Marist gave a short sigh. “I worked for Hannah for years, you know. I considered her my friend. Her death was a tragedy.”
What a neat little dodge, to redirect to her friendship with Hathaway and not acknowledge the near-loss of that pile of money earmarked for Stone Solutions. “Yeah,” said Grayson. “A tragedy engineered by two of your colleagues.”
“Perhaps,” Marist said more sharply. “But last night, our head of security was murdered by Davies—an empath you promised us was harmless. Telling us we don’t need to worry about empaths that are, in fact, big giant problems has become something of a pattern with you, hasn’t it?”
Grayson didn’t have a response to that.
“If you’re not coming to Stone Solutions, tell me where you’re planning to search for Davies,” Marist said. “I’ll send a team to you.”
He took the ramp up to I-5, eyes on the traffic as he pressed down on the gas. “The teams can respond to thralls, not the empaths themselves,” he said as the Smart car accelerated with an ear-splitting whine. “We can’t risk any innocents near Mr. Davies.”
“Yes, but—Evan, what on earth is that racket in your background?”
“My car.”
Marist clucked her tongue. “I thought you drove a truck.”
Grayson hadn’t told anyone yet that Reece had his truck. Just one more mistake he’d made when it came to Reece.
“My truck was stolen.” He cut off an SUV and ignored its honk. “I have reason to believe Mr. Davies has it.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” she said. “Send us your new car’s information; I’ll get your record updated so you don’t accidentally get towed from our building. And I’ll have your truck reported stolen. We’ll have an APB put out to every police officer and Stone Solutions agent. We will find Mr. Davies.”
Grayson’s gaze stayed on the interstate, the gray asphalt under the gray sky. He’d been protecting Reece, and an innocent man had paid the price. It ended now. “Yes, ma’am. We will.”
The remains of Victor Nichols’s room service lunch were cooling on the hotel suite’s dining table next to him. The muted television played a local station in the background as he leaned forward to examine his laptop screen.
Charles had forwarded a series of pictures and surveyor maps showing hundreds of acres in the Olympic Mountains. In one of the pictures, a portion of a building could be seen, set into the side of the mountain with a suggestion of more below ground. Nichols’s pulse picked up.
He’d need to see it in person, of course. But this was very promising.
On the dining table, Nichols’s phone began to ring. He picked it up.
“Well done,” Charles said in his ear.
“Iamthe preeminent expert on corrupted empaths,” Nichols said dryly. “I know a thing or two about how they kill. Granted, the illusion of a corrupted empath kill and the chemical actuality of it are very different things. You’ve had the body disposed of as instructed?”
“Of course,” Charles said. “Did you get my email?”
On the muted television, a commercial for Stone Solutions was playing. Nichols looked at his laptop instead, the photos and surveyor maps. “You have my full attention.”
“We’ll call it Olympia,” Charles said. “And if our next steps go off without a hitch, it will be yours to run as you see fit.”
“Funded and staffed as I see fit?”
“Indeed. And I will personally deliver the first guest straight to you.”
“We do have to catch him first,” Nichols pointed out.
“It’s been set in motion.”
Nichols’s gaze lingered on his pictures. “When will we move forward on part two?”
“Soon,” Charles promised. “In a way, I have the empaths to thank for helping select the next target. They need to understand exactly who they’ve gone to war with.”
Chapter Nine
Why waste time asking “who signed what” or “who authorized what” for the experiments that took place on the Grayson brothers in that Texas bunker? I don’t see why we need to investigate or drag any of that into the light.
