Burn for Me

Chapter 13

I walked into the shark fin building of Montgomery International Investigations armed with my laptop, phone, and Bern. My cousin surveyed the ultramodern lobby as we made our way to the elevator. He didn’t seem impressed.

“Think Mad Rogan will show?” Bern asked.

“I hope so.” I’d texted him before we’d left the house: “I know what Adam’s trying to do. Meet me at MII in Augustine’s office at nine.” He hadn’t replied. We needed Rogan. This was now too big for me and Bern, and I wasn’t sure where Augustine’s loyalties lay. He and Rogan clearly had some sort of problem, but I was sure that Rogan wanted to get his hands on Adam Pierce. For all I knew, Augustine might have been helping Adam and whoever his mysterious backers were the entire time.

The elevator brought us to the seventeenth floor. I checked my phone. Three minutes before nine. When we emerged from the elevator, the receptionist met us at the door and led us down a corridor.

She glanced at me. “I understand you’re working with Mad Rogan.”

“Yes. Did he arrive?”

“Yes, he did. Have you set your affairs in order? You know, in case.”

Bern’s eyes got really big.

“My aunt and uncle run a funeral home,” she said. “Let me know if you need any help. It pays to be prepared. That way you’re not a burden on the family.”

Before I could say anything else, the hallway ended and we stepped into the ice-painted privacy of Augustine’s office. He sat behind his desk, his hair, clothes, and the rest of him impeccably perfect. Mad Rogan was in a chair across from him, drinking coffee. His muscular body was clad in a dark suit that fit him like a glove. Well. They hadn’t ripped each other’s throats out.

I looked around the office.

“What are you looking for?” Augustine asked.

“Blood and severed limbs.”

“What you witnessed last night was personal,” Mad Rogan said. “This is business. We’re remarkably civil when it comes to business.”

“We?”

“The heads and heirs of the Houses,” Mad Rogan said. “Your message made it seem like you’ve had a breakthrough. We both want Adam Pierce, so we’re willing to put our differences aside. Besides, if we were going to brawl, we wouldn’t do it in corporate headquarters.”

“Precisely,” Augustine said. “We observe all necessary formalities before murdering each other.”

Okay then. I put the laptop on the desk and opened it to the picture of Shiva’s third eye. “I think Adam Pierce is planning to destroy Houston.”

It took me about twenty minutes to explain the Great Chicago Fire, Emmens, Shiva, and the legend of his third eye.

“I believe that this amulet wasn’t destroyed. I think it was separated into three pieces, and Adam’s trying to reassemble it. We have a piece, Adam has the piece he retrieved from First National, and there is still a third piece out there somewhere. If I’m right,” I said, “we’re now responsible for this knowledge. I think I’m right. I asked my family to leave town. I also called Professor Itou and suggested that his family leave town as well.”

Augustine sighed. “Ms. Baylor, are you trying to start a panic?”

“No, I’m paying back the man who helped me. I’ve gone with this as far as I can go. I’m at a dead end. If I take this to the authorities—and I have no idea who and where these mysterious authorities are—I probably won’t be believed. The Emmens family, if anyone is still alive, is unlikely to speak to me.” I pushed the laptop toward them. “This is now yours. You’re both Primes. You’re responsible for Houston.”

Rogan and Augustine looked at each other.

“Do you have it on you?” Augustine asked.

Rogan reached into his inner pocket, produced an object wrapped in silk, and passed it to Augustine. Augustine unwrapped the silk and lifted the section of the amulet we’d found. He positioned it in a beam of light, and the quartz stones shone as they caught the sun.

“You’re right,” Augustine murmured. “Considering its worth, it’s probably the real thing.”

“I wouldn’t think quartz was worth that much,” I said.

“It’s not quartz,” Rogan said.

“These are uncut diamonds,” Augustine said. “Excellent quality. Each of these would be about one point seventy-five karats after being cut. I’d estimate a twenty-to thirty-thousand-dollar range per stone.”

There were at least a hundred diamonds. I nearly choked.

“You’re thinking Lenora?” Augustine asked.

Lenora Jordan, Harris County District Attorney? Lenora Jordan, my high school heroine who bound criminals in chains? She would be the only Lenora I knew who was in a position of authority. “Did you mean Lenora Jordan?” I tried to keep excitement out of my voice and failed.

Mad Rogan glanced at me, then looked back at Augustine. “You know her. She’ll take it.”

“If it’s an amplifier, you can’t keep it anyway.” Augustine passed the jeweled piece back to Rogan. “The Houses won’t stand for it. They’ll come for you with pitchforks, tear the artifact from your dead body, and then fight to the death over it. Even you can’t fight all of us.”

Rogan grimaced. “Do you want Emmens or Lenora?”

“Emmens,” Augustine said. “Lenora always disliked you less. Also House Pierce will have to be told.” He looked like he had gulped a mouth full of sour milk. “Ugh. This will be a joyous experience, I’m sure. I’ll also have to put my people onto Pierce.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I thought you tried to avoid dealing with Adam?”

