The back seats had been taken out, leaving only a cavernous cargo space. Bea was nearly thrown against the sidewall as red-haired Hardison took a corner so fast she was sure the vehicle was momentarily on only two wheels, but the guy Wren—she almost didn’t recognize him without his bowler hat and three-piece suit like Lukas’s—had his shoulder jammed hard against the front passenger seat, and the very large rifle pointed at her looked like a serious piece of business.
“Stay still!” Wren barked.
She was trying to, but keeping her balance inside a slaloming van was difficult when she was so distracted. Their pulses raced, twin drums beating a frantic tattoo, and she’d just seen Lukas blown to pieces.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Hardison chanted. “Did they get him? Tell me they got him.”
“Keep your eyes on the goddamn road,” Wren barked. “Dunlevy? Dunlevy, you just stay still. Don’t make me shoot you.”
It was almost a shock to hear her own name. Bea’s right hand was clamped over her mouth; her nose was full of smoke-reek, and the moment kept replaying inside her head—the ball of violently orange flame, the wall of heat slamming against the concrete pillar, the sudden raucous burr of bullets.
They’d been shooting at him. But she hadn’t heard any heartbeats. The air inside the van was curiously still and dead despite their obvious speed; its interior was coated with thick foam cushions, peaks and valleys like the cardboard containers eggs were sold in.
Soundproofing. Huh. Her hand felt feverish, jammed over her lips; her teeth were so sensitive even breathing past them hurt.
They had just killed a super-old sanguinant. Her own efforts with the stake seemed laughable, but then, she hadn’t had the pull or resources for a car bomb and what sounded like an entire army’s worth of machine guns. This van had screeched to a stop right next to her, its side door opening, and Wren hopped out like the bird he was named for. He was strong, too—nothing compared to Lukas, of course, but enough to pick her up and toss her bodily inside.
There was a faint burning edge to his scent and Hardison’s, vaguely familiar. It reminded her of monster blood.
What. The fuck. She stared dopily at her new kidnappers—or rescuers? What would they do when they figured out she was halfway to bloodsucker? Of course they probably already knew, and that couldn’t be good.
Both Wren and Hardison were in some kind of black body armor, cop cosplay, real weekend-warrior shit. Bea’s gaze roved the interior—if the side door was locked maybe she could kick out a window, hopefully before they picked up much more speed?
The last thing she needed was to bail out at freeway velocity, though. Comforting to realize she was still working out contingencies even if drowning in sensory overload, not to mention confused as fuck.
“What about her?” Hardison’s voice broke. “How’s it looking? She got it? Can you tell?”
“Fuckin’ ’ell, Hardy.” Wren’s brogue was now thicker than split-pea soup. “Don’t get us noticed by the fuckin’ gardie or in a fuckin’ accident.”
I’d like you better if you weren’t pointing a gun at me. Bea’s poor overworked brain was right back at square one, except nobody was holding her against an elevator wall. Still, this did not look good.
“If she ain’t got it, what are we gonna do?” Hardison persisted.
Were they after the necklace?
You can have it, if you want. Good luck with it, too. Bea let go of her mouth, slowly, and lifted both hands, trying to look harmless. There was a funny twitching as if her teeth had come loose, reminding her of the hated retainer worn for so many years. Her tongue touched the back of her top front incisors and shied away, sensing razor edges.
Crap. That’s not good either.
“Oh, that’s no problem at all, Jimmy, there’s a river here. But we’ll not be using it, will we, Miss Dunlevy? I can see she’s got what we need, and so could you if you didn’t need to keep your eyes on the sodding road. Christ Jaysus, lad, it’s snowing so will you please just drive?”
“All right, all right. But do you think they got him?” Hardison was still pretty excited, though the wild swerving evened out a bit. Headlights splashed against the windshield. An eerily muffled sound—someone honking, probably at his driving, and no doubt accompanied by a good ol’ New York Salute.
Or New Jersey, depending. Bea had no fucking idea where they were at the moment, and didn’t care. All she wanted was for the big, meaty guy with the handlebar mustache to not pull the trigger.
So weird. I would have stabbed myself in the throat a couple days ago, but now I’m staring down a barrel and I kind of want to live. I really would like to go back to school—if I can survive this, I can manage to redo my degree. Easy-peasy, no sweat.
Hell, she might even be able to resurrect her own identity, considering how the world simply didn’t care enough to pursue her. Maybe she could even find Don and apologize for fucking up his entire life, now that Lukas was…
Oh, God. Was she actually upset over that?
“They’d better have,” Wren said, grimly. “Now shut the fuck up, laddie. Miss Dunlevy, let’s not have any sudden moves.”
Bea nodded. Sure thing. You got it.
“That’s the spirit. You nod for yes, shake your head for no. You thirsty right now, Miss Dunlevy?”
Bea shook her head, considered the question, and tried a tentative shrug. They did kill him. Oh, my God. They actually killed Lukas.
