Living with the Dead
Page 90
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Hope prayed she didn't find Irving Nast. If she did, she prayed Karl would be there to help her make the right choice.
Rhys said he'd reported Colm's death with an anonymous call to 911, so his son wouldn't be lying on the ground until employees tripped over him tomorrow morning. Any police presence, though, was gone before they arrived.
The parking lot was empty, which suggested the building was, too. Hardly ironclad proof, but they wouldn't have time to check. They needed to get in position and wait for the Cabal team, which would do a more thorough sweep.
That's when they'd take them down, as they split up to search.
Hope managed to quickly skim one floor before a low strum of chaos told her the Cabal team had entered the building. She hurried to find a hiding place. As she passed a clinic waiting room, footsteps sounded in the hall, the brisk click-click of feminine footwear. Definitely not the SWAT team.
She backed into the room quickly. Too quickly. Her foot caught a chair leg, the metal yowling across the hard floor.
She went still, gun raised. The footsteps continued, pace unchecked. She glanced over her shoulder. She was in a small room with four chairs and a door. She backed to the door and turned the knob. Locked.
A woman passed the door, heading the other way, her back to Hope. Carrying an armload of file folders, obviously putting in Sunday overtime, she was dressed in T-shirt, jeans and heels, her short hair spiked, loop earrings swaying as her head bopped to the beat from her earphones.
Her steps slowed and squeaked as she turned into a room. Another squeak, this time a chair. The whoosh of files dropping onto a desk. A third squeak, the chair being pulled in.
Hope eased from the corner, moving silently. She could still only see the woman's back now through an office door as she shuffled folders into piles.
Hope could hear her music, the distorted boom-screech-wail of heavy metal cranked full-blast. They could have a firefight in the hall and Hope doubted she'd notice. While it was tempting to leave it at that, it wasn't safe. Not for them, and not for the woman.
She positioned herself with the tranquilizer gun aimed at the woman's shoulder. Then she stopped. What made her so sure this was loaded with tranquilizers?
Rhys had asked where her paranoia came from. Maybe some of it was demon, some Karl, but most came from that loftiest of teachers: experience.
The deceptions and lies of society life were superficial, like saying "Oh, don't you look gorgeous. You're just the belle of the ball and I'm so happy for you," when what you really mean is "That dress makes you look like a cheap whore and if you ever show me up at my own party again, I will carve out your liver with a spoon and serve it as pâté."
Of course, in the society world, no one's liver was in any actual danger. In the supernatural world? Don't bet against it.
Hope had been lied to and deceived and betrayed, then lied to and deceived and betrayed again. And no matter how strongly she believed in the innate goodness of mankind, eventually she'd noticed the "kick me" sticker on her butt, ripped it off and vowed never to let anyone replace it.
She might have tipped into paranoia, having leapt to wrong conclusions about Detective Findlay and Rhys. And she could be wrong questioning what was in this gun. But she wasn't shooting a bystander until she was sure. Rhys knew how sensitive the council was about killing. Why not hand her poison darts and say it was only a tranquilizer? She'd shoot, she'd move on and she'd never be the wiser.
Choices. Everyone had to make them. Some were uglier than others.
When she heard footsteps in the hall – heavy-booted ones – she saw her solution. She retreated into the waiting room, measured the distance between her and those footfalls. When they drew close, she counted to three, swung out and fired.
Hope got off two shots – the first a guess, the second aimed. Both hit the guy in the legs. He looked at her, blinking stupidly, then crashed to the floor.
The chair in the office squeaked. Hope flung herself against the wall and listened. Another squeak. Just her luck to drop the guy at a break between songs.
"Hello?"
No heel clicking accompanied the cautious greeting, and Hope pictured the woman standing beside her desk. She eased along the wall and dropped beside the Cabal guy. One hand checked his pulse while the other trained her gun on the office doorway.
A tentative click. Then another.
The man's pulse beat, thready, as if that second tranquilizer dart had been overkill. He'd be down for a while, but he'd recover.
"Hello?"
Three clicks. A shadow darkened the office doorway. The woman's hand appeared on the door. The shadow of her head moved forward, to peek.
"Hey!" Hope called.
Startled, the woman jumped back, her hands flying up, arms appearing. Hope's dart hit the back of her wrist. Hope dove through the nearest door before the woman saw her. A few seconds passed, then the boom of her body hitting the floor.
Hope was stepping out when the tramp of boots sent her scurrying back. Muted voices came from the stairwell.
Then, "He'll take her to the roof."
Karl's voice, slurred like he was drunk... not that she'd ever seen Karl drunk. The relief of hearing his voice lasted two seconds before she saw the advance guard sprawled across the hall, and heard those steps tramping closer to the landing.
She ran to the woman. A quick pulse check, then she pushed her back into the office and closed the door. She grabbed one of the guard's legs and heaved. His gun skidded across the floor. She froze. The footsteps continued, that same unhurried tramp.
She barely managed to drag the guard six inches before those footfalls thankfully passed the landing and continued up. She snatched his gun, put it in the office, then hauled the guard inside.
She was back in the hall – her own gun in hand – when footsteps pattered down the stairs.
"Take him up. I'll grab Rogers."
Irving Nast. Her breath stopped in her throat.
"Sir?" one of the team said.
Call him back. Tell him you'll get Rogers. Please, please –
"He was scouting the third floor," the man continued.
Irving thanked him and his footsteps continued. Hope shot into the office with the unconscious team member. The stairwell door creaked open before she had time to close hers. Her heel thumped the guard's arm. She carefully stepped over it and retreated into the shadows.
