out, or cowering in submission against the beating that would surely come.

“Open the trunk,” Assail ordered. “Only one of you—you. You do it.”

As Assail followed the man around, he kept his gun right at the back of the fucker’s head, his finger twitching at the trigger, ready to squeeze.

Pop!

The trunk latch released and the panel lifted soundlessly, inner lights coming on …