On Midnight Wings

Unfortunately, that had been all that particular fed had known. He’d been left out of the loop as far as any details of FBI hush-hush operations went, but he’d known who would know, and now Lucien was in Washington, D.C., paying a visit to a fed who was in that oh-so-exclusive hush-hush loop.

Von felt a grim satisfaction as he imagined how that meeting might go down.

Basic web searches run by himself, Jack, Silver—hell, even Merri and Thibodaux—hadn’t revealed all that much. Or at least hadn’t revealed much that would lead them to Heather. Turned out that Strickland was a popular name for funeral homes and Chevrolet dealerships. Who knew?

What they’d needed was a web-runner. Someone who could search deep and fast. Someone they could trust. Or someone who owed them big-time. So he’d figured he’d pay Vincent a little visit while Merri and her partner checked the club for clues to the identity of Dante’s abductor or location.

No point to that little visit now.

Von’s jaw tightened. Just a night or two ago, he could’ve put their own web-runner to work on the problem, but Trey’s grief had forced him to do the unthinkable both to himself and to Dante, and now Trey was just fucking gone. Transformed into an instrument of revenge for a sister he could never bring back.

Grief could tear a person apart and remake them into someone unrecognizable, someone cold and obsessed, a stranger. As much as Von ached to make Mauvais pay for Simone’s death too, he never would’ve used Dante like Trey had done, never would’ve risked a friend’s heart and sanity.

Of course, in his right mind, Trey never would’ve either.

Von scrubbed his face with his hands. “Christ.”

“So now what?” Merri asked. “You got a plan B in mind?”

Dropping his hands to his sides, Von sighed. “Looks like waiting to hear from Lucien is plan B.” He didn’t like it, but didn’t have any other ideas—brilliant or otherwise. And there was still Holly to deal with too.

A moist breeze laced with the smells of fried beignets, whitewashed tombs from St. Louis No. 1, and Mississippi mud momentarily cleared away the rotting vegetation stink from the garbage bags pyramided in the gutter. A brief respite for which Von was grateful.

“Might as well go back inside and—” He stopped, sentence unfinished as the sidewalk tilted beneath him. He grabbed the van’s side mirror to steady himself—what the hell?—then felt Merri’s hard fingers lock around his biceps.

“The stay-awake,” she reminded. “Consequences.”

The club and the street performed a single swooping pirouette, then settled back down. Von exhaled in relief. “If a little dizziness is all—”

“It isn’t,” Merri warned, releasing him. “Trust me. It’s just getting started. You need to be careful.”

Von rubbed a hand over his face. He couldn’t afford to be careful. Couldn’t afford to Sleep. Not when all he felt from Dante was acid-etched pain. Not when Heather was waiting, uncertain if he’d heard her. Not until he’d found them both.

Von walked into the smoke-reeking club and headed up the stairs to the third floor landing, then his room. It was a smelly mess. Furniture, bedding, curtains, and clothing all stank of smoke and mildew, of dried blood. Sprinkler-soaked throw rugs squished beneath his borrowed sneakers.

Retrieving his double shoulder holster from the back of the chair he’d slung it over before hitting the hay— what? Only forty hours ago or so, but it felt like weeks, a lifetime—he checked the Browning tucked inside each holster and was pleased to see them in fine working order.

Shrugging off the brown leather bomber jacket, Von strapped the rig on. Patting the grip of each gun in turn, he whispered, “Missed you.”

The only other belongings Von was able to scavenge from his room were his well-worn leather jacket and his scooter boots—both of which he promptly put on. He was just plain stuck with Jack’s gatorfied T-shirt for the time being. He silently renewed his vow to make the drummer eat the T-shirt, one tiny gator at a time.

With Jack’s sneakers and bomber jacket tucked under his arm, Von strode from his room and out into the hall—just in time to see Thibodaux heading for the stairs.

“Hey,” Von called after him. “Find anything that’ll help us?”

Thibodaux stopped on the landing, turned around. He shook his head. “Nothing that y’all didn’t already know. Sorry, podna.”

Von nodded. “I had a feeling that would be the case. Thanks anyway, man.” He glanced down the hall as Thibodaux’s footsteps faded away. Silver stood at the far end, staring at something on the floor in front of Dante and Heather’s room, mingled anger and despair chiseled into his pale face.

The scene of the crime—or part of it, anyway.

Von joined him, the odors of copper and cordite—blood and bullets—fading beneath Silver’s clean soap- and-cinnamon scent. A dark stain edged out from the bedroom doorway into the waterlogged carpet like a high tide line on a beach. Blood. And lots of it—too much. Von’s heart constricted.

“Annie thinks this is her fault,” Silver murmured. His body thrummed with tension. “I told her it wasn’t, but I don’t think she’s listening.”

“The only one at fault here is her old man,” Von said softly. “She’ll see that once we bring her sister and Dante home.”

Silver grunted, unconvinced.

Von knelt on the wet carpet and touched the maroon high-tide line. Little brother. His hand began to shake and, frowning, he clenched it into a fist. More of Merri’s consequences?

An urgent sending from Lucien arrowed into his mind, and the stay-awakes and their consequences faded in importance. <Llygad. The Washington contact was our brass ring. Heather is in Dallas. The Strickland Deprogramming Institute.>

Excitement surged through Von, driving him up to his feet. Silver looked at him quizzically, dark brows slanting down over his eyes. “What? Is it Lucien?”

Nodding, Von held up a just-a-minute hand. <Holy hell, that’s good news.>

<I’m on my way there now.>

Von stiffened. <Hold your horses or Pegasi or whatever. I’m coming too, damn it. Wait for me. A flight to Dallas is less than two hours.>

<My apologies, but I can’t wait. The FBI is planning to steal Heather out from under her father’s nose and use her against Dante. I intend to reach her first.>

<Shit. Okay, yeah, you do that. Keep her safe. I’ll contact you as soon as my plane hits the tarmac at Dallas/Fort Worth.>

<Until then,> Lucien agreed, ending the contact.

“Heather’s in Dallas,” Von said, meeting Silver’s impatient gaze. “I’m joining Lucien, but I need you here to keep an eye on things—like making sure Jack and Annie are safe.”

Silver opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again when Von added quietly, “They’re mortal, Silver, vulnerable. And Annie needs you. Besides, you’re the only one I trust to protect them. Our household can’t take another loss.”

Silver raked a hand through his purple anime-styled locks, spiking the air with hair-gel perfume. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Yeah, okay. But you better keep me in the loop.”

“You know I will,” Von replied, giving his taut-muscled shoulder a quick squeeze.

“You need a ride to the airport?”

“Nope. My bike’s out front. But I do need you to take our new SB friends back to Jack’s. Keep a close eye on them. And keep me posted.”

“Sure. What about your hot friend in the red dress—Holly?”

“Let me worry about her,” Von said. “Why don’t you start loading up whatever you’ve salvaged and get everyone back to Jack’s?”

Silver nodded. “Will do.” He moved, blurring down the hall to his room in a cool, cinnamon-scented breeze.

Von turned, then stumbled as the hallway suddenly dipped, then spun. Black spots flecked his vision. Electricity tingled along his spine. Jack’s sneakers and jacket thudded to the floor. Grabbing the wall for support, he