Shards of Hope(17)

Aden, Vasic, Zaira, and the others at the heart of the rebellion hadn’t been able to save all their brethren and each loss lingered an open wound on their souls, but they’d saved enough that the squad was now the strongest it had ever been. Many of Ming’s useless Arrows had decades’ worth of experience to pass on to those coming through the ranks. Even Alejandro had something to contribute—quite aside from being a fully trained Arrow who could provide backup as long as Zaira gave him the order, he was a genius with delicate explosives.

Ming hadn’t seen any of that. All he’d seen were men and women who were “imperfect,” and thus not worth the time or the effort to ensure they could remain a part of the squad. That made him a fool.

“What was Zaira doing outside the compound?” he asked Mica.

“I think she just needed downtime.” The dark-haired and stocky male, whose jaw was currently heavily shadowed by stubble, glanced around to ensure they couldn’t be overheard. “Some of the older Arrows occasionally do their best to make her brain explode.”

“I’ve always told Aden I’m surprised they’re all still alive.” Zaira was not known for her patience.

Mica’s expressionless facade didn’t crack. But when he spoke, Vasic understood why he was Zaira’s lieutenant. “I’ve offered to disappear them where no one would ever find the bodies, but Zaira says they’ll come back from the dead, they’re so stubborn about doing things a certain way.”

It would, Vasic thought, take time for the old guard to adapt to this new world. “Did she often take the same route on her walks?”

Mica shook his head. “She was scrupulous about never following a pattern . . . but she did go for a walk away from the compound at some point every two or three days.”

So someone had to have been watching her, waiting for her to get far enough away that the chances of backup reaching her in time were low.

“We’re here, sir.”

Though the canal water sat dark and placid beside them, the evidence of violence was easy to spot not far from where two older Arrows stood watch and kept away the robe-and-slipper-clad spectators who’d spilled out of the nearby homes. Splatters of blood marked the cobblestones, distinctive even under the dull yellow of the light seeping through the old glass of the ornate streetlamp.

Krychek appeared beside Vasic right then. Dressed in black combat pants and a black T-shirt, the cardinal telekinetic appeared more akin to the Arrows than to the political sharks with whom he swam daily. “This is the location?” His eyes, cold white stars on black, scanned the scene.

Vasic gave a short nod before looking toward Mica. “The bodies?” There was too much blood for one person; he’d have known Zaira had taken down at least one of her attackers even without the telepathic briefing he’d received when Mica’s team first arrived at the scene.

“We have three in a cold storage room at the compound.” The lieutenant stood at parade rest, his eyes watchful of the civilians who lingered beyond the perimeter. “Someone used a high-powered laser to burn off the dead men’s faces and their fingerprints show signs of having been burned off months ago.”

“Crude but effective.” Kaleb looked at Vasic from the other side of the splatters of blood, having walked slowly around, his eyes cataloguing the evidence as he moved. “Obliterating the faces wouldn’t have taken longer than a minute at most. DNA?”

Mica answered only after glancing at Vasic and receiving a nod. Vasic wasn’t officially Aden’s second in command, had never believed he was stable enough for the position, but his squadmates had always treated him as if he was—and now, the mantle was beginning to fit.

“No DNA hits.”

It was possible to wipe someone that deeply from the official record, but it took considerable power and access. “Psy?” he asked the lieutenant as Kaleb crouched down beside the bloodstains as if attempting to analyze the pattern.

The answer was a surprise. “One Psy, two humans.”

Krychek’s head came up at Mica’s response, the flawless physical lines of his face betraying nothing, despite the fact that he was the man who’d taken down Silence. Many people believed it was a twisted double bluff, that Krychek was holding on to his own emotionless conditioning while nudging others out of it. Those who believed the latter thought he planned to take advantage of the confusion engendered by the breakdown of a way of life that had lasted more than a hundred years.

Those people seemed to have conveniently forgotten the psychic bond that tied Krychek to Sahara Kyriakus. The man wasn’t Silent—he was just very, very, very good at showing only what he wished.