“Humans made those giant bazookas?”
The corners of the man’s mouth turned down in false humility, and he spread his arms. “Twenty-first century, right?”
Cheyenne released her hold on the heat simmering at the base of her spine. It flared up her back, over her shoulders, and into every fiber of her being. In the next second, the Goth chick with the eerily pale skin stood in front of the operative in full drow mode, her purple-gray flesh dark under the veil of Q’orr’s black magic seeping out of the guy’s own house. “Let’s take the bastard.”
Rhynehart nodded with a grim determination that matched her own. “That’s it, Blakely. Knew you had it in ya.”
Cheyenne headed toward the northeast corner of Q4, and Rhynehart came alongside her. He brought his gloved hand down on her back. “Thanks for hearing me out—”
Purple sparks flared at the drow halfling’s fingertips.
Rhynehart leaped away in surprise.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Got it.” He raised both hands in concession and walked beside her keeping three feet between them. “Any other rules you wanna lay down before we bag this asshole?”
“Yeah. Don’t expect any special treatment. If you get your arm melted off, I’m still gonna take this dick to Q1 and put him behind bars before I come back for you. Screaming for help is just gonna make you look like an idiot.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh, yeah, and don’t get in my way.”
Rhynehart readied his gloves and nodded. “Hearing you loud and clear, halfling.”
“Good.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Cheyenne didn’t think the air around them could get any darker. She was wrong. When they reached the very last house at the northeast corner of Q4, the air around them became as thick and dark as smoke. The once-healthy green grass beneath their feet was withered and black, brittle enough that it crumbled to dust beneath the weight of each step.
A ring of grass around the house had been charred into black ruin, like it was the site of an explosion. In the center of that ring, a house stood somehow, covered in the same filthy soot-like substance, crooked and slanted and looking as if it might crumble into a puff of ash at any moment.
There was no sound besides Cheyenne’s and Rhynehart’s steady breathing as they closed on the house. The thick dark air stung the drow halfling’s nose and made it impossible to smell anything but the stench of decay.
This was what I smelled the time I found that cougar den up by Mom’s. All the half-eaten carcasses and the flies. This is what death smells like—the violent kind.
“Hey,” Rhynehart whispered and reached toward her. He was far enough away that he didn’t touch her, but it got her attention. “Tripwires.”
Cheyenne studied the first few feet in front of them and didn’t see anything. Taking one more step, she studied the next few feet and noticed a thin piece of twine, either painted black or covered by the soot that was everywhere, stretched in front of her. Cheyenne followed it in one direction to see it tied to the ruins of a house beside them. The other end led to a poor attempt at camouflaging something as a boulder, a rock in the middle of all the dead grass. She spied the outline of a trap door cut into the fake boulder.
Sloppy. These are supposed to be the dangerous parts, according to Vanx. All the stuff everyone’s so scared about is this guy’s version of scaring off stray dogs with a bunch of fireworks.
Cheyenne caught Rhynehart’s gaze and pointed to the stone, then the tripwire.
He nodded.
She took a moment to study the house, making sure they wouldn’t be walking into anything else before reaching it. “Look there,” she whispered and pointed to five gray stones in a random pattern within the ring of charred earth around the house.
Rhynehart frowned. “Where does he get this stuff?”
“Any reports on that?”
He shook his head.
“Looks like somebody’s smuggling stuff into the rez too. Might wanna look into that.”
“Yeah, thanks, rookie. I’ll handle the paperwork on this one. You get rid of all this weird crap so we can bring him in.”
She turned her head his way. “Are you gonna at least try the part where you ask him to come out quietly first?”
“What’s the point?”
“I don’t know. Makes it more fun when he refuses, and I get to take out all his stupid traps before I blow his house down.”
“Huh.” Rhynehart chuckled. “I like the way you think, halfling. There’s always a chance he’d be willing to step out if he knows he’s caught.”
“Do most people you go after do that?”
“No.”
Cheyenne rolled her eyes but offered a small smile. “Your call, FRoE man.”
Rhynehart rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath. “Q’orr! You in there?”
Something clattered to the floor inside the house, and flashes of dark light streamed across the closed curtains over the windows.
“Yeah, you are, you slimy sonofabitch,” Rhynehart muttered, then raised his voice again. “You get one chance with us, Q’orr. The FRoE’s been called in to handle you. You can come out now with your hands up and cooperate. Or you can make this harder than it has to be.”
The voice that called back was muffled but still audible in the silence. “Nice try, moron.” A wheezing cackle followed, and then something else flashed and crackled behind the curtains. “Do you know how many O’gúl traitors have tried to get past where you’re standing? None of them have reached my door, so good luck!”
Rhynehart shouted back, “My partner out here won’t have any problem taking you out. I’d surrender if I were you.”
“Oh, yeah? Your partner dabble in the black arts too? An amateur is still an amateur, no matter the discipline.”
“No black arts.” Rhynehart gestured toward the house and widened his eyes at Cheyenne in disbelief. “A drow.”
Wow. Not bothering with the halfling part this time. Okay.
“I smell the lie on you from here, human. Shut the hell up and get off my lawn before somebody has to scoop you into
