“Actually, Ashley’s a coyote shifter,” Tate corrected. “But beyond that, you nailed everything else. I gotta say, you’re processing this much better than I thought you would, and I’d already pegged you for a pretty sharp cop.”
Chase let out a snort. “I’m a marine. Improvising and adapting to our environment is what we’re trained to do. But if Rebecca’s daughter is already a shifter, why was Mahsood experimenting on her?”
“To figure out how her shifter genes work and take DNA samples from her,” Tate said. “Rebecca and Mahsood have had Ashley locked up in that mental facility outside Old Town since the girl was a teenager. She’s in her midtwenties now.”
“Crap, that’s cold.” Chase frowned. “Also puts her at the top of the suspect list. I know I’d be pissed as hell if my mother locked me in a mental institution for a decade or so and had doctors experiment on me. Mahsood in particular would be first in line for an ass whooping.”
“I agree,” Tate said. “But unfortunately, I get the feeling Mahsood is the kind of man who makes lots of people want to whoop his ass. Ashley might have killed Bell as a way to get to Mahsood, but it could just as easily have been those people at Joanne’s place, whoever the hell they were. All I can say for sure about them is they’re definitely hired guns, either paid by someone wanting to kick-start their own hybrid program or slow down Rebecca’s. Bottom line, we don’t know enough to jump to conclusions about any of our suspects yet.”
Chase nodded and fell silent. They both stayed that way as they crossed over the river and turned onto Highway 126, then headed east.
“One thing you didn’t mention, and maybe you can’t talk about it,” Chase said, glancing at him. “This part of Homeland you work for. All you do there is hunt down shifters and hybrids and kill them?”
Tate hadn’t expected that question, and it took a second to regain his balance. Some of it had to do with the barely hidden tone of disapproval in Chase’s voice, but most of it had to do with the fact that hunting down rogue shifters and hybrids is what Tate and his former team had spent a good portion of their time doing. It was something that needed doing, but it wasn’t always a job Tate necessarily liked.
“The people I work for don’t go out of their way to hunt down shifters or hybrids and hurt them. In fact, it’s the reverse,” he said. “We look for these special people, because they make damn good agents. But I’ll be honest with you. Sometimes these special people do bad things just like anyone else. When that happens, people like me are sent out to deal with them, because the normal police aren’t equipped to handle them.”
“Have you ever had to kill any of them?” Chase asked.
There was no point in lying. It seemed like an odd question for a former marine, especially one who’d seen as many deployments as Chase. “Unfortunately, yes. But only when there was no other option. You have a problem with killing?”
“Yeah.” Chase looked at him, his expression carefully devoid of emotion. “Only a sociopath kills without remorse or regret.”
Tate locked eyes with the other man for a few seconds before Chase turned his attention back to the dark, tree-lined highway. “And?”
“And I’m wondering if you look at these shifters and hybrids as something less than human and therefore somehow easier to kill?” Chase answered. “Because while only a sociopath enjoys killing, in my experience, the world is full of sociopaths.”
It wasn’t until that moment that Tate realized how much Chase reminded him of Landon Donovan, the current deputy director of the DCO and former Special Forces captain who had a habit of asking pointed questions and leading the way when it came to doing the right thing, even when it came at a steep cost.
“I have a friend who’s a two-hundred-and-seventy-pound bear shifter and another who’s a coyote shifter and sarcastic as hell. I have another friend who’s a big hybrid, and he’s totally terrifying when he loses control. I don’t judge people by the shape of their fingernails. I judge them by their character,” Tate told him. “Yes, I’ve killed shifters and hybrids, as well as regular humans. But every one of them died for a reason, and that reason always included keeping someone else safe.”
More silence reigned before Chase finally looked at him again, the corners of his mouth edging up.
“I think we’ll get along just fine then,” he said.
Tate blew out a breath. “Thank God. Because that’s what I’ve been worrying about the entire night. The thought that we might not get along brings tears to my eyes.”
Chase chuckled and turned into a driveway.
Five minutes later, Tate was picking the lock on the back door of a big two-floor colonial. Red brick, black shutters, and nice landscaping. No wonder Bell kept this place off his official records. The taxes must be a bear.
He pulled his weapon as he led the way inside. Beside him, Chase did the same. A quick sweep of the house told them no one was there. Tate holstered his gun as he wandered back into the kitchen. The place was neat and tidy, right down to its pristine chandeliers. No shock there. Bell’s office had been spotless, too.
Curious, he wandered over to the brushed nickel trash can that probably cost as much as his big-screen TV at home and pressed on the foot pedal. The doctor had been dead long enough for things to start
