Bonds of Justice (Psy-Changeling 8)

“Do you believe in coincidence, Detective?”

“About as much as I believe in the tooth fairy.”

The commander nodded. “Councilor Duncan does not believe in coincidences, either. She wants you to find out who is going after her people and why.”

“She’s in San Francisco,” Max said, the same instinct telling him that far more was going on beneath the surface than a simple—and inexplicable—request for a human cop on a Psy case. But Max didn’t go straight for the jugular—there were better ways of getting information. “Cops down there aren’t going to like me stepping on their toes.”

“For the purposes of this case, you’ll be made a special investigator, with the authority to work across state lines. It’s regular practice with detectives who have the specialized skills to work a particular situation.”

That much was true. However, something else was equally true. “I’ve heard the Psy have their own version of a police force. I’d have thought a Councilor”—especially a Councilor with all her secrets—“would want them to take care of it.”

“Normally, yes.” The commander picked up a small data crystal and placed it on the desk between them, a silent prick to the curiosity that made Max a cop who always, always found the answers. “However, the Arrow Squad is loyal to another Councilor, and if that Councilor is behind these attacks, then Councilor Duncan will not get the truth. Her own people have proved deficient in the skills necessary to take care of the task.”

Max thought over what he knew of Nikita Duncan. She was an astute businesswoman, one who made money hand over fist—but unlike Councilors Ming LeBon and Kaleb Krychek, he’d never heard her name linked with a military operation, so it might be a legitimate fact that she’d found a gap in her resources once she eliminated this Arrow Squad from the mix.

“Alright,” he said, eyes narrowed. “But mental shield aside, there’s got to be some other reason the Councilor asked for me. What skills make me so special?” He was damn good at what he did, but there were excellent cops in San Francisco.

“Don’t disregard your shield so easily,” the commander responded. “It’s one of the strongest we’ve ever encountered in a human.” An implied confirmation that Psy had tried to break through it any number of times. “However, you’re correct. There is something else—you have friends in the DarkRiver leopard pack. Councilor Duncan seems to believe that that friendship will make it easier for you to run the investigation in her city.”

Ice crawled in a slow spread through Max’s veins. Clay Bennett, the changeling male Max knew best, was one cool customer. Max wouldn’t put it past the leopard pack to whittle down their enemy piece by piece—they were predators after all. But—“Isn’t Councilor Duncan’s daughter mated to Lucas Hunter, the alpha of DarkRiver?” Sascha Duncan’s defection from the Psy world had made news across the country.

“Yes, but they no longer have any kind of a personal relationship.”

Max nodded to show he’d heard, but the fact of Sascha’s existence, her relationship with Lucas, put his mind at ease. Because while they might be predators, the cats were also big on family. He couldn’t see them culling Nikita’s people on the sly. “If I do this,” he said, knowing he couldn’t let it go now, his curiosity a steel blue flame inside him, “I’m going to need full access. If Duncan has her people blocking me at every turn, it’s going to be impossible for me to do my job.”

“Councilor Duncan understands that.” Brecht picked up the data crystal and moved it in front of Max. “This has the basic background information. However, as you can imagine, there are areas of considerable sensitivity. That’s why you’ll be working with a Psy partner who’ll help you in relation to the peculiarly Psy aspects of the investigation, and who will be tasked with filtering certain data.”

Max had known he’d need a Psy advisor, but the second part of Brecht’s statement made his hand clench on the crystal. “How the f**k is he going to realize what’s relevant and what’s not?”

“She,” the commander said, “is to work intimately with you.”

“Makes no difference to the question—what qualifications does this ‘partner’ of mine have to make those decisions?” Max wasn’t just used to working alone, he liked it that way.

“She’s a J,” the commander said. “Has been operative since she was sixteen. She’s now twenty-eight.”

Anticipation licked along his spine. “What’s her name?”

“Sophia Russo.”

His mind reacted immediately—an image of haunting eyes in a face marked by violence, a voice that said things it shouldn’t, a body that made his own itch to thaw out all that ice. It was then, as he considered if the latter was even possible, that he was hit by the import of Brecht’s words. “Twelve years of active service? Most Js don’t last that long.”

He’d worked with at least twenty over his eleven years in Enforcement. Each had retired before the age of thirty, and, he realized, he’d never seen any of them again. It hadn’t struck him as odd before, because Psy weren’t exactly the type to send Christmas cards, but the fact that not one, not one, had ended up working in another area of Justice—either they had one hell of a retirement plan or . . . Given the cold-blooded way the Council treated its own people, the possibilities were chilling. And Sophia Russo had been a J for twelve years. She had to be reaching “retirement” age.