Troy said something. I replied, my eyes scanning the windshield. I didn’t quite have the thousand-yard stare, but it was close. Anxiety splashed me in a cold gush, an echo of driving to the warehouse expecting to be forced off the road any second. I felt the urge to cross my arms to try to put some distance between me now and me on that screen.
A warm hand touched me. Rogan’s strong fingers wrapped around mine, forging a link between us. He didn’t look at me, his gaze still on the recording. He just held my hand, anchoring me here and now. I’d survived. I’d made it, and now the look in his eyes promised me that he would put himself between me and whatever tried to hurt me next. I could’ve jerked my hand away, but I didn’t. I held on to him.
“You need to switch to Akula tires,” Grandma Frida said. “See how the vehicle is lurching? Akula has thicker inserts and an inflated inner chamber.”
“I’ll take it under advisement,” Rogan said.
“This way,” my sister said.
I turned and leaned to glance out of the room. Augustine Montgomery was striding down the hallway toward me, with Arabella by his side. My mother had never forgotten that he’d threatened to terminate our mortgage to force me to apprehend Adam Pierce. If she saw him, she’d probably murder him.
“I’ll be right back,” I announced, slipped my hand out of Rogan’s hold, and left the room to intercept the incoming disaster.
Arabella offered me a cherubic smile.
“Why did you let him in?” I hissed in a loud whisper.
“Because he’s so very beautiful.”
Augustine was remarkably beautiful today. His skin all but glowed, his frost-blond hair barely short of perfect. The quality of his illusion was off the charts.
“He’s too old for you. You can’t just let someone in the house because you think they’re pretty.”
Augustine’s eyes narrowed. He must’ve seen Rogan behind me.
“What are you doing here?” Rogan asked, his voice suffused with menace.
“What are you doing here?” Augustine snapped, his gaze fixed on Rogan.
“Shhh!” I hissed. “Into the office, before people see us.” My mother had stopped coming into the office when I formally took on the leading role in our firm. I didn’t care, but she considered it to be my professional domain.
I herded everyone in and shut the door behind me.
“Ms. Baylor . . .” Augustine pushed his glasses up his nose.
Arabella snapped a picture of Augustine.
“Stop that,” Augustine and I said at the same time.
“Augustine, don’t tell my sister what to do. Arabella, stop it.”
“Why do you even associate with him?” Augustine pointed his hand at Rogan. “Was your last adventure not enough?”
Most people, even Primes, gave Rogan a wide berth. Augustine met him head on. He and Rogan had gone to college together and at one point they’d been friends, but now they mostly snarled at each other. The last time they’d met in my office, they nearly destroyed it in their pissing contest. If they tried that again, they would sorely regret it.
Leon slipped into the office, a slender shadow. Great, more witnesses if anything went wrong.
Augustine was waiting for my answer.
“I’m associating with Mr. Rogan because it’s in the best interests of my client—the one you sent to me. They have signed a professional agreement, and I have to abide by its terms.” That sounded a lot better than “because he makes me feel safe and every time I think about kissing him, I feel a little electric thrill.”
“Mr. Montgomery, was there a point to your visit or did you just come here to critique my choice of professional partners?”
“You know perfectly well why I’m here. I warned you it was a terrible idea and I was right.”
I took a deep breath. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Augustine blinked. “Don’t any of you watch the news?”
I tapped my keyboard to get my PC to wake up. “What am I looking for?”
“Amy Madrid, press conference.”
A dozen links popped up. I clicked the first one. An older woman held seven-year-old Amy in her arms. A man stood next to her, hugging them both. Amy looked like a deer in the headlights.
I smiled.
“Fast forward to the nine-minute and thirty-seven-second mark.”
I did.
“. . . finally found . . .” some reporter was saying.
“It was the Lady in Green,” Amy’s mother said, the words bursting out of her. “They told me. She made him tell her where our daughter was. We love you. Thank you, thank you for saving our daughter. We’ll never forget. Eres una santa . . .”
