Peter shifted to the edge of the cot, putting his back to the man to conceal what he was about to do. He slipped his hand down Beatrix’s undershirt, feeling nothing at first but the cotton fabric, and then—his heart leapt—the scratch of leaves. He tugged all three out, carefully, and slipped the invisible reds into a pocket.
Behind him, Red Coat barked out a spell to drop the barrier separating them. He turned and saw the man rushing over.
“What are you doing?” Red Coat yelled.
“Sitting with my wife.”
“She’s waking up, isn’t she? You’re trying tohideit, aren’t you?”
“No,” Peter said, caught between relief and dismay. “No, I’m just?—”
“Shut up. Get over there.” Red Coat pointed to where Martinelli was lying, and—when Peter hesitated—snapped into a spellcasting stance, a clear threat.
Peter looked over his shoulder as he went, watching the man force more sleeping draft down Beatrix’s throat. Here was his chance to pass Martinelli the leaves, but what if Red Coat gave her a fatal dose through sheer incompetence?
The man straightened up, stoppering the vial. It still looked mostly full. Peter sighed in relief, turned and bit back a curse as he realized Martinelli was sound asleep.“Hey,” he whispered, shaking his friend’s shoulder.
“Wha?” Martinelli blinked up at him.
“We’ve got?—”
“No,” Red Coat barked. “No talking! Go back to your seat,typic.”
Peter, shooting Martinelli a look he hoped would communicate “stay alert,” walked back and took Beatrix’s hand. He needed a plan to get Martinelli the leaves while their captor was distracted. No, actually—a plan to get Martinelli over to him and Beatrix so they could jump without delay.
Someone banged on the door.Shit. If it was Morse?—
“Martinelli,” he hissed as Red Coat cast a spell to drop the shielding.“Martinelli!”
But his friend was staring at the door in horror, obviously thinking along the same lines about who was on the other side.
It opened. Not Morse—Whitaker. “Come out,” he ordered Red Coat.
Peter’s heart flipped. Yes,dothat.
“I can’t. Morse said?—”
“Morse,” Whitaker muttered with almost as much bile as Peter felt. He slammed the door shut. “Fine. Put the spell back up, if that matters.”
As Red Coat complied, Peter finally caught Martinelli’s attention with his increasingly franticcome-heresignals. Martinelli got to his feet and walked softly toward him, eyes on the two men, clearly trying not to draw their attention.
“We have to begin early.” Whitaker’s words, though quiet, were perfectly audible.
“What? Why?”
“Schedule’s changed. He’s speaking in fifteen minutes.”
“It was supposed to be tomorrow!”
“Iknow,” Whitaker hissed. “That’s what I meant when I said the schedulechanged. Morse could return in time—we need to get ready.”
Peter, taking his eyes off Martinelli for a moment to look at the men, saw Red Coat scowl at the general.“Dad?—”
“We’ve fixed the problem. All you have to do is set up, Sam.”
Peter, knowing that Whitaker meant setting up the transmitter to detonate the weapon, could barely think over the pounding of his heart. Martinelli had stopped a couple yards shy of Beatrix’s cot, the expression on his face showing that he understood, too.
“Fine,” Red Coat—Whitaker’s son—muttered. “Bring it here.”
