At the center of the crowd, on the gritty pavement, a girl sat straight-legged and leaned back on her hands. With wild, unfocused eyes, she stared up at the young man straddling her as he fumbled with something in his hands.
Dom grabbed his arm. “Give it to me.”
“Fuck yourself,” the kid said, sounding way too jaded for his age. He stumbled over the girl’s legs as he tried to shrug away from Dom’s grasp.
“Doesn’t work for me. Hand it over. Trust me, you don’t want this to get any messier than it already is.”
The young man lurched around and thrust a hand into his pocket. Weapon?
In a flash, Dom clamped him into a headlock and twisted the kid’s arm behind him, shoving it upwards, and the kid howled. “I said give me the goddamn Sweet.”
“I swear I don’t have any.” The kid’s voice was raspy and he choked as Dom pressed harder on his larynx.
“Yeah, and I’m Prince Fucking Charming.”
In the struggle, a small glass vial fell to the pavement, shattering and spilling its contents at their feet. With a snarl, the gawking youthlings leaped in.
For a half-second, Dom considered pulling out his blades and scattering the crowd that way, but he decided to let them act like wild animals, scratching and clawing the dirty cement until the blood was gone. Unfortunately, the micro-cuts on their mouths from the shards of glass would heal almost instantly from the effect of the Sweet. With disgust he watched them tongue the pavement, licking up every last drop.
When the frenzy died down a few minutes later, Dom cuffed the dealer with silver-lined handcuffs and yanked him to his feet.
“Everyone else—out. You’ve had your fun, now get the hell out of here.” Turning his attention back to the dealer, he said, “I’ve got plans for you.” He punched a couple of buttons on his cell phone and within minutes an unmarked panel van pulled up to the curb. An agent dressed in black fatigues burst through the rear doors, scruffed the dealer by the neck and waistband and threw his ass inside. Dom two-patted the side of the van and it drove away.
One down, how many more to go? He ran a hand through his hair and walked slowly back to the Porsche parked around the corner.
It was the same thing, night after night, here and in Seattle. God, he was so sick of it. He didn’t know how much more of this bullshit he could take. He picked up an empty blood vial and tossed it into a nearby trash can. These kids weren’t the problem. Pavlos was the problem, and he was somewhere in the South.
When he opened the car door, his cell phone vibrated. He climbed in, glanced at the screen and cursed. Nice text. Where the hell did Santiago think he was?
Portland, he texted back.
The guy was a serious micromanager. Or maybe he just didn’t trust Dom. Especially given what happened with her. He never should’ve told his boss. It should’ve been his own twisted little secret.
He cranked the seat back and closed his eyes. Not that Dom came to the Horseshoe Bay Region with glowing recommendations, but no one—not his old commander, not the other field agents he’d led or trained over the years, or even the few humans he’d worked with who knew about the Agency—questioned his effectiveness or loyalty. But then, not all of them knew about what had happened with Alfonso, either.
Dom leaned his head on the steering wheel and his mind wandered to Mackenzie again. What was she doing right now? He checked his watch. Perhaps she was home watching a movie. Or organizing something. Or cleaning. Or maybe she was in bed early on a Friday night, curled up with a book. He rubbed that ever-present ache centered in his chest and groaned.
This is bullshit. It’s got to stop.
Irritated by his inability to keep her out of his thoughts, he jumped out of the car again, hit the alarm remote and jogged back to the freeway underpass. Usually he went weeks between live feedings, but maybe someone else’s blood would dilute the effects of hers, still present and way too strong in his system. Hopefully, the human loser he’d spotted earlier down by the river was still there. He’d take a quick mouthful, and if the guy was as drunk as he appeared earlier, Dom might not even need to bother with wiping his memory.
The phone vibrated again. Shit. Santiago had decided to call this time.
He flipped the phone open. “This is Dom.”
“Your old phone—you told me it was busted.” No “hello” or “how’s it going” for Santiago.
“Yes, and …”
“Come on, you haven’t forgotten. Let me refresh your fading memory. The goddamn one with all the DB data that landed Stryker in the clinic and you with that sweetblood.”
Dom cringed. “Yes, what about it?”
“Care to explain something to me then?”
“What? The thing was busted. I told you already.” Dom clicked the volume button down a few notches and held the phone away from his ear just as Santiago erupted.
“Tell me why in the hell a broken phone would suddenly go online again. Why a broken phone started pinging from a cell tower near the mall in the Northend today. Why a broken phone has been pinging on St. Francis Hill where it’s been sitting for the last hour.”
Mackenzie’s neighborhood. Palming his keys, he turned around and sprinted back to the Porsche.
“You didn’t get the phone back from that woman, did you?”
“No. But I told you. I thought it was broken.”
“Thought? You thought? Goddamn it. You fucking lied to me. You know how important that data is. I’m sending Foss over to get it back from her one way or another.”
He felt his pupils dilate with rage as he yanked the car door open. “You keep him away from her.” He had hoped his desire for her would wane, but the thought of Jackson getting close to her filleted his guts from pelvis to sternum. His focus narrowed to a dark tunnel and her name drummed over and over in his head. He started the car and headed for the freeway.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph. You screwed up and I’m sending him to clean up your mess. First the illegal blood transfer and now this. What the hell is going on with you?”
“No. I’ll handle it. I’m leaving Portland now. Be there in two hours.”
“Handle it like you did the first time? That damn phone better be back at the field office by midnight tonight or I’m sending Foss. Two hours? You’re crazy. You’ll be lucky to do it in four.”
“I said I’ll be there in two.” With a snap of the phone, Dom ended the call.
Of course Santiago was right. He should’ve gotten the damn phone back from her that night by walking right into her house and taking it directly from her as she screamed. A simple memory wipe, and that would’ve been it. But he hadn’t.
He engaged the radar detection, punched the accelerator and merged onto 205 North. After bypassing the bottlenosed traffic by riding the shoulder a few times, he crossed the bridge back into Washington. By the time he hit the straightaway on I-5, he’d cranked it up to a hundred and twenty.
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