“It’s not your fault,” I insisted. “You can’t hold yourself responsible for something someone else made you do. Which would you blame, the gun that fires the bullet, or the finger that squeezes the trigger?”

For a moment, she was quiet, staring through the one-way glass. Then she exhaled softly. “Doesn’t really matter who you blame, Ian. Either way, I’m his gun, and guns are only good for one thing.”

But even after less than a day spent with her, I knew Kori Daniels was good for much more than what Tower was using her for, even if neither of them could see it.

Nine

Kori

“I need a drink. A strong one,” Ian said. We’d left Jake’s pet project behind two blocks ago, and he was still looking at me like he was disappointed in me. Like he’d started looking at me in the observation room, the moment he’d found out that I’d kidnapped for Jake. That I’d killed for him.

But that was stupid, because he didn’t know me well enough to be disappointed in me.

“Never let it be said that I stood between a man and his liquor. If you want food, too, there’s a decent Italian restaurant around the corner to your left.”

He shook his head firmly. “I don’t think I could keep it down, after what I just saw.”

“Okay. My favorite dive bar is half a mile up the street. Or we could head back to your hotel.” Personally I favored the bar, for the lack of beds and availability of liquor.

“What are the chances Cavazos would send men to ambush us in this bar of yours?”

“Slim to none, unless he wants them returned in pieces too small to identify. Dusty’s will be crawling with locals at one on a Saturday, half of them bound to Jake.”

“The bar it is.”

Ten minutes later, I pulled open the door to Dusty’s and descended two steps into familiar, comfortable shadows accompanied by the buzz of conversation, the clink of ice on glass, and the practiced cadence of sports announcers from several small, outdated televisions mounted in the corners of the main room. The floor was sticky, but the glasses were clean. This was one of my favorite places in the world.

“Who’s Dusty?” Ian asked, following me to a booth along the back wall.

“No idea. The owner’s a woman in her sixties named Patience.” I slid into the booth, and before Ian could pick up the greasy, laminated snack menu, a waitress stopped beside our table, notepad in hand. “What can I get ’cha?” she asked, making a decent attempt to hide the gum in her mouth. She was new.

“Stoli and Coke. And bring me another one in fifteen minutes.”

“And for you?”

Ian slid the single-page menu between the grimy, glass salt and pepper shakers. “Crown and Coke.”

“Another in fifteen minutes?” she asked, with a grin that went unreturned.

“We’ll take it play by play.”

“Be right back.” Then the waitress was gone, and I couldn’t pretend not to see the way Ian was still looking at me.

“What’s Tower doing with the blood?” he asked softly, when the silence between us became too much.

“I can’t answer that, but you’re welcome to draw your own conclusions. What’s usually done with blood donations?” I said, leading him to deductions I couldn’t confirm.

“Transfusions. Shit.” His eyes closed, and he inhaled deeply before opening them again. “He’s making transfusions of Skilled blood. Presumably for profit.”

“A logical assumption,” I said, and for once, that was truly all I had to add. When I’d last been allowed in the building, the project was only in its testing phase.

The waitress set our glasses down on white napkins, and Ian gulped half of his drink at once, then clenched his glass so hard his dark hands went pale at the joints. I understood his anger. The Skilled are generally uncomfortable even thinking about blood spilled in large quantities, and the personal security risk that represents. Thinking of it stolen and redistributed was enough to make me sick to my stomach, even though I’d had plenty of time to get used to the idea.

“Is it permanent?” he asked, when he finally lowered his glass. “Is Tower getting ready to arm the entire population with Skills?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” I said, already tired of dancing around things I couldn’t say outright. “After any transfusion, it only takes a few hours for the new blood cells to be absorbed by the body.”

The key to communicating points you aren’t allowed to make is speaking in generalities and implications. I’d had six years to polish my skills.

“So, the transfused Skills are temporary,” Ian said, but I couldn’t confirm that, so I lifted my glass for the first sip, wishing for the days when one drink was enough to relax me. Mostly because those were the days before Jake, and the syndicate, and the loss of my free will, and the start of my body count.

“Does it work on those who already have Skills? Can he strengthen someone’s existing ability, or give people multiple Skills?” His voice got deeper and more intense with each question, but his volume never rose.

“I honestly don’t know. I’ve been out of the loop for a couple of months, but I haven’t heard about anything like that.” I drained half my glass, then caught the waitress’s eye and held my drink up, wordlessly calling for another, several minutes early.

“So, what other criminal enterprises will I be aiding and abetting, once I’ve sold my soul?”