Page 62 of Shield of Fire

The vehicle didn’t brake, didn’t stop. It simply swept toward me, its windscreen shattered, and blood and gods only knew what else smeared over what remained.

Then, for one second, time seemed to slow, and the driver’s gaze met mine.

Ka-hal.

It was fucking Ka-hal.

The bastard had obviously followed Gannon... or had he? He’d said on that rooftop near Kaitlyn’s that it always paid to keep track of all players, especially the more dangerous ones. What if he hadn’t meant Cynwrig, as I’d presumed?

What if he’d meant me?

Him tracking me wouldn’t really explain his appearance at Kaitlyn’s, given he was there before us, but it could certainly explain his random appearance here. Maybe he was simply getting rid of anyone I talked to about the rubies before they could speak to someone more official.

But if he was tracking me, how was he doing it? Granted, white vans were a dime a dozen in this country, but surely I’d have noticed if there’d been one constantly tucked behind us. I’d been checking fairly regularly.

Then another memory rose—a needle, punching into my skin a heartbeat before teeth had ripped through my shoulder.

Fuck, had that needle injected a bio-tracker? They were a type of miniaturized internal medical scanner adapted to use the body’s natural electromagnetic field to fuel a constant, low-level but unique signal that could be tracked. While Cynwrig had said they were expensive to purchase and not often found on the open market, neither Ka-hal nor his light elf partner seemed strapped for cash or contacts.

If I had been bio-tagged, then I couldn’t afford to meet Eljin or anyone else before I got the thing removed.

Time snapped back into place, and the van accelerated toward the next corner. I dragged out my phone and managed to photograph its rear end before it disappeared completely. The image would undoubtedly be blurry, but hopefully Sgott or whoever his IIT counterpart down here was would be able to clean it up enough to get the number plate.

Although given Ka-hal had made no attempt to conceal his presence—and why was that? —I daresay the van was not only stolen but would be dumped within minutes. Still, if luck decided to play nice, they might be able to lift a careless fingerprint or two.

I shoved my phone away and ran down to Gannon. He was a crumpled mess. One arm was twisted unnaturally behind his back, and the lower part of his left leg pointed off at a weird angle to his knee. His face was so severely scraped, a chunk of beard was missing, and blood oozed from a thick cut just behind his ear.

But he was alive and breathing, and that was a miracle given the speed at which he’d been hit.

The babble of approaching voices had me glancing around. An older couple were coming out of Gannon’s apartment building.

“Call an ambulance,” I said. “He needs help fast.”

“How bad is it?” the woman asked as the man hobbled back inside.

I knelt and touched Gannon’s neck; his pulse was thin and thready, and his breathing labored but rapid. He might be conscious, but death was closing in. Her darkness swirled on the wind.

“Very bad, I’m afraid,” I replied absently. Gannon’s eyes were fluttering, and he appeared to be mumbling something. I leaned closer and still couldn’t quite catch it.

“Do you need help?” the woman said. “Are you a medic?”

I glanced up somewhat impatiently but bit back my angry retort when I saw how pale and frightened she looked. “I’m not a doctor, but even if I were, I don’t believe it would help. I think all anyone can do right now is comfort him in his dying moments.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice, and wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“Go back inside where it’s warmer,” I said gently. “There’s nothing you can do here.”

But her presence somewhat hampered what I could do.

She hesitated. “Do you need anything. A blanket, perhaps, to keep him warm, while he... you know?”

I did know. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

Once she’d moved back inside, I lightly pressed my fingers against Gannon’s neck. His pulse rate was weaker and becoming more erratic. He was running out of time. I was running out of time.

I had to do this, even if it was all sorts of wrong to force a dying man to talk.

“Gannon,” I said, gently infusing my words with pixie magic, “where is the scroll you and Loudon purchased?”

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