Augustine sighed. “Like you said, I am a Prime of a Houston House. The welfare of the city is my responsibility.”

I looked at Rogan.

“If Adam burns an office building or two, it’s somewhat annoying,” Rogan said. “If he burns downtown or any of the financial centers, the economic impact on the Houses will be enormous. Every major local House and many families from out of state own property in the city. Aside from the immediate financial hit, the blow to the reputation of affected Houses would be catastrophic. Our people, our retainers, would die in huge numbers.”

“Nobody would do business with a House that can’t protect its own employees,” Augustine said.

“If this happens,” Rogan said, “the Houses will look for a scapegoat, and Augustine here was charged with apprehending Adam Pierce.”

“But so is the Houston PD,” Bern said.

“We expect Houston PD to fail,” Augustine said, his voice dry.

“Your record as a top-notch investigative outfit might fool House Pierce, but it wouldn’t stand up to an enraged National Assembly,” Mad Rogan added. “They’ll figure out exactly what Augustine tried to pull, and they’ll tear House Montgomery to pieces.”

Augustine’s face rippled slightly, as if his illusion tried to slide off his features. He bared his teeth. “They’ll try. I’m going after Emmens. We’ll know where the third piece is in twenty-four hours.”

“Have fun.” Rogan rose.

“You too.” Augustine looked at me. “Are you going with him to see Lenora Jordan?”

“Yes,” Rogan and I said at the same time.

“Don’t joke with Lenora, don’t volunteer information, and keep your answers short,” Augustine said. “If you get locked up, you’re responsible for your own bail.”

We exited the building together, Bern, Rogan, and I. Bern and I turned left, Rogan turned right.

“Nevada,” Rogan said. “My car is this way.”

“We’ll follow you.”

“Do you want to meet Lenora?” he asked. “If so, you ride with me.”

I wanted to meet Lenora Jordan. Half of my high school time was spent idolizing her.

“You should go,” Bern said. “I’ll follow you and post bail if I have to.”

Mad Rogan winked at me. Somehow that bastard figured me out and was now dangling Lenora like a carrot on a stick. Must’ve been the way my voice spiked when I said her name.

Control, control . . . I gave Rogan my best business smile and started walking toward him. “Thank you so much for your generous offer.”

Mad Rogan chuckled. A tantalizing, feather-light heat washed over me, dancing on my shoulders, and an exhilarating mixture of warmth and pressure rolled down my neck. I almost jumped. Breath caught in my throat. I quashed the urge to stretch against that phantom touch like a cat.

“Do it again, and I will hurt you.”

The phantom touch slowly melted away and part of me wanted to follow, wherever it was going.

Mad Rogan was walking next to me with that same confident stride that had made me notice him back in the arboretum, and I knew precisely where he was and how much distance separated us. My whole body was focused on him. I wanted him to touch me. I didn’t want him touching me. I was waiting for him to touch me. I didn’t know what the hell I wanted.

“Did you like the carnations?”

I reached into my pocket and handed him a small red card. “Texas Children’s Hospital is grateful to you for your generous donation. Thanks to you, every one of their rooms has beautiful flowers this morning. They think it might be at least partially tax deductible, and if your people talk to their people, the hospital will provide the necessary paperwork.”

Mad Rogan took the card, brushing my hand with his warm, dry fingers. The card shot out of his hand and landed in the nearby trash bin.

My skin tingled where he’d touched me. This was some kind of torture.

A black Audi sat in a parking spot about twenty feet away. A wide, elegant car, it seemed to imply power and quiet aggression. It was the kind of car a rich man would buy when he decided his adolescent-dream Maserati was too flashy.

“Is that an A8 L Security series?” His Range Rover was armored. I seriously doubted the Audi wouldn’t be. Most Houses owned several armored cars. That’s what kept Grandma Frida in business.

“It’s an A8 customized.” Mad Rogan touched the car door and the engine purred in response. “I’ve made some modifications.”

Of course he had. I slid into the leather passenger seat. The cabin was surprisingly roomy, all sophisticated lines and sleek design, clean, elegant, and efficient. Nice.

Rogan pulled out of the parking lot. The car practically glided. The luxury aspect of the car didn’t do that much for me, but the quality was really nice. Grandma once told me that it took almost five hundred man-hours to assemble one of these, and it showed. He drove it well too. No matter what they tell you, a high-performance luxury car didn’t handle like a typical sedan, and an armored luxury car didn’t handle like one either.

“Did you want something more maneuverable for the city?” I asked. Not that there was anything wrong with the Range Rover.

“Yes. You never know, we might encounter squirrels.”

The Audi slid into traffic.

“We should have sex.”

I must’ve misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”

He glanced at me. His blue eyes were warm, as if heated from within. Wow.

“I said, we should have sex. You and me.”

“No.” Alarm made me sit up straighter.

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean no. Has it been so long since you heard the word that you might have forgotten what it meant?” Okay, that was probably rude. I had to keep this as professional as possible. Calm, just very calm and firm.