Rhys said he'd reported Colm's death with an anonymous call to 911, so his son wouldn't be lying on the ground until employees tripped over him tomorrow morning. Any police presence, though, was gone before they arrived.
The parking lot was empty, which suggested the building was, too. Hardly ironclad proof, but they wouldn't have time to check. They needed to get in position and wait for the Cabal team, which would do a more thorough sweep.
That's when they'd take them down, as they split up to search.
Hope managed to quickly skim one floor before a low strum of chaos told her the Cabal team had entered the building. She hurried to find a hiding place. As she passed a clinic waiting room, footsteps sounded in the hall, the brisk click-click of feminine footwear. Definitely not the SWAT team.
She backed into the room quickly. Too quickly. Her foot caught a chair leg, the metal yowling across the hard floor.
She went still, gun raised. The footsteps continued, pace unchecked. She glanced over her shoulder. She was in a small room with four chairs and a door. She backed to the door and turned the knob. Locked.
A woman passed the door, heading the other way, her back to Hope. Carrying an armload of file folders, obviously putting in Sunday overtime, she was dressed in T-shirt, jeans and heels, her short hair spiked, loop earrings swaying as her head bopped to the beat from her earphones.
Her steps slowed and squeaked as she turned into a room. Another squeak, this time a chair. The whoosh of files dropping onto a desk. A third squeak, the chair being pulled in.
Hope eased from the corner, moving silently. She could still only see the woman's back now through an office door as she shuffled folders into piles.
Hope could hear her music, the distorted boom-screech-wail of heavy metal cranked full-blast. They could have a firefight in the hall and Hope doubted she'd notice. While it was tempting to leave it at that, it wasn't safe. Not for them, and not for the woman.
She positioned herself with the tranquilizer gun aimed at the woman's shoulder. Then she stopped. What made her so sure this was loaded with tranquilizers?
Rhys had asked where her paranoia came from. Maybe some of it was demon, some Karl, but most came from that loftiest of teachers: experience.
The deceptions and lies of society life were superficial, like saying "Oh, don't you look gorgeous. You're just the belle of the ball and I'm so happy for you," when what you really mean is "That dress makes you look like a cheap whore and if you ever show me up at my own party again, I will carve out your liver with a spoon and serve it as pâté."
Of course, in the society world, no one's liver was in any actual danger. In the supernatural world? Don't bet against it.
Hope had been lied to and deceived and betrayed, then lied to and deceived and betrayed again. And no matter how strongly she believed in the innate goodness of mankind, eventually she'd noticed the "kick me" sticker on her butt, ripped it off and vowed never to let anyone replace it.
She might have tipped into paranoia, having leapt to wrong conclusions about Detective Findlay and Rhys. And she could be wrong questioning what was in this gun. But she wasn't shooting a bystander until she was sure. Rhys knew how sensitive the council was about killing. Why not hand her poison darts and say it was only a tranquilizer? She'd shoot, she'd move on and she'd never be the wiser.
Choices. Everyone had to make them. Some were uglier than others.
When she heard footsteps in the hall – heavy-booted ones – she saw her solution. She retreated into the waiting room, measured the distance between her and those footfalls. When they drew close, she counted to three, swung out and fired.
Hope got off two shots – the first a guess, the second aimed. Both hit the guy in the legs. He looked at her, blinking stupidly, then crashed to the floor.
The chair in the office squeaked. Hope flung herself against the wall and listened. Another squeak. Just her luck to drop the guy at a break between songs.
"Hello?"
No heel clicking accompanied the cautious greeting, and Hope pictured the woman standing beside her desk. She eased along the wall and dropped beside the Cabal guy. One hand checked his pulse while the other trained her gun on the office doorway.
A tentative click. Then another.
The man's pulse beat, thready, as if that second tranquilizer dart had been overkill. He'd be down for a while, but he'd recover.
"Hello?"
Three clicks. A shadow darkened the office doorway. The woman's hand appeared on the door. The shadow of her head moved forward, to peek.
"Hey!" Hope called.
Startled, the woman jumped back, her hands flying up, arms appearing. Hope's dart hit the back of her wrist. Hope dove through the nearest door before the woman saw her. A few seconds passed, then the boom of her body hitting the floor.
Hope was stepping out when the tramp of boots sent her scurrying back. Muted voices came from the stairwell.
Then, "He'll take her to the roof."
Karl's voice, slurred like he was drunk... not that she'd ever seen Karl drunk. The relief of hearing his voice lasted two seconds before she saw the advance guard sprawled across the hall, and heard those steps tramping closer to the landing.
She ran to the woman. A quick pulse check, then she pushed her back into the office and closed the door. She grabbed one of the guard's legs and heaved. His gun skidded across the floor. She froze. The footsteps continued, that same unhurried tramp.
She barely managed to drag the guard six inches before those footfalls thankfully passed the landing and continued up. She snatched his gun, put it in the office, then hauled the guard inside.
She was back in the hall – her own gun in hand – when footsteps pattered down the stairs.
"Take him up. I'll grab Rogers."
Irving Nast. Her breath stopped in her throat.
"Sir?" one of the team said.
Call him back. Tell him you'll get Rogers. Please, please –
"He was scouting the third floor," the man continued.
Irving thanked him and his footsteps continued. Hope shot into the office with the unconscious team member. The stairwell door creaked open before she had time to close hers. Her heel thumped the guard's arm. She carefully stepped over it and retreated into the shadows.
