Survivor in Death (In Death 20)

But that was a weakness—drinking because you wanted to blunt the edge. Hadn’t he proved every day, every bloody day of the life he’d been given that he wouldn’t be weak?

He hadn’t died in that alley, as poor young Coyle had died in his bed. He’d lived, because Summerset had found him, had cared enough to take a broken boy in—a nasty little son of a bitch, as well.

He’d taken him in, and tended him. And given him a home.

In a human world, even one of murder and blood, didn’t an innocent girl like Nixie Swisher deserve that much? Deserve more than he’d been given?

He’d help her get it, for her sake—and for his own. Before his father’s voice got too loud in his head.

He didn’t get the whiskey. Instead he pushed aside the memories, the questions, and as much of the sickness of heart as he could manage, and waited for his wife to step into the room.

The room was full of light, the wide windows uncovered. She knew no surveillance device could penetrate the privacy screens on them. Unless he’d built surveillance devices himself, she thought. Then he’d have built better screens.

At the wide black U of the control console, he sat, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, the silk of his hair tied back with a cord.

Work mode.

The console always looked a bit futuristic to her, just as the man who piloted it could remind her of a pirate at the helm of a spaceship.

Lights flashed on that glossy black like jewels as he worked the controls, manually, and by voice.

On the wall screens were different areas of his domain, and the various computer responses gave brisk reports.

“Lieutenant.”

“I’m sorry about this. I’m sorry about what I may be bringing here.”

He stopped what he was doing. “Pause operations. You’re upset,” he said, as coolly as he’d spoken to the equipment. “So I’ll forgive that insulting remark.”

“Roarke—”

“Eve.” He rose, crossed the wide black floor toward her. “Are we a unit, you and I?”

“Doesn’t seem to be any way around it.”

“Or through it.” He took her hands and the contact steadied him. “Or under it, over it. Don’t apologize to me for doing what you felt was right for that child.”

“I could’ve taken her to a safe house. I second-guessed myself on that half a dozen times today. If I had, Newman would know some of the locations. If they get them out of her . . . hell, not if, when. There are cops scrambling right now to move people out of what should be secure locations. Just in case.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “A minute.” He moved back, fast, to the console, switched on a ’link. “Dochas,” he snapped into it. “Code Red, immediate and until further notice.”

“Oh Christ.”

“It’s handled,” he said, turning from the ’link. “I have built-in procedures for just this sort of thing. It’s unlikely they’ll believe you would take her there—with so many others. Less likely yet they can find it. But it’s handled. Just as this is.”

He stepped back to her, nodded toward the screens. “I have every inch of the wall and gate secured.”

“A teenager once got over using a homemade jammer.”

The fact that he looked momentarily perturbed by the memory lightened her load. “Jamie is no ordinary teenager. Nor was he able to get through the secondaries. And I’ve upgraded since then. Believe me, Eve, they won’t get in.”

“I do believe you.” Still she paced to the window, to look out, to see the walls for herself. “Newman doesn’t know I brought the kid here. Went over her on it, and didn’t tell her, mostly because she irritated me. Just a little slap. My balls are bigger than your balls kind of thing. Petty.”

“Being petty—and I do love that about you—has added another layer of protection over Nixie.”

“Dumb luck. But why argue with dumb luck? I’ve had her supervisor picked up, taken into protective. Had all the paperwork buried.” She huffed out a breath. “I’ve got Mira locked down, too, just in case her involvement leaks. She’s not happy with me.”

“Her safety’s more important than her happiness.”