Chase glanced over at Elise, hating that she had to witness this brutal side of their world. He just wanted it over for her. He saw the tears streaming down her cheeks, the fear in her eyes as Tegan held her so coldly against all of the deadly steel and leather that girded his immense body.
Chase swore roundly. "I had to let the human go. I had no choice."
"Wrong answer," Dante snarled, bringing that hellish blade up under his chin. "The Crimson dealer would do me no good if he was locked up at the compound. I need him on the street, helping me look for someone--my nephew. I let him go so he would help me find Camden, my brother's son."
Dante scowled, but the blade eased up a little. "What about the others who've gone missing? All those kids Ben Sullivan has been feeding with his drug?"
"Getting Camden back is what I care about. He's been my true mission from day one."
"Son of a bitch, you lied to us," the warrior hissed.
Chase met the accusing amber glare. "Would the Order have bothered to help me if I'd come around asking for you to find one missing Darkhaven youth?"
Dante cursed, low and furious. "You'll never know, will you?"
He wondered now, having come to understand some of the warriors' code--having seen firsthand that, despite their ruthless methods and the efficiency that made them such a mysterious and deadly force among the Breed and humankind alike, they were not without honor. They were merciless killers when needed, but Chase suspected that every one of them was, at heart, a far better man than him.
Dante abruptly released him, then pivoted around to stalk back toward the waiting Rover. Across the lawn, Tegan let Elise go as well, the warrior's steady green gaze lingering on her as she anxiously stumbled away from him, rubbing at the places where he had touched her.
"Get in the truck, Harvard," Dante said, indicating the open back door with a look that promised hell to pay if Chase didn't cooperate. "You're going back to the compound. Maybe you can persuade Lucan that we ought to let you keep breathing."
Chapter Twenty-seven
Cold sweat trickled down the back of Ben Sullivan's neck as he finished up the first sample of his new batch of Crimson. He hadn't been lying about not having the recipe committed to memory; he did his best to re-create the drug in the absurdly short time he'd been allowed. With barely a half hour to spare, he collected a dose of the reddish substance and carried it over to his test subject. The young man, dressed in filthy blue jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt, slumped against the restraints that held him prisoner in a wheeled office chair, his head down, chin resting on his chest.
As Ben neared him, the door to the makeshift basement lab opened and his dark employer strode inside, walking between the two armed guards who'd been supervising Ben's progress the whole time.
"I didn't have a chance to vacuum-filter the moisture out of the stuff," Ben said, making excuses for the cup of pasty goo he'd produced and hoping to hell he got the recipe right. "This kid looks like he's in rough shape. What if he can't chew it?"
There was no reply, only measuring, deadly silence.
Ben blew out a nervous breath and approached the kid. He knelt down in front of the chair. From under the fall of unkempt hair, listless eyes opened to heavy slits, then closed again. Ben peered up into the drawn, sallow face of what had probably been a good-looking kid at one time--
Ah, shit.
He knew this kid. Knew him from around the clubs--a fairly regular customer--and this was also the smiling, youthful face he'd seen in the photograph just last night. Cameron or Camden was his name? Camden, he thought, the kid Ben was supposed to help locate for the fanged psycho who'd promised to kill him if he didn't oblige. Not that that threat was any more serious than the one Ben faced now.
"Let's get on with it, Mr. Sullivan."
Ben spooned a bit of the raw Crimson out of the cup and lifted it to the kid's mouth. The instant the substance touched his lips, Camden's tongue snaked out hungrily. He closed his mouth around the spoon and sucked it clean, seeming to revive for an instant. A junkie nuzzling up to what he hoped was his next fix, Ben realized, a pang of guilt sticking him.
Ben waited for the Crimson to take effect.
Nothing happened.
He gave Camden more, and then some more again. Still nothing. Damn it. The recipe wasn't right.
"I need more time," Ben murmured as the kid's head lolled back down with a groan. "I've almost got it, but I just need to try it again."
He stood up, turned around, and was shocked to find his menacing patron standing directly in front of him. Ben hadn't heard the guy move at all, yet here he was, looming over him. Ben saw his own haggard reflection in the sheen of the man's dark glasses. He looked desperate and terrified, a cornered animal trembling before a fierce predator.
"We're getting nowhere, Mr. Sullivan. And I'm out of patience."
"You said two hours," Ben pointed out. "I still have a few minutes--"
"Not negotiable." The cruel mouth stretched into a sneer, revealing the bright tips of sharp white fangs. "Time's up."
"Oh, Jesus!" Ben recoiled, knocking into the chair behind him and sending it and the kid held captive on it rolling backward in a clatter of spinning wheels. He stumbled away in a graceless crawl, only to feel strong fingers bite into his shoulders, hauling him up off the floor as if he were weightless. Ben was spun around harshly and sent crashing into the far wall. Agony splintered through the back of his skull as he crumpled in a heap. Dazed, Ben felt behind his head. His fingers came away bloody.