Heather’s good hand tightened on the barrel of the shotgun. “I know,” she said, grief slashing across her face. “God, the only possible good thing that came out of Kang’s death was that it happened before Saberton had the chance to get their hooks into him or find out anything he knew.”
I struggled to put it all together. From what I’d seen, Kang hadn’t held a Pietro-level of power, but he certainly had influence among local zombies, especially those who weren’t associated with Pietro. Ed had killed Kang, but I wasn’t sure if Charish had specifically ordered that hit or if he’d taken it upon himself. However, she’d openly admitted to killing Sofia. If Charish had been working with Saberton at the time, surely they’d been pissed at her about both losses.
“Were you working with Kristi Charish?” I asked.
Heather twitched, almost as if she was recoiling at the name. She obviously knew who Kristi Charish was. “Not…directly,” she answered.
I frowned. “What about Philip?” Crap, I didn’t even know his last name.
But again she apparently knew who I was talking about. The corners of her mouth turned down, and her brows drew together. “Yeah. Known him about a year. Gung ho company man.”
That meant he’d been working for Saberton for at least six months before Charish forced me to turn him into a zombie. That made it pretty evident that Saberton had already been involved with Charish at the time she’d kidnapped me.
“He’s a zombie now. An experiment gone bad,” she continued with a shake of her head. “Haven’t dealt with him much since.” Her gaze rested on me as though waiting for me to say something.
Well, I didn’t know how much she already knew, but I wasn’t about to confirm that I was the one who made Philip a zombie. “Why are you freaked out about leaving?” I asked instead. “Or is this one of those deals where you don’t simply walk away?”
Her mouth twisted. “It’s one of those things where you know too much, don’t like what you know, know they’ll kill you over it, so you run and hide and figure they’ll find you sooner or later.” She shook her head. “And they’re on to me, so it’s going to be sooner if I don’t get out of here.”
Silent, I considered her plight. I didn’t know a damn thing about this woman except that supposedly she wanted to quit this evil company for somewhat vague reasons. But she knew Kang, and she definitely seemed upset about his death. “What if someone could help you?” I found myself asking.
Heather raised an eyebrow, mouth pursed in skepticism. “You mean like if my fairy godmother came in and waved a wand? It’s not going to happen.”
“How ’bout a trashy guardian angel?” I said, offering her a slight smile.
She gave me a sigh. “Thanks. But I don’t know what you could do.”
I forced myself to logically consider why I felt an urge to help her out. It didn’t totally make sense—after all, she was working for a company that was probably involved in Charish’s Zoldiers, a project which was fucked up on numerous levels. But so far all Heather had done to me was take pictures, as far as I knew. And she didn’t want to work for Saberton anymore. Plus the reason she wanted to leave was a damn good one in my eyes. I was cool with helping anyone who was against using zombies.
But mostly it was that expression of “I’m so screwed” that got to me.
“Look, I know what it’s like to be in a no-win situation, and Pietro owes me a couple of favors,” I said. It would take a lot more than a ticket to the Gourmet Gala to make up for the fact that Pietro allowed Charish to have me kidnapped. “Maybe he could help protect you.” I shrugged. “Hell, maybe you could go to work for him instead.” Because I totally had that influence, right? I held back the urge to roll my eyes at myself. But, hey, maybe she could be an asset to the zombie side of things.
Naked hope and a curious longing brightened her eyes for a brief instant before they shadowed again. “God.” Her brow furrowed, and she looked almost wistful. “I don’t know. Do you really think he’d help?”
“It’s worth a shot, right?” I dug into my purse and pulled out Brian’s card. “There you go,” I said, setting it on the console. “That’s Brian’s number.” She seemed cool, but I wasn’t about to give her Pietro’s. Jesus Christ, but I hoped this didn’t blow up in my face. What the hell would I do if Heather called Brian, and he told her to fuck off? I didn’t know if I could simply walk away from this now if that happened. Yet I also knew I’d put her in a really bad position—I’d slowed down her flight, and now was trying to convince her to turn herself over to the “enemy.”>Was she concerned for me? Or for what I might see or find out? “First, tell me who you work for,” I said.
“Worked for,” she replied, emphasizing the past tense. She edged closer to the driver’s door. I knew damn well she was about to make a break for it, and I tensed in expectation.
“Yeah, fine, who did you work for?” I shot back, allowing my annoyance to color my tone.
As expected, she made an absolutely desperate attempt to yank the door open and get into the Jeep. I poured on the speed and closed the distance between us, grabbed the door handle as she slid into the seat, and blocked the door with my own body.
“For fuck’s sake!” I snapped. “Would you chill? I want some answers, and I’m not letting you go until you give them!”
She breathed raggedly, seeming on the verge of tears and, with the fierce strength that burned behind her hazel eyes, it looked utterly unnatural on her. She tugged futilely on the door a few times as if it would somehow convince me to move, then gave up and let her hand drop. “Shit. Shit.”
I swept a quick glance around. No one inside the diner seemed to notice our little altercation—helped no doubt by the fact it was all happening on the side away from the broad windows. And the highway remained deserted.
“Can we please talk?” I asked, returning my attention to her.
She sagged. “Sure. Why the hell not.”
“Cool. Okay, cool.” I glanced around again, then hurried around the front of the Jeep to the passenger side. I fully expected her to start the vehicle and try and take off during those few seconds, but for whatever reason she seemed fairly resigned to my obnoxious desire for information. I slid into the passenger seat, shut the door, then gently pushed aside the barrel of the shotgun that lay across her lap so that it wasn’t pointed straight at me.
“All righty, that’s better,” I said. My gaze dropped to her hand. The pinky and ring finger were heavily splinted, and purplish bruising showed between strips of tape. “Who broke your hand?”
Exhaling, she leaned her head back against the seat. A curious expression of regret and admiration briefly passed over her face. “Brian Archer. Pietro Ivanov’s head of security. He caught me trying to get pictures of Ivanov and Jane Pennington.”