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Brock stared out at the swirling snow through the windshield, listening to Chase’s side of a conversation that didn’t sound like good news.
“Ah, fuck—anyone dead?” Chase went quiet for a second, then hissed something nasty. At Brock’s questioning look, he explained, “Got detoured by another call. Darkhaven kid let things get out of hand at a party. There was a fight, then a feeding on the street outside. One human is dead, another ran off on foot, bleeding bad.”
“Jesus,” Brock muttered.
The dead human and a feeding taking place on a public street was bad enough. The bigger trouble was the escaped witness. It wasn’t hard to imagine the hysteria that a savaged human could cause, ru
The scent of fresh, spilling red cells would be a beacon to every Breed in a two-mile radius. And God forbid there were any Rogues left in the city. One whiff of an open wound would be enough to send the blood-addicted dregs of the Breed population into a feeding frenzy.
Chase’s jaw was taut as he went back to Mathias Rowan on the cell. “Tell me your guys have the ru
Brock watched and listened as the conversation continued, observing a side of Sterling Chase he hardly recognized. The former Agent was cool and commanding, logical and precise. The unpredictable hothead that Brock had grown accustomed to as a member of the Order seemed to take a backseat to the crisp, capable leader sitting beside him in the Rover now.
He’d heard that Chase had been a golden boy with the Agency before he’d joined the Order, though you couldn’t have proved that by Brock in the year that he’d been working alongside him. Now he felt a kindling new respect for the former Agent, as well as a gnawing curiosity about the other, darker side of him, which never seemed far from the surface.
“Where are you at, Mathias?” Chase motioned to Brock to put the vehicle in gear as he spoke to his Agency contact. “Tell you what, you let me worry about whether the Order needs to get involved in this. I’m not asking permission, and you and I never had this conversation, got it? Save it for when I get there. We’re already heading your way.”
Brock turned the Rover onto the street and followed Chase’s directions as he cut off Mathias Rowan’s audible protests, then stuffed the cell phone back into his coat pocket. They sped deeper into the city, toward the industrial wharfs, where a lot of the younger crowd—humans and Breed alike—met for late-night raves and private, after-hours parties.
It wasn’t hard to find the scene of the killing. Two unmarked black sedans were parked at a dockside warehouse. Several Breed males in dark coats and suits stood around a large object lying unmoving in the filthy snow of the lot adjacent to the building.
“That’s them,” Chase said. “I recognize most of these men from the Agency.”
Brock swung the Rover into the area, eyeing the group as all heads pivoted toward the approaching vehicle. “Yeah, that’s them, all right. Useless and confused,” Brock drawled, assessing the Agents with a glance. “Which one’s Rowan?”
He needn’t have asked. No sooner had he said it than one of the group broke away from the others, stalking over at a brisk clip to meet Brock and Chase as they got out of the vehicle. Agent Mathias Rowan was as tall and broad as any one of the warriors, his thick shoulders bulky mounds underneath the heavy fall of his tailored dark wool coat. Light green eyes flashed with intelligence and a
“Understand you Agency boys are having a little trouble tonight,” Chase said, pitching his voice loud enough for the rest of the gathered Agents to hear him as well as Rowan. “Thought you might need some help out here.”
“Are you fucking nuts?” Rowan growled, low under his breath, for Chase alone. “You’ve got to know any one of these Agents would just as soon tear your limbs off than have you walking into the middle of their investigation.”
“Yeah?” Chase replied, mouth quirked into a cocky grin. “Been a slow night for me so far. Might be interesting to let them try.”
“Chase, damn it.” Rowan kept his voice low. “I told you not to come.”
Chase grunted. “There was a time when I was giving the orders around here and you were the one following them, Mathias.”
“Not anymore.” Rowan frowned, but there was no animosity in his expression. “We’ve got three Agents in pursuit of the ru
“Well, well … Sterling fucking Chase.” The snarled greeting carried on the wintry breeze, across the snow-tossed industrial lot from where a couple of the other men had broken from the pack to amble over.
Chase glanced out, eyes narrowing on the big male in front. “Freyne,” he growled, spitting the name like he couldn’t stand the taste of it. “I should have known that asshole would be here.”
“You’re interfering in official Agency business,” Agent Rowan said, louder now, intending to be heard by all. He shot Chase a cautioning look, but spoke with the kind of uptight arrogance that seemed to be as standard issue in the Enforcement Agency as their GQ suits and polished shoes. “This incident doesn’t concern the Order. It’s a Darkhaven matter, and we’ve got the situation under control.”
Gri
“Jesus Christ, it is you,” said the one called Freyne, his lips curled back in a sneer. “Figured we’d seen the last of you after you popped your Rogue nephew last year.”
Brock tensed, caught off guard by the comment and its deliberate cruelty. Outrage spiked in him, yet Chase appeared unsurprised by the heartless reminder. He ignored the jibe, an effort that must have taken incredible control based on the steely clench of his jaw as he brushed past his former colleagues on his way to the scene of the killing.
Brock kept pace with Chase’s long strides, cutting through the eddying flurries of snow, past the tinted window of an idling sedan where the Darkhaven kid who’d let his hunger rule him waited inside. Brock felt the weight of the Breed youth’s eyes on him as he and Chase passed the car, their images—two heavily armed males in black fatigues and long leather coats, unmistakably members of the Order—reflected in the glass.
On the ground near the building, the snow was stained deep red where the struggle had occurred. The lifeless corpse of the slain human had now been zipped into a body bag and was being loaded into another Agency vehicle parked nearby. The blood was dead and of no temptation or use, but the coppery tang was still strong in the chill air, making Brock’s gums tingle with the emergence of his fangs.
Behind them, footsteps crunched in the snow and gravel. Freyne cleared his throat, apparently unable to let things lie. “You know, Chase, I’ll be straight with you. No one could blame you for putting the kid down.”
“Agent Freyne,” Mathias Rowan said, a warning that went unheeded.
“It’s not like he didn’t have it coming, right, Chase? I mean, shit. The kid was Rogue, and there’s only one good way to deal with that. Same way you deal with a rabid dog.”