Fury of Fire (31 page)

“Someone took them?”

“Exactly, but there’s no evidence of it.” He shook his head, frustration making him restless. “I went over the camera’s digital files frame by frame. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Angela frowned. “An inside job.”

“Yeah…maybe. IA’s all over it, talking to the techies, but that doesn’t help us.”

No, it didn’t, and neither did the holes in her memory. Flipping the case file open, she said, “All right. Let’s go over everything again. Maybe—”

Mac’s cell phone screeched, and she winced. Man, she really wished he’d change that ringtone. It was hell when she had a headache.

“MacCord.” As chatter came through the earpiece, Mac went still in his seat. The hair on the back of Angela’s neck rose as her partner’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah…good job. Sit on her until we get there.”

Mac closed his phone with a snap. She tipped her chin, a
tell me, tell me, tell me
written all over her face.

“Guess who just showed up at the medical center?”

It didn’t take a brainiac to guess the answer. Their prime suspect. Ms. Munroe was back on the grid.

“Security got her locked down?” When Mac nodded, she grabbed her leather jacket off the back of the chair and headed for the door. “Let’s go. I’m driving.”

The LZ’s floating globes flickered, swaying into each other, threatening to short out as Bastian paced beneath them. Magic crackled in his fingertips, along his spine, lighting him up from the inside out. He was losing his mind. Needed to get out of the lair like a guy buried alive needed to get out of a coffin.

The suffocating smell of cave pressed in, the must, dirt, and stone dust closing his lungs. He breathed deep, forced air in, and then breathed it out. Uncurling his fists, he flexed his fingers. His knuckles cracked, snapping under the pressure as he strode across the cave: crisscrossing the open space, coming inches from the granite edge, footfalls echoing in the vastness.

Four sets of eyes ping-ponged, following his progress. Bastian ignored them all. He didn’t give a shit what his warriors thought. All he wanted was out.

“How much longer?” he snarled, coming an inch from Sloan’s boot tip.

Propped against the Honda’s back tire, plugged into an earbud, laptop across his thighs, Sloan’s fingers flew over the MacBook’s keyboard. “Fifty-three minutes and change.”

“Fuck.” Screw the sun. He needed to find his female now before—

“Forget about it, B.” Planted on the hood of Myst’s car, legs dangling over the front wheel well, Rikar nailed him with his sit-your-ass-down glare. Bastian hated that look. It was like getting plugged in the chest with a forty-four magnum. “You get fried by the sun, and she’s on her own out there. Is that what you want?”

Double fuck. “The Razorbacks—”

“Can’t go out in the sun, either,” Rikar said. “There’s no play here but to wait.”

“Sit your ass down, Commander.” Venom’s ruby eyes flashed in the dim light. Backing Rikar up with muscle, the big male pushed away from his lean against the cave wall. “We wait.”

Wick, per usual, didn’t say a thing. Just watched, golden eyes fixed on him, prepared to move if Bastian shifted form and dove for the LZ’s ledge.

Jesus Christ. He was surrounded by a bunch of jack-offs. Serious ones, preparing to back up their threat and tie him down for another fifty-three fucking minutes. And honestly? He appreciated the loyalty, but…

His female was out there, alone and vulnerable. So pissed off at him she was likely to do something stupid.

Rikar sighed and, swinging his legs up, dismounted, landing beside the car. As his feet touched down, Bastian got tense. He and Rikar were tight, but right now? He didn’t want his friend anywhere near him.

Widening his stance, Bastian cranked his fists and rolled his shoulders, screaming
stay away
the only way he could…with a shitload of body language.

“Ease up, my man.” Rikar’s boots brushed over the uneven granite floor, pace steady, approach slow. Bastian watched him from the corner of his eye, killing the urge to turn away. Yeah, he was wound too tight and didn’t want to be touched, but he wasn’t a coward, either. And as Rikar came alongside, he allowed it, accepting his friend’s comfort as he cupped the back of his neck. “Look, I know you’re afraid for her. I totally get that. But she’s safe right now…among her own kind in the daylight. The Razorbacks can’t touch her.”