“I’m attracted to you.” His voice was confident and assured, as if this whole conversation was simply a formality and he knew he would win in the end. “I know you’re attracted to me.”

Just had to rub it in, did he?

“We’re both consenting adults. Why wouldn’t we have sex?”

Because you’re dangerous as hell, you scare me, and because it would be mind-blowingly good. Which would mean I would want more and more and I really, really can’t afford to fall in love with you. “Because we don’t have that kind of relationship.”

“I’m suggesting we change our relationship.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

He glanced at me again, his face slightly wolfish. He was giving me just a hint of that intensity, a tiny glimpse of what it would be like. It was more seductive than Adam stripping completely naked. I had to be careful, so, so careful . . .

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Mad Rogan said.

“I don’t even know you. I don’t trust you.”

“You trusted me with your life just yesterday,” he said.

“We were in a life-threatening situation and it was in your interests to keep me alive. By the same criteria, the men with whom you served trusted you with their lives daily. Did you all have sex as well? It must’ve been an interesting army unit.”

“So you want seduction? Dinners, flowers, gifts?” His voice hinted at a mild disapproval.

“No.”

“Seduction is a game,” Rogan said. “You dazzle, entice, and finally seduce. Both parties know what is happening, but they go through the motions anyway. If you pay enough of the right commodity—attention, flattery, money—you will get the desired result. I thought you were above the game.”

“I don’t want to play the game.”

“You want me, Nevada. You thought about it, you imagined it, and you probably touched yourself while you pictured it.”

Oh my God. He just went there.

“Have sex with me, Nevada. You will enjoy it.”

“Do you know what I want? I want a human connection. I want to be in bed with someone who is worth being with.”

“And I’m not?” A dangerous intensity crept into his voice. I might have pushed things a little too far.

We shot out onto Franklin Street. The rectangular tower of the Harris County Criminal Justice Center loomed on our right. Bridge Park, with its iconic Riding Cowboy statue, was on our left. The street was filled with parallel-parked cars. No spots except for the short space between a blue Honda and a red sedan on the opposite side of the street by the park. Rogan couldn’t possibly be aiming for it. We were coming in way too fast. This was an armored vehicle, not a stunt car.

Rogan was looking at me instead of the traffic.

We barreled down the road. The Audi cut into the opposite lane, right in front of a giant pickup. He was still looking at me and not the street.

“Rogan!”

He braked, his gaze on me. Tires squealed as the car’s rear slid. My heart jumped into my throat. The Audi spun 180 degrees, and we skidded into the parking spot inches from either car’s bumper.

The truck driver laid on the horn, and the massive vehicle roared away in outrage.

I exhaled.

Rogan pushed a button, turning off the engine.

“I want an answer,” he said.

“You are the man who kidnapped me, chained me in his basement, and almost strangled a woman he barely met because he found her annoying. That’s your resume.” Okay, that probably wasn’t entirely fair, but I owed him for the car stunt. “I realize that this is strange for you, because ninety-nine percent of the time, your name, your body, and your money do the trick and women fall over with their legs spread if you look at them for longer than ten seconds. I’m not one of those women.”

I got out of the car and started across the parking lot. He caught up with me. I risked a glance at his face. Mad Rogan was smiling. Something I said must’ve been really funny.

“Do I have any redeeming qualities?” he asked. A charming, self-deprecating dragon. No, not buying it. That charm could tear in a split second, and then there would be flame and sharp teeth.

“Not running over the squirrel was in your favor.”

“Mhm. Good to know.” He smiled wider.

Uh-oh.

“Don’t do it.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Every time you smile like that, someone dies. If you attack me, I will defend myself.”

“Of all the many interesting things I’m thinking of doing to you, killing you or hurting you is not on the list.” He winked at me.

We walked into the justice center and got into an elevator. Two men carrying laptop bags made a beeline for us, trying to catch a ride. Mad Rogan gave them a flat look. Without a word, the men simultaneously changed their direction and angled to the elevator on our left. The doors closed and the cabin slid upward.

This was really happening. I was going to see Lenora Jordan. Lenora who bound criminals in chains. Who wasn’t afraid of any Prime. Who . . .

What if she was just like them? Just like Augustine or Pierce? I wasn’t sure I could handle it. That would be crushing.

I opened my mouth.

“Yes?” Mad Rogan asked.

“If she isn’t what she appears to be, please don’t tell me.”

“She’s exactly what she seems,” he said. “Law and Order is her god. She’s a zealot, and she prays to it sincerely and often. She’s impartial and resolute, and crossing her is stupid.”

The doors slid open. We walked out into a busy hallway. People moved out of our way, almost unconsciously.

“Even for a Prime?” I asked.

“Especially for a Prime. She holds the office with the blessing of the Harris County Houses. We put her there because even we recognize the need for oversight.”

We stopped before a door. Mad Rogan held it open for me. I went through and stopped before the receptionist’s desk. A Native American woman in her forties sat at the counter. She had a wide face with large dark eyes and a full mouth. She looked at Rogan with a kind of get-back stare that would’ve stopped an enraged dog.

“Behave yourself,” she said.

