Victor and Philip were out first and kept a sharp watch on everything while the driver came around and opened the door for us.

“Ready?” Jane asked. Her light smile stood in sharp contrast to the steel in her eyes.

“Sure, what the hell,” I replied with a fatalistic shrug.

Jane stepped out with elegant ease. I climbed out behind her and tried not to trip on the curb. As if we’d practiced, the three zombies fell in around Jane like an undead human shield.

The back of my neck prickled as we walked up to the broad glass entrance. I had no doubt we were being watched, but I hoped it wasn’t through a rifle scope. After the packet in the limo I felt badass enough to tear through the milling humans on the street like a fox in a henhouse, but none of that would help me if a sniper bullet blew out my brain stem.

Philip moved in beside me and gave my shoulder a nudge, eyes fixed straight ahead though a faint smile played on his face. I’m with you, his nudge told me. I got your back.

I nudged him right back. Ditto.

As we approached I caught sight of the reflection of our foursome in the glass that fronted the building. We looked damn good, I decided. Jane and the Zombies. Sounds like a punk band, I thought with a stifled laugh, though I had to admit that Naomi had been right—we sure as hell didn’t look like a group to be fucked with. Still, I breathed a sigh of relief as we entered the building, and was amused to hear it echoed by the others even though we all knew the relief was short-lived. We were in the dragon’s den now and far from anything resembling safety.

I caught myself gawking as we continued moving. From outside, the building didn’t look all that special, but inside, trees, glass, and at least three floors of open space above made it feel as if I’d walked off the street into a different world. A curved reception desk of polished wood and glass stood in the center of the gleaming marble floor. The whole place was empty, and it took me a few seconds of wondering before I remembered it was Sunday. To the right, a stairway curved up to the mezzanine, and to the left, a sitting area with uncomfortable-looking chairs occupied its own garden of potted plants. A security guard dressed in dark pants and a light blue shirt stood beside a smaller desk near a short corridor with a bank of elevators, his gaze on us. Another man in a charcoal grey suit approached from the direction of the elevators.

I recognized Andrew Saber from the Gourmet Gala and the party the other night. Tall, with an athletic build, he had a strong, square jaw and wary eyes. He strode toward us, cool and calm with a hint of swagger as though he owned the place—which he did, of course, or damn near.

Jane walked up to him while the rest of us hung back a few steps. “Andrew, it’s so nice to see you again,” she said with a gracious smile as if she’d been invited for tea.

“Congresswoman Pennington, it’s truly a pleasure,” he replied with equal warmth, while I wondered how the hell these people could fake such niceness. He bestowed the same genuine-looking smile on the rest of us before returning his attention to Jane. “If you would all please come with me?”

“Of course,” Jane murmured, still smiling as he turned and headed to an elevator set apart from the others. Yet a flicker of uncertainty in her quick glance my way made me wonder if her stomach had the same butterflies as mine.

Andrew pulled a set of keys from his pocket and pressed a thumb-sized piece of grey plastic on a control panel beside the elevator door. A light flashed green, and the doors slid open. As soon as we entered he ran his thumb over a scanner like the ones we used at Dr. Nikas’s lab, then pressed the “10” button. Nobody said a word, but the message was clear: Shit was real now, yo.

“Your mother has filled you in?” Jane asked placidly as the car began to rise.

Andrew flicked his eyes toward her. “She informed me that you wish to see and speak to Mr. Ivanov for yourself, Dr. Pennington.”

That didn’t really answer her question, I noticed. Nicole Saber had probably told her son as little as possible of the humiliating scene at lunch.

“What is your opinion of his condition, Andrew?” Jane pursed her lips. “Your mother tends to, ah, not always give a clear picture.”

The elevator stopped, and the doors opened. Andrew stepped off and held them to allow everyone to exit. “He seems tired, ma’am,” he said, “but I assure you he’s being fed well and is not being abused or sleep deprived.” His expression flickered ever so briefly before he regained his cool, professional mask. “Right this way, ma’am.” He gestured down the hallway.

Before he could turn, Jane stopped him with a voice that could cut steel. “Other than amputating a body part, you mean?” Silently cheering Jane, I watched Andrew’s reaction. There’d been something in that box at lunch, something Nicole had hoped to shock Jane with. And it sure as hell hadn’t been a tennis bracelet.

A brief flash of annoyance swept over Andrew’s face. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, voice thick. “Other than that.” He straightened his shoulders, jaw firming. “Right this way,” he repeated and started off down the hall. Jane glanced at me then followed, Victor right at her side.

After a couple of turns, Andrew opened a set of dark wood double doors and entered a large conference room. J

ane and Victor followed him in, but I paused, shoulders prickling as I scanned the area within. No windows and no other exits, with four security guards in navy blue uniforms spaced around the room, each paying very close attention to our every movement. One of the guards was Mr. Perfect Eyebrows and another was Boat Launch Guy, both of them hard-core assholes, as I knew all too well. A uniformed woman stood a bit separate from the others, demeanor calm and professional. Muscled without being bulky, she had light brown hair in a sensible but attractive chin-length cut, sharp blue eyes, and a jaw a bit too square for her to be conventionally pretty. She had on the same style of navy blue tactical pants as the others, but her shirt was a dark grey, she wore two radios on her belt, and an air of authority surrounded her. Probably the head security person, I decided. And, of course, all the security personnel were armed, with regular guns and tranq guns ready in their holsters.

I weighed the odds. Three tanked zombies and five human security guards. Easy pickings if things got ugly, except for the damn tranq guns. I didn’t need a buttload of tactics training to know that it would be insanely easy to trap us in this room.

But Nicole won’t get Jane’s help if she does that, I told myself as I moved on in. I knew without a doubt that Jane had spoken the absolute truth when she said she’d taken precautions that would ensure Saberton went down in flames if anything happened to her—which was great, and sounded like strong insurance. Except, I couldn’t help but think it was like a restraining order: only as good as a person’s fear of it.

Yet the risks all seemed worth it at the sight of Pietro Ivanov sitting at the far end of the table. He looked wiped out, shoulders slumped. His left hand was wrapped in gauze, but he was alive, and in mostly once piece. My eyes went back to his hand. That answered the question of which body part Nicole had chopped off, but why the hell was it still bandaged? With brains, it should have grown back.

I masked a scowl. Obviously they weren’t feeding him as well as Andrew claimed. Pietro was likely getting barely enough brains to maintain, but not enough to heal. Except . . . why not fix him up for this show-and-tell? It didn’t make sense.

Mr. Perfect Eyebrows stood beside Pietro, and I gave the guard a hate-glare. He gave me an ugly smirk in return then made a point of raking his eyes over me in an obvious I’ve seen you naked look. Fucking asshole.

Pietro lifted his head slowly and with effort, as though it weighed a hundred pounds. My confusion grew. With that sort of lack-of-brains fatigue, he should’ve been showing signs of rot, yet I didn’t catch a whiff or see any sign of it.

Pietro’s gaze went straight to Jane. A smile flickered, yet deep worry formed lines of tension in his face at the sight of her here in the heart of enemy territory.

Tags: Diana Rowland White Trash Zombie Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net