"Yes.'" It came out little more than a hiss of pain.
"Then tell me why you killed that woman." It was a horrid thing to do, but I needed at least one answer.
His gaze flayed me with his pain, and I briefly closed my eyes against it.
"Directorate too close," he gasped. "Chopping off limbs… to save head."
I didn't bother asking him to name the head. He was only a weapon, and a dispensable one at that. Instead, I rose and stepped away from his melting, steaming body. His gaze met mine, the gray depths pleading. I answered that plea and pulled the trigger.
His brains splattered, ending sensation. Yet still his body continued to disintegrate, until there was nothing left but scorched grass, damp earth, and the memories that would haunt my nights for months to come.
I grabbed the backpack, wrapped the shadows around me, and walked away before I lost total control over my stomach.
But perhaps the thing that revolted me most was not the stranger's death, but the ease with which I'd pulled the trigger. It was in me to kill—I'd proven that at Genoveve two months ago. Not that I'd actually thought much about the ease with which I'd used that laser. Maybe because it was simply a matter of me or them. This situation was a whole lot different. Even though I'd killed in mercy, I'd still pulled that trigger without qualms, and without hesitation. And more than that, I'd watched it.
The instinct to kill was a base part of every wolf, but one long controlled by the rules of civilization. With Rhoan and I, those controls seemed to have slipped. Rhoan had acknowledged it long ago, and channeled his desires into guardian duties. I'd ignored it.
But maybe not for much longer.
Or was I making mountains out of molehills again? Rhoan would probably say yes, I was, but I wasn't so sure. The sick sensation that I'd unleashed something two months ago that couldn't be retrieved would not go away.
I shivered, and thrust the thoughts away. Killing for the sake of mercy was completely different to killing because I was ordered to do so.
I had to believe that. I really did.
Blowing out a breath, I stopped, broke down the rifle and shoved the bits in the pack. Throwing it back over my shoulder, I looked around, searching for the nearest phone. I'd left mine in the car, and while it would only take me a few minutes to run back there, I needed to call Jack fast and warn him that the man behind all this was killing—
I stopped abruptly.
He was killing the main limbs of his organization in order to protect himself.
Misha was one of those limbs.
If I didn't get to him before they did, our last chance of discovering the name of the leader was gone. As dead as that woman in the restaurant. As dead as the man who had shot her.
I got my clothes then ran on to the car with every ounce of speed I possessed. Unlocking the door and grabbing the phone seemed to take forever, as did dialing Misha's number and waiting for a response. All I got was a recorded message.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I slammed the door shut, started the car, and threw the gears into drive. After planting my foot on the accelerator and taking off with a squeal of tires that undoubtedly had the nearby cops scrambling to note my plate number, I thumbed Rhoan's number into the phone, and hit the call button. His phone was engaged. I swore softly, and sent him a text message instead. Hopefully, he'd look at it before it was too late. Jack's number got the same response. I sent him a message, telling him what I was doing and why, then threw the phone onto the passenger seat and concentrated on driving.
It took me twenty minutes to get to Lygon Street, and to say I broke the land-speed record would be something of an understatement. I stopped in a loading zone, grabbed the backpack and my phone, then ran toward the Rocker.
The security guard glanced my way as I neared, one bushy brow raised in query. "You seem to be in an awful hurry."
I slid to a halt. "I need to find Misha Rollins. Is he inside, by any chance?"
"I've only just come on shift, so I can't—"
"Thanks," I cut in, then pushed past. The main bar wasn't full, though quite a few people were waiting for drinks. Misha wasn't one of them. Swearing softly, I pressed his number into the phone again as I made my way toward the back stairs.
Misha answered as I reached the top. "Riley," he said, voice filled with cold amusement rather than passion. He wasn't here, then. Or at least, not in the process of mating. "This is a pleasant surprise."
"Where are you?" I stopped on the top of the stairs and scanned the shadow-filled room. There were a good twenty wolves up here, but Misha wasn't amongst them.
"My, you sound awfully anxious—"
"Cut the crap, Misha. Your life is in danger. Where the hell are you?"
"At work." His voice was flat. "Why do you think my life is in danger?"
"What does Nasia Whitby look like?" I countered. "And is she one of the Helkis who can take male and female shape?"
"You have been busy."
I headed back down the stairs. "Just answer the goddamn question."
"She's tall, dark-haired." He paused. "I guess you can say she's very masculine to look at."
"Roman nose? Gold nose ring?"
"Yes. Why?"
Now out on the street, I glanced left and right then ran across the road to my car. "Because Nasia Whitby has just been assassinated in a St. Kilda restaurant."
There was a long silence, then he said, very softly, "Fuck."
"Precisely. I caught the killer—he was a black thing with suckered fingers."
"Spirit lizards, he calls them. The creature would have killed himself."
"He was disintegrating, but I offered him a quick death in exchange for the reason Nasia was killed. Your master is apparently chopping off the limbs to save the head."
"Then he knows the Directorate is closing in."
"But why kill everyone?"
"You don't yet know the location of the other lab. The only people who do know are myself, Nasia, and Rupert."
"Rupert being the man who played Mrs. Hunt?" The man Quinn was currently questioning? "And the man I'd known briefly as Benito Verdi?"
"Yes."
I glanced in the side mirror, then drove out of the parking space and did a quick U-turn in front of the oncoming traffic. Ignoring the ensuing blast of horns, I planted my foot on the accelerator and headed for the city.
"How come you're saying his name now, and not before?"
"My office is psi-shielded, and as an extra precaution, I'm also wearing a psi-shield. He can't get to me here."
"He can still shoot you. Keep away from the fucking windows."
"Riley—you care."
"Of course I care—you're my only source of information."
He chuckled softly. "You're on your way here?"
"Yes."
"I shall tell security to let you in."
"You'd better tell them to be extra vigilant. He's coming after you, Misha."
"I'm safe in this fortress."
"I'm sure there's many a dead man who thought the same."
"They probably didn't have the security layout I have."
But the man in charge probably knew the layout—after all, he apparently had free access to Misha's mind.
"I'll be there in five."
I hung up, then sent Jack another message, asking him to get people to Misha's office building as soon as he could, then concentrated on not crashing the car as I wove in and out of traffic. Misha's office building was at the Paris end of Collins Street. It was one of those gorgeous old buildings that was almost cathedrallike in design, the windows and doors soaring, archlike structures that allowed plenty of light but offered absolutely no protection when it came to bullets. At least modern buildings used plasti-glass, which, while designed primarily to withstand the onslaught of severe storms and flying debris, could also take the force of two gunshots before it shattered. Two shots gave targets time to run or hide.