Rogan turned left and opened the door. I followed him into a large office. It was well furnished, with a heavy desk of reclaimed old wood and several comfortable chairs. Behind the desk, heavy bookcases lined the wall. Between the bookcases and the desk stood Lenora Jordan. She looked just like her billboard image: strong, powerful, and confident. She wore an indigo business suit. Her curly black hair was pulled back from her face into a thick, elaborate plait. Her skin was a rich brown, and her face, with big eyes, a wide nose, and full lips was attractive, but what you noticed first about her was the complete assurance with which she held herself. This was her kingdom, and she ruled it unopposed.

Lenora Jordan crossed her arms. “I was about to issue you a formal invitation to visit my office.”

“Really?” Mad Rogan said.

“Really. How long did you expect to rampage around the city unchecked? There must be a very compelling reason that explains why you’re blowing up businesses and dropping buses on people in public. I’m eager to hear it.” She turned to me. “Who are you?”

Lenora Jordan was talking to me.

“This is my associate, Ms. Baylor,” Mad Rogan said.

“Can your associate speak for herself?”

“Yes, I can,” I said. What do you know, my mouth moved and words came out. I hadn’t thought they would. “Nice to meet you.”

Her gaze pinned me down. “My office has been trying to identify a young female who has been accompanying him on his reign of havoc. Are you that female?”

“Yes.”

“How are you involved with him?”

“I’ve been tasked by my parent company to convince Adam Pierce to surrender himself to his House.”

Lenora Jordan’s eyebrows rose.

“MII,” Mad Rogan said.

“What are your qualifications for this job?” she asked.

“I’m expendable,” I said.

Lenora frowned. “Sounds like Augustine. Okay, let’s hear it. All of it.”

We sat down, and Mad Rogan and I took turns explaining the situation. When we finished, Lenora held out her hand. Rogan produced the artifact and placed it on her palm. The DA studied it for a long moment.

“Have your people reached any conclusions?” she asked.

“It’s magic. It’s inert. It’s indestructible,” Mad Rogan said. “We dipped it in acid. We blowtorched it. I couldn’t break it.”

Lenora’s eyebrows rose again. “You personally?”

Mad Rogan nodded.

She turned the piece of jewelry in her hands. The diamonds caught the light, glowing weakly. “This doesn’t fit Adam’s MO. He’s impulsive and impatient. Last year he set a bouncer on fire because he tossed Adam out of the club. Then Adam got roaring drunk, high, and partied until dawn so hard that when we came to get him in the morning he barely remembered the incident. What we have here is complicated and done in stages. It took careful planning and preparation. To what end? Ms. Baylor, has he said anything to you?”

“He enjoys setting things on fire and embarrassing his House, his mother especially,” I said. “He didn’t give me the impression that there was anything larger going on, but clearly his actions are part of some complicated plan. He also led me on, because as long as I kept reporting back that he and I were communicating, House Pierce sat on their hands.”

“The attack on your family is the only thing that doesn’t fit.” Lenora tapped her nails on the desk. “And he hasn’t contacted you since in person?”

“No.”

“Someone is controlling him,” Lenora said. “Why? He could’ve quietly gathered the pieces, but instead he is creating a huge public spectacle every time. For what purpose is this being done?”

“It’s classic destabilization,” Mad Rogan said. “People don’t feel safe, law enforcement appears incompetent, and public sentiment toward the Houses plummets. It reminds people what we can do if we choose to disregard the law. Most people find that uncomfortable.”

That was a surprising analysis, coming from him.

“Nobody is above the law, Rogan,” Lenora said. “Not even you.”

“So you tell me,” he said.

She sighed. “I will check with Homeland Security to see if any of the anti-Houses terrorist groups could be involved. But it would take a hell of a personality to rein in Adam Pierce and make him follow a plan. Many have tried and failed.”

“Lenora.” Mad Rogan leaned forward. “He needs this trinket. He has at least one, possibly both, although I doubt it.”

“He would’ve made another production out of getting the third piece,” I agreed.

“He will be coming for it,” Mad Rogan said.

“Are you questioning the integrity of my office?” Lenora asked him. Her voice was amused, but her eyes weren’t.

If she looked at me like that, I’d probably get out of my chair and hide behind it. Mad Rogan didn’t even blink.

“I’m trying to account for all possibilities. If he gets the three pieces together, he will become a pillar of flame. If his current pattern is consistent, he will do it somewhere public. In front of this building or in front of House Pierce. Somewhere where population is dense.”

“I count on you to make sure this doesn’t happen,” she said.

“But if it does, there will need to be an evacuation,” Mad Rogan said. “You and I both know how difficult it would be.”

“You want me to issue a terrorist alert.” Lenora leaned back. “You do realize that the advisories are not given lightly. There is a great deal of weight and planning that comes with it. I have to coordinate with the Office of Homeland Security, National Guard, and FBI. Not to mention the Houses will lose their collective minds.”

“It’s your call,” Mad Rogan said. “But keep in mind: this is real. It’s happening. I don’t want us to be caught unawares.”