The mike died. A man in a suit clamped his hand over it and called out, “That is all for today.”
“You?” Rogan asked, his expression resigned.
“She would’ve died,” I told him.
Rogan turned to Augustine. “And you helped her do this? How many lunchtime martinis did you have before it seemed like a good idea?”
Augustine recoiled in outrage. “I tried to talk her out of it. She wanted to just walk into the police station. I helped her do it as anonymously and secretly as possible.”
Rogan crossed his arms. “Someone told that woman exactly what took place. The video has two million views already. Now she is a damned urban legend. If that’s your definition of secret, you need to get your head examined.”
“Her face and her entire body was obscured. Anyway, I didn’t come here to be insulted.” He turned to me. “I came here to warn you, just like I did before. This act will have consequences, ones you’re likely unable to anticipate. Make your preparations.”
Sure, let me get right on that. “If I can’t anticipate the consequences, how can I prepare for them?”
“That’s for you to figure out.” Augustine turned to leave.
“Wait,” Rogan said, a speculative look on his face. “I’d like to show you something.”
Augustine grimaced. “Is it work related at least?”
“Yes. Nevada, may we enter the motor pool?”
“Follow me. Quietly, please. I don’t want to upset my mother.” I opened the door and checked the hallway. Clear.
“Why would your mother be upset that I’m here?” Augustine asked.
“Think about it,” I said. “It will come to you.”
We crossed the hallway and I opened the door to the motor pool.
“Is this about that nonsense of me being a terrible person?” Augustine asked.
Rogan strode through the motor pool, heading for the Range Rover parked in the middle and watched over by a Hispanic woman.
Augustine squinted at the two track vehicles—a tank and a mobile flamethrower. “What exactly does your grandmother do?”
“She tinkers,” I told him.
Augustine opened his mouth to say something else, saw the mangled Range Rover, and closed his mouth.
Rogan walked up to the stretcher covered with a dark brown tarp they must’ve stolen from Grandma Frida and nodded to the woman. “Thank you, Tiana. Take a break.”
“Yes, Major.” Tiana trotted outside.
Rogan pulled the tarp, revealing the illusion mage’s face. “Do you know this asshole?”
A warm hand touched me. Rogan’s strong fingers wrapped around mine, forging a link between us. He didn’t look at me, his gaze still on the recording. He just held my hand, anchoring me here and now. I’d survived. I’d made it, and now the look in his eyes promised me that he would put himself between me and whatever tried to hurt me next. I could’ve jerked my hand away, but I didn’t. I held on to him.
“You need to switch to Akula tires,” Grandma Frida said. “See how the vehicle is lurching? Akula has thicker inserts and an inflated inner chamber.”
“I’ll take it under advisement,” Rogan said.
“This way,” my sister said.
I turned and leaned to glance out of the room. Augustine Montgomery was striding down the hallway toward me, with Arabella by his side. My mother had never forgotten that he’d threatened to terminate our mortgage to force me to apprehend Adam Pierce. If she saw him, she’d probably murder him.
“I’ll be right back,” I announced, slipped my hand out of Rogan’s hold, and left the room to intercept the incoming disaster.
Arabella offered me a cherubic smile.
“Why did you let him in?” I hissed in a loud whisper.
“Because he’s so very beautiful.”
Augustine was remarkably beautiful today. His skin all but glowed, his frost-blond hair barely short of perfect. The quality of his illusion was off the charts.
“He’s too old for you. You can’t just let someone in the house because you think they’re pretty.”
Augustine’s eyes narrowed. He must’ve seen Rogan behind me.
“What are you doing here?” Rogan asked, his voice suffused with menace.
“What are you doing here?” Augustine snapped, his gaze fixed on Rogan.
“Shhh!” I hissed. “Into the office, before people see us.” My mother had stopped coming into the office when I formally took on the leading role in our firm. I didn’t care, but she considered it to be my professional domain.
I herded everyone in and shut the door behind me.
“Ms. Baylor . . .” Augustine pushed his glasses up his nose.
