“The seal bootlegger?” Bellinowski asked.
“We already talked about it,” Sullivan cut in flatly. Making sure the violence thrumming in the air around Bellinowski wasn’t aimed at the wrong target, maybe.
Alistair’s lighter clicked, its small flame flickering slightly. “I met Brown, along with Doris and the others, except for Wanda. Our talk was done, and we were leaving. Then someone I couldn’t see shot him and almost shot me.” He lit the cigarette, drawing smoke into his lungs, then back out in a stream like dragon’s breath. “I might not have been able to see him, but cheetahs have a damn good sense of smell.”
Sam’s legs felt weak. “He…he tried to shoot you?”
Alistair could have been killed tonight. Died on the street, while Sam was off at the hexworks with Doc.
“He missed.” Alistair shrugged. “Though not by much, I’ll give him that. Anyway, I couldn’t see anyone, but I followed my nose and brought down someone using a look-away hex. When he dropped it, I recognized him as one of your hexmen, so I had you call Mr. Sullivan right away.”
Your men. And a look-away hex, a powerful one…
Sullivan shot Alistair a curious look. “Why didn’t you assume Mr. Gallo was there under my orders?”
Alistair snorted. “Why the hell would you use this sap when you have plenty of people more suited for the job? I goddamn guarantee you Mr. Bellinowski there wouldn’t have been dumb enough to forget cats can track prey by smell.”
Though the sense of coiled danger in his body didn’t waver, Bellinowski cracked a smile at that.
Sullivan laughed, though it wasn’t a kindly sound. “Your familiar is a sharp one, Mr. Cunningham. I see why you chose him.” His face relapsed into its stern expression. “Proceed.”
Proceed? What the hell was he expected to do?
Get answers. “The look-away hex. Was it…was it the one we figured out?”
Luke shook his head. “I didn’t—I’m telling you, the cat got it wrong!”
“Stop it!” Something snapped inside Sam, like a violin string tightened too far. “Alistair saw—didn’t see?—”
“Didn’t see, then did,” Alistair put in, not very helpfully.
“—you using the look-away hex. That’s what you used, wasn’t it? The one we decoded from the medieval lab?”
Luke’s eyes darted back and forth, a trapped animal in a cage, desperate for a way out. “I, sure, maybe I borrowed one of the copies, but I was just testing it out, I swear!”
“And someone else using the same hex just happened to shoot a man right where you happened to be lurking around?” Sam asked incredulously.
“Maybe it was a sniper!” Luke protested. “It was a sniper, and the cat got confused, and?—”
“I know damn well what a sniper shot sounds like,” Alistair said coldly. “Plus I wouldn’t have smelled the gunpowder. This was a pistol at close range. Just like the one we took off you.”
“I’ve got it here, boss,” one of the men said, holding up the weapon in question.
“That’s the other reason I knew it wasn’t a professional.” Alistair took another drag from his cigarette. “He broke and ran instead of trying to plug me again.”
Alistair had almost died—someone else had died—because of a hex Sam had helped to make. Used by a man he’d trusted.
His chest tightened and his throat ached. He wanted to hide, away from the sharp eyes of the hard men and women surrounding him. Or turn back the clock, before any of this happened.
“Are you working for Fabiano, Luke?” he asked, trying not to sound as miserable as he felt.
Luke blanched. “N-no! Of course not. I just, you know, thought I’d do Mr. Sullivan a favor. Take out the competition…”
It was a blatant lie, but Luke was desperate. “How kind of you,” Sullivan said dryly. “But it does raise a question—why did Fabiano tell you to kill bootleggers here? Is she doing the same in her territory?”
Sweat ran down the sides of Luke’s face, even though the basement wasn’t heated. “I don’t know anything, I swear.”
Bellinowski smacked him in the back of the head with enough force to knock him forward. “Answer, or I’ll use a closed fist next time.”
