Dragos had lived long enough that surprises rarely had the power to take him aback. But this news flash--this disturbing bit of intelligence--
actually made his pulse knock a bit against his sternum. Rage filled his skull, a cold fury that practically had him spitting the curse that leapt to his tongue.
"You didn't know?" asked his lieutenant, crowding against the door in an effort to put as much distance as possible between them.
"A Hunter," Dragos replied, amber sparks flashing in the darkened cabin of the limo. "Are you certain this is true?"
His man nodded soberly. "I had surveillance cameras trained on the construction site from more than one location nearby. The way he moved, the sheer size of him, and the precision of his kills ... sire, there could be no mistaking the warrior for anything but one of your Hunters."
And there was only one of his specially bred, ruthlessly trained killers who had managed to connive his way out of Dragos's control and make his escape. That he had allied himself with the Order was a shock, plain and simple.
Dragos had assumed the Hunter had escaped the bonds of his obedience collar and fled into obscurity, a stray dog, lost without its master.
On some level, he'd assumed the fugitive assassin had ended up dead or Rogue by now.
But not this.
And no, he reflected now, not this particular Hunter.
He had been different from the start. Chillingly efficient. Coldly intelligent. Relentlessly disciplined, yet far from submissive. That was a lesson he'd never been able to learn, no matter how mercilessly it had been drilled into him.
Dragos should have had the son of a bitch put down, but he'd also been the best assassin in his personal Gen One army to date.
And now he'd apparently sided with Lucan and the warriors in this mounting war.
Dragos growled with outrage at the mere idea.
"Get out of my sight," he snarled to his lieutenant. "Await my orders to begin the next phase of the plan."
The other Breed male scrambled out of the car without another word, slamming the door behind him and hurrying off in the opposite direction of the street.
"Drive," Dragos barked to the Minion behind the wheel.
As the limo sped off into the hustle of Boston's evening traffic, he straightened the lapels of his Italian silk tuxedo and smoothed his hand over his meticulously styled hair. In the dim glow of the highway lights, he withdrew an embossed invitation from out of his jacket pocket and read the address of the political fund-raiser he had just attended downtown.
A small droplet of human blood stained the lower corner of the ivory paper, still fresh enough to smear under the press of his thumb.
Dragos chuckled under his breath, recalling how pleased the group of city officials had been with the generosity of his donation.
How stunned they had been just a few minutes later, when they realized what each of them would be surrendering to him in exchange.
Now he leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the hum of the road lull him as he savored the buzz of power still swimming in his veins.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Jenna had never seen Brock so quiet.
He and the other warriors had returned a short time ago, accompanied by Lazaro Archer and his grandson. The relief surrounding the boy's rescue was severely dampened by the cost at which it had come. While arrangements were made to accommodate the new arrivals at the compound and get them cleaned up and settled, Brock and the other warriors on tonight's mission had dispersed to their own quarters.
Brock had hardly uttered a word since he'd returned. He'd been covered in blood and grime, his face drawn taut with tension and not a little horror for what he and his brethren had witnessed during the recovery of the boy. Jenna had walked with him back to the room they now shared and had since been sitting on the edge of the bed alone, staring at the closed bathroom door while he ran the shower on the other side.
She didn't know if he'd welcome company or preferred his solitude, but after hearing about what had occurred on his patrol, she found she couldn't sit idle when he might be hurting on the other side of the closed door.
She walked over and tested the latch. It wasn't locked, so she cracked it open and peered inside.
Brock was naked under the steaming spray, his glyph- covered back toward the door, hands fisted and pressed against the shower wall in front of him. Although she didn't see any wounds on him, the water ran in red trails down his dark skin before swirling into the drain at his feet.
"May I come in?" she asked softly.