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She pictured what she looked like, rumpled and disheveled, eyes streaming as she grimaced against the sun like a kidnap victim pulled from an underground hole. With a guy at her back, wrenching her arm up, she obviously wasn't out for an afternoon stroll. If anyone noticed, they decided not to care.
As her eyes and lungs cleared, her stomach chimed in, wanting its share of attention. Typical. Motion sickness or nerves always set her gut roiling like a teakettle, bubbling over at the slightest provocation. And right now, the tear gas had it feeling provoked.
When she stumbled over a sidewalk crack, her mouth filled with bile. She gagged and forced it down, the taste only making the nausea worse.
"What's wrong?" Rhys said gruffly.
Hope swayed, her free hand clutching her stomach. "The gas. I feel…"
"It does that. Just keep going."
"I-I don't think – " She took a deep breath, head tilting back. "Okay. That's better." She took one more step, then doubled over, moaning and gagging.
"Oh God, I'm going to – "
She swung, so fast his slackening grip fell from her arm. He grabbed for her, catching her wrist. And that is when the Aikido lessons paid off, Hope's body instinctively recognizing the hold and reacting without instructions. A wrench, a grab, a flip and he was on the ground with his arm now pi
At that moment, someone decided to notice. A burly middle-aged man lumbered from the parking lot, glaring at Hope from under bushy brows. A woman being forced along a motel sidewalk hadn't been worthy of his attention, but apparently, that same woman pi
"He – he attacked me," she said, gulping air between words.
"Hope," Rhys said under his breath. "You don't want to – "
"The – the manager. Get the manager. Please."
Hope lifted her teary, reddened eyes, and the man jogged off toward the front office. She flew off Rhys, gave him one hard kick in the ribs and ran.
A man shouted. Rhys? The burly man? She didn't know and, frankly, didn't care, just hunched down and pummeled the pavement.
As she veered into the lot, she slowed to a jog. A very fast jog, arms pumping, trying to look like an ordinary ru
She jogged to the edge of the motel lot, just past the boundary fence, then wheeled, ru
In front of Hope was an eight-foot-high sheet of solid two-by-fours. Not a finger- or foothold to be seen, and not a chance in hell of jumping up and grabbing the top.
In the past twenty-four hours, she'd scaled two fences, so she'd seen this one and thought no sweat without making sure it could be scaled without grappling hooks.
The demon growled in her gut. Get the hell over that fence. Get through it. Smash it down. Karl is over there, in danger.
Which was all very fine, but unless the demon could conjure up real superpowers for her, she wasn't flying over or through that fence. She kept jogging along, hoping a way over would miraculously appear. A ladder would be good. A rope just fine. Hell, at this point, she'd settle for a strong vine or overhanging branch. She found two knotholes, but even her size-five toes weren't squeezing in them.
Could she get around the back end? If the fence belonged to the motel, it would stretch the full perimeter.
Just get past it, the demon screamed. Around, over, through. Get Karl!
Every second she fussed was another second for the Cabal to load him into a van… if they hadn't already. She had to go back the way she'd come. She turned… and there was Rhys, ru
FINN
Fi
The problem with Model A was parking. The layout presumed you were in the fifties, heading down Route 66 on a family road trip and, naturally, you only needed one parking spot, which was conveniently located right outside your room door. If you brought a friend or towed a trailer, you needed to park it in the dirt lot out back, which was quite possibly the worst location for a stakeout. So Fi
He'd gotten out once to scout, but he wasn't inconspicuous enough to loiter for long, so he was stuck with two hopes. One, that Adams was in the part of the motel he could see. Two, that Damon would get his phantom ass the hell back from wherever he'd gone and tell Fi
Making Damon hitchhike in the taxi had been an inspired plan. And like all his inspired plans these last few days, it had played out much better in his mind than in reality. Fi
All he had to do then was pull in and wait for Damon to come out and tell him which unit Adams was in. That had been ten minutes ago.
As Fi
Fi
"Hey!" the second man yelled. "Hey! Someone stop that guy!"
That got Fi
"What's happening here?" Fi
"There was a girl…"
"That girl?" Fi
"No, a – " He caught his breath. "Woman. Young woman. She said that guy attacked her. I told the manager to call the cops, but I don't think he's going to."
"Where's the young woman?"
"Took off," the girl said.
"Is he chasing her?"
"Du
"Which way did she go?"
"Du
She scuffed worn sneakers against the pavement. Crossed her arms. Scowled as if she was being asked to do a chore. Fi
"My dad's right," the girl muttered behind him. "Too many foreigners in this city. Stupid lady smacked right into me. Never even said sorry."
Fi
"Yeah. Mexican or something."
"East Indian, I think," the man said. "Tiny thing, but the way she threw that guy down – "
Fi
As Fi
He caught an odor that made his guts knot, remembering a training seminar where they'd sprayed new LAPD recruits with CS gas.
Wisps of smoke spiraled from the cracked-open door. Inside, someone coughed. He pulled out his gun and eased the door open another inch. The distinct peppery smell of tear gas wafted out, mixed with another smell – whatever caused the smoke, he supposed.