Arabella snapped a picture of Augustine.
“Stop that,” Augustine and I said at the same time.
“Augustine, don’t tell my sister what to do. Arabella, stop it.”
“Why do you even associate with him?” Augustine pointed his hand at Rogan. “Was your last adventure not enough?”
Most people, even Primes, gave Rogan a wide berth. Augustine met him head on. He and Rogan had gone to college together and at one point they’d been friends, but now they mostly snarled at each other. The last time they’d met in my office, they nearly destroyed it in their pissing contest. If they tried that again, they would sorely regret it.
Leon slipped into the office, a slender shadow. Great, more witnesses if anything went wrong.
Augustine was waiting for my answer.
“I’m associating with Mr. Rogan because it’s in the best interests of my client—the one you sent to me. They have signed a professional agreement, and I have to abide by its terms.” That sounded a lot better than “because he makes me feel safe and every time I think about kissing him, I feel a little electric thrill.”
“Mr. Montgomery, was there a point to your visit or did you just come here to critique my choice of professional partners?”
“You know perfectly well why I’m here. I warned you it was a terrible idea and I was right.”
I took a deep breath. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Augustine blinked. “Don’t any of you watch the news?”
I tapped my keyboard to get my PC to wake up. “What am I looking for?”
“Amy Madrid, press conference.”
A dozen links popped up. I clicked the first one. An older woman held seven-year-old Amy in her arms. A man stood next to her, hugging them both. Amy looked like a deer in the headlights.
I smiled.
“Fast forward to the nine-minute and thirty-seven-second mark.”
I did.
“. . . finally found . . .” some reporter was saying.
“It was the Lady in Green,” Amy’s mother said, the words bursting out of her. “They told me. She made him tell her where our daughter was. We love you. Thank you, thank you for saving our daughter. We’ll never forget. Eres una santa . . .”
The mike died. A man in a suit clamped his hand over it and called out, “That is all for today.”
“You?” Rogan asked, his expression resigned.
“She would’ve died,” I told him.
Rogan turned to Augustine. “And you helped her do this? How many lunchtime martinis did you have before it seemed like a good idea?”
Augustine recoiled in outrage. “I tried to talk her out of it. She wanted to just walk into the police station. I helped her do it as anonymously and secretly as possible.”
Rogan crossed his arms. “Someone told that woman exactly what took place. The video has two million views already. Now she is a damned urban legend. If that’s your definition of secret, you need to get your head examined.”
“Her face and her entire body was obscured. Anyway, I didn’t come here to be insulted.” He turned to me. “I came here to warn you, just like I did before. This act will have consequences, ones you’re likely unable to anticipate. Make your preparations.”
Sure, let me get right on that. “If I can’t anticipate the consequences, how can I prepare for them?”
“That’s for you to figure out.” Augustine turned to leave.
“Wait,” Rogan said, a speculative look on his face. “I’d like to show you something.”
Augustine grimaced. “Is it work related at least?”
“Yes. Nevada, may we enter the motor pool?”
“Follow me. Quietly, please. I don’t want to upset my mother.” I opened the door and checked the hallway. Clear.
“Why would your mother be upset that I’m here?” Augustine asked.
“Think about it,” I said. “It will come to you.”
We crossed the hallway and I opened the door to the motor pool.
“Is this about that nonsense of me being a terrible person?” Augustine asked.
Rogan strode through the motor pool, heading for the Range Rover parked in the middle and watched over by a Hispanic woman.
Augustine squinted at the two track vehicles—a tank and a mobile flamethrower. “What exactly does your grandmother do?”
“She tinkers,” I told him.
Augustine opened his mouth to say something else, saw the mangled Range Rover, and closed his mouth.
Rogan walked up to the stretcher covered with a dark brown tarp they must’ve stolen from Grandma Frida and nodded to the woman. “Thank you, Tiana. Take a break.”
“Yes, Major.” Tiana trotted outside.
Rogan pulled the tarp, revealing the illusion mage’s face. “Do you know this asshole?”
