Must Love Hellhounds

“Not Stafford. The man in the photo.”

So Blake wasn’t going to finagle, either. But Maggie could deflect just as well as he had.

“If I tell you, then I have to-”

“His name is Trevor James,” Blake said. “He served with you in the CIA from the date of your recruitment and training until three years ago-when, under orders, you assassinated him. It was your last assignment; you retired after that.”

Her hands, her brain felt limp. Her voice was hollow. “How do you know this?”

“You were investigated by the Guardians and vetted by my uncle. He passed the information to me, for my records. Do you think he would allow you anywhere near his home if he wasn’t certain of you? To have any access to his family?”

One of Sir Pup’s heads nudged her shoulder, knocking her out of her stupor. She fed him another burger, and forced her mind to work again.

The deep vetting wasn’t a surprise. How deep they’d managed to get shocked her, but she couldn’t focus on that yet. She was still trying to figure out why Ames-Beaumont would have sent her file to Blake for his records. She wasn’t a Ramsdell employee.

But maybe, to Ames-Beaumont and to Blake, there wasn’t a difference.

Sir Pup whined again. Maggie ignored him, trying to read as much as she could in Blake’s face each time she took her gaze off the road. There wasn’t much to go on. For a man who had never seen another face-or his own-he had a highly developed sense of how much an expression could give away.

“Vampire communities have an enforcer,” she said, feeling her way through it. “Someone who protects the community from outside threats and enforces the rules within the community. In San Francisco, Mr. Ames-Beaumont fulfills that function. And that’s what you are-the Ramsdell enforcer. You protect Ramsdell Pharmaceuticals.”

Maggie realized that wasn’t quite right as soon as she’d finished. He wasn’t protecting the business itself, and that was why Ames-Beaumont had sent Blake her file. It was about protecting the family-every aspect of it-and Ramsdell Pharmaceuticals just happened to be the family’s primary financial resource. Blake probably had files on every employee working at any of the family’s estates.

Blake didn’t confirm or deny it. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and asked, “Which direction are we going?”

“South. Eventually.” Slowly.

He nodded. “I received information last evening. Katherine was headed south. She’s in a large caravan.”

“An RV?” His British accent, which she’d barely been able to discern until now, had become stronger. Did that mean he was suppressing an emotion, or loosening up? “A motor home in August isn’t going to be easy to pin down.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Sir Pup whined, and she gave him a quelling glance in the rearview mirror. All six of his eyes were focused on the bag sitting on the console. Three one-track minds, but it was all greed. A hellhound didn’t need food; he just liked to eat.

“Just a minute, Sir Pup.” She didn’t want to be distracted. “Where did you get this info?”

“Would you believe your friend talked in front of me?”

Would she? James was inviting her to come find him-stop him. But to blab in front of someone like a cartoon villain? “No. How do you know where she’s headed?”

“Why did you pretend to kill him? Why didn’t you carry out your assignment?”

She clenched her teeth. “You have my file, Mr. Blake. Why don’t you tell me?”

“I’ve seen the kill order. I’ve seen the report you filed, saying the mission was completed. I’ve seen the forensic report, which stated that the charred chunk of flesh they’d found-which was all they’d been able to recover after you’d blown his house to hell-was a DNA match to James. But none of those forms tell me anything that happened between.”

Her mouth fell open. A kill order and the follow-up reports? Those weren’t kept electronically, weren’t something Savi could have hacked. Someone had physically gone into CIA headquarters and copied records that she-or even her direct supervisor-wouldn’t have had clearance to access. A Guardian, maybe-teleporting, or slipping through shadows.

“You’ve obviously no intention of giving me an answer,” Blake said, but he didn’t sound frustrated. He sounded relieved.

And his accent was still audible.

“Are you going to give one to me?”

“No.” He smiled, and his eyes met hers, eerily direct. “But it’s for your own protection.”

“I could say the same.” But more than that, she just couldn’t-wouldn’t-divulge classified information. Blake could poke around all he wanted. She wouldn’t spill sensitive details about her job now, or fifty years from now. She pointed out, “And knowing what happened then doesn’t change anything. We still have to stop him.”

“Knowing how I discovered where Katherine was last night doesn’t change anything, either. We still have to get her.”

All right, she couldn’t argue with that. Yet there must be another way. “Sir Pup, would you let me shoot him? Torture him for answers?”