Bastian shuddered, imagining the worst. “If they get to her first…if they touch her…Rikar, I don’t think I can—”

“You can handle it. By morning, she’ll be back in your arms.” Rikar squeezed the nape of his neck. “You can track her energy, and we’re smarter than those fuckers. We’ll get her back, B.”

His chin against his chest, Bastian closed his eyes and pictured Myst. Saw her violet eyes and beautiful face. Felt her warmth. Heard her laughter. Rikar was right. If he got himself fried—like he almost had in the garage this morning—Myst would be a sitting duck. Vulnerable in a world she didn’t understand.

“We good?”

Bastian nodded and, raising his head, looked his best friend in the eye. Their gazes clung a moment, silent understanding passing between, like it always did.

Rikar slapped him on the shoulder. “Now…strategy. We’ve got two targets tonight: Myst and the Scot.”

“I’ll look after my female,” Bastian said, starting up with the pacing again. “I’ll make sure she’s safe, then we go after Deep Purple.”

His arms crossed over his chest, Venom snorted. “Pansy-ass name, but it suits him. I like it.”

Rikar huffed and glanced at Wick. “You ready?”

Nodding, Wick patted the military-grade case sitting on the ground beside him.

Black with big, steel latches, the thing housed Gage’s latest invention—Dragonkind’s equivalent of a Taser. The weapon packed a one-two punch—a combo of high-voltage electricity and neuro-inhibitors that put a dragon out for the count. Once they zapped Deep Purple, they’d have an hour to get him in a cage.

“Oh, shit,” Sloan said.

“What?” he and Rikar said, their voices echoing together across the cavern.

“We’ve got a bit of a snag.” Pressing on the earbud with his finger, a frown on his brow, their computer tech listened hard. “I’ve been monitoring the police chatter, scanning for any more murders, listening in on the detectives.”

Rikar perked up. “The she-cop?”

“Yeah,” Sloan said, looking up from the MacBook. His dark eyes meet Bastian’s. “The male just got a call. They have an APB out on Myst, and they just found her.”

Bastian eyes narrowed. “Where are they taking her?”

“King County precinct.”

His hands curled into fists. As his knuckles went white, a picture formed, and Bastian imagined beating the hell out of the male detective. Taking comfort from the image, he slowed his rolling, forcing himself to think instead of react. The cops wouldn’t hurt her. Yeah, they might scare her a little, but the police followed certain rules: human rights, equal treatment, no corporal punishment allowed. Still, the idea they’d lock her in a room and threaten her…

Just thinking about it made him want to rip their heads off.

“Time?”

“Forty-three minutes.”

Jesus. Was the clock screwing with him, moving slower than usual? It felt like it, but as Bastian stalked to the other side of the cave, giving his shitkickers a workout, he kept it together, visualizing the fastest route to the police station. Sloan wasn’t the only one scanning human databases for intel. And he’d bet his fangs that Myst was now on the Razorbacks’ radar, and Ivar knew exactly where to find her.

Steel closed with a snick behind her, shutting Myst on the wrong side of locked door. The chill in the air nipped, raising goose bumps on her bare arms. She rubbed her biceps, wondering if the cold was some sort of interrogation technique: take her Patagonia, toss her into fridge-like conditions, and wait for her to crack.

Detective MacCord seemed like the type. The guy was hardcore, a lethal combination of skill and intensity with added value…violent tendencies. Kind of like Bastian and the crew at Black Diamond, only different—a toned-down version of kick-ass with his dark hair and stormy blue eyes. The only consolation? Detective Keen read as genuine; concerned, even. Then again, maybe it was all an act—a good cop, bad cop routine designed to pull her off balance.

Myst huffed. As if the room wasn’t doing that already.

Man, the place was right out of
Law & Order.

Standing just inside the door, she hugged herself a little tighter, fighting shivers and the urge to cry. God, how had it come to this? With her imprisoned in a twelve-by-twelve-foot box with beige walls and a one-way mirror? Although, it could’ve been worse. At least, the interrogation room had a window. Okay, so there were bars crisscrossing in front of the glass, giving off a criminal vibe, but light came through, making her feel less claustrophobic.

