In a way, this was good. Spending the night reading in his room had turned out to be torturous, and though he didn’t want anyone in trouble, at least this pulled him into some activity. Bursting out through the vestibule, he—
Came face-to-face with the Brotherhood’s flatbed truck.
The thing was kitted out to look authentically human, deliberately painted with red AAA logos and the made-up name of Murphy’s Towing. Fake telephone number. Fake tagline of: “We’re Always There for You.”
Bullshit. Unless, of course, the “you” was one of the Brotherhood.
Blay hopped up into the passenger seat and found Tohr, not V, behind the wheel. “Is Vishous coming?”
“It’s you and me, kid—he’s still working on the ballistics testing of that bullet.”
The Brother hit the gas, the diesel engine roaring like a beast, the headlights swinging in a fat circle around the courtyard’s fountain and across the lineup of cars parked wheelbase-to-wheelbase.
Just as Blay checked out the vehicles and did the math about the one that was missing, Tohr said, “It’s Qhuinn and John.”
Blay’s lids dropped shut for a split second. “What happened.”
“I don’t know much. John called V for an emergency assist.” The Brother looked over. “And you and I are the only ones free.”
Blay reached for the door handle, ready to pop the thing and dematerialize the fuck out of there. “Where are they—”
“Calm down, son. You know the rules. None of us can be out alone, so I need your ass in that seat or I’m violating my own goddamn protocol.”
Blay slammed his fist into the door, punching hard enough that the sting in his hand cleared his head a little. Fucking Band of Bastards, cramping them all—and the fact that the rule made sense just pissed him off even more. Xcor and his boys had proven to be cagey, aggressive, and completely without morals—not exactly the kind of enemy you wanted to meet up with all by your little lonesome.
But come on.
Blay grabbed his phone, intending to text John—but he stopped because he didn’t want the guys distracted by his trying to get details. “Is there anyone who can get to them quick?”
“V called the others. Fighting’s heavy downtown and nobody can break out of it.”
“Goddamn it.”
“I’ll drive as fast as I can, son.”
Blay nodded, just so he didn’t come across as rude. “Where are they and how far?”
“Fifteen to twenty minutes. And out past the ’burbs.”
Shit.
Staring out the window and watching the snow streak by, he told himself that if John was texting, they were alive, and for godsakes, the guy had asked for a tow truck, not an ambulance. For all he knew, they had a flat tire or a broken windshield, and getting hysterical was not going to shorten the distance, decrease the drama, if there was any, or change the outcome.
“Sorry if I’m being an ass,” Blay muttered, as the Brother shot onto the highway.
“You do not need to apologize for being worried about your boys.”
Man, Tohr was cool like that.
As it was late, late at night, the Northway didn’t have any cars, just a semi or two, the wired drivers of which were going like bats out of hell. The tow truck didn’t stay on the four-laner for long. About eight miles later, they got off at an exit well north of downtown Caldwell, in a suburban area that was known for mansions, not ranches, Mercedes, not Mazdas.
“What the hell are they doing out here?” Blay asked.
“Researching those reports.”
“About lessers?”
“Yeah.”
Blay shook his head as they went by stone walls as tall and thick as linebackers, and gates of fine, wrought-iron filigree which were closed to outsiders.
Abruptly, he took a deep breath and relaxed. The aristocrats who were moving back into town were spooked and seeing evidence of lesser activity in everything around them—which did not mean that slayers were in fact jumping out from behind garden statuary or hiding in their basements.
This was not a mortal event. It was a mechanical one.
Blay rubbed his face and slapped the shit out of his inner panic button.
At least until they came out on the other side of the zip code and found the accident.
As they rounded a bend in the road, there were a pair of taillights glowing red at the side—far off the shoulder, and upside down.
The fuck this was just a mechanical problem.
Blay jumped out before Tohr even started to pull over, dematerializing directly to the Hummer.
“Oh, Christ, no,” he moaned as he saw two sunburst patterns in the front windshield—the kind of thing that could only be made by a pair of heads slamming into the glass.