Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [76]
I could see him moving like a snake through the grass, flat and sneaky, and utterly out of place at the Poppycock Review.
He was wearing a dark suit, maybe a black suit—I couldn’t tell. But he was definitely dressed for business at a quarter till three in the morning, in a drag bar, in the less-than-awesome part of Atlanta. Which may or may not have meant a damn thing, or so I told myself. I had to tell myself that, and I had to keep telling myself that as I began to slide around the side of my pillar, keeping my shoulders pressed up against it. For no sooner had I almost convinced myself that he was somebody’s dad or some random swinger than I saw that the man in the suit was not alone.
A second guy was worming his way from the other end of the room, gliding through the crowd like he’d just stepped out of the Matrix. Except that I was prepared to bet he’d freshly stepped out of a long black car instead.
I don’t know how I knew, except that I always know bad news when I see it, and staring back and forth between these guys—while simultaneously trying to spot any others—I was damn near positive I’d spotted a problem. And the longer I stood there spotting it, the more obvious it was that they were working their way toward Rose, who was almost finished with her song.
On the one hand, this was a relief for me, personally. On the other, it was definitely Not Good for Rose, and oh God, what if I’d led them straight to her?
But that didn’t make any sense. I’m neurotic and self-second-guessing about many things, but I was absolutely confident that I hadn’t been followed since Seattle. So what did this mean? I was frantic for an answer, but nobody was going to give me one and the show was winding down.
I had no idea what to do.
A third man of the same suspicious tribe came slithering from another corner, and that only left one corner, which meant there was probably someone coming up behind me, too, and I’d just have to cross my fingers that nobody was looking for me—not on this trip. I held my breath and Rose pretended to hold that last note, and as the music died away the three men—yes, shortly joined by a fourth from over my left shoulder—converged on the dance floor.
The suited man nearest me was walking in front of me, with his back to me. He turned sideways to facilitate his passage, and I saw the distinct bulge of a gun. But surely they wouldn’t just whip ’em out in a crowded room?
Frantic, I shifted my gaze back to Rose—whose face was covered with a dawning sort of horror because she, too, had seen them now.
The DJ was making his closing announcement, stating the hours the club was open, thanking everyone for coming out, and sending them on their way with the old bit about how “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”
The crowds were thinning, and thinning fast.
I closed my eyes and concentrated on building up a shout—not a vocal one, but a psychic one—in an attempt to draw Rose’s attention. I gathered it up and sent it out, projecting it toward the drag queen and smacking her with it: Over here!
She blinked and recoiled, and spied me at my pillar. She gave me a scowl that implied very strongly that she believed I’d brought the suited men here, when of course I had not, but I’d be hard-pressed to prove it in a shouting match across a still-considerably-loud club floor covered in people.
So I sent it again—Over here, goddammit! Now!
For some reason, it took. She jolted into action, not pushing her way through to an exit, but grabbing the ironwork circular stairwell behind her and using it to climb the nearest banister. From that banister she skipped onto the rail, up above the people and with