Skirting the table and chairs in the center of the room, Myst walked toward the window. The view sucked, but she wasn’t interested in the asphalt lot with the police cruisers parked between yellow lines or the building beyond the chain-link fence across the street. Daylight was fading, the sun hanging low on the horizon.

The orange glow warmed her, and as she stared at it, she saw the hard angles of Bastian’s handsome face and his shimmering green eyes. Despite all the seesawing confusion, she wanted to go back to that place, when he’d held her and she’d felt safe. Right now, he was trapped inside Black Diamond—probably out of his mind with fear for her—but not for much longer.

Propping her shoulder against the cinder block wall, Myst watched the sun sink lower and whispered, “Bastian, I’m right here. Please find me. Please…
find me.
”

She repeated the SOS, feeling selfish, knowing she had no right to expect a rescue, much less ask for one. Not after the way she’d treated him in the garage. God, the look on his face as she put the Denali in gear and…

Myst closed her eyes.

Yeah, he didn’t owe her a thing, but she asked anyway. Sent the distress signal over and over—hoping the connection they shared would bring him. Sent it until her temples throbbed and it became a running chant of desperate
pleases
inside her head.

Which just pissed her off.

She should be able to save herself, goddamn it. Relying on someone else to ride—or rather, fly—to her rescue seemed, well…old school. Totally medieval or something. The problem? She couldn’t see a way out of the mess. Out of the police station. Out from under the law’s thumb and away from two very determined detectives.

The door clicked behind her.

She drew a deep breath, preparing for confrontation as a spicy scent drifted into the small room. Men’s cologne. Detective MacCord was back.

Compassion wasn’t high on the list of priorities for a suspect. At least, it shouldn’t be, but today? Angela found it hard not to wince as she stepped into IR two behind her partner. Myst Munroe looked ragged, and not just around the edges. Her exhaustion went deeper than that, beyond the physical to a place dominated by soul-deep weariness.

Angela could relate.

She felt a lot like that herself right now, her mind playing tricks, showing her pieces of the puzzle while hiding others behind a wall of impenetrable mental haze. The other cops thought she was hungover, a little off her game, fighting a post-binge headache. She wished it were true, then she wouldn’t have to face the real problem. Something had gone terribly wrong last night.

The tip-off? She could see the holes in her memory. Actually,
see
them…pinpoint and isolate the lapses; was able to surround, but not touch them. Her brain had put the information inside a box and sealed it tight. And that
R
. It kept at her, sending her round and round on the mystery merry-go-round.

God, she had a headache.

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she bypassed Mac and set her legal pad on the table. As intended, the paper made a slapping sound, echoing a little in the small room. Usually, that was enough to get a suspect’s attention. Myst didn’t even flinch. She was fixated, staring out the window, looking like she’d just gone ten rounds with a pair of mental boxing gloves.

Compassion grabbed hold again. Angela slapped it back down. She didn’t have time to play nice. Not with a baby MIA.

Her eyes narrowed, she studied the woman she suspected of cutting a baby from his mother’s womb for profit. Angela frowned. Myst didn’t fit the profile. From all accounts, she was kind, caring, willing to go the extra mile for her patients. The late-night phones calls, the home visits, and the conversations over coffee all supported those facts. So, what the hell happened out there? How had Caroline Van Owen ended up dead on her kitchen floor?

Grabbing the back of a chair, Angela pulled it away from the edge of the table. The metal legs squawked against the tile floor. Mac made a face, but she got nothing from Myst. No reaction at all. Just quiet stillness, firm focus…like she was watching for something.

“Ms. Munroe,” she said, raising her voice.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her gaze fixed on the setting sun.

Interesting. If this kept up, she and Mac would have a confession sewn up in five minutes flat. “For what?”

Her brows drawn, Myst stepped away from the window. She rubbed her upper arms, and Angela clenched her teeth. Yeah, it was cold in the room. The interrogation tactic was one they used often: better to keep a suspect uncomfortable and on edge than comfortable and well fed. Still, she hated turning the screws on this girl, and as Myst turned to face them, she almost apologized for the cops’ asshole-ish policy.