Bonds of Justice p-8

by Nalini Singh

  Sophia knew full well she’d risked infection from a mental virus if the Councilor had laced her defenses with her own personal brand of poison. “You need to get a message to Sascha. We think she’s the next target.”

  “Details?”

  “Nothing concrete—but it’ll happen very soon.”

  Nikita broke contact.

  Dropping out of the Net, Sophia found that she was gripping the armrests so tight, her tendons showed white against her skin.

  “Sophie, sweetheart, talk to me.” It was a soft-voiced command, meant to carry to her ears alone as Max returned to slide into his seat.

  “I told Nikita.” She swallowed, realizing something too late. “I just hope she was the right person to tell.”

  CHAPTER 29

  One thing I’ve learned after so many years on the job—no one is simple, no one is one-dimensional. And still, people surprise me.

  —From the private case notes of Detective Max Shannon

  Sascha’s and Lucas’s phones both started beeping with the pack’s emergency code when they were two streets over from the HQ. Then the car phone started beeping.

  “What the hell?” Lucas double-parked beside a bright magenta monstrosity that Sascha had been teasing him about buying.

  “I’ll get mine,” Sascha was saying when she felt a telepathic knock on her mind. Firm, familiar. Mother. Her own telepathic reach was small, but Nikita’s was so wide, she’d hear Sascha’s weaker voice.

  You may have been chosen as a target by my enemies.

  I understand.

  The methods they’ve used thus far suggest they do not have a teleport-capable telekinetic at their disposal.

  I’ll make sure I’m careful about my physical surroundings.

  Don’t forget about explosives.

  No.

  I’ll organize protection—

  Thank you, Mother, Sascha said, emotion a rock in her throat, but the pack will take care of me. I promise.

  Very well.

  Nikita’s mind dropped away, but Sascha didn’t take it for disapproval. Glancing at Lucas, she saw his green eyes had gone cat. “My mother just warned me I might be a target,” she said.

  “I thought you were ’pathing to someone.” Starting up the car, he turned back the way they’d come, heading out of the city and toward their cabin. “Faith had a vision—that was your phone. Dorian cornered a sniper on his security rounds—that was my phone. And Clay got a call from Max before his own informants told him about another suspicious man in the apartment building facing the HQ—that was the car phone.”

  Sascha blew out a breath. “Darling, you do realize that means the baby and I were never in any danger?”

  Lucas squeezed the steering wheel as if he’d like to rip it off. “I’m not going to calm down for a while, so deal with it.”

  Reaching out, she rubbed the back of her hand over his cheek. “Since we’re going home, I’ll have lots of privacy to pet you.” A nudge in her stomach, a thump in her heart. “And you can pet me back.”

  The leopard shot her a quick glance.

  “They would’ve hurt you, too.” How dare they!

  Lucas took her hand, brought it to her lips. “The pack would’ve never let that happen.”

  The cunning way her leopard had turned her words back on her when it suited him thrust past the anger to leave only a deep need to touch, to love, to cherish. “Take me home, Lucas.”

  Max called Lucas the instant they landed. “She’s safe?”

  “We’re both fine—you the reason Nikita knew?”

  “Sophie managed to pass on a message through the PsyNet.”

  “Clay and Dorian have some intel out at our HQ that you should see—probably shouldn’t come over the comm lines.” A long, indrawn breath. “And, Cop—thanks.”

  Hanging up, Max nodded to Sophie. “She’s fine. And we might have a lead.” He waited only until they were inside the car before reaching over to close his hand over her thigh, his palm separated from her skin by nothing but the material of her skirt. He understood exactly how feral the DarkRiver alpha was feeling at that moment. If Faith hadn’t warned them about the bomb . . . “I want to strip you to the skin and drive into you until we both scream.”

  “Max.”

  It took him three minutes of teeth-gritting control before he could begin driving. Neither of them said another word until they walked into the DarkRiver building. Clay met them in the lobby and led them upstairs to a meeting room, where Dorian was waiting.

