Born in Blood (The Sentinels #1)(108)

It was only as they left the monastery and climbed into the waiting Hummer that he at last spoke.

“How are you going to contact the Brotherhood?” he asked, driving out of the garage and onto the nearby path. “Any personal info they gave will be bogus.”

“No shit,” Duncan snorted. He was a trained cop. He didn’t need help smelling bullshit.

“Then how?”

“It bothered me that Hektor asked for me when he came to the station,” he said.

“Why?”

Duncan shrugged, pointing for Fane to turn onto the road that led to the nearest interstate.

“No one in the public should have known the coin was missing, let alone that I was looking for it”

Fane arched a brow. “True.”

“So there was either a leak at Valhalla—”

“No way,” the Sentinel snapped.

“Or the police station.” Duncan ignored the interruption. “Or, more likely, from the one civilian I asked to identify the vessel that held the coin.”

Fane hissed out a breath. “Where is he?”

Duncan leaned forward to punch the directions into the GPS. “Drive fast.”

The words had barely left his lips when Fane had stomped on the gas pedal and they were hurtling along the road at a teeth-rattling speed.

Holy hell.

Duncan hastily buckled his seat belt, tucking the chalice into the glove compartment so he could brace himself.

Inwardly he made a mental note never to tell a Sentinel to drive fast unless he was prepared to risk his life, and the lives of every citizen in Kansas City.

Thankfully the late hour meant there was little traffic and they managed to reach the south side of town without ramming cars off the road or taking out a hapless pedestrian.

Screeching to a halt in front of the steel and glass building, Fane had barely put the vehicle in park when Duncan was jumping out and heading to the back alley.

Girard lived in a small apartment at the rear of the art gallery. Not surprising. When you stored illegal art that could be worth over a million dollars in your basement, you wanted to keep a personal eye on it.

Lifting his arm, Duncan slammed his fist against the heavy door, bellowing at the top of his lungs. “Girard.”

There was a long pause before the door was at last cracked open, and a bleary eyed Girard peered into the alley.

“You had better be a f**king naked woman or I’ll—”

His words were bit off as Duncan leaned forward. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“O’Conner?” The con man frowned, his peppered gray hair tousled around his face and his slender body covered by a terry cloth robe. “Do you know what time it is?”

In answer, Duncan shoved the door wider, stepping into the narrow foyer and flipping on the overhead light.

“We need to talk and you can skip the faux French accent,” he warned.

Girard stumbled backward, tugging at the belt of his robe as he glared at Duncan. He didn’t even bother trying to summon his image of a sophisticated art dealer.

Why bother? It was four in the morning and they both knew he’d started as a common street thug.

“This is private property, you know,” he groused. “Unless you have a warrant you can get your ass out of here.”

Duncan jerked his thumb toward the silent Sentinel standing at his side. “This is my warrant.”

Anger tightened Girard’s narrow face, but he wasn’t stupid enough to argue.

“If you’re here about the vessel—”

“That’s exactly why I’m here,” Duncan interrupted. He wasn’t going to play games. Not tonight. “I need to contact the Brotherhood.”

“Brotherhood?” Girard gave a faux frown, his hand lifting to covertly tug the edge of his robe higher on his neck. “Is that some sort of code?”

“Shit.”

Duncan lunged forward, ripping aside the robe to reveal the arrow-shaped tattoo the man had been trying to hide. He’d never spotted it before because Girard always wore a collared shirt and tie.

Fane frowned in confusion. “What?”

“Hektor had that same tattoo on his neck,” Duncan said.

Without warning the Sentinel had reached out, grabbed Girard by the throat and lifted him three inches off the ground.

“We don’t have time to screw around, so let me make this simple,” Fane growled, squeezing until the man’s eyes bulged. “Tell me how to contact the Brotherhood or I’ll snap your neck.”

Duncan had to give Girard credit. Despite the sweat dripping down his face, he tried to protect his brothers.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Duncan grabbed his chin, hoping that honesty would loosen his tongue. They didn’t have time for Fane to beat it out of him.

“The pathway to the underworld was opened.”

Girard stopped struggling against Fane’s iron grip, a genuine fear flashing through his eyes.

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

The man licked his lips. “It’s too late.”

“No,” Duncan snapped. “The necromancer is dead and we have the chalice. We need the Brotherhood to perform the ceremony.”

Girard visibly weighed his options. If he revealed the location of the secret society and discovered Duncan had been lying, he would be toast.