Cordell texted him just as he finished dressing. When he returned to the computer lab a few minutes later, he stared at the data on the large screen, organized into tables and charts.
“What is that?” He had a bad feeling about this.
“It’s a list of known sweetbloods in this sector,” Cordell said. “Looks like they’re doing blood collections without killing. Or at least that’s what I think they’re doing.”
“A catch and release?” Since when had Darkbloods been doing that? An icy chill ran through his body, erasing any of the remaining warmth from his evening memories. This kind of premeditation required planning, organization and restraint. Much more than the haphazard draining and killing the DB cells normally did. This was something new.
“Yeah, and look. It appears they’ve got them on a three-week rotation. That window is much too short. Those people have probably been wondering why they’re always so tired.”
“Yes, until one day when they don’t return home. When the DBs fuck up and drain them completely like they normally do. Scroll down.”
Dom held his breath as Cordell clicked through the list of names, ages, addresses and collection dates. Shit. They were all so young. Decker, Marsha, age 21; Dinsmore, Scott, age 17; Grant, Crystal, age 14. No Foster-Shaw. He blew the air from his lungs in a quiet breath of relief. The Darkbloods didn’t know about her. “Wait. Keep going.” Cordell paged through the rest of the list. No Shaws, either. Thank God. “We’ll set up regular patrols around these people in order to catch the DBs who come to pick them up. What do you think—twenty or thirty of them in the Seattle area?”
Cordell clicked through the list and said something about the team being spread too thin, but Dom ignored him.
“Let Santiago know what’s going on,” Dom said. “The other regions need to know about this change in Darkblood operations. I’ve never heard of them doing this before. They usually just sell the blood when they get their hands on a sweetblood. This is way too organized. If they’re doing it up here, they’re probably either doing it or planning to do it other regions.”
Down in the weapons center, Dom grabbed a couple of handguns, a set of silver-tipped brass knuckles and several pairs of silver-lined handcuffs, taking care to handle them only from their steel clips. The downtown clubs were closing soon and a whole horde of losers would be out looking for trouble. Or at least that’s why he told himself he was going out. To put his mind at ease, he wanted to run up to the Northend and double-check that a certain someone had made it home, before he focused on what his team needed to do.
On his way out the door, he paused. What the hell. He grabbed his protection vest then hit the lights.
CHAPTER NINE
“Mackenzie, be apeach.” Martin crooned over the phone. “Please? For me?”
“You know I’d do it in a heartbeat, but I’ve been feeling like crap lately.” Not really, but she didn’t know how else to explain it. Restless maybe? Unsettled. “I think I’m coming down with something. You can’t find anyone else to do it?”
“Although I love these installation guys, I don’t trust them to hang the piece correctly. They need supervision, otherwise the thing will be slapped up on any old wall. I’d do it, but I completely forgot my teaching schedule is different this term. I’m in class in less than an hour.” She heard him sniff away a couple of fake tears.
“Yeah, Martin, talk about embarrassing. I’m helping hang a picture of my naked self.”
“If you’re not up to it, I understand. I’ll just reschedule.”
It would give her a chance to see the painting one last time. To see its new home.
“Oh, all right. So if I need you to cover for one of my classes, you won’t bitch about, will you?”
“Of course not. I knew I could count on you.”
“Where do they live? One of the suburbs? Traffic getting over there will be a nightmare at this time of the morning.”
“Nope. One of the artist lofts in Pioneer Square. Shouldn’t take you too long to get there from the studio.”
She hung up the phone and finished getting ready. She’d planned to shoot some pictures of the docks this afternoon anyway, and Pioneer Square wasn’t far. She packed her camera into the Triumph’s saddlebag and met the workers at the studio. When the painting was loaded into the delivery van, she followed them over the Ballard Bridge and along the waterfront into the downtown area.
The loft was located in one of the oldest and most historic parts of the city, near the sports stadiums and overlooking Elliott Bay. Since many of the buildings were in the National Historic Register, none were very tall. This was an artsy part of town with trendy stores, art galleries and a funky coffee shop every few feet or so.
Her heart beat with anticipation. She’d always wondered what the lofts looked like from the inside and imagined how exciting it would be to live in the heart of everything. Forgetting how out of sorts she had been feeling, she practically skipped into the building foyer.
The doorman, though polite, evaluated her with the efficiency and no-bullshit air of a seasoned security professional as he checked a logbook, punched something on his keyboard and made a phone call. Although she wasn’t positive, she thought she passed through at least two different metal detectors and the guy put her bag through an X-ray machine. It felt like the airport.
As she waited for more direction from him, she scanned her surroundings. All the high-tech security gadgetry couldn’t hide the rich old-world beauty of the building itself, with its gleaminginlaid marble floors, ornately carved moldings and corbels and intricate wrought-iron details.
Things went from a little odd to downright bizarre when she stepped through a narrow opening into a cylindrical-shaped mini-room and the door slammed shut behind her.
“One moment, miss.” The guard’s voice piped through a speaker.
Good thing she wasn’t claustrophobic. Little lights bordering the edges flashed orange before a short burst of dry mist surrounded her and she coughed. When they blinked green, a door in front opened and the man motioned her forward, handing her the satchel.
