The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood #16)(90)

“Roger that.”

As Jane turned away to get equipment out of locked cupboards, Qhuinn hit the gas and V worked to strip off the kind of clothes that Butch would have worn: everything was expensive and handmade. Too bad he had to treat the stuff like it was disposable. When he was down to the silk shirt, he didn’t bother with the buttons, but jerked the two halves apart and—

“Oh…fuck,” he muttered.

Jane wheeled around. “Do we have an open injury—shit.”

Shit was right. The male’s well-developed chest was lashed with welts, the skin swollen up in strips.

Just as V’s had been when he’d two-stepped with that shadow.

V put his face into the civilian’s. “What was it? What did it look like?”

The male struggled to focus. “Shot at it—”

“I know.” V took one of those flailing hands in his own and squeezed, like maybe that would help the kid to focus. “Tell me what it was.”

“A sh-sh-shadow…I could see through…it. Came out of nowhere…the bullets did nothing…the bullets…”

Motherfucker. “Was there anyone else around? Did you see anybody else?”

“No. No…no…noooooooo—”

“He’s arresting!” Jane said.

V spun around and grabbed for the portable defibrillator, unlatching the little table it was on and yanking the machine forward.

As the surgical unit lumbered on, bumping over the icy road, Jane leaned in and started chest compressions. She went hands-off long enough for Vishous to slap the electrodes on, and then they both stepped back.

“Clear,” she said.

Vishous hit the button and sent the electricity in, the civilian’s chest jerking up off the table, his arms flopping.

Jane went in and tested at the jugular. “Nothing. Again.”

He is not coming back, V thought.

They did two more rounds after that. And when there was still no pulse, Jane continued chest compressions and ordered V to get the standard protocol of drugs. But even after they pumped that kid full of adrenaline and other things…there was still nothing.

Some ten minutes and God only knew how many miles of road later, Jane stood back and shook her head.

“We lost him.” She cursed. “He’s gone.”

V looked toward the front of the van. “Yo, Q, take us to Havers’s. We’ve got a body, not a patient, back here.”



* * *



—

Throe watched it all happen from the rooftop of the club. He had taken care with himself this time, for he did not know what to expect and his previous arrogance—which had been grounded in what he’d assumed was the invincibility of his creation—had been replaced with a far more appropriate caution.

No more street clothes. He was dressed in all black, with a knit mask pulled down over his face so that nothing of him showed or could reflect light. He was also heavily armed, with sets of guns and rounds of ammunition strapped to his body. Finally, he had been sure to keep himself downwind of where the attack would take place—and he was not alone. This evening, he had brought with him two shadows, one to send down to street level, and a second to wait with him and be a protective backup if necessary.

Throe had a feeling that the Brothers were going to come quickly unto the scene, and assuming they did, it was critical that they not identify him in any fashion. He was not prepared to come forward. Yet.

And then there was too much waiting for his taste. The attack took far longer to transpire than he had anticipated, as the intended target was late, which was irritating.

But then all went according to plan. The male who had been summoned to meet finally arrived, and Throe sent down one of the shadows and observed keenly what transpired. This was a test on so many levels, including of his entities’ ability to fight without conventional weapons. When he had ordered them to kill Naasha’s ancient hellren, he had provided them with a knife. And he had done the same when he had sent them after those Brothers the other evening. But having witnessed that fight and seen what his creations were capable of with their bodies, he realized that weaponizing them may be a waste.

And he was right. His shadows were lightning fast with their forms, snapping out tendrils that caused pain without shredding clothes or seeming to break skin. Verily, that aristocrat proved no match for the ferocity of the attack, falling back from his feet, landing upon the ground—and as he fumbled to get out a gun, Throe nearly interceded.

But instead of the bullets stopping the shadow, they passed through the form and ricocheted off the buildings behind the entity.

Throe had waited for some kind of pain to register as it had done before. Except there had been nothing; the attack didn’t even slow—and there had been the temptation to let the final course of the meal be served. Throe needed, however, for there to be a reporting of the incident. Thus, he had called off his dog, so to speak, the shadow returning to a heel, a balloon once again tethered unto him.

Down below, on the street, in the snow, there had been much gasping and rolling about, and then the male had done as was predicted. With a sloppy hand, he had gotten out a cell phone and texted something.

And like the saviors they preferred to think of themselves as, the Brothers had come unto the fallen, confirming what Throe had suspected: Yes, there was an emergency system in place, a method by which endangered citizens could ask for and receive aid from within the species. This was important information to have, and it was going to be managed with strategy.