Hunter, Healer [Sequel to The Society]

by Lilith Saintcrow

  "Clairol for Psions.” Cath grinned, the tension breaking and peeling away. “Only for you, I'd pick a nice deep purple. Or mahogany, seeing as how you're such a straight-arrow."

  Rowan heaved a mental sigh of relief. If Cath got nervous in a casino, they would have a harder time doing this.

  "My reputation precedeth me.” One final check of the parking lot. Ranks of cars gleamed under the assault of sun and dust, their dashboards almost visibly popping with heat. The glare of light refracting off windshield glass left a green-gold veil over Rowan's eyes as she blinked and looked back into the suddenly-dim cave of the room. “Looks clear. And I don't feel like I'm going to throw up, so we're probably clean."

  "We look clean, cute, and harmless. Curse of my life. Got your game face on?"

  "Absolutely. Wish us luck.” With the pre-job jitters we're getting, it will be a miracle if we pull this off. And my neck is prickling again. I think we're going to have some trouble. Please, God, let there be no trouble, what do you say?

  Cath gave her a thumb's up and a wide smile, seeming to shake nervousness aside like a dog shakes off water. “Luck. Let's hope we don't need it."

  Chapter Twelve

  Delgado found the pay phone, fed in quarters and dialed. No answer. Tried another number. It was only a vanishing possibility, but one he had to explore.

  The truck stop lay under a coat of thick dust and evening blur. The Taurus he'd paid cash for in Flagstaff—a necessary indulgence—hunched tired and green under a street lamp. Its paint job was suffering, but the engine was good, and the little tingle in Del's hands told him it would go until its heart gave out.

  Kind of like him. He'd always liked mechanical things. They were far less messy and judgmental than people.

  And then, miracle of miracles, the phone was picked up. No sound, not even breathing.

  "Delgado,” he said. “Code in alpha-zulu-henry-bravo, 31142."

  "Jesus Christ!"

  He recognized the voice. Wanted to smile, dispelled the urge. “Hey, Yosh. How are you?"

  A click, while Yoshi scanned for traces. Del could almost see the slim man's fingers tapping over a computer keyboard, his face bathed in monitor glow. “I thought you'd call in. Rowan swore you were alive."

  His heart gave one shattering leap and started pounding hard enough to burst. He leaned against the side of the phone booth, blinking the omnipresent dust out of his eyes. “Did she? Good girl. Takes more than Sigma to keep me down.” His arm burned, reminding him he would need more Zed soon. The back of his throat was slick and dry. “Thought you'd like to know they're bringing in Carson to hunt my girl. I'm tracking right now, going to do all I can to throw him off."

  "Ah.” Another click. “The line's clean."

  Good boy. Yoshi wasn't committing to anything. He had no way of knowing if Del was talking with a gun to his head, or looped out on Zed and going to report every bit of information to Sigma handlers.

  But the mistrust still hurt a little, even though it was what Del would have done himself. “Of course it's clean. I've slipped the leash again. If they catch me they'll kill me for sure, not just hook me on Zed and give me some love taps."

  "SOP says for you to come in from the cold, operative."

  Delgado swallowed. He needed food and rest. He would only get dinner. He was too far behind Rowan for resting. “This isn't standard. I'm looking for Rowan. Care to give me a hint?” You can't. Tell me you can't.

  "You know I can't."

  "Come on, Yoshi. I'm calling in on a clean line and obviously myself. Just give me a goddamn clue. A name, a sign, anything. Please tell me she's not on a fucking run.” His voice cracked.

  There was another click. Then another familiar voice, crackling with impatience. “Del, where the hell are you?"

  "Fifty miles out of Vegas, General.” It was closer to fifteen, but old habit made him mislead. “Tell me you didn't send my girl in there."

  "You're supposed to come in the approved way. If you do, you can see Rowan, Del. That's the only offer you're going to get.” Harsh, but with an undertone of something else—Henderson was trying to tell him something. Or at least Del hoped he was.

  Come on, old man, I'm tired and blunt, give me a little something here, anything? “You think I'd do anything to endanger her?"

  "I'm going by protocols you yourself laid down, operative. Come in. That whole sector's crawling with Sigs."

  Aha. Very tricky, old man. And very nicely put. “There're three blind mice on her trail, General. I'm not coming in unless it's with her.” You sent her on a fucking run. Dammit. Fresh on the heels of that thought came a wave of almost-panic. The situation must be incredibly bad. Tell me you gave her Brew as backup. Tell me you've sent her in with a full team. Goddammit, General, talk to me!

  He knew the old man couldn't. Couldn't take the chance, couldn't trust Del's voice on the phone. He wouldn't have trusted Henderson if the situations were reversed, especially not with Rowan's safety on the line. “Let us bring you in, Del. Nice and easy. We can bring you in and you can see Rowan's pretty face again. She's been missing you."

  That bit of information made his heart pound even harder. Even if it wasn't true, he still wanted to believe it. “Likewise,” he managed. “Just so you know, I'm tracking her. I'll come in when she does. Warn her to be on her toes.” Carson's after her. Carson and that goddamn Japanese psycho. And Andrews as well, but now Andrews has a big hard-on for me, too.

  "You're wasting your time, Del. Come in."

  "See you soon.” He laid the phone back in the cradle and listened as the box clicked with his change. Night was cold out here, under the hard jewels of the desert stars. Las Vegas was a volcano of light in the near distance, especially the sword of the Luxor's spotlight.

  Delgado rested his head against the chill glass of the phone box, keeping the door open with one foot. The smell of sagebrush and diesel, plus heat simmering away from cooling pavement, rose to touch his cheeks. He was running on nerves and instinct, rubbed raw by the aftereffects of the push and the Zed addiction. He only had one hypo left. He needed food, some kind of ballast. He suspected he'd pulled a mental muscle or two by using the push on himself.

  Didn't matter. What mattered was finding Rowan and watching over her until she could bring him back into the Society.

  He found himself hyperventilating. Bad, the first stage of withdrawal. He wasn't going to last much longer.

  Not without her. Making himself forget had served one other purpose: Sigma was unaware of Rowan's ability to nullify Zed addictions. Maybe Jilssen hadn't known either. Del had certainly done his best to keep it quiet. If they'd known, he would never have escaped them.

  And something about his escape bothered him too. It had been too uncharacteristically easy.

  Don't start getting paranoid now. Focus on what matters.

  What mattered right now was getting something to eat, and then driving into Vegas proper to take a look around. He'd need to figure out which casino they were most likely to hit, see if his luck and his instinct held.

  Or maybe he was just chasing his own tail?

  No. He knew, a clear, deep, undeniable knowledge that settled in his gut and twisted, hard. She was probably asleep in a hotel room right now, with whatever backup Henderson had managed to send with her. Please, not Cath. The goddamn punk girl will get them both killed. He stepped out of the phone booth.

  First things first. Some stick-to-your-ribs road grease, and then he'd be on his way. Thank God truck stops were mostly cheap. He would have to replenish his cash posthaste. Impossible to hide without money.

  Just stay safe, angel, he thought, trying not to remember her face. It was impossible. Now that he did remember, there was precious little else he could think about. Just stay safe until I can get to you. I'm on my way.

  * * * *

  It was nice to be back in the city again. He worked best in an urban setting. There wasn't much room to hide in small towns or out in the vast stretches o
f wasteland that were America's heart. Mom and Pop and apple pie, and Sigma working behind the scenes to scoop up every psion that wasn't nailed down. Wipe ‘em with Zed and put them to work for the American dream. Nobody was even sure what war they were fighting now, since the Russians had started cannibalizing themselves.

  It made his mouth sour just to think about it.

  Morning dawned bright and clear, but he didn't think she'd be out that early. There was no crowd cover. It was afternoon when he drove the Strip, obeying every traffic law. Two things became immediately apparent: he was feeling better and better about this every time he saw the Luxor, and Sigma was in town.

  Please don't tell me Rowan's hitting the place that looks like a giant pyramid. The security in there is too good. Stick with the smaller ones, what do you say? Except the smaller ones will get sticky over the type of payoff we're talking about. Or are you doing the horses, angel? With your precog it won't be hard to pick a winner or two.

  No, that felt wrong. It was the casinos, and in particular, it was the one that looked like Ramses had thrown a despotic fit in the desert again. Great.

  He almost didn't spot the three black vans tucked into alleys at even intervals down the Strip, almost didn't catch the crackle of psychic electricity coming from some of the strolling tourists. Most of them were free ops like Andrews. They wouldn't bring in the brainwiped until they had a lock on her and wanted the heavy guns.

  He left the car in an underground parking lot and decided to penetrate on foot. It was problematic. If the Sigs were around, they might need a fast getaway. He couldn't afford to have them recognize him first-off by driving right into their critical zone.

  It was too warm, and he was in T-shirt, jeans, rig, and boots, not to mention the loose leather jacket. He would simmer in his own sweat before long.

  He wandered with the flow of the crowds on the hot pavement, tourists coming to see the big pile of neon and broken dreams. You don't belong in this town, angel.

  She belonged in some Ivy League, ivy-covered northeast village, one where the houses were old and there were bookstores on every corner. He remembered her coming home with bags of books and stacking them in his room, rescuing plants and nursing them back to health. Remembered her house, quiet and trim and neat before Sigma destroyed it with bullets and tear gas. Remembered watching her while she slept, a book dropped onto her chest and her face quiet and serene in the wash of winter sunlight coming through his window.

  That had been the best winter of his life, squiring her around Headquarters, watching her learn to use her talent. Thank God he had pushed himself to forget. If they had caught her ... He almost shuddered just thinking about it, controlled the movement. He didn't want any passersby to register him.

  The pyramid towered above him, and he caught the flow of people pressing in through the front door. Cavernous lobby done in tawny colors, touches of royal blue, palm trees in pots, and the smell of air-conditioning. Welcome coolness flooded him, made him more aware of how the Zed tracks on his arm were itching. He would start to twitch before long, withdrawal torturing his nervous system, begging him to jack out.

  Slot machines whizzed and burped electronically. The mood of the place—savage and desperate, with a thin veneer of fun—washed over his raw psyche. He needed that last hypo of Zed, but he couldn't afford to use it now. He needed to get a zero on a pale head of hair, a slim, small, graceful woman with wide green eyes. What if Henderson had made her dye her hair for camouflage? It would be the smart move, but Del's heart hurt to think of that long pale mane altered. Hurt to think of it cut short, although he would still be able to run his fingers through the silky mass of it and—

  Wrong thing to think. He'd end up distracting himself. He drifted to the buffet and saw nothing but hungry tourists and gamblers. The vast open space above him—each floor with its own balcony looking down into the well of the pyramid—pressed down, cavernous and cool with air-conditioning. He smelled cigarette smoke, sweat, heat, perfume, carpeting, and reheated coffee.

  He worked his way into the pit, ignoring the décor. It meant nothing except for possible cover and escape routes. He brushed past a heavyset woman with her arm around her teenage daughter. The daughter, wearing a tight pink Freezewire T-shirt, rolled her eyes. “It's Vegas, Mom. Live a little, will you?"

  Goddammit. He ducked into the bar, ordered a double Scotch to calm his nerves and tipped the bartender. He bolted the alcohol. It would dull him a little, but that was to the good since his nerves were starting to burn from Zed and crackle with...

  What was that? Felt like a lightning storm coming, little bits of electricity dazzling over his skin. Electric honey, a sensation he remembered.

  It felt like Rowan.

  Goddamn. He ordered another Scotch, downed it as fast as he could and left the bar, plunging into the crowd and working his way to the pit. They had chosen a good time to come out. Everyone was looking for a giveaway at the buffet and a few minutes of gambling. She was here; he'd bet his life on it.

  He was betting his life on it. Because not only was he almost out of Zed, but he had the sneaking feeling Sigma would close in on this place too, unless she was very, very careful.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rowan stood next to Cath's chair, her arms crossed, playing the disapproving best friend. “You're going to waste it,” she said, loud enough for the man fiddling in the back to hear. They'd been taken to this plush, soulless private office on the fifth floor to cash out the chips—and probably so Security could get a good eyeful of them. It wasn't every day two women walked in off the street and won two hundred thousand dollars at the roulette table after winning in another casino, too. They had cleaned up just under a hundred thou at the Venetian and made it out safely.

  But hey, this was Vegas. The house always won, and if the women weren't on blacklists or doing anything illegal they would be encouraged to blow their gambling gains on more gambling or the high-roller nonsense. If not, the casino would make it back within minutes with other poor suckers. Someone had to win, even if the house always got you in the end.

  It was, Rowan reflected, the perfect scam.

  The identities Yoshi had crafted were holding up, and due to Rowan's deft mental pressure they were about to take a duffel bag of cash instead of a cashier's check up to a “courtesy” suite. If all went well, in half an hour Cath and Rowan could be out of here, with enough of a stake to clean up nicely at the races tomorrow, and head home with a cool quad of hundred thousands to keep the Society going until Henderson could get more legitimate funding up and running

  So close. So why did Rowan's head suddenly start to hurt, like little crystal needles driving into her temples? Was it the strain of keeping the shield of illusion tight and seamless so none of the people looking at her noticed she was wearing a gun?

  No, that's pretty easy. Nobody expects to see a mousy brunette with a sidearm in a casino. It goes against expectations. Their eyes want to be fooled, even this man's. I shouldn't be feeling like this.

  But she was.

  "I am not going to waste it.” Cath played the whiny winner so perfectly Rowan was hard put not to laugh. She also did a dead-on nasal Eastern seaboard twang, something Rowan had no idea she could do. “I just don't see why I should cash out if I'm on a winning streak."

  "Trust me,” Rowan said dryly. “Haven't I been right about everything else?"

  "Shut up.” Cath shot her a murderous look, blue-violet eyes flashing, and the urge to giggle rose again.

  The man came out with the bag. “We'll count it in front of you,” he said pleasantly. He was one of the casino's security officers, a nice heavyset man with a sharp Armani suit and a diamond stud winking in his left ear. He'd smoked a full bowl of pot this morning. Rowan could smell it on him, though it wasn't a smell any deadhead would notice. It was more like a psychic color, the mellowness of the depressant closing him off to her random brushes against his mind. She actually had to work to press him into doing what she
wanted. It was an unexpected relief, even if it meant more effort. Her head was really starting to pound.

  "Anyway,” Rowan remembered her part with a small mental struggle, “I doubt you'll do anything smart with it, like put it into investments. Sure, you can count it. Though I'm sure it's all there.” She restrained the urge to bat her eyelashes at him, and the man preened. He must have been used to women flirting with him. His job handled a lot of things gold-diggers would be interested in.

  He actually blushed a little, setting the bag on his desk. “Well, it's policy. There will be a lot of people wanting to shake your hand, Miss Ernhardt. Luck makes you a lot of friends out here in Vegas. Where did you say you were from?"

  It was the second time he'd asked that. Trying to trip them up? Suspicious? Or just making conversation and forgetting what he'd already asked?

  Cath rose to the occasion, her eyes twinkling with what anyone else would have called flirtatiousness but Rowan recognized as sarcastic glee. “Rhode Island. But they don't have anything like this out there. My husband's going to freak.” She looked too young to have a husband, but that wasn't anybody's business.

  Not here in Vegas.

  Rowan was about to give her next line, a comment about the husband, when a familiar touch blazed through her mind like a star, its contact sliding against every nerve in her body. Training took over and clamped down on her reaction. She didn't stumble or sway. Yet Cath glanced at her nervously, her eyes suspiciously wide and her lips parting. If the man behind the desk had been even the slightest bit sensitive, he would have caught her unease.

  Lucky for us we get a casino employee with a head made of brick and dulled with marijuana. It was a snide thought, there and gone in a flash, a thought Rowan wouldn't have recognized before as her own. She'd grown sarcastic, it seemed. Then again, being chased down and hunted like an animal would make even Pollyanna a cynic.

  Rowan juggled the touch, trying to remember what she was supposed to say. “Sandy's a nice man,” she heard herself say frostily, the words coming out of nowhere. That's right. I'm supposed to be her sister-in-law. “He'll be very happy. Might even want to build a rec room onto the house."