“I’ll think about it,” Lenora Jordan said.

We made it outside without being arrested.

Mad Rogan looked at the building and shook his head.

“What?”

“The next time we see that trinket, Adam Pierce will be wearing it.”

“I think she’ll take good care of it.”

“Not as good as when it’s locked in one of my vaults.”

We started across the street.

My phone beeped. I glanced at the text message. Arrived in Austin. Checked into hotel. Tell Rogan thank you for escort.

“Did you send an escort with my family?”

“Yes. They’re a target.”

“How did you know they would be leaving?”

“My people saw them load up, called me, and I told them to follow.”

Duh. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I plan to hold them hostage until you sleep with me.”

I stumbled.

He turned and gave me a brilliant, impossibly handsome smile. “Just kidding.”

Damn it.

“Have lunch with me,” Rogan said.

“No.”

“Nevada, you should have lunch with me. Somewhere public where we could be easily seen. It would also help if you pretended to enjoy yourself. Throw your hair back and smile. Perhaps even giggle girlishly.”

I paused. “Baiting the hook for Mr. Pierce?”

“Yes.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. I didn’t mind being bait if it netted me Pierce, not even a little bit. “Bern . . .”

“Do you think your cousin would rather sit in a car, watch you, and risk being fried by that half-baked lunatic, or play with Bug’s new setup in complete safety at my compound?”

My phone rang as if on cue. I answered it.

“Hey,” Bern said. “Do you still need me? I’ve got an invite from Bug, and there are some people here with an armored Range Rover. They’re saying Mad Rogan told them to pick me up.”

I looked at him. Mad Rogan stepped close to me, his big body too near, the look in his eyes too heated. I smelled a hint of sandalwood and vetiver, mixed with an almost harsh, peppery scent. He bent down, arresting, his eyes so blue. My heart beat faster.

He smiled a slow, predatory grin. “Resistance is futile.”

“You are not assimilating me.” I stood my ground and raised the phone to my ear. “Bern, if you want to go with them, go ahead.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Mad Rogan already had my family covered in Austin anyway. At least Bern would be protected.

I hung up and looked at Mad Rogan. “I’ll go to lunch with you. But I’m not giggling.”

Casa Fortunato turned out to be a small restaurant at the intersection of Crawford Street and Congress Avenue, only a few blocks from the justice center. It had a small outdoor area facing the Minute Maid ballpark. The day was hot and humid, and the last thing I wanted to do was sit outside. That’s why anyone who had any sense ate underground in Houston’s tunnels. They started out as an underground passage between two movie theaters and grew over the years to connect to just about everything, with their own restaurants and rest areas. On a hot day, downtown looked almost deserted. Unfortunately, if we sat underground, Adam Pierce would have no chance of noticing us. It was highly unlikely he would enter the tunnels, where he could be cornered.

We walked to a table with bright yellow, blue, and white Spanish tile, and Mad Rogan held the chair out for me. I hung my canvas bag on the chair and sat. The canvas bag contained a Baby Desert Eagle, .40SW, with a 12-round magazine. After the last brush with Adam’s crew, I didn’t want to take chances, so I’d upgraded my firepower. I was turning into Dirty Harry. BDE was as big and bad as I wanted to be. Eventually it would all be over and I could go back to my normal business of tracking cheating spouses and insurance fraud. It might be less exciting, but it rarely required me to fire a gun within city limits.

The familiar, sick feeling sucked at my throat. I had killed someone. I really didn’t want to think about it. Eventually I would have to deal with it one way or another.

The waitress appeared with a dish of salsa and a plate of still-warm chips and took our drink orders. Two ice teas, fake sugar.

I pretended to be engrossed in the menu. What to order? Something not messy. Baja tacos with shrimp looked good. I put the menu down.

“What do you think of Lenora Jordan?” Mad Rogan said.

“I think she’s awesome. I want to be her when I grow up.”

“You want to be the DA?”

“No, I want to . . .” I struggled to put it into words. “I want to be where she is professionally but in my own way. I want to be confident and respected for what I do. I want to earn a reputation. I want it known that the Baylor Investigative Agency stands for something. My father started it, and I’d like to make sure the name means competence and quality. What is it you want?”

He leaned back. The sunlight played on his face, sneaking in past a tree on the corner. His skin seemed to almost glow, highlighting the strong lines of his face, the powerful nose, and the hard chin. He shrugged. “I haven’t thought about it.”

The waitress returned with our drinks, took our order—I got Baja tacos and he got crispy tacos with ground sirloin—and disappeared again.

His phone beeped.

“Excuse me.” Mad Rogan raised it to his ear. “Yes?”

There was an odd kind of contrast between a man who crushed people out of existence and the one who had perfect dinner manners. Somehow the raging Prime and urbane millionaire were one and the same, and it completely made sense, except that the mundane part of him made the violent part even scarier.

“When?” Mad Rogan asked. “Tell him to meet me here.”

He hung up and glanced at me. “I’m sorry, I have to take care of some business. It can’t wait, but I’ll keep it short.”

