Page 33 of The Hive Queen

While his partner crawls around inside Johannsson’s car, I turn to Sharpe. “Don’t worry, Amalia had a reason for being here. She’ll turn up, and we’ll get that report from her.”

His displeasure lands on me. “Is there any hope that you’ll bring her in? Or at least that you’ll call me when she pops up?”

“I’ll try.” My words lack confidence, and by the way Sharpe’s frown deepens, he hears it loud and clear.

“It’s not a trust issue. At least not on our side.” Flint clasps his shoulder. “Amalia’s a lone wolf, and organized anything makes her twitchy.”

“You’re an organization,” he points out. “What makes you the exception?”

Flint’s lips thin, and he shakes his head.

When we first met Amalia, we’d pulled her out of a bad place, earning her limited trust. But blabbing her secrets will guarantee she never trusts us again.

“It’s not our story to tell.” I give Sharpe an apologetic shrug. “Think of her as our criminal informant.”

“Why does it sound like there’s a heavy emphasis on the criminal part?” Sharpe waves his comment away. “Just keep me informed.”

When he doesn’t push for more promises, my shoulders relax. “We will.”

Johannsson stomps back to us, the camera in his hand. “Damn thing has wireless backup, so the Clearhelm Police Department will still have the footage, but we have a copy, too. I really don’t miss working with those assholes.”

“Me, neither,” Sharpe mutters so low that I doubt Johannsson heard. He extends a hand toward the detective. “I’ll take that and see what all they were monitoring.”

Johannsson hands over the camera and turns toward Mayn. “Are you picking anything up with your super sniffer?”

Mayn backs out of the car and shakes her head. “It’s peculiar. I’ve never met a prey I couldn’t track.”

Flint nudges her with his elbow. “That just makes it more of a challenge.”

A considering look crosses her face, and she dips her chin in agreement. “A most worthy foe.”

“You’re doing great holding down the fort, Johannsson.” At Sharpe’s praise, the other man straightens, his shoulders pulling back. “When O’Hara arrives, fill him in and have him take over, then go home and get some rest.”

Johannsson smooths a hand over his wrinkled shirt, sans the stained tie he wore when we first showed up. “I appreciate it, sir. Twenty-four-hour shifts are for the young. I need my beauty sleep.”

Flint shakes his head. “Not enough sleep in the world for that.”

That earns him a glare from Johannsson, but the hard stare Sharpe gives both men cuts off any further banter.

I grab the back of Flint’s vest. “Come on, pretty boy. You better pray to the bacon gods that Hoppers received a delivery since last night.”

Flint pales and checks his watch. “It’s still a bit early. What time do you think their food supply person arrives? Maybe we should drive really, really slowly.”

I dip a hand into his pocket and pull out the keys to our car. “How about instead of that, you pray really, really hard?”

With a groan, he heads toward our parked car, while Sharpe and Mayn walk to their separate cars.

As I move to join Flint, the skin between my shoulder blades prickles with the feel of eyes on me.

I peer back over my shoulder at Bailey’s men, but they’re not the source of danger I suddenly sense.

I glance up and down the street, dawn painting strange shadows that won’t be visible in a few more minutes.

Nothing stands out, but the sensation of hostile eyes follows me to the car, where I slide behind the wheel and drive us away from the crime scene.

* * *

When we arrive at Hoppers, the restaurant is busier than normal.

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