  The sentinel with his blue-eyed, blond good looks raised a hand. “Here’s the lowdown—the assassin I found ate some kind of a fucking suicide tablet. I haven’t seen anything like it outside of historical dramas.”

  “I worked a case where a small cult committed suicide en masse,” Max said, his mind cascading with bleak images of small bodies curled up beside larger ones that should’ve protected, not harmed. “They used a wine laced with poison.”

  “It speaks of fanatical devotion,” his J said, “rather than professionalism.”

  “But he was a professional, too.” Dorian showed them some images on the comm screen. “His gear, the way he’d been waiting there long enough to have left DNA behind, if you know what I mean—the man knew what he was doing.”

  “Where’s the body?”

  Clay was the one who responded. “Enforcement morgue.”

  “And the other one?” Max asked.

  The sentinel looked disgusted. “He figured out we were on to him and rabbited. I had to bring him down in a public area—Enforcement was there within a minute. He’s sitting in a cell not talking right now. No doubt he’s Psy.”

  “There’s something else.” Dorian picked up what looked like a business card off the table. “This was left behind in the room where the second sniper was hiding.”

  “That’s evidence.” Max scowled. “You’ve fucking contaminated the hell out of it.”

  “Trust me,” Dorian said, “you don’t want that in the system. And we processed it.”

  Max glanced down to see that the card carried a single line of text—what looked like a comm code. Turning it over, he read the handwritten note: Sascha, DR HQ

  “I recognize that code,” Sophia said in a quiet voice. “It’s Councilor Duncan’s private line.”

  “Very well guarded,” Dorian said. “And available only to a select few.”

  Max shook his head. “Nikita isn’t behind this. And the handwriting—the time’s missing.”

  Sophia took it from his hand. “They were going to insert that once they’d hit Sascha, make it seem as if Nikita had given them the location and time.” She placed the card back on the table. “But the fact that they have this number further implicates someone in Nikita’s inner circle.”

  “Another Councilor would also have it—or be able to get it,” Max said, eyes narrowed. “No question that Nikita has a mole inside her organization, but there’s a much larger power behind this.”

  “I’ve already got our informants on alert for anything that might be related.” Clay said with a tightly held fury. “You need us, we’re there.”

  Max tapped the card. “What did you find?”

  Dorian’s scowl did nothing to lessen the sheer beauty of his face. “Only usable print was—surprise, surprise—Nikita’s.”

  “They really thought you were going to fall for that?” Max had seen the way the cats operated—they were highly intelligent predators.

  Dorian’s mouth went grim. “If they’d succeeded in hurting Sascha, we wouldn’t have been thinking too straight. The leopard would’ve gone for blood.”

  And, Sophia realized with a chill in her heart, the ensuing carnage would have begun a war.

  CHAPTER 30

  Nikita thought long and hard about her next move, considered, too, what it might betray. Nothing. If she was careful.

  Picking up her cell phone, she input a code.

  Anthony Kyriakus answered after a few seconds. “Nikita, t
his is unexpected.”

  Yes, Nikita thought, it was. Though they occupied the same basic area of the state, their paths rarely collided. The NightStar empire was built around the foreseeing abilities so prevalent in their genetic line, while Nikita’s own company had a much more prosaic base in housing and design. But—“We do have certain commonalities.”

  A pause. “Is this a Council matter?”

  “No.” That left them with only one common thread, a thread they’d never before discussed. “Sascha was targeted by my enemies today. You may wish to ensure Faith’s safety.”

  “I don’t think you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart.”

  Nikita had no heart. What she had were brains and a survival instinct that saw nothing wrong with killing, manipulation, and betrayal. But she wasn’t fickle. That was bad for business. “It strikes me,” she said, “that our aims have coincided more often than not in Council matters of late.”

  “You’re allied to Krychek.”

  “So are you.” It was, she knew, less of an alliance than she had with Kaleb, but it existed. “They are attempting to take our territory, Anthony.”

