And damn if the ethereal woman in white wasn’t out there too.
She stood in the middle of the road, unfazed by the rush of cars and pedestrians all around her. Her image was translucent in the dark, her form far less delineated than it had been earlier that day, and dimming by the second. But her eyes were fixed on Dylan. The ghost didn’t speak this time, just stared with a bleak resignation that made Dylan’s chest ache.
“Go away,” she told the apparition under her breath. “I don’t know what you want from me, and I really can’t deal with you right now.”
Some part of her scoffed at that, because with her job on the line like it was, maybe she shouldn’t be so eager to turn away visitors from the Other Side. Nothing would please her boss, Coleman Hogg, more than having a reporter on staff who could honest-to-God see dead people. Hell, the opportunistic bastard probably would insist on bankrolling a brand-new side business with her as the main attraction.
Yeah, right. So not happening.
She’d let one man exploit her for the peculiar, if unreliable, gift she’d been born with—and look how that had turned out. Dylan hadn’t seen her father since she was twelve years old. Bobby Alexander’s last words to his daughter as he drove out of town and out of her life for good had been a nasty string of profanity and open disgust.
It had been one of the most painful days of Dylan’s life, but it had taught her a good hard lesson: there were precious few people you could trust, so if you wanted to survive, you’d better always look out for Number One.
It was a philosophy that had served her well enough, the only exception being when it came to her mom. Sharon Alexander was Dylan’s rock, her sole confidante, and the only person she could ever truly count on. She knew all of Dylan’s secrets, all of her hopes and dreams. She knew all of her troubles and fears too…except one. Dylan was still trying to be brave for Sharon, too scared to let on to her about how petrified she was that the cancer had come back. She didn’t want to admit that fear just yet, or give it strength by speaking it out loud.
“Shit,” Dylan whispered irritably as her eyes began to sting with a warning of oncoming tears.
She willed them into submission with the same steely control she’d been practicing most of her life. Dylan Alexander did not cry. She hadn’t since she was that brokenhearted, betrayed little girl watching her father speed off into the night.
No, getting sloppy with self-pity and hurt never did her a lick of good. Anger was a much more useful coping method. And where anger failed, there were few things that couldn’t be fixed with a healthy dose of denial.
Dylan turned away from the window and shoved her bare feet into her well-worn pair of trail shoes. Not trusting to leave her computer unattended in the room, she slipped the slim silver laptop into her messenger bag, grabbed her pocketbook, and headed out to find Janet and the others. Maybe a little company and chitchat wouldn’t be so bad after all.
By dusk, most of the humans traipsing through the woods and along the mountain paths had gone. Now that it was fully dark outside the cave, there wasn’t a soul around to hear the explosion Rio was rigging to go off from within the lightless space of rock.
He had just enough C-4 on hand to permanently seal the cave’s entrance, but not so much that he would bring the whole damn mountain down. Nikolai had thought to make sure of that before the Order had left Rio there to secure the site. Thank God for that, because Rio sure as hell didn’t trust his cracked brain to remember the particulars.
He cursed sharply as he fumbled one of the tiny wires on the detonator. His vision was already starting to swim, irritating him even more. Sweat broke out on his brow, dampening the overlong hanks of hair that hung down into his eyes. With a snarl, he swept his hand over his face and up his scalp, staring fiercely at the lumps of pale explosive material in front of him.
Did he stuff the blasting caps into the cakes yet?
He couldn’t remember…
“Focus, idiot,” he berated himself, impatient over the idea of something that should come so easily to him—and had, before he’d gotten his bell rung in that warehouse back in Boston—should now take him literally hours to even get started.
Add to that his body’s sluggishness from deprivation of vital blood and he was a real piece of work. A goddamn waste of space, that’s what he was.
With a surge of self-hatred fueling him, Rio stuck his finger into one of the small puttylike blocks of C-4 and tore it open.
Good. The charge was in there, just like it should be.