“Not a problem. I’ll busy myself with being seen and tossing my hair. Would you like me to twirl it on my finger while biting my lip?”

“Could you?”

“No, sorry.” I grinned at him.

“Tease,” he said, and my mind went right into the gutter. I dragged it out, kicking and screaming. Professional. At least try to stay professional.

“So you have no goals?”

“No, I have short-term goals,” he said. “They’re not particularly challenging.”

“Why?”

Mad Rogan took the lemon wedge off his glass and deposited it onto his appetizer plate, as if it had been some sort of offending bug. “Well, let’s see, what do men in my position usually want?”

“More money?” I sipped from my glass.

“I’m worth one point two billion.”

I choked on my tea.

He waited until I got my coughing under control. “I have investments, and I own several corporations that make money mostly without my involvement. At some point more money is just more money. Some Primes go into research, but it never held any particular interest for me. Occasionally I may improve a spell if I want to accomplish a specific purpose, but I find the idea of dedicating myself to it boring.”

“Professional goals?”

Mad Rogan shook his head. “I’m excellent at only one thing: destruction on a massive scale. Been there, done that, got a lot of fatigue-colored T-shirts. I’ve reached the pinnacle of that career.”

Our food arrived. That was fast.

I bit into my taco. Delicious. “Why did you get out of the army?”

“Do you ever regret mortgaging the business?”

I saw how it was. An answer for an answer. A piece of shrimp slipped out of my taco and landed on my plate. Smooth move.

“Oh God, yes. We should’ve sold it as soon as we knew Dad was sick. We would’ve gotten more money and started the treatment earlier. The experimental therapy was working, it’s just that by the time the mortgage went through, my father was too far gone. But I was very green at that point, and running the business with an established name seemed like a better option. Had we sold it, I would’ve built it back up by now under a different name. But hindsight is twenty-twenty. My mother got a little bit more time with my dad, and he got a little bit more time with us. I have to be content with that.” I realized he was looking at me oddly. “What?”

“It wasn’t what I was asking, but I guess I got my answer anyway.” He tilted his head. “I got out of the military because we were winning the war. When I started, Belize was in ruins and Mexico threatened half a dozen nations in South America. We had to hit hard to turn the tide of war, so I hit hard.”

Now that was the understatement of the century.

“Years later, the coalition had beaten back Mexico and pacified the region. In the end they didn’t even deploy me. Having me in the area was enough to force the other side into retreat. When the conflicts began to die down, the chain of command on our side started talking about going into Mexico. I realized I was a factor in that decision and I resigned my commission, because as much as I enjoy flexing my magic, it was time for someone else to rebuild what I had wrecked. Even if the Mexican Initiative hadn’t been an issue, I would’ve left. The army has no use for me in peacetime. I’m bad at paperwork, and I can’t teach others to do what I do. I’m a killer. So I got out.”

“And now you’re a Prime without a cause.”

“Yes. Most things are not a challenge.” He leaned forward, focusing on me. “When I find a challenge, I devote myself to it.”

Was that about me? Because I wasn’t a challenge. I was a human being. I opened my mouth to tell him that, but he glanced over my shoulder at the parking lot. I turned and looked behind me. A grey Ford Escape pulled into a parking space. It was an older vehicle, with at least ten or twelve years on it. The man who stepped out was in his midtwenties, fit, with broad shoulders and short blond hair. He carried a manila folder and was wearing an ill-fitting black suit, the kind that was probably bought years ago and hung in the back of a closet, wrapped in plastic, extracted solely for funerals, weddings, and job interviews.

The man approached us. Mad Rogan rose. The man offered him his hand. “Troy Linman, Major.”

They shook.

“Sit,” Mad Rogan said.

Troy sat next to me. “Ma’am.”

Ex-soldier. I’d bet every dollar in my wallet on it.

Troy passed the manila envelope to Mad Rogan. Rogan opened it and scanned the contents. “Eleven Bravo?”

“Yes, sir.”

Infantry. Some MOSs, military occupation specialties, translated well to the civilian world. Anything in 68 category, medical, was good. Or 91B, wheeled vehicle mechanic. Eleven Bravo wasn’t one of those MOSs. It was the backbone of the army, but in the civilian world, there wasn’t much you could do with it.

“Why did you get out?” Mad Rogan asked.

Troy hesitated. “I was coming up on my reenlistment. My wife was six months pregnant with our second child, and she didn’t want me to reenlist. She didn’t say anything, but I put two and two together. I was kind of done too. I wanted to get out and try civilian life. I wanted to come home every night.”

“How is it going?”

“We do okay,” Troy said.

His flat voice told me that they weren’t doing okay. Not at all.

Mad Rogan pinned him with his stare. “The background check says your house will be repossessed tomorrow, so I’ll ask again, Mr. Linman. How is it going?”

I couldn’t see Troy’s right hand, but his left had rolled into a tight fist. “I work third shift in a tire-retreading plant and deliver pizza in the evening. My wife works days while I watch the kids. She’s a payroll processing clerk. I’ve been applying everywhere, trying to get a job, any job that would let me work in the daytime. Anywhere with a decent paycheck wants a degree.”

