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"So, what are the odds Dragos will make another appearance at one of these places?" Archer asked.
Lucan grunted. "Slim to none."
At the opposite end of the table from him, Tegan, leaning back in his chair and contemplative for most of the impromptu meeting, nodded in agreement. "He had a point to make last night and he made it in about as public a way as he could. We won't find Dragos shooting the shit and slumming it with the Agency rank-and-file again anytime soon. Don't think he's gonna make it that easy for us.">And then there was the breach of the Order's secret headquarters by human law enforcement less than twenty-four hours ago.
More havoc instigated by Dragos.
Now this.
Rowan was certain Dragos was at the root of what went on here tonight. What better time for the devil to come out to play than when the Order had their hands full with a forced relocation of their compound and the surrender of one of their own to police custody? Rowan should have expected something like this. He should have been prepared to step in for Lucan and his warriors tonight, with half the Agency behind him.
Of course, that assumed half the Agency was still loyal to their oath of service. Rowan really wasn't sure about that, definitely not anymore. The Agency had not been without its share of problems over the many long decades of its existence. Bureaucratic, slow to move, far too political at times, it was the bloated, impotent cousin to the Order's lean, surgically precise efficacy as protectors of the Breed and humankind alike.
Corruption among the ranks was rampant, if festering below the surface. More and more, it was growing impossible to know who could be trusted. Good men did remain, but there were others - more than Rowan cared to admit - who hid their malfeasance behind a mask of Agency duty and authority. Dragos himself had been one of them, rising to one of the highest positions in the organization, and no doubt garnering a league of loyal followers, before the Order exposed him and sent him scurrying into deep hiding roughly a year ago.
No, Rowan thought grimly. There was no question that the mass slaughter tonight on Enforcement Agency turf was Dragos's way of pissing on both the Order and the Agency at the same time.
"Son of a bitch," he snarled into the tomblike silence of the club.
There was nothing to be done now, with morning about to break and the Order setting up temporary camp some five-plus hours north of Boston, but Lucan had to be informed of the situation.
Rowan pivoted away from the carnage and headed outside, passing the incoming team of Agents armed with body bags and cleanup equipment on his way to his vehicle. Once seated inside the sedan, he dialed a scrambled access line given to him by the Order. It rang through. "Gideon, it's Mathias Rowan," he said when the line connected on the other end. "We have a situation down here. Lucan isn't going to like it. Bad news, my friend, and it's got Dragos's name written all over it."
"SHIT, SHIT, SHIT." Tavia checked her watch again, impatiently waiting for the snarl of early morning commuters in front of her to step off the train at Boston's Government Center Station. It was almost 8:00 A.M., and she was late to work.
Definitely a first for her, although it wasn't as if she didn't have a good excuse. The stress of the past few days apparently was getting to her. She was still tense from the incident at the police station and Senator Clarence's odd behavior afterward.
The troubling dream hadn't done anything for her nerves either. While doubling down on her antianxiety meds had allowed her to sleep, it had also made her hit the snooze button on her alarm one too many times this morning.
She saw an opening in the slow-moving throng and dashed through it. Walking briskly, she crossed the snow-spattered bricks outside the terminal, rushing past a florist stand bursting with red and white poinsