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For good measure, he did another round.

Annnnnd . . . one more.

As he rocked some keep-it-in-there sniffing, the rush that thundered through him saved his ass, perking him up so that he could keep going even after his vomiting and passing-out routine. Why he’d had those problems was a mystery. . . . Maybe that ’hood rat’s blood had been tainted, or maybe it wasn’t only Lash’s body but his internal chemistry that was changing. Either way, he was going to need that powder in the back until things stabilized.

Shit worked, too. He felt great.

After rehiding his stash, he returned to the crackhead. The cold didn’t help the draining process, and waiting around here while the fucker bled out wasn’t the brightest idea, no matter how well hidden they were under the bridge. Riding his considerable buzz, he strode over to the dead guy he’d done a Hannibal Lecter on; he ripped open the man’s filthy jacket and tore the undershirt beneath into bandage-size strips.

Fuck his father.

Fuck that little Shit.

He was going to make his own army. Starting with that bulldog addict.

It didn’t take long to wrap up the seeping wounds on the human, and then Lash picked him up and threw him in the trunk with all the regard a cabdriver would pay to cheap luggage.

Driving out from under the bridge, his eyes were bouncing around. But shit . . . every car he saw, from the ones on the surface roads to the traffic that whizzed by on the highway, every single one of them was a Caldwell PD unmarked.

He was sure of it. They were police. Humans with badges looking into his car. The police, the CPD, the police, the CPD . . .

As he headed for the ranch, he hit every single red light in Caldwell, and as he was forced to brake it, he stared straight ahead, praying that all the police behind and in front of him didn’t sense he had a dying man and a fuckload of drugs in the car.

It would take too much effort to deal with being pulled over. Besides, talk about buzz kill. He was finally feeling like himself, every single heartbeat drumming through his veins, the steel-shod hooves of all that cocaine trampling through his brain, creating a cacophony of creative inspiration—

Wait. What had he been thinking of?

Aw, hell, what did it matter. Half-formed ideas winged around his mind, plans forming and disintegrating, every single one of them brilliant.

Benloise, he had to get to Benloise and reestablish the connection. Make more lessers of his own. Find the little Shit and stab him back to the Omega.

Fuck his father like the guy fucked him.

Fuck Xhex again.

Go back to the farmhouse and fight with the Brothers.

Money, money, money—he needed money.

As he passed by one of Caldwell’s parks, his foot eased off the accelerator. At first, he wasn’t sure whether he was actually seeing what he thought he was . . . or whether his coked head was warping reality.

But no . . .

What was going down in the shadows by the fountain presented the opportunity he’d planned on manufacturing for himself. Or infiltrating if need be.

Pulling the Mercedes into one of the metered parking spaces, he turned off the car and got his knife out. As he went around the hood of the AMG, he was vaguely aware he wasn’t thinking straight, but as he rode the cocaine rush, that felt just fine.

John Matthew took form in a stand of pines and bushes along with Xhex and Qhuinn, and Butch, V and Rhage. Up ahead, the ratty farmhouse with the yellow crime scene tape around it looked like something out of Law & Order.

Although if that were true, without Smell-o-Vision, you wouldn’t get an accurate pic even with great camera work. Despite the acres of fresh air around, the scent of blood was strong enough to make you clear your throat.

To properly cover Lash’s intel dump, the Brotherhood had split in half, with the others staking out the address which had been tied to the license plate on that souped-up Civic. Trez and iAm had just taken off to handle their own biz for the night, but they were ready to come back at the drop of a text. And according to the Shadows, there was nothing too special