“No sir, Mr. Johnson, that wasn’t me. I’m so sorry to hear… well, if there’s anything I can do…”
“Just get us to work before Tykes starts whining about his arm again.”
“It hurts!” came another voice, higher than the first and laced with pain. “I have a mark. Did one of you punch me when you were trying to wake me up?”
Chorus of denials, although I thought I heard a third voice, which must’ve belonged to the marketing guy, Pit, mutter, “I’d like to take a swing at you.”
Then Tykes said, “Look, Bindy’s asleep already. It’s a miracle that bimbo got dressed as out of it as she was before. Does she take sleeping pills?”
“Dunno,” said Johnson. “But she’s gotta be on something, because she wasn’t even upset when she heard dade took off.” Geez, had Cole given her a double dose of knock-out nose stuffing? I waited for more info, but that was the last any of them said.
I fell far enough back that they couldn’t have seen my headlights even on the straight sections of roadway. Sometime in the next five minutes the nail we’d driven into Ruvin’s back tire would release enough air to flatten it. Hopefully by then Bergman would have the results. Otherwise we’d have to move on to plan B. Which involved holding everyone at gunpoint until we knew for sure who to plug.
Vayl’s phone rang.
“Hello, Martha,” Vayl said.
“Why is our secretary calling you?” I whispered. “It’s the Oversight Committee, isn’t it? They’ve found some sort of loophole and they’re—”
Vayl made a swift, cutting gesture with his hand. One he’d never used on me before. When his fingers clenched into a fist I knew the news was bad.
“When?” he asked.
While he waited, I tried not to dredge up all the possible nuggets o’ nasty she might be feeding him.
Problem was, in our business, that was all we ever dealt with. So nightmare visions kept slapping the backs of my eyeballs. Floraidh Halsey wasn’t as decrepit as we’d thought when we’d left Inverness.
She’d recruited a new coven and declared war on the CIA. Or worse, another zombie king had risen in Tehran, one too powerful even for our friend Asha Vasta to combat. Or—
“All right. Yes, I understand.” Vayl closed the phone. “Pull over.” I didn’t protest. He knew the risk we were taking with such a delay. Which meant I really didn’t want to be driving when he dropped the bomb. I eased the Wheezer onto the narrow shoulder, even remembering to activate the hazard lights before turning to face him. “What is it?”
“Pete is dead.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
Isat so still, staring out onto the hood where I’d last seen Pete’s image that I could’ve been a corpse.
Like Pete was now. Lying somewhere, inanimate. Nothing left to lift his hand, brush it across those two proud hairs on his head. No spark to light his eyes when he talked about his wife and kid.
Vayl said, “Jasmine. Are you listening?”
“Um.”
“He was murdered in his office. Slashed across the throat with something duller than a knife. Theories abound, but Martha believes it was a claw. His computer was stolen. His files ransacked. Whoever did it now has access to every field agent’s identity and current location. Everyone is being called in. Officially, the department will be shut down until a full investigation can be completed.” His voice went arid.
“Which, according to Oversight Committee estimates, will take at least six months.”
“I just reorganized all those files. Remember? While my collarbone was healing. God, was Pete pissed.”
“Jasmine?”
The concern in Vayl’s voice woke me up just enough to show me what to do. “Everyone I care about dies. You see that, right? Matt and Jessie, my crew. Granny May and Gramps Lew. I don’t know if my mom counts, but Pete does. You have to go.”
“What?”
I shot out my door, ran around to his side, and yanked his open, ignoring Jack’s attempt to poke his head outside. “If you stay with me, you’re going to go poof. Like a big cloud of steam coming out of a locomotive, and all that’ll be left is your cane, and bits of really expensive cloth, and some ash, which I’ll have to scoop up and put in some kind of container that I’ll be able to carry around with me the rest of my life. Not an urn, because the lids pop off at the worst possible moments. Maybe a Rubbermaid container. Tell me you don’t want that! Tell me you don’t want to ride around in a plastic box like a piece of leftover turkey!”
I said the last part into the lapel of Vayl’s jacket, because he’d come out of the Wheezer sometime during my rant and toward the end had pulled me into a bone-squeaking hug. “And I was afraid you would not react at all,” he said softly. “But perhaps you could agree this is somewhat extreme?”
“How?”
“I am Vampere. People have been trying to murder me for centuries. And you see how successful they have been?”
“Even an idiot can get lucky,” I muttered.
“Which is why I have you. Now, do you truly want to abandon the subject of our conversation?” I said, “I can’t