I’d heard this story so many times from so many people that I could guess what he would say next.

“I tried to apply to be a tollbooth operator. They want someone with a bachelor’s. What the hell does a tollbooth operator need a bachelor’s for? Army would pay for me to go to college, but I can’t afford to take the time off. We’ve been trying hard for two years. We just get deeper and deeper in the hole.”

“Did Santino explain what’s involved in working for me?”

Troy nodded. “Yes.”

“My rules are simple,” Mad Rogan said. “Be where you’re told to be when you’re told to be. The first time you lie to me will be the last day you’ll work for my House. If you try hard but fail, it won’t be counted against you. Being lazy and sloppy will get you fired. Getting high or drunk will get you fired. Being in debt will get you fired.”

Troy opened his mouth, his face stoic.

“I’ll take care of your foreclosure,” Mad Rogan said.

“With all respect, Major, I came for a job, not charity. I want to work and provide for my family.”

“It’s not charity,” Mad Rogan said. “House Rogan owns all of the loans of its employees. Home, auto, college, anything else. When someone else holds your loan, you become a security risk. I don’t like security risks, so I take care of my own. People who work for me do get hurt. Your medical is covered, your life isn’t. You have a family, so take that into consideration. I pay well, so take some of that money and buy yourself a decent life insurance policy.”

Mad Rogan fell silent.

Troy swallowed. “Am I in?”

“You’re hired.”

Troy’s face went white. He stopped breathing, and for a moment I thought he would pass out. He could deal with rejection. He must’ve braced himself for it so he could get up from this table and walk away with some dignity. But the relief of acceptance was too overwhelming. His entire life had been riding on Mad Rogan’s words, and now he couldn’t process it.

I reached out and touched his hand. “It’s okay.”

He looked at me, stunned.

“It’s okay,” I repeated. “He hired you. Your home is safe. You’re okay. Breathe, Troy.”

Troy inhaled deeply.

Shivers ran down my spine. I finally realized just how dangerous Mad Rogan was. Most Houses had their private armies, but Mad Rogan took it a step further. For Troy it wasn’t just a job. It was a chance to be a man again, to be appreciated for his skills and to provide for his family. It was a new life, and Mad Rogan had given it to him. That’s what he did. He found ex-servicemen at their lowest, gave them a chance to matter, and rewarded them for it. I now understood perfectly the man who had reported to Rogan after the Range Rover had blown up. Rogan didn’t just own them financially. He owned their souls. They thought he was God.

“When do I start?” Troy asked.

Thunder rolled down the street. I jumped off my chair. It came from behind Mad Rogan and to the right. He sprinted, clearing the fence. I ran out of the eating area into the parking lot and caught up with him at Franklin Street, Troy at my heels.

Smoke billowed from the justice center. The thick plume of it poured out of the eleventh floor, rising up. Oh no.

Something shot out of the window directly under the smoke and plummeted to the street. What the hell?

The thing charged down Franklin Street, running toward us on all fours in powerful leaps, half hidden by the vehicles. Something fast and as big as a pickup truck.

“You start now, Mr. Linman,” Mad Rogan said and ran toward the thing. As I pulled my gun out of my purse, Troy Linman yanked off the jacket of his suit, threw it on the ground, and ran after Rogan. I chased them, gun in hand.

The thing cleared the small sedan in its way and landed on the street, out in the open. Shaped like a cheetah with the head of a dog, it was made of metal. Sections of thick pipes sat where its bones would be, and chains wound around the metal skeleton. There was nothing holding it all together, nothing except magic and someone’s will. I’d never seen anything like it. Small animated objects, yes, but this, this was incredible.

The beast slowed and raised its head. A small bright spark shone in its long jaws.

“It’s got the artifact!” I yelled.

Mad Rogan stopped and brought his arms forward. The beast fell apart, sliced in four sections. The pipes and chains crashed to the ground and scattered.

“Find the animator!” Rogan walked toward the metal debris, moving cautiously. The pipes and chains slid apart in front of him, skittering across the pavement. He was sorting through it, looking for the artifact. Troy grabbed a loose pipe that had rolled to our feet and brandished it.

I spun around. An animator mage had to be within a short distance of his or her creation. On our left was a pay-to-park lot, complete with a toll bar and an automated payment booth. Directly in front of us, across La Branch Street, a ten-story parking garage blocked out a chunk of sky. Both were a bad idea for a quick getaway. In a moment, the area would be swarming with bailiffs, marshals, and cops. There was no way to escape quickly through the parking garage or the crowded parking lot. I turned. On our right, an empty square lot took up the entire block. It held only two cars; it had to be a tow-away zone. The animator wouldn’t risk parking there either.

“What are we looking for?” Troy asked, hefting the pipe like a club.

The pipes on the far left shivered.

Rogan turned . . .

The metal debris flew to him, clamping around him with terrible force, trying to crush him. I jerked my gun up. Rogan vanished behind the cage of metal pipes. Chains wrapped around the pipes and squeezed. Metal groaned, sliding and moving. Shooting it would do nothing. I could hit him by accident.

