Black and Blue (Otherworld Assassin 2)

Dallas’s grin spread wider. In a silky voice the agent said, “You will let me go. You want to let me go.”

It took a moment for comprehension to dawn, and when it did, amazement was right there, waiting. The man was human, and yet he had just tried—and succeeded—to use voice compulsion, an Arcadian ability.

Blue threw out his arm to stop Evie from moving, expecting her to try to obey the male.

She didn’t. She growled with sudden outrage, obviously immune. “You actually thought it was a good move to force us to do stuff we don’t want to do? Let’s see how I react to that.” Her fist slammed into his jaw, and the entire chair skidded to the side.

That’s my girl.

No, not my girl.

“I mean it,” Dallas said, this time sounding confused and desperate. “You want to let me go.”

She hit him a second time. Harder. “If you aren’t already brain damaged, you’re about to be. Are you sure you want to keep running that road?”

“Let me try something.” Blue decided to get down and dirty and pressed his booted foot between Dallas’s legs. “How are you able to use voice compulsion?”

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Dallas said, “Your friend asked the same thing. By the way, he used the same methods. Ask me how well they worked. Not that I’ll answer that, either.”

“Friend?”

“Like you don’t know.”

“I want a name.”

Dallas spit blood at him.

Whatever. Blue didn’t care about his audience. This was too important. He pushed his power into his hands, and both lit up like rockets. Then he brushed them through the air in front of him, a screen of sorts forming. Colors appeared.

A scene took shape in the center. A scene from ten minutes before.

Blue watched as Solo—alive and well—pressed his boot between Dallas’s legs. “What do you know about Gregory Star?”

“I get that you’re a big, bad dude and all, but do you really have to keep me in the hood?” the agent said from the screen. “I already know who you are. We met at the circus, remember? And don’t try to deny it. I recognize your voice.”

“What the hell is going on?” real-time Dallas demanded.

Blue ignored him.

Solo pressed harder, and screen-Dallas hissed. “You’re a friend of Kitten’s, one of my cage mates, and that’s the only reason you’re still alive. But I’m looking for my friend, John No Last Name, and I will maim for information. Maim in ways that will make me a monster, and you a man with a death wish. So, you have—”

The screen went blank.

Blue almost couldn’t contain his joy. Solo was alive and well.

“Forget what just happened,” Dallas said. “Judging by the look on your face, I can tell you weren’t aware your pal Solo snuck into my home, knocked me around, brought me here, tied me up, beat me up, and asked all kinds of questions I refused to answer.”

He couldn’t respond. Solo was alive and well.

Solo was alive and well and in New Chicago.

Solo was alive and well and in New Chicago, trying to find John.

Relief bombarded him, nearly buckling his knees.

He couldn’t stay still. He turned to Evie and drew her into his arms. Her little body trembled against him, but she didn’t hesitate to wrap herself around him, holding on tight. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, breathing in the honey and almonds that seemed to be infused into her skin.

Maybe he was a pansy, because tears burned the backs of his eyes. He didn’t care.

A moment to bask—fine.

More than that? No!

He had to force himself to release her, to return to the interrogation. “If you know anything about John No Last Name, Agent Gutierrez, I suggest you tell me. Otherwise, I will gut you where you sit and not feel a moment of remorse. Unlike Solo, I won’t walk away and leave you for someone else to find.”

That wasn’t Solo’s usual MO, either. So . . . was the agent a gift? Had the warrior known Blue would come?

If so, why not stay to greet him?

The corners of Dallas’s mouth lifted in a parody of a grin. “I formally invite you, Solo, and even Miss Black to go screw yourselves.”

Evie snorted. “You gotta give him credit. He’s quite amusing, isn’t he?”

Frustration ate at Blue. “You’ve been investigating Gregory Star, yet you haven’t plugged your findings into a single database. Why?”

“Why don’t you guess?” Dallas said, refusing to back down.

“All right,” he replied, lifting a scalpel from the table and testing its weight in his hand. “You don’t like Gregory Star for some reason—maybe because of that Kitten chick Solo mentioned—and you’re planning to punish him old-school. You don’t want him going to trial. You want him dead. How am I doing so far?”

Dallas paled and tried to cover the tell with a yawn. “I’m bored.”

“Shall I question Kitten next?” Blue asked.

A mouthful of curses hurtled his way. “Leave Kitten out of this. She was horribly abused at that circus, and hasn’t recovered.”

Blue was the one to yawn this time.

The agent realized he was getting nowhere and tried a different path. “Does Noelle know you’re black ops, Blue? Wait. Black ops. Blue. Black and Blue. And you’re Black, too,” he said to Evie. “How cute. Anyhoodles. I’m having dinner with Noelle and her man tonight. I’ll make sure to let them know you said hi.”

Blue had kept tabs on Noelle over the years and knew she’d joined AIR. Knew she’d gotten married. Knew she was pregnant with her first rug rat. He was happy for her, and hoped she wouldn’t want to kill him when she learned the truth about him.

He wasn’t going to try to stop Dallas from sharing the intel with her. At long last, he wanted her to know. She deserved the truth.

“All right, enough of this. I can make him talk without killing him, or even hurting him,” Evie said, rooting inside her purse. “I hate to do it, because the side effects are so severe, but desperate times and all that. Aha!” Smiling, she withdrew a compact of loose white powder.

“Gonna make me up?” Dallas asked. “Make me prettier? No, please, no. Not that. Anything but that.”

“At least use the flare gun on him,” Blue said.

“You’ll like this better, I promise. It’s a truth serum I . . . played with.”