Flameout (16 page)

My eyes widened at
that
particular threat. “Meaning what? Incarceration? More obedience drugs? It's not like the first lot worked overly well.”

“No.” His voice was grim. “But you can rest assured the next lot will.”

“Oh, this just gets better and better—”

“Damn it, Red,” he all but growled. “Have you forgotten what we're up against? Have you considered what would happen if this situation gets out of control? Even people like you won't be safe in a world gone mad.”

Actually, Rory and I
would
be safe, as long as at least one of us remained alive. The real question was, would we want to live in a world where the virus-infected reigned supreme?

The answer was a definite no.

“Understanding the reason for your actions doesn't make acceptance of them any easier, Sam.”

“I warned you at the start of all this to walk away. You didn't, so you have no one to blame for the consequences but yourself.”

As he spoke, the air became thick with a menace that was both frightening and alluring. It was all I could do to remain seated, to not scramble out of the chair and back away. I'd witnessed many a vampire over the centuries lure unwilling targets into their arms, and what Sam was now unleashing was something very similar. He may not be doing it consciously, but that didn't alter the fact that it was happening. And it didn't make it any less dangerous—especially if he
was
drinking blood.

“Your answer, Emberly.”

“I don't even know why you bothered offering it as a choice, because we both know it's not.” I crossed my arms against not so much the chill crawling through my body, but rather the sense of foreboding—one that told me this was but the first step down a very unintended
and definitely unwanted path. “What happens when the current situation is over?”

“Nothing. Life goes back to the way it was.”

Or not,
my inner voice whispered.

“So we report to you whenever you find anything useful? And how does PIT define ‘useful'?”

“You don't report to me or Rochelle.” He leaned back and dug into his pocket. The darkness within him retreated once again; it made it easier for me to breathe but it didn't negate my chills. They seemed to have lodged somewhere deep inside me, and I wasn't sure even flame could chase them away. He took a card out of his wallet, scrawled a number on it, and then slid it across the table. “You report to my boss, and no one else.”

I reluctantly picked it up. “And your boss's name?”

“Chief Inspector Henrietta Richmond,” he said. “That's a direct, secure line. Jackson aside, you're not to give it to anyone else.”

I nodded and slipped the card into my pocket. “Is that it?”

Because if it was, then this so-called offer sucked.

A small smile teased his lips, but there was little reaction from my hormones. Obviously, they were just as pissed off with this situation as the rest of me.

“No, it's not.”

He produced two small wallets. I opened one. Inside was an oval-shaped badge that bore the inscription
PIT ASSOCIA
TE INVESTIGATOR NUMBER 05
.
On the other side of was a very recent photo with my name underneath.

“There's no way these could have been done in a couple of hours, Sam.”

“No. As I said, the idea of inviting you onto the team had been discussed previously.”

I snorted and picked up the second wallet. It was Jackson's. I very much suspected he wouldn't object to having legal ID from PIT, given it would undoubtedly make it easier to question people.

I shoved them both into my purse then said, “I'm gathering you've got no objections to us going back to Wilson's and finishing the search?”

“None at all.”

“And what about the rats?”

He shrugged. “The cops will deal with them.”

“Good.” I hesitated, my gaze sweeping him. “You're back to isolation now?”

Again that smile teased his lips. “It's hardly isolation when I'm not alone.”

“I know, but . . .” I hesitated. “Just be careful. If she is unknowingly connected—”

“Enough.” He thrust to his feet and walked to the door. “I probably won't see you again, so be careful, Em.”

With that, he opened the door and waved me through. I hesitated then left. There was no point in saying anything, no point in warning him to watch his back. He knew the dangers of the situation as well as I, and I couldn't afford to antagonize him any further.

A cop was waiting for me outside the interview room. As he silently escorted me down the hall, I glanced over my shoulder. Sam wasn't watching me. He was walking in the opposite direction, toward the waiting Rochelle.

Only
she
wasn't looking at him. She was looking at me. And even though her expression was void of any sort of emotion, I couldn't escape the feeling that something was going on with her.

The question was, was that something virus based, or simple—if well-concealed—annoyance?

Jackson was waiting on the steps outside. I stopped beside him. “How did question time go with Rochelle?”

“Well,” he said. “It certainly was an interesting experience.”

“I'm gathering they made you an offer you couldn't refuse?”

“Yeah,” he said. “And Rochelle is not a happy woman.”

“Sam wasn't exactly ecstatic about having us on the team, either.” I headed down the stairs then turned left. I didn't know this area all that well, but I'd seen a railway station coming here, and that was probably the best place to grab a taxi.

“Undoubtedly, but I think Rochelle was more pissed at you than the situation.”

I frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“Because the first thing she said when she walked into the interview room was ‘I'm totally over him running after that bitch and you.'”

“Which does imply annoyance, but at Sam more than me.”

“I initially thought that, too, but she made a couple of other comments that made me think it was you rather than him.”

I frowned. “But why? It's not like I'm a threat to her
position in his life. Besides, she's fae. You lot don't do emotion.”

“Which doesn't imply we can't feel propriety on certain occasions.”

I squinted up at him. “Have you ever felt that way?”

“Hell no. But you can't tar an entire race with the same brush. There are always outliers who prefer something a little different.”

“So there's a definite change in her since the last time she interviewed you?”

“Yes. There's a definite coldness in her now.” He hesitated. “But it's always possible it stems from her being annoyed.”

“But you don't think so?”

“But I don't think so,” he agreed heavily. “Fae flirt. You know that. And despite the seriousness of the situation, there was definite byplay between us last time. Today, there was nothing. She was distant and professional, and it just didn't feel right. I didn't like the change, nor did I trust it. Or her.”

“And yet Sam does.”

“Yeah, well, he's fucking her. It's a long-known fact that men tend to think with their little heads more than the big in situations like this.”

I grinned. A more true statement I had never heard.

“I will also say,” he added, “that there were moments when she felt more like a vampire than a fae.”

“Yeah, so did Sam.” I briefly caught my bottom lip between my teeth. It was natural that they'd both be gaining more vampire qualities, given that was what this virus was all about—making people pseudo vampires.
But did that necessarily mean the link to Luke was getting stronger? Or that I had every reason to
not
trust her when I
did
trust Sam?

No, it did not.

And that instinctive part of me that kept whispering doubts about her might well be based on annoyance and jealousy rather than anything rational.

We headed down to the railway station and didn't have to wait long for a cab to turn up. Jackson opened the door, ushered me inside, and then gave the driver Wilson's address.

“Sam gave me these.” I dug his new ID out of my purse and handed it to him. “I'm guessing Rochelle told you what their protection is going to cost us?”

He nodded as he opened the badge and examined it. “I can't say I'm overly concerned about it at the moment, though. I've a feeling we're going to need the use of these things in the near future.”

“It's not the near future that worries me.”

He tucked the badge away in his pocket and glanced at me. “I doubt they'll want—or even need—to keep us on at
any
level once this shit is sorted out.”

“Maybe.” And maybe not, if the little voice inside was right. “Did Rochelle say anything else?”

“Nope. She basically told me we were now officially PIT associates, read me the riot act on what would happen if we didn't feed them all appropriate information, then sat in the chair and ignored me. It was, as I said, a very weird situation.”

“We seem to be attracting a lot of that.”

“Must be you, because my life was completely sane and normal before you came along.” He paused and
his grin flashed. “Of course, it was also rather boring. And we both know I hate boring.”

I snorted softly. “Right now, boring is something I'd actually settle for.”

After all, I'd come into this lifetime planning just that. Trust fate to throw a damn wrench in the works.

It didn't take us long to get back to Wilson's. The cops had already departed, and there was now yellow-and-black tape across both the front and back doors. Why they still considered it a crime scene I have no idea; maybe they simply hadn't yet collected all the spent bullets yet. The rats had certainly blasted enough of them through the house.

We made our way around to the rear of the premises and headed for the sheds. The first one was small and didn't really hold anything more than dust, spiders, and gardening tools. The second one was double the size—more a garage than a shed—and filled with an odd assortment of cabinets, woodworking tools, and machines, along with a couple of half-finished projects, and both a fridge and a freezer.

“You want to start on the left or the right?” Jackson asked.

I shrugged. “Left, I suppose.”

“Meet you in the middle, then.” He headed right and opened the freezer. It was doubtful anything other than perishables was stored there, but it still had to be checked.

I opened the nearest filing cabinet, which contained little more than a collection of old tools. It was pretty much the same story in the rest of them. By the
time I reached the last one, I was almost certain Sam was right—there was nothing here to be found.

The final drawer revealed a collection of old tins. I checked each one, and in seven of them found nothing more than screws and nails.

In the eighth, I found three keys.

“F
ound something,” I said as I picked up the keys and examined them. Two looked brand-new and bore letters and numbers on them—C34 and N85 respectively—while the older one was larger and looked more like a house key.

Jackson closed the door of the cabinet he'd been examining then wandered across and plucked them from my hand, turning them over in his. “The locker keys are newer, suggesting they haven't been in that tin long. Wonder if the third is a spare house key?”

“Possibly. Wait a sec while I check.”

