“Medical ward.” Rhynehart’s eyebrows flickered together.
“That bad, huh?”
Sir dipped his head with a half-assed shrug. “They got hit worse than you did on Rez 38, halfling.”
His mention of her shoulder wound made her clench her fists in her lap, but Sir didn’t seem to notice. Rhynehart’s eyes widened, and he dropped his gaze to the table.
“Those lucky bastards are healing as much as they can under Dr. Minkert’s nurturing hand,” Sir continued. Someone else at the table snorted. “And when they’re conscious, yeah, they might have to look a little extra hard in the mirror to recognize their reflection. In Jamal’s case, it might be an improvement. But they’re still breathing, and that’s what matters.”
“And that everyone else got outta the building alive,” someone else added.
“Well, the halfling’s the only person who gets a damn cookie for that one.” Sir pointed at Cheyenne again, to another round of wry laughter. “Now that we’ve all put on our shoes and socks like functioning goddamn adults, let’s get back to the point. How did we screw this up?”
The ogre leaning against the back of the couch grunted. “Might’ve been a bad tip.”
“It wasn’t a bad tip.” Rhynehart shook his head, staring at the table with his arms folded.
“You sure about that?”
The team leader glanced briefly at Sir. “One-hundred percent. They loaded up the building with contraband, and they were in there for long enough to get comfortable.”
“How comfortable?”
Bhandi leaned toward Sir across the table. “Comfortable enough to plant a bomb on a tripwire in one of those crates, plus at least a dozen others around the building.”
“Then someone better fucking enlighten me.” Sir folded his hands on the table with forced civility and just kept shouting. “’Cause I can’t figure out why the hell you people went all the way out there just to blow up their sloppy seconds and get pulled out of the fire by a halfling as green as Bozni.”
The orc beside him rolled his eyes.
“I’m waiting for a goddamn answer. Pull it out of your ass for all I care. But somebody better start talking.”
“Does our informant have any buddies? Maybe someone’s taking a piece of both pies?”
“If somebody squealed, it’s an inside job on their end. Not our job to smoke out their rats.”
“No, our job is to get that black-magic shit off the streets and away from any more kids.”
“Bet your parents never locked you out of their medicine cabinet, huh, Franklin?”
The conversation faded into the background as the operatives tossed insults back and forth between quickfire brainstorming. Cheyenne tuned it all out and stared at Rhynehart, who wouldn’t look up from the table and hadn’t moved since he’d folded his arms. He knows. Why won’t he say it?
“They’re stealing kids now.”
The common room fell silent as everyone looked at Cheyenne. Sir snorted. “Right. They have plenty of time and energy to round up a bunch of magical tweens and take ‘em all out on a field trip. Keep trying, halfling.”
“I’m serious.” Cheyenne widened her eyes at Rhynehart, but he wasn’t helping. “The group we took down in the church had a kid in there too. Dressed him up in a robe and sacrificed him for a ritual.”
Sir blinked at her. “Someone’s been watching too much Netflix.”
“I don’t watch Netflix. Or TV.”
“And I don’t do very well with dumbass ideas.”
The halfling snatched the empty plastic water cup in front of the agent beside her and chucked it at Rhynehart. “Tell them!”
Sir leaned away from the agent and scowled at Cheyenne. “Hey, who shit in your Frosted Flakes?”
“Rhynehart saw it too. The huge pile of clothes at the back of the building. Kids’ clothes. Shoes. Backpacks.” She started to rise from the table, but Sir snapped his fingers and pointed at her.
“Sit down—”
She leaped up from her chair and pulled up a burst of purple sparks in one hand. No one at the table moved. “I’m not a dog you can train with hand gestures.”
“Looks like I can’t train you at all.”
Ignoring him, the halfling shook her head and snuffed out her reactionary magic. “Rhynehart. Did you tell them anything?”
The operative took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose. Then he finally looked up at her. “I had the same thought when we were there, rookie, but we haven’t heard anything about missing kids. We don’t have any proof that what you and I saw didn’t come from some imp who raided a teenager’s trashcan and wanted to go through it all in private.”
Is that what they’re called? She shook the thought away. “There was a necklace in the pile. I saw an orc Sunday night who was wearing the exact same one. She was still in high school, and I’m willing to bet the necklace was taken right off of her and tossed into that pile with everything else.”
“One orc kid, halfling.” Sir spread his arms. “That doesn’t mean a whole bunch of kids was snatched up to be turned into sacrifices. For all you know, the kid could’ve dumped her crap there and took off.”
“Not half an hour away from where she lives.”
“Not a strong enough case, rookie.” Rhynehart shrugged. “Until we’re a hundred percent on this, it’s just a theory.”
“Those kids could be dead before you’re a hundred percent on anything!” Cheyenne slammed her palm on the table.
“Not your call to make,” Sir shouted back. “Our priority is figuring out where those assholes went with the rest of the crap before they hawk it all and split. Then we’ll have all the proof in the world and a lot more dead kids. Now get lost before I take back those medals I never gave you.”
It was a stupid threat, but he waved her off, scowling beneath his bushy graying eyebrows.
Cheyenne removed her hands off the table and glared right back at him. “You guys have your priorities seriously mixed up.”
“Well, a dark elf with daddy issues is the last person who’s gonna screw my head on straight. Get lost.”
Gritting her
