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Lucan considered the option. "What about the tech lab? We can't afford to take the heat off Dragos, even if we do clear out of here. How quickly would you be able to set up shop in another location?"
"It wouldn't be totally seamless," Gideon replied. "But anything's possible."
"What about Tess?" Tegan's question dropped on them like a hammer. "You really think she'll be up to the kind of move you're talking about? For that matter, do you think Dante is willing to take that risk?"
Tegan shook his head, and Lucan knew he was right. They couldn't ask Tess and Dante to jeopardize her health and well-being, or that of their soon-to-arrive son, on a relocation effort of that magnitude.
Not to mention the fact that Lucan had his doubts about the viability of setting up the Order's new headquarters so far away from Dragos's presumed base of operations. It would be a hell of a lot easier to keep the pressure on the bastard from close range.
As Lucan grappled with the impossibilities of the situation, he caught a movement in his periphery and noticed Lazaro Archer walking past the glass walls of the lab. The Gen One civilian paused at the doors and lifted his hand in a gesture of permission. Lucan glanced to Gideon. "Let him in."
Gideon leaned over to his workstation and pressed a button, releasing the tech lab's doors with a soft hydraulic hiss.
Lazaro Archer strode in, six foot five and formidable, his first-generation genes giving him the look of a warrior even though he'd lived his many hundred years away from combat and bloodshed.
Until Dragos set his sights on Archer's family, that is.
"How is Kellan?" Lucan asked, seeing the stress of all that had happened showing in the somber Breed elder's eyes.
"He is getting better by the hour," Archer replied. "It was the device that was making him so sick, apparently. He's a strong boy. He'll come through all of this, I have no doubt."
Lucan gave him a slow nod. "I'm glad for you both, Lazaro. I regret that your family was caught in the middle of the Order's war with Dragos. You didn't ask for it. You sure as hell didn't deserve all that you've been through."
Archer's dark eyes went a bit sharper as he walked up to the table to join the warriors. His gaze fell briefly over the unfurled blueprints before coming back up to look at Lucan. "Do you remember what I told you, that night, after my Darkhaven was reduced to ash and rubble, my only son, Christophe, gunned down beside me in the vehicle where we waited for word of Kellan's rescue? I made you a pledge."
Lucan did remember. "You told me that you wanted to help destroy Dragos. You offered your resources to us."
"That's right," Archer replied. "Whatever you need, it's yours. The Order has my utmost loyalty and respect, Lucan. All the more so now, after what happened today with Kellan. My God, when I think that all of you are in far worse jeopardy simply for having come to our aid - "
"Don't," Lucan interrupted him. "There is no blame here. Not against you or the boy. Dragos used you. He will pay for all he's done."
"I want to help," Archer said again. "I'd heard from some of the women that you were in here discussing plans to move the compound."
Lucan's glance traveled from Tegan and Gideon back to Archer. "We had hoped to be able to, but it may not be feasible at this time."
"Why not?"
Lucan gestured to the blueprints. "We have plans in the works, but they can't be implemented in time to make a real difference. Our only other option is to relocate our operations overseas, but with Dragos focusing his efforts here in New England, as far as we can determine, pulling up stakes to run a few thousand miles away isn't exactly our best choice."
"What about Maine?"
Lucan frowned. "We have a handful of acres here and there, but nothing that could work as a viable base for the entire compound, temporary or otherwise."
"You don't," Archer replied slowly. "But I, on the other hand, do have just such a place."
Chapter Eleven
Chase roused slowly, a sickly sweet, smoky stench drifting up his nostrils and pulling him out of the darkness of a thick, heavy sleep.
His eyes refused to open. His body was sluggish, limbs weighted down, leaden where he sprawled facedown on the cold hard surface that had apparently been his bed. He groaned on a parched throat, nothing but cotton dryness in his mouth. With effort, he managed to lift one eyelid and peer into his fetid surroundings.
He was in an old railcar. Rusted out in places, small holes had eaten through the metal and now emitted blinding white light from outside.
Daylight.
Rays shone in from above his head where the roof was little more than delicate lace, some of it haphazardly patched over with scrap wood and plastic sheeting. Not enough cover for him. One bright nimbus of sunlight was aimed directly onto the back of his bare hand. It had seared an ugly burn into his skin - part of the stench that had woken him.
"Holy fuck." Chase hoisted himself up and scrambled on his haunches into a shaded corner.
