“Your mother seems confident,” he said.
“Do you know what a Light Fifty is?” I asked.
“It’s a Barrett M82 sniper rifle.”
“My mother was looking at your head through the scope of one while we were eating lunch. We need to find Adam Pierce before my mother shoots him or my grandmother runs him over with a tank. Or before he incinerates our home and my family with it.”
“As we discussed, I have a team guarding your warehouse. If he shows up anywhere near it, we’ll know. Now your turn. I’ll have the information now,” Mad Rogan said. “All of it.”
I started at the moment MII called us, told him very briefly that MII hired us to find Adam Pierce, and ran through my investigation, skipping unimportant details such as mortgaged businesses and dreams featuring him being half naked. Volunteering was for suckers, and he wouldn’t get any information out of me unless it was absolutely necessary.
He grimaced. “Augustine finally caved in.”
“You know him?”
“Yes. We went to college together. I’m not his favorite person.”
“Why?”
“I’ve seen him without his magic.” Mad Rogan shrugged his muscular shoulders. “Augustine always had an overdeveloped sense of loyalty to his House. He struggled with it. I told him back then that if he wasn’t careful, he’d end up in an office dancing to his family’s tune.”
“Is that why you joined the military? To get away from your family?” And why did I ask that?
“I joined because they told me I could kill without being sent to prison and be rewarded for it.”
True. Holy shit. I was trapped in a car with a homicidal maniac. Awesome.
“You have a strange look on your face,” he said.
“I just realized I shouldn’t be in the same vehicle with you. In fact, I shouldn’t have called you in the first place, so I’m trying very hard to rewind time.”
He grinned. I’ve amused the dragon. Whee.
“Would you rather I lied to you? Not that I would bother, but even if I did, there is no point in it, is there?”
I didn’t answer. Keeping my mouth shut was an excellent strategy.
“Does Augustine know you’re a Truthseeker?”
He’d figured me out. I wasn’t really surprised, not after I’d pinned him down and wrenched the answers out of him. “What my employer knows or doesn’t know about me is none of your business.”
He chuckled, a genuine, rich laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Augustine prides himself on his powers of observation and being an excellent judge of character. He thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes. He used to try to make brilliant deductions by noting what people wore and how they acted. He has a Truthseeker on staff and he has no idea. He’s likely been looking to employ one for ages.” Mad Rogan chuckled again. “The irony, it’s delicious.”
I kept my mouth shut. Hopefully he wouldn’t ask me anything else.
“Truthseeking is the third rarest magic talent. Why not make a living from it? Shouldn’t you be in some office with a two-way mirror asking uncomfortable questions?”
“That’s not covered under our agreement.”
He glanced at me, his eyes dark. “Would you rather talk about your dream?”
“No.”
“Considering that I was featured in it, I think I deserve to know the particulars. Were my clothes missing because we were in bed? Was I touching you?” He glanced at me. His voice could’ve melted clothes off my body. “Were you touching me?”
I shouldn’t have gotten into his car. I should’ve taken a separate vehicle.
“Cat got your tongue, Nevada?”
“No, we weren’t in bed. I was pushing you off a cliff to your death.” I pointed at the highway. “Take the next exit and stay in the right lane, please. We’ll need to make a right.”
He chuckled again and took the exit.
The Range Rover rolled down a gentle stop at the end of the exit ramp, and we turned right onto deserted Senate Avenue. At some point it was a typical suburban street, two lanes on each side, divided by a flower bed and decorative trees. A field with grass mowed short stretched on the left. An equally shorn lawn lay on the right, a curving drive cutting through it to permit access to a one-story brick building. A large sign rose on the right, set on a sturdy metal pole.
YOU ARE LEAVING HOUSTON
METRO AREA
A second sign in bright yellow yelled at us with big black letters.
FLOODING AHEAD
TURN AROUND
DON’T DROWN
“Make a right here.” I pointed at the driveway.
Mad Rogan turned. The driveway brought us to a drive-through at the brick building, blocked by a solid metal bar. Another sign said Private Security Area Parking. $2 per hour, $12 per day maximum.
“Let me do the talking,” I said.
“Be my guest.”
The drive-through window slid open and a woman looked at me. She was short and muscular, with dark brown skin and glossy black hair put away into six neat cornrows. A tactical vest hugged her frame, and a Sig Sauer lay in the desk next to her.
“Hi, Thea.” I showed her my ID.
“Haven’t seen you for a while,” Thea said. “Who’s the prince in the driver seat?”
“A client.”
Thea’s eyebrows rose. “You’re taking a client into the Pit?”
“There is a first time for everything.”
Thea leaned forward a little and gave Mad Rogan her tough stare. “Okay, client. Standard warning: you have left the Metro Houston area. You are entering territory controlled by House Shaw. This is a limited-security area. If you proceed past the red line at the end of this parking lot, you may be a victim of a violent crime, such as mugging, assault, rape, or murder. House Shaw patrols the water, and if they observe you being a victim of such a crime, they will render aid, but by crossing that red line you acknowledge that House Shaw has a limited ability to assist you. This conversation is being recorded. Do you understand the warning that has been given to you?”
“Yes,” Mad Rogan said.
“Your consent has been recorded and will be used as evidence should you attempt to seek any damages or hold House Shaw liable for any harm happening to you in the Pit. Getting in is easy, getting out is hard. Welcome to the anal sore of Houston. Have fun, kids.”
She popped a paper ticket from the machine on the side of her desk and handed it to Rogan. He took it. The bar rose and he steered the vehicle into the deserted parking lot. He drove to the far end and parked by the foot-wide red line drawn on the pavement. A hundred yards beyond the line, a bayou spread. The murky water the color of green tea lay placid. On the left, the top floor of a once-two-story office building stuck out of the mire. Once-decorative trees stood half submerged next to sunken wrought-iron streetlamps.