Ice appreciated the time to soothe his wounds and rest up before the next phase of his mission. His shoulder was still sore, but the buckshot had really only grazed him. His ribs were another matter. The bruise had spread across his chest and hurt worse when he got up from bed, and he winced. He was getting too old for this. Ten years ago he’d already be healing. All the more reason to collect the rest of his money and disappear to some warm, sunny locale and relax.

And he would collect his money. Every time he looked in the mirror at the ugly, red-purple mark across his cheek, his anger rekindled. Thankfully, Digger had brought a bag of Ice’s things; included inside was some makeup. He applied it liberally to his cheek until the mark disappeared. He’d make those women pay.

He heard a knock at the door of the suite and judged from the conversation that Digger had ordered breakfast. Ice threw on a robe and went out to see what was on the menu.

The coffee smelled great, and Royal saw an assortment of pastries. He also smelled bacon, saw pancakes and eggs. He was starved.

“Help yourself,” Digger said when the bellman left. “We need to talk.”

Royal filled a coffee cup and a plate, ignoring Digger’s tone, but not liking it. There was a time when a side glance from Digger would have left Royal quaking in his boots. But that was a long time ago. They were both older, Digger at least thirty years older than Royal. And he looked every bit of his age. He didn’t scare Royal at all anymore.

“What do you want to talk about?” Royal asked, his mouth full of bacon.

“This.” He tossed a newspaper in front of Royal. The Medford Mail Tribune.

Royal swallowed his food with a swig of coffee. The headlines screamed at him.

Local Woman Survives Being Shot, Shoved over Midas Creek Falls.

There was a photo of the chatty cashier. He scanned the rest of the page, having to fight to keep his face blank when he saw a story about the shooting at Faith’s Place, the women’s shelter. There was a drawing of a man wanted for questioning, authorities said—code for “suspect”—and his nickname, “Ice.”

Royal looked up to see Digger watching him. “What?”

“You screwed up all the way around, didn’t you?”

Royal sat back in his chair and pushed away from the table. He swallowed again. “Gage screwed up. I’m a victim of his incompetence.”

“This girl?” He pointed to the headline. “She’s yours too, isn’t she? You can’t blame that on Gage.”

“She doesn’t know who I am. Even if she survives, she doesn’t know anything. Cyrus—”

“I just spoke to Cyrus. He’s not at all happy with you. Yeah, you’re hot. You’re kryptonite.”