to defer to Baylor on this decision. Probably because he had seniority over Morgan and was less personally invested in this than the other two Handlers. Adrian Baylor had been a huge asset at Olsmill, and I found myself silently pleading for him to be on my side. I couldn’t keep doing this with the Triads as my enemies—not with the odds we were facing.
“Morgan,” he finally said, “your team is on cleanup. Get the bodies together for collection. The hounds have to go back to Boot Camp.” There was no need to ask where David’s body was going. We had disposal locations for slain Hunters.
Morgan scowled, then started barking orders to his Hunters.
“Everyone else,” Baylor said, “in the front Jeep.”
Five bodies went in one direction; I went in the other. Wyatt called out, but I dashed back into the cabin. No way was I walking into semi-enemy territory empty-handed. I shuffled through the cache of weapons on the floor, choosing a small knife, which I tucked into my shoe, and a .38 with regular rounds. With the gun in the back waistband of my jeans, I left the cabin without a backward glance.
One more location on my list of places I hoped never to see again.
Chapter Sixteen
For the third time in one week, I was back on Boot Camp grounds. Only this trip, I wasn’t hiding in the back of an SUV and I wasn’t breaking in. I was being escorted into a building I’d never had access to by three Handlers to whom I’d trust my life. Okay, Baylor wasn’t quite on that list yet, but he was damned close. Research and Development was restricted to Handlers only, so taking me inside was a huge risk.
Milo and Oliver waited in the Jeep. Kismet used her password to gain entry, then led the way with Baylor and Wyatt watching my back. It was the middle of the night, and the lobby was empty. Small, like a doctor’s waiting room, it had two leather couches flanking the entry and framed watercolors hanging on the walls. Opposite the entrance was an elevator and two heavy gray doors. All three exits had keypads. Next to the center door was a black wall-mounted telephone. The room reeked of furniture polish and bleach.
Kismet strode to the phone, picked up the handset, and pressed one of the four multicolored keys. Waited, then said, “Gina Kismet, Triad Three, requesting sublevel escort.” She waited a beat, then hung up.
“An escort?” I asked.
“Our passwords won’t get us into the sublevels,” she said.
“What about those doors?”
“We can get into those. It’s mostly offices and low-level research behind one of them. The other houses the entire history of the Triads.”
“Ever been in there?”
“Once or twice.”
I glanced at Wyatt. “You?”
He nodded but didn’t elaborate. His lips were pressed thin, his cheeks pallid. I wasn’t used to seeing Wyatt Truman nervous. For someone who’d helped create the program and place we were in, he didn’t seem very sure of his position. Not that I begrudged him a little anxiety. His rank hadn’t helped save me from a Neutralize order the first time around.
The center door swung open, and a too-familiar striking face stepped into the lobby. White-blond hair, still model-handsome, dressed in the same black slacks and white tieless dress shirt I’d always seen Bastian wear.
What the hell was the Triad recruiter doing here at the ass crack of dawn?
Bastian froze when he saw me, his face going absolutely still. Unreadable. His eyes flickered to my left, where Wyatt stood, then back to me. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” he said, each word clipped and carefully chosen.
Kismet surprised me by saying, “Call her Chalice. She used to know Evy Stone.”
He turned that even gaze on Kismet. He seemed uncertain how to react to her proclamation. Like everyone else in the Triads, he’d have heard about my resurrection three weeks ago. And like everyone else who paid attention, he’d have heard Kismet’s report of my death at the potato chip factory a week after that. Even though he’d never met me in my present body, he
“I hope she has a damned good reason for being here,” Bastian finally said, radiating familiar calm. “Otherwise, she may not be allowed to leave.”
I nearly snorted in his face. Unless they kept some sort of Break-blocking magic crystal handy—I mentally shuddered, remembering that damned thing—there wasn’t a holding cell in Boot Camp that could keep me against my will.
“One of your Hunters was killed tonight,” I said before anyone could stop me, “and another seriously wounded by hounds that are exact replicas of the six you supposedly have locked up in this building.”
His lips parted, that steady calm starting to crack. “The hounds from Olsmill are still locked up. The only nonhuman who’s left this building in the last four days is the goblin-hybrid who was mysteriously ghosted away yesterday.”
“Let’s pretend I’m very cynical and will believe only what I see for myself.”
“You shouldn’t have gotten into this building, much less be getting past this lobby,
I threw out a name. “Walter Thackery.”
Another crack in the form of furrowed eyebrows. “What about him?”
Not
“He created the hounds and all the other hybrids locked down in your sublevels. I have information that can help you catch him, but first I need to see those hounds.”
His eyes narrowed. Bastian seemed to weigh my words, in no hurry, unaware I was on a big damned deadline. He finally broke the hold on my gaze and looked at the trio of Handlers. “Who’s responsible for her?”
“I am,” all three replied in chorus. I would have laughed if it hadn’t been so generous.
Bastian blinked. “Adrian comes with us. You two stay.”
Wyatt made a startled grunt. I squeezed his arm just above the elbow, then winked when he caught my eye.
“Weapons stay here,” Bastian said.
“Not a fucking chance in hell,” I replied, as nonchalant as if he’d asked whether I wanted cream in my coffee.
He scowled, then walked over to the elevator and entered a code. A little yellow light flashed green, and the doors slid open. I followed him and Baylor into the wide polished-metal interior, turned, and held Wyatt’s gaze until the doors closed. My stomach flipped as the elevator dropped. I hated elevators, had for most of my life. Felt too much like free-falling.
Bastian flanked my right side, and, this close, I smelled oranges and patchouli—an odd mix of scents that mingled with memory. If not for Bastian, my life would have been completely different. Maybe I’d have died long ago on the streets, another victim of random violence—Dreg or otherwise. Maybe I’d have fallen in love with a handsome older man who would have taken me away from this damned city, to a life of luxury and pleasure. And maybe rainbows would’ve shot out of my ass. For better or worse or something in between, Bastian had gotten me here.
I was tempted to punch him in the eye for it. Fortunately for his good looks, the elevator dinged on level S-3. Another keypad lit up by the door, and Bastian typed in another code. The security in the place impressed me. It meant everyone who went in and out was recorded and logged somewhere—information that would make discovering the traitor much easier.
The doors opened on a long, well-lit corridor that stretched a good twenty yards before ending in a T junction. Every few yards a stark gray metal door presented itself. Each had a fist-size door at eye level, with a slot to slide it back and see what was inside. At waist level on the left side of each door was a keypad and a card
