Page 22 of Just Dare Me
“So let me get this straight,” I say. “There’s actually two task forces?”
“Correct,” Madison answers. “Yours will be out in the field, going after the East Side horde. The other is Adrian York. He’ll be here, working on finding Necro X.”
“The witch hunt.”
“Not a witch hunt.”
“It’s literally a witch hunt!”
Adrian York strokes his beard as he says, “It’s a race, Agent Davies. Finding Necro X will lead me to Detective Brenner. For his sake, you better find him first.”
The bubbling, nervous energy in my stomach explodes, rushing up through my heart and into my head, carrying with it a surge of defiance that extends my claws, stiffens my spine, and lifts my chin. I lock eyes with Sergeant Slaughter just long enough to speak my mind with total honesty. Even if I physically can’t follow through on this threat, I still mean it with every ounce of feeling in my body. “Mister, for yourownsake, you better hope I do.”
To my astonishment, he looks pleasantly surprised. With the slightest of grins, he grunts, “Understood.”
And then, as compelled as I felt to take that stand, I feel equally compelled to spin on my heels and sprint for the door. Except that my knees are shaking. I feel woozy. The best exit I can manage is to mumble, “’Kay, bye,” and stumble out like a drunk person.
“Shayne?”
I lift my head, coming out of a daze.
Nora kicks my foot. “You still with us?”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
“What? I’m fine.”
“Were you sleeping?”
“Pffft, I wish. That’s the problem. I can’t sleep. Last two nights, I just lay there for hours.”
“Not tired?”
“Are you kidding? I’m exhausted.”
Nora looks confused, but I don’t feel like explaining all about the son-of-a-bitch that is insomnia. Anyone who’s never had it wouldn’t understand anyway.
We’re sitting in lawn chairs around the tailgate of Hillerman’s truck, a brand new extended-cab with tool cabinets built into the bed. All filled with guns, ammo, and tactical gear, of course. An FBI-issued mobile fortress.
Which we’re using as a mobile kitchen. Russo has a whole buffet laid out on the tailgate—potato chips, chicken wings, mac-and-cheese, hot dogs. He flips burgers on a little grill. The smell is mouthwatering, but I’m too wiped out to get up and make a plate. I wish I could be like Muppet right now. He lays at Russo’s feet, tail wagging, and waits for him to “accidentally” drop hot dogs on the ground.
The Columbia parking lot is crowded with tailgate parties, despite the late hour. The game started two hours ago, when the sun went down. We can hear the roar of the crowd coming from inside the stadium across the street. That sound used to fill me with joy; now it only makes me depressed.
“Shayne?”
“What?”
Nora gives me a puzzled look. “I said, what do you think about that?”
“About what?”
Nora shares a look with Hillerman, who turns her dark sunglasses on me. “Adrian York. It’s possible he’s not on our side.”
“That’s safe to assume these days, since we’ve got more sides thanGame of Thrones. East Side, West Side, Washington, Cleveland, Windsor. Which side are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Washington and East Side being one and the same, whether they know it or not.”