  “That’s their mistake.” And, for the first time, she heard the pure steel that had made Anthony Kyriakus a threat long before he became Council.

  CHAPTER 31

  To my Cop—I never imagined you could exist, that you would exist, for someone like me. I never imagined that you’d look at me the way you do. I never imagined how hard it would be to say good-bye.

  —Sophia Russo in an encrypted and time-coded letter to be sent to Max Shannon after her death

  The main Enforcement station in San Francisco was a sprawling complex full to the brim with humanity—and at present, a Psy assassin.

  Sophia took a deep breath as they were led down through the bull pen and to the short-term holding facilities at the back of the station. So many voices, so many people, so many memories and dreams—it was a ceaseless buzz in her head, her shields already strained after the time spent in the enclosed space of the airjet.

  Though she kept her arms tight to her body, her face turned away, people still bumped into her. She’d managed to avoid skin-to-skin contact so far—mostly because Max had been using his own body to shield hers in the most subtle of ways, but it was impossible to do anything but grit her teeth against the onslaught of psychic noise.

  Hopes and wishes. Hates and loves. Joys and sorrows.

  Even though she couldn’t read any specific thoughts, she could feel the colossal weight of those thoughts battering at her. The pressure against her shields was immense—she was terrified it would create a break, crushing her under an avalanche of other people’s nightmares.

  “Here you go.” The cop who’d escorted them stopped in front of a cell. “He hasn’t said a word.”

  “Thanks.” Max held out his hand. “I appreciate the cooperation.”

  The cop shook it, but his eyes were flat. “You have Psy backing. Call me when you’re done.”

  White lines bracketed Max’s mouth as the other man walked away. She wanted to comfort him, but what could she say? She was Psy, part of the very race whose history of arrogance meant Max was being seen as a traitor to his own people.

  His gaze met hers at that moment and something in him seemed to ease. Walking up to the old-fashioned steel bars of the temporary holding cell, he said, “Keeping your mouth shut isn’t going to achieve anything, not while you’re in Nikita’s territory.”

  The man sitting on a bunk on one side of the room didn’t so much as turn his head. Max tried again. With the same result. Shifting to glance at her, Max raised an eyebrow. She took a step closer to the bars. “Fanaticism,” she said, keeping her tone clear, Silent, pure, “is a breach of Silence.”

  No response, but she knew he was listening.

  “The fact that your colleague committed suicide when he was of sound mind and body speaks to that fanaticism.”

  The man lifted his head. “It could as well have been a tactical decision to deprive the enemy of an individual to interrogate.”

  “But you didn’t follow that path,” she pointed out. “You didn’t agree with his actions.”

  “I have nothing to hide.” Cool words. “It’s no crime to be in an apartment in San Francisco. Even one with a view of the DarkRiver building.”

  Sophia wondered if the male had truly thought through the consequences of his actions. Legalese wouldn’t save him, not when he’d proven himself part of the conspiracy against Nikita. Stepping back, she lowered her voice so that it would carry only to Max.

  “Nikita doesn’t know yet.” That much was apparent because if she had, this man’s mind would’ve been torn apart like so much paper before they’d ever had a chance to talk to him.

  Max set his jaw. “I don’t care who the fuck she is—she does that, I’m done with this case. They can blow her up for all I care.”

  Nikita would bide her time, Sophia thought. Because right now, she needed Max. “Do you want to attempt further questioning while I—”

  The scream was sharp, high pitched. Even as the medical alarms began blaring, the Psy male fell forward and to the floor, his body flopping about in the throes of a seizure that had his head thumping over and over against the plascrete floor.

  Max had run to grab the guard with the key the instant after the first scream, but Sophia knelt by the bars, her heart twisting in pity. The would-be assassin’s face was contorted, blood leaking out of his ears, and there, in those final moments, Sophia saw fear fill his soul. Reaching through the bars, she gripped the hand that flailed toward her. “Hold on, help is coming.”

  His hand spasmed on hers, pulling down her glove.

  And he touched one finger to the skin bared at her wrist.

  A scream of sound, images and thought, yesterdays tangled up in dying agonies.

  Someone—Max—wrenched back her hand. “Sophia!”

  She blinked, desperately trying to control the ugly roiling in her stomach. “Help him.” It came out husky, rough.

  Max shook his head, his eyes solemn. “It’s too late.”

  Following his gaze, she saw another Enforcement officer inside with the prisoner, his head bowed in defeat. The Psy male’s eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling.

  Nikita was adamant she hadn’t killed the man. “He was eliminated to prevent me from discovering what he knew,” she said when they confronted her. “If I had taken his mind, ripped away his secrets, I’d have no more use for you and Ms. Russo, Detective—and I’d make sure you knew it.”

  Sophia watched Max hold that chilling gaze. “Now that, I believe.”

  “This wouldn’t have happened if I’d been notified at the start.”

  It was true. Because she’d have done the job herself.

  But she hadn’t.

  And right then, Sophia was too numb to consider anything further. She felt battered and bruised by the time they arrived back home. She didn’t make the slightest protest when Max ushered her into his apartment rather than her own. “Go take a hot shower,” he ordered, nudging her toward the bedroom and the bathroom that flowed off it. “I’ll make you something to eat.”

  She felt her lower lip tremble and it was such a strange sensation that she stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “Come on, sweetheart.” Soft words, a gentle tone as he walked her into the bedroom and turned her in the direction of the bathroom door with his hands on her shoulders, careful to keep his fingers away from her skin.

  He was taking care of her, she thought, her shocked state leaving her without defenses of any kind. “You’re the first person who’s ever taken care of me.” Even before her parents had rejected her, she’d been nothing but a practical responsibility.

  Max went very, very still behind her. Then, releasing a long breath, he leaned in close enough that their breaths mingled. “Yeah?” A slow smile. “I guess that makes me a lucky man.” Moving to face her, he tugged at her arms until she lowered them from a
round her waist. Then he pulled off her jacket. “Baby, if I strip you, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to keep on being noble.”

  Something snapped awake inside of her, electrified at the idea of Max seeing her naked. “I’ll be all right.”

  Shifting back, Max took out something from the closet. “You can put this on after.”

  It was, she saw, one of his shirts. She could’ve as easily asked him to go into her apartment and retrieve some of her own clothing, but she took the shirt . . . took the scent of Max into her hands. “Thank you.”

  “There’s a spare towel on the rail. Leave the door open,” he said. “I’ll be in the living room—I want to be sure I hear you if you call out.”

  She couldn’t find the words she wanted to say, so she forced her feet forward and into the bathroom. Leaving the door ajar, she listened to the sounds of Max moving about in the bedroom as he changed. By the time she peeled off her clothing and stepped into the shower, she no longer felt so close to breaking. Still, there was a new fragility inside of her, a new fracture in her innermost psychic shields.

  I can’t break, she thought to herself, obdurate in her anger, her need, not yet. I haven’t lived yet.

  Turning off the shower only after her skin was pink from the heat, she got out and used the spare towel to dry herself, then picked up Max’s shirt and brought it up to her nose. It had been laundered, but she could sense echoes of Max’s innate scent beneath the freshness of the detergent.

  It slipped easily over her body, hanging to midthigh. The color was white, but the fabric was thick enough that she didn’t have to worry about her lack of underwear being embarrassingly obvious. Not that Max wouldn’t already be aware that she was naked beneath his shirt. Feeling her cheeks color, she put her dirty clothes—and gloves—in a neat pile to the side, then stepped out into the bedroom.

  It was empty.

  Glad for the reprieve, she found herself walking to the dresser. A plain black comb lay on the surface, along with a wallet and a keycard. The austere nature of it suited him, she thought, because for all his masculine beauty, Max was a cop through and through. Taking the comb, she lifted it up to her hair. It felt wonderfully intimate to run it through the damp strands, and she imagined what it would be like to have him stroke her scalp with those strong fingers of his instead.