Vale snorts as he glances at me. “Look at that sniveling bastard. Is this really the leader you want? He’s practically crying over her. He’s the one responsible for all of this. If he weren’t stupidly in love with her, he would have let us kill her. And all of this would have been…”
His words are interrupted by a loud crack. I open my eyes and see Vale staggering backward, a fist on his jaw.
Good old Logan. I can always count on him.
“Once more,” says Everest quietly, “we don’t know that she’s with Angel. And I, for one, hope she isn’t. Because I’m sure she’s innocent. And if she’s in their hands, she’s fucked.”
That thought allows me to push through the migraine. We need to stop talking. We need to act.
“Alright, boys,” I say, disregarding Vale, who’s lying on the floor, groaning. Talk about a sniveling bastard. “Let’s bring her home. Everest, I want you to get a group of trustworthy guys together. Try to trace her. If she escaped alone, she probably didn’t do a very good job of covering her tracks. Logan, see if you have any contacts, or can activate any, in the Angel network. Let’s try to figure out if they have her, because by the time they reach out to tell us, it’ll probably be too late.” I swallow, trying to push away that uncomfortable thought. “You can also broach the subject to Vincent,” I add. “We’re still not entirely sure we can trust him, but he probably has valuable information. Maybe it’s best to keep him under surveillance. He could prove a valuable asset. Vale… Vale, you go over the security footage,” I order, dismissing my furious rival with a wave of my hand, before turning to the bulky, silentIgor. “Sharpen your torture tools, and get ready for war. As for me, I’m going to look into this fucking key situation. And the minute I find the person who lent her one, he’s dead. Keys, boys.”
They all fumble through their pockets, then hand me their keys. With mine, there are five. They’re all there.
If my migraine weren’t so vicious, I’d probably be able to figure it out. It was stupid, anyway, to believe that one of the keys would be missing. That would be far too easy. A big neon sign flashing, pointing to the guilty party. We’re not idiots. We can cover our tracks better than that.
I give myself a shake. There’s no way any of us would be guilty, anyway. As Logan says, we have an honor system.
But there are other possibilities. Other people who have had access in the past. Lucy. No, I trust her. Everest’s coach. He saw her once, and once is enough.
The first thing to do is bring him in.
“Call him,” I order Everest.
“Huh?”
“That coach of yours.” I rub the bridge of my nose again, wincing in pain.
Everest looks crestfallen. “You think he helped her? I’ve known him for so long.”
“Get him over here,” I grimace.
I see him hesitate for a second, but he seems to realize it’s the most likely possibility. He goes out of the room to give a call, and I hear him barking out the order to our guys in a very non-Everest fashion.
He returns, his face ashen. “I’ve known him for a long time,” he mumbles again.
“You’re going to need to find another coach to keep you redcarpet ready,” scoffs Vale.
“No red carpets in the near future anyway, by the looks of that Fed investigation,” comments Logan drily.
I turn toward Igor. “Get all your shit ready in the basement room next door.”
He disappears at once, and Everest, watching him retreat, seems to have sudden qualms about having ordered his coach brought here. He’s far too soft, but having him with us, to tone us down a little, is what makes us Devil.
There’s no toning me down today, though.
I close my eyes as I think of what awaits his idiot coach, and the pain behind my eyes ebbs just a bit. It’s funny how everyone believes the cell is the worst thing that can happen to them. The cell is nothing. It’s what’s next door that will fuck you up.
A larger, nondescript room, with shackles hidden in discreet places and a small metal briefcase waiting by the door. In that briefcase are all of Igor’s treasures. The tools aren’t there to punish. They’re there to disfigure. To kill.
That room isn’t known, because no one has ever left it alive. And dead people don’t talk.
Ten minutes later, the surveillance camera shows a Devil car pulling up into our private garage, and I watch a few of our guys push a man out. He’s absolutely terrified. I don’t even know his name, and he’s going to die.
“Any updates on the cameras?” I ask, turning toward Vale, who’s moodily watching hours of sped-up security footage.
“Nothing,” he grunts. “Though they’ve been down on the entire fourth floor since the Feds executed the search warrant. Nothing suspicious in the staircases or elevator, though.”
I grit my teeth. I wish, now, that we’d turned the cameras backon, Feds be damned.