I retrieved that key and headed out of the shed. It didn't open the back door, but it fit perfectly in the front door lock.

“Neither of these two keys fits any of the filing cabinets here,” Jackson said as I returned. “But I'm gathering you were more successful?”

I nodded and tossed the key back into the tin. “Which means the other two belong somewhere else. The question is, where?”

“The only person who knows the answer to that particular question is dead.” He lightly tossed the keys into the air and caught them again. “Might pay
to go to a locksmith, though. They should at least be able to give us some idea what to look for.”

“Worth a shot.” And we had nothing but time to lose. I glanced at my watch and saw it was closing in on five o'clock. “We'd better get a move on if we want an answer today, though. The shops will be shutting soon.”

“After you, my dear,” he said, with a grand sweep of his hand.

I smiled and led the way out to our car. As Jackson reversed out of the driveway, I Googled “locksmiths.” There was one fairly close by, but parking was impossible to find. Jackson double-parked long enough for me to get out then continued on around the block.

A small bell chimed as I entered the shop, and an old man looked up from the shoe he was repairing. “How can I help you, lass?”

I dug out my new badge and flashed it. “I've got a couple of keys I need to find a home for, and I was wondering if you could give me a heads-up on what sort of cabinet or storage unit they might belong to.”

“Looking for a needle in a haystack, in other words.” Amusement creased his leathery features. “But I'm more than happy to take a look.”

He held out a hand and I dropped the two keys into it. After he'd examined them for several seconds, he said, “Well, you've got two different keys here, and they belong to lockers rather than a filing cabinet.”

“How can you tell?”

“The numbers stamped on them. There's no real difference in the size and shape of keys belonging to filing cabinets, lockers, desks, and whatnot, but they used to
be coded differently to make identification easier for the end user.” He handed them back. “Keys like that are rather old-school these days, unfortunately. Most places providing lockers for the public are using electronic locks.”

“So what sort of venues might still be using the older-style lockers?”

“That's presuming they
do
actually belong to a venue and are not privately owned. Secondhand cabinets and lockers can be found in many a shed these days.”

“Which is were we found the keys. They don't fit anything there, however.”

“Ah.” He hesitated. “Maybe check out gyms near where you found them. A lot of the older places are still using keyed lockers. Train stations might also be worth checking, as it's cheaper to replace old-school locks when they get vandalized than it is the electronic.”

The train station is where Amanda had been heading yesterday before we'd spotted her and given chase. Coincidence? Unlikely. Especially if Wilson
had
been infected and turned rather than simply murdered by the red cloaks, because he would have had his keys on him when they'd assaulted him. Although if he'd become part of the hive mind, they'd also have the location of the lockers, which might well mean any useful information would be gone by the time we got there.

“Anywhere else?”

He shook his head. “I'm sure there is, but it's not like I keep track of them. I haven't dealt with that sort of key for several years now.”

“Well, I guess it was always a long shot. But thanks for your help.”

“It's not like I actually helped,” he said, with a half shrug.

I smiled and headed out. Our rental car reappeared a few minutes later, and I quickly climbed in.

“Anything?” Jackson said as he accelerated away again.

I quickly updated him then said, “It's probably worth checking the lockers at the Southern Cross railway station. Maybe Amanda wasn't the only one keeping stuff there.”

Jackson's expression was doubtful. “Wilson didn't catch public transport—he drove to work. He'd have to go out of his way to store stuff there.”

“Maybe that's why no one can find his backups—he did the unexpected.”

“And maybe there simply
aren't
any.”

“De Luca believed there were. Luke still believes it.”

“Luke more than likely has Wilson. If there were notes to be had, he'd have them by now.”

“Not if the virus is working more slowly on Wilson than it does others.”

“But didn't De Luca imply both scientists were now not only active but working for Luke?”

“Just because he implied it doesn't mean it's true.”

“True. And Amanda
was
there yesterday—maybe she'd been sent to retrieve something.”

I couldn't imagine any other reason for her being there. Amanda hadn't seemed the public transport type. “If there's nothing at the station, then I have no idea where else to look. Was he a member of a gym or some other sporting club?”

We hadn't uncovered any obvious gym gear at his
house, but most guys just tended to wear either regular shorts or track pants, and T-shirts. We certainly hadn't found anything suggesting he'd been into any sport, like tennis or golf.

“It's not something that came up in my background research, but that doesn't mean anything,” Jackson commented. “I don't have access to his financial records, so there's no way to check if there were regular debits coming out.”

“PIT might be able to check for us,” I mused. “After all, we're now associates.”

Jackson snorted. “I have a feeling that particular street is all one-way.”

He was probably right, but I guess it wouldn't hurt to ask if our search at the rail station came up a blank.