Troy ran at the shifting pile of metal.

“No! We can’t help him. We have to find the animator!”

The metal cage fell apart, as if it had exploded from the inside. Troy froze in the middle of the street. I saw a glimpse of Rogan’s furious face. The metal debris clamped him again and squeezed. He would have no bones left if I didn’t hurry.

“What are we looking for?” Troy yelled.

Rogan’s power was incredible. To go toe to toe with him would take a Prime. “A luxury armored car.”

He turned left, I turned right, scanning the street. A big black Cadillac Escalade was parked on La Branch next to the vacant lot, facing us. Two people sat, one in the driver’s seat, one in the passenger’s.

The debris exploded, rolled on the pavement, and clamped Mad Rogan again.

Around me vehicles swerved, rushing to avoid Mad Rogan and the explosion of magic around him. Anyone with half a brain would get the hell out of here. Especially anyone in an Escalade.

“Troy!” I raised my gun and walked straight at the Escalade.

The driver didn’t move. He saw me coming straight for him with a firearm and he didn’t move. We’d found the animator.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the metal fall apart, clamp Rogan, and fall apart again. Time slowed, stretching. An armored Escalade meant a reinforced hood, radiator protection, and RunFlat inserts, rubber strips embedded in tires. Even if I shot the tires to pieces, the vehicle could still drive off at sixty miles per hour and keep going. The windshield was bulletproof. A round from Baby Desert Eagle wouldn’t penetrate. But it would still crack the outer shelf of the glass. I didn’t need to kill the Prime inside. I just needed to obscure his vision enough to keep Mad Rogan alive.

Time restarted. I squeezed the trigger and fired six shots in a tight pattern right in front of the driver’s face. The gun spat bullets and thunder. The windshield cracked, each bullet striking the glass and forming a round burst of cracks, as if someone had taken a handful of ice from the wall of a freezer and pressed it against the windshield. I could barely see the driver.

I fired six bullets at the Prime’s side of the windshield, ejected the magazine, and slapped the second one in. Twelve rounds left.

Troy ran by me, leaped onto the hood, and swung his pipe at the windshield, putting the weight of his whole body into it. The glass cracked but held. He bashed it again. The windshield bent inward. Another solid whack and he would get through.

The Escalade roared into life and shot backward. Troy slid off, rolled on the pavement, jumped to his feet, and chased the huge black SUV. The Escalade turned the corner of La Branch, still in reverse, and sped up the street parallel to Franklin. I ran through the empty lot after it. The Escalade made a sharp right onto Crawford. The driver was circling the parking lot in reverse. If he made another right, it would put him straight on a collision course with Mad Rogan.

“Troy!” I turned right and cut across the parking lot, running at full speed.

The Escalade turned onto Franklin. Mad Rogan was still fighting the metal debris.

I squeezed every drop of effort out of my muscles. Air turned into fire in my lungs. Hot pain stitched my side.

The Escalade sped straight at the metal clump surrounding Rogan.

I fired at the tires, trying to slow it down. Four bullets ripped into the rubber.

The metal clump of the pipes and chains fell apart. For half a second Rogan stood completely exposed. The Escalade rammed him. There was a crunch, a sickening crunch. Oh my God.

Rogan flew across the pavement, fell, and lay still.

I lunged between him and the Escalade and fired point-blank at the rear window. Eight, seven, six . . .

The passenger door swung open. The pipes jumped up, re-forming into a beast, a shield between me and the car. I kept firing. An arm in a suit sleeve reached down and swiped something off the ground. The sun reflected on a thick gold ring just before the door slammed shut.

Last round. I fired.

The SUV snarled and sped up Franklin Street.

Rogan.

“Drop your weapon!” someone roared behind me.

I raised my hands in the air, slowly lowered my gun, and let it fall from my fingers. Something bit me from behind, right between the shoulder blades. My body locked up, as if I’d jumped under an ice-cold shower and every muscle had gone rigid at once and stayed that way, numb, hot, and painfully itchy. I fell on my side. My head bounced off the pavement. Three men in marshal uniforms jumped on top of me.

Tased, I realized. They’d Tased me.

The men wrenched me up. Someone forced my hands behind my back, and I felt the cold metal of cuffs on my wrists.

Ahead I could see Lenora Jordan stopped by a pile of metal. Where was Rogan?

Four people in uniform dragged Troy forward. He was bent over, his skin scraped bloody from falling on the asphalt.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, please don’t let Rogan be dead.

The metal heap shivered.

The marshals dropped me, and I went down on my knees, hard. There were cops and marshals and bailiffs everywhere I could see, and every gun was pointed at the metal heap.

The pile of pipes and chains exploded. Rogan staggered up. His expression was terrible.

“Stand down,” Lenora ordered.

Two dozen people simultaneously lowered their firearms. Rogan turned to her, his face contorted by dark rage. For a second, I thought he might kill her.

“Issue a fucking alert, Lenora,” Mad Rogan growled.