The exit led out into a small courtyard that was a designated smoking area, and while there was a gate that led from the courtyard into the lane beyond, it was padlocked. Ginny had double-checked it earlier this evening, so unless someone had cut the chain between then and now, there was no escaping that way. It was possible Monica simply planned to meet someone in the courtyard, but if that were true, how had she made the arrangements? The Society had been monitoring not only her calls but also every post she made across her various social media platforms; if anything remotely resembling a meeting with an unknown player had been planned, we would have been told.
Of course, the “why” behind the over-the-top security ring we’d placed around her was something thathadn’tbeen in the files. Ginny and I presumed there’d been a kidnapping threat, given her father was a privately employed advisor for the Prime Minister, but neither Jack—who was manning the comms base—nor indeed the Society itself had confirmed it. Not that there was anything unusual in that. The organization did have a habit of putting agents into the field without detailed information, although admittedly, it often came down to them not having it.
“Ginny,” I murmured, “is she in the loo, or has she moved toward the lane?”
The corridor went left not too far past the toilets, so I had no direct line of sight of its length from where I stood.
“Tracker indicates she’s in the toilets—second stall, going by the floor plans.”
At least that was something. The line moved forward steadily as women came out. I had no idea what Monica was doing, but she seemed to be taking a long time to do it.
“Okay,” Ginny said. “She’s on the move—leaving now.”
I leaned to the right again and watched the door. Two women came out, chatting animatedly, and were quickly followed by a tall thin woman who looked decidedly unsteady on her six-inch heels. No sign of Monica.
“You sure she’s on the move?” I murmured. “She’s not come past me.”
“Well, according to the tracker she has. She’s approaching the bar right now.”
I turned. The only woman currently approaching the bar was the unsteady one; everyone else was standing in the slow moving line for the toilets. I swore and sprinted after her; when I was close enough, I none-too-gently grabbed her shoulder and turned her around.
“What the fuck...?” she said, her tone outraged and her pupils enlarged. Definitely on something.
“Your bag—let me see it.”
“Fuck off?—”
I snatched her bag out of her hands, raised an arm to ward off her blows, then glanced at the two women in the queue who stepped toward me. “High Council investigator,” I growled. “Mind your own damn business, or I’ll find a reason to arrest you.”
The two of them raised their hands, palms up, and backed away.
“One of these days, someone is going to ask to see your credentials,” came Ginny’s dry comment.
I didn’t bother replying. I did have proper ID, but in most cases, it was simply quicker and easier to tell people I was HCI. The Black Lantern Society tended to work in the background, and for the most part, the general public had no idea about the important role we played in keeping the more... problematic... members of the witch world in check.
I told my target to calm down and opened her purse. Inside was a phone, keys, a credit card case, and, right at the very bottom, our tracker. I plucked it free and raised it.
“Who gave you this?”
Her expression was a picture of confusion. “What the fuck is it?”
“Government property. Who gave it to you?”
“It’s not mine—I’ve never seen the thing before.”
The alarm in her voice was real enough. I handed back her bag and she clutched it tightly in front of her. “Am I in trouble?”
“No. Did anyone run into you in the toilets?”
“No, but this stupid woman did almost knock me over as I was going in.”
“Description?”
“I don’t fucking know—I needed to pee and just wanted to pick up my things and get in there.”
And that’s no doubt when the swap happened. But to confirm, I said, “Did she help you pick up your things?”
“Yes; it was the least she could do.”