“Besides,” Jackson added, “I did ask Amanda if Wilson was a member of any sort of club when I first accepted this assignment, and she said no.”

“Yeah, but can we believe anything that comes out of her mouth? She married the man purely to siphon information out of him. Besides, Wilson wouldn't be the first person to pay for a membership and not actually use it.”

“Like me,” Jackson said with a grin.

I laughed. I couldn't help it. The thought of Jackson sweating it out in the gym was just too ludicrous to contemplate. Hell, the only time he did
anything
remotely resembling serious cardio was when he was either chasing someone or making love.

“
That
is not a polite reaction.”

“But an understandable one, you have to admit. I'm gathering there was a girl involved?”

“Two, actually. And one has a very private office.”

“You are incredible.”

“So I keep getting told.” Amusement played about his mouth. “If Wilson
had
joined a gym, any information hidden there would be long gone.”

“Unless, of course, she didn't know where the locker keys were hidden and couldn't snag that information from Wilson's mind.” I stared unseeingly out of the windscreen for a few seconds then said, “If Wilson drove to work every day, how come he was murdered in the middle of the street at night? He couldn't have been walking home from Rosen Pharmaceuticals—it's too damn far.”

“Good point. Maybe you should put Mr. Google to work again, and see what sort of clubs might be around that area.”

I dug out our new phone and began the search as he drove on into the city.

“There's two within reasonable walking distance,” I said as he pulled into the parking area near the Spencer Street Outlet Centre.

“We'll check them both out when we finish here, then.”

Once we'd found a parking spot, I climbed out of the car and followed Jackson up the stairs to the main concourse.

“Amanda was headed for the bus interchange area when I stopped her the first time,” I said as he opened the stairwell door and ushered me through. “It might
be worth checking if our keys fit any of the lockers there before we move on to the rail station.”

“It's on the way, so we might as . . .” He stopped abruptly. “Well, fuck me.”

“What?” I immediately scanned the area, but a SkyBus had just arrived from the airport and there were people everywhere.

“It would appear our black widow has returned to the scene of the crime.” He motioned to the left with his chin. “She's over near the exit.”

I stood on tippy-toes and scanned the crowd. After a moment, I spotted her. She was pushing her way through the throng of people, moving with intent toward the exit and not seeming to care about the abuse that was being flung after her.

And she was carrying a leather satchel under her arm.

“I think we need to see what is in that bag.”

“I agree. Let's go.”

He strode forward, moving swiftly but nimbly through the crowd. I followed in his wake and wished I were half as graceful.

Amanda moved out of the interchange area then up some steps, heading once again for the concourse and the wide bridge that stretched across the rail yards. But at the top of the steps she hesitated and looked down. Once again, her expression was initially blank. When recognition
did
arrive, it was accompanied by a flash of both frustration and anger. The unease I'd felt before became full-blown fear.

Not of her, but at what had been done to her. Because I'd seen this sort of emotional delay before.

Someone had rolled her mind.

This might outwardly be Amanda, but someone else now resided inside her brain, controlling her every move. And given the strength of
her
psychic gifts, that meant a master vampire with
very
strong telepathic skills was behind it.

And while I couldn't exactly feel sorry for Amanda given her long history of destroying the lives of her victims after she'd stolen whatever she'd needed from them, having your mind rolled and being totally under the control of your attacker was not a fate I'd wish on anyone. Because somewhere deep inside of her, there
would
be an awareness of what had happened—an awareness that her life and her body would never again be hers to control.

The question was, who now controlled her? Was it Parella and his people, or whoever had taken control of the vampire faction working with Luke? Was Luke capable of such a thing now that he'd become something more than human?

Hell, it might even be Rinaldo, for all I knew. Except that the last time I'd seen Amanda, she'd been in sindicati hands, not his. And I doubted the sindicati would allow such a valuable commodity to walk free, let alone start working for the opposition.

Whoever
did
control her, they couldn't have wanted a better weapon. Not with the strength of her telepathy skills.

She turned and ran. Jackson swore and quickly followed, taking the steps two at a time. I wasn't far behind. I might still bear the bruises of my brief encounter with Hunt, but the pain had retreated to an occasional niggle—one I could certainly ignore in situations like this.

The three of us bolted through the concourse. Jackson was rapidly gaining on her, taking one stride for every two of hers, and was almost within grabbing distance. She didn't look over her shoulder but must have sensed his closeness, because she suddenly made a beeline for the bridge railing. Without breaking her stride, she tossed the satchel over the edge and ran on.

Jackson didn't give chase. Instead, he followed the satchel right over the railing and disappeared from sight.