Biting Bad_ A Chicagoland Vampires Novel(22)

We all looked around the room, but no one offered anything.

“Not to us, Jeff,” Luc said. “Who is she?”

“Former employee. She filed a grievance against the company a few months ago for”—he paused, and we could hear the clicking of keys—“the violation of her rights as a whistle-blower.”

“That’s interesting,” Luc said. “What did they think she was tattling about?”

“Looking . . . looking . . . Okay, so her complaint says she believed the company was illegally assisting supernaturals.”

Luc pursed his lips. “That’s not a bad lead. She thinks supernaturals have it too good at Bryant Industries, maybe she’s willing to put her money where her mouth is with a Molotov cocktail or baseball bat.”

“Agreed,” Ethan put in.

“Was she arrested with the rioters?” I asked.

“She’s not on the list,” Jeff said. “I’m running her pic against the videos and photos of the riots on the Web. That will take a little time.”

“Even if she wasn’t there, she could have a hand in it,” my grandfather said. “Could be she’s an officer, not a soldier.”

“We should talk to her,” Lindsey said. “We should also pay a visit to Bryant Industries.”

“Good thoughts,” Luc said, then looked at me. “Merit, you’re the roaming guard. Assuming our liege here approves, those sound like assignments for you.”

They also sounded like chances to drive the car I’d decided to name “Moneypenny” because it was James Bond–level cool.

I glanced at Ethan. He checked his watch. “We’re an hour before sunrise. First thing tomorrow night, check out the facility and see what you can find out. If nothing else, we can improve relations with our suppliers.” He smiled. “I’ll give you a raise if you can get a discount for the House.”

“One problem at a time,” I said. “Jeff, would you or Catcher be up for a ride-along tomorrow night?”

“Quite possibly,” Jeff said. “Let me check my sched and float the idea to Catcher, and I’ll let you know.”

“Appreciate it.”

“Jeff, Mr. Merit,” Ethan said, “I think we’re done with you for the moment. Thank you for the information, and let us know if you need anything else.”

“Roger that,” Jeff said, and the phone clicked off.

Ethan looked at Luc. “If they start with Molotov cocktails, they probably won’t stop any time soon. This is now our war room. Get as much information and background as you can on the rioters. Maybe we can tease from their backgrounds information about where they’re organized. It would not sadden me to identify a principal location we can report to Homeland Security as a hotbed of domestic terrorism.”

Luc leaned back in his chair, obviously pleased. “That’s a mean little idea, hoss, but I like it.” He grinned wickedly at me. “Keep doing whatever you’re doing.”

“Lucas,” Lindsey said, elbowing him in the ribs while the rest of the Ops Room twittered in amusement and my face turned crimson. “Inside voice.”

Our business is our business, Ethan silently told me, activating the telepathic link between us, but he’s not wrong. Keep doing it.

I was torn between melting from the heat of his words and crawling under the table in embarrassment. Fortunately, Ethan took the stage—and the attention off me.

“In the event this is not the first of the riots, talk to Margot,” he told Luc. “Have her ensure our emergency food supply is stocked. Check the tunnels. Ensure access is available if we need it.”

Margot was the House chef. Evacuation tunnels ran beneath the House to provide an exit in the event of an emergency.

“You got it,” Luc said.

“What’s the city’s position on the riots?” Ethan asked.

“How pissed off do you want to be?” Luc asked.

Ethan’s lip curled, and he sent out a burst of irritated magic. “What are my options?”

“Well, we can show you the video of the mayor’s press conference, or McKetrick’s.”

Ethan’s angry expression only stiffened further. John McKetrick was a particular sore spot.

We’d been assembling information about him on a whiteboard on the other side of the Ops Room. The most compelling item on the board was his picture. He’d had a military look about him, and a background, we’d learned, in military special ops. Square jaw, dark hair, piercing eyes. But he’d been horribly scarred when a weapon he’d tried to use against me backfired, leaving tracks and craters in his skin and costing him an eye. He was angry and bitter, and he blamed those emotions—and his injuries—on me.