Domi kicked the mound of flesh again and again, grinning in triumph, tears shining on her cheeks. “Got this lizard-dick,” she chanted. “He is big-time chilled!”
Swiping at the blood on his face with sleeve, Grant climbed unsteadily to his feet. “Enough, Domi. You chilled him. Big-time.”
She stopped kicking, and let the carmined blade dangle from her small fist. When Teague’s legs trembled briefly in a postmortem spasm, she whipped up the knife. “I do it again,” she cried.
Then she threw herself against Grant, pressing her face to his chest, heedless of the blood. Her slim frame quivered. Automatically he held the girl, cradling her bandaged head. He felt very weary.
The warehouse now reeked with the coppery stench of fresh blood, cordite and body wastes. It looked and smelled like a slaughterhouse. The smells and sights were familiar, but this time something deep inside of him recoiled in utter revulsion.
“I suppose you expect me to thank you,” he muttered.
“Yes,” she said in a quavery whisper.
“I guess there’s a first for everything, outlander girl. I thank you.”
With a faraway shock, he realized that he didn’t know what to do next, and that was quite a novelty for him. When he heard the faint voice from the transceiver on his lapel, he felt almost absurdly grateful. Kane would no doubt have a list of suggestions, even if most of them made no damn sense. Even refuting them would be a relief at this point.
Domi lifted her head, blinking in puzzlement at the transceiver button. Her face had been pressed against it, muffling the sound. Grant gently pushed her away and drew the pin mike up to his lips. “I’m here.”
“Good,” said the cold voice. “Stay there until we come for you.” And Salvo cut off the transmission.
Chapter Twenty-One
Brigid paced her cell, her mind busy battling with her emotions. She knew it was nearing 0800, and she could no longer submit to the relaxation techniques. There was nothing she could do but waitfor the eighth hour. Even with what was ahead of her, she couldn’t keep the thought of Kane out of her head.
You’ll never see him again. He has a new set of priorities now, and you don’t even qualify as a footnote.
She played around with those thoughts, juggling possibilities and examining them from every angle. Either he had been arrested and was awaiting trial, or once he had successfully ensnared her, he had moved on to another assignment.
She was startled as the lock mechanism of the door double-clicked, and the door swung open. A Magistrate in full armor stood there, frowning beneath his red-tinted visor. Behind him, Brigid saw another pair of armored Mags.
The man tossed her a threadbare, faded yellow bodysuit. “Put it on.”
She did so, trying not to think of all the condemned prisoners who may have worn it in the past. Boot socks were attached to the legs of the shapeless garment, and she adjusted the Velcro tabs until they fit her feet snugly.
After zipping the suit up, she permitted herself to be led away, flanked by the two Mag guards. Brigid expected to be marched down the chill, sterile corridor to some sort of courtroom. Instead, she was escorted only a dozen yards down the hall and put into a chamber not much larger than her cell.
At least this room had a piece of furniture, a high-backed sturdy wooden chair with the legs bolted to the floor. The chair faced a small monitor screen. It shimmered a dull gold. Brigid sat down before it, bracing herself against the fear, the devastating hopelessness of the situation.
On the screen, a vague, misty outline took shape, like the head and shoulders of a man hidden behind veils of chiffon and backlit by golden sunlamps. The Mag shut the door behind her. None would see or hear what went on within the chamber; none would ever know the testimony she gaveexcept Baron Cobalt.
Brigid stiffened, cold sweat springing in icy drops at her hairline. She shuddered to the depths of her soul. Part of her mind knew that maintaining the baron’s mystique was contrived, an intimidation strategy, an old psychological gambit. It was theater, it was hokum, it was a sham.