She lunged forward, diving under the mattress—
In some kind of Matrix-like time bend, the man somehow managed to cross the entire room in the blink of an eye: Just as she felt the cool barrel under her hand, a rough grip locked on the back of her head, right where she’d been hurt, the pain blinding her and rendering her limp and paralyzed.
As her vision went checkerboard, she had a split second’s clear sight of the nine millimeter.
Rio cursed as he pulled her up by the hair, grabbed her around the throat, and hauled her bodily off the bed until her feet dangled. Slamming her against the wall, he put his face directly into hers and smiled like a demon.
Fangs. He had fangs.
Or rather, they looked like fangs.
“Fucking Lucan,” he snapped while she began to choke and claw at his hold. “He’s complicating shit he needs to leave well enough alone. So I’m going to take care of you for him—”
“Stop.”
The word was spoken so softly, Rio could barely hear it above the ringing in her ears. But the man who was aggressing on her, with those canine-like teeth, whipped his head in the direction of the draped patient bed.
“Let her . . . go.”
The voice was so weak, yet its effect was like that of a shotgun to the man’s temple. As those hostile eyes seemed to pierce the fragile barrier strung from the ceiling, his whole body went as immobile as hers felt.
“Now.”
Her manhandler cursed. And then he—
“Gently.” There was a pause. “No matter her origins, she is a patient, as I am.”
Rio’s feet touched down toes first. Then the balls and arches made contact with the floor, and finally, her soles. After that, the man with all the teeth took her arm and settled her back down on the bed—and he didn’t let go until she could hold herself up while she gasped for air.
When she was steady, he turned away and went over to the curtains, pulling a flap aside and disappearing into the interior.
Even though she was still getting her breath back, Rio snapped into action, falling to the floor and grabbing the gun under the bed. Her hands were shaking—until she saw how much the weapon was moving back and forth.
A quick shot of self-preservation stilled things. Calmed her down. Cleared the panic from her head.
With a tingling adrenaline rush, she rose to her feet, braced and ready to bolt.
Nothing but murmuring now, from that hidden bed: Two voices, deep and low . . . were having an argument, like the one who’d gone Pop-eye on her was getting reprimanded.
“What the hell,” she muttered.
The boots she’d had on were right next to her on the floor, and she put them on one-handed, keeping the butt of the gun in her palm. As she futzed with the laces, she kept checking the curtain over and over again, bobbing her now-throbbing head up and down.
If one more fricking person hit her in the back of the skull, she was going to lose it.
Probably literally. When her brains leaked out of her goddamn ears.
Back on her feet, she focused on the makeshift clinic’s door. It didn’t matter that she had no clue where she was. A nine millimeter was a helluva map, wasn’t it—and she didn’t want to wait for Luke to come back. He was a complicating factor when he just couldn’t be.
As always, she had to do her best to balance getting information with getting herself hurt or killed, and the instability in this environment was obvious. Even though she wanted to fully explore, she was going to have to gather what she could on the way out. Ending up in a grave was not the way to bring Mozart and these suppliers to justice.
Glancing down at the bed, she remembered the kiss she had had with Luke.
No goodbye.
And the next time she saw him, it might well be after she got him arrested.
Why the hell, after all these years of not being particularly interested in sex, did she have to be so attracted to someone like him? She’d been doing just fine living like a monk.
At least she could go right back to the celibacy. Not a problem. Especially after what had happened on the floor of that apartment.
Rio started to move toward the door, tiptoeing in her boots, trying not to put her full weight into her feet—what, like she could command gravity or something?
No squeaking, she thought at the floor beneath her feet. No creaking—
Oh, it was concrete. Right.
As she went by the empty beds, she counted them down. And as she came up to the drapery—
There was a choked sound of pain from inside the sheets.
Rio stopped. The two men were still talking softly—there was another groan, now, as if someone who hurt all over was attempting to find a better position. And failing.
Go, she told herself. Get the fuck out. Right now.
When she realized that her feet had stopped, she looked to the door, as if she could refocus their effort. Or will the exit to come to her.
After a moment, they did start moving again.
Not toward the way out, though.
In front of the Executioner and his wall of Rorschach tests, Lucan dropped down onto his haunches. Around the throat of the dead wolf was a steel collar, but not the kind that came with the tracking or the explosion-upon-removal stuff. Releasing the buckle on the generic restraint, he took the thing off and eased back.