On Midnight Wings

I could almost believe that she’s speaking the truth. She’s damned good. Maybe she missed her true calling in Hollywood.

Caterina’s fingers twitched against the steering wheel. She itched to reach inside her jacket for her SIG, yank it free of its holster, and fire a bullet point-blank into Heather’s temple.

But she had a better plan, one that didn’t involve extensive cleanup of the Nissan or torching it; a plan that had been inspired by Heather’s kidnapping fairy tale.

“Don’t worry,” Caterina said, giving her attention back to the white-lined road stretching endlessly beyond her windshield. “We’ll find him.”

“The sooner, the better,” Heather replied. “Can’t we go faster?”

Nice touch. Again, she was almost believable.

“Better not,” Caterina murmured. “We can’t chance getting pulled over. I don’t know if anyone’s realized you’re gone yet or my role in things. Which is why—”

“You dumped your cell after letting Von and De Noir know that you’d found me,” Heather finished. “In case you were being tracked. You’re right. We can’t risk it. Dammit.” She sighed. “How much farther to the rendezvous?”

“A few more miles,” Caterina replied. “De Noir will probably be able to help you follow that pull to Dante more accurately than I can with a car.”

“I hope so,” Heather said. Weariness blunted her words, robbed them of force. “We’re almost out of time,” she added softly, as if to herself.

Well, you are, at least. But Caterina kept that thought to herself. Even though Heather had grabbed a gun from the agent she’d downed back in Little Rock, Caterina had no intention of giving her an opportunity to use it—not like she would have with an opponent she respected.

Spies and traitors only deserve a quick execution.

How did she manage to fool all of us?

(she didn’t)

Headlights from cars traveling the opposite way on the other side of the barrier throbbed behind Caterina’s eyes, whited out the edges of her vision like a late spring blizzard, ratcheted her headache into high gear. A sick feeling knotted her stomach.

Something’s wrong.

But she lost the thread of that thought when she caught a glimpse of the sign she was looking for: REST AREA 2 MILES. A white banner reading: CLOSED had been slapped across it diagonally.

“There it is,” Caterina said, nodding at the sign.

Popping the last cheese cracker into her mouth, Heather sat up straight. Relief washed across her face. “Good,” she breathed. “And it looks like we won’t need to worry about freaking out any civilians.”

“No, we’ll definitely be alone,” Caterina said as she arrowed the car toward the off-ramp. She offered Heather a tight smile. “No witnesses.”

28 THE SMELL OF PISS

HEATHER SHUT THE CAR door and looked up, hoping to hear the rush of wings. Bright, cold stars gemmed the otherwise empty night sky. “When is De Noir supposed to be here?” she asked, scanning the black-inked horizon.

“Anytime,” Caterina replied. “In the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt to check the building and make sure we’re actually alone.”

“Good idea.”

Heather lowered her gaze from the sky and studied the darkened building beyond the sidewalk. On one side, a sign read WOMEN, on the other side, MEN. And painted in huge white letters between the two sides: CLOSED DUE TO BUDGET CUTS.

Pulling her borrowed Glock free from the back of her jeans, she limped across the weed-choked parking lot toward the side marked MEN, pebbles gritting beneath her Skechers. Behind her, she heard Caterina following, the assassin’s tread soft, sure, and quick.

“I’ll take the other side,” Caterina said.

Heather stepped up onto the sidewalk. Dizziness spun her thoughts. For a split second, she thought she smelled Dante—frost and fire and fallen leaves—thought she felt his heated presence, thought she heard his husky voice.

“Dante?” she whispered, halting.

Again, she thought she heard his voice, but not in her mind through their bond. Instead his voice haunted the chilly air like an autumn ghost, like a faraway echo.

Catin, look out. Run!

The skin prickled on the back of Heather’s neck, triggering her inner alarms. Adrenaline surging through her veins, she ducked and swiveled smoothly to her left, while swinging the Glock up in both hands.

A muted thwip burned through the air where her head had just been.

Heather felt a cold shock to find herself practically nose to nose with Caterina instead of the unknown SB or FBI assailant she’d expected. Her finger flexed against the Glock’s trigger.

Time slowed, stretched out like a loaded slingshot—then snapped back. Three things happened simultaneously and with breath-stealing swiftness.

A gun barrel was jammed against Heather’s left temple in a heated, cordite-scented kiss.