Living With the Dead (Otherworld 9)

"Rhys. Is she okay?"

"Seems so. She's going with him willingly, as far as... my source can tell. We'll follow."

* * *

HOPE

When Rhys came around to Hope's door, holding a gun, she put on a very convincing show of resistance. And he taught her another lesson in not giving the ally any quarter, wrenching her arm to the breaking point again and forcing her inside the building, where he pointed out that the gun was filled with tranquilizer darts, and he had a second one for her.

He could have told her this in the car, but she guessed that booster shot of true panic hadn't hurt the act.

"Aim for their legs," he said as they huddled in the stairwell. "Presume they're wearing body armor. I doubt Irving will come in, but he might follow if his men are slow getting back out. If you see him, tranq him. Then use this."

He handed her what looked like a key chain tape measure. When she stared at it, he grabbed the ring and pulled out a fine wire.

"Have you ever garroted anyone?"

She moved her stare to his face.

"I take that as a no."

"You said - " She looked down at her tranquilizer gun.

"That's for the team. We have to kill Irving." His tone made Hope feel like a naive journalism student, shocked at hearing she might have to do something underhanded to get a good story.

"If Irving lives, he'll come after us. All of us." He enunciated as if she wasn't quite as smart as he'd thought. "He wanted Adele - and the glory of her recruitment - for himself. His team is just following orders. He won't have trusted anyone with details. So if he dies, so does the project... and his revenge against those who screwed it up."

"But the council - A Nast - Unless my life is in immediate danger - "

" - the council doesn't condone murder. Laudable and just... and one reason why the council is not, and never can be, as effective a body as the supernatural world needs. But now is not the time for political lectures. If you let Irving live, he won't show you the same mercy."

When she hesitated, Rhys said, "What would Karl do?"

There was no question. He would eliminate the threat as he had with Gilchrist and that would be the right decision for him. But Karl would be the first to say she wasn't him and she shouldn't try to be.

"I don't have time to wait for you to figure it out, Hope. Protect your safety and Karl's, or protect your council job. You decide."

He gave final instructions and left.

Step one: case the joint for civilians. Rhys didn't use those exact words. For a mercenary, he was severely lacking in the requisite badassitude. . . though the ache in Hope's ribs insisted that his bite was worse than his bark. If her own attitude seemed a little lacking in gravity, that was deliberate. It kept her thoughts from straying into territory that would reduce her from Cabal-fighting commando to quivering ditherer.

She couldn't think about Robyn, about Karl, about Irving Nast and what she'd do if she found him. Rhys made the choice sound so simple. End a lethal threat or keep her job, as if her council work was a part-time gig at McDonald's. But Hope's life and her council work were intertwined. It fed her chaos hunger in a way her conscience could live with. And if, in the last year, as that hunger grew, her council work had been steadily less effective? She couldn't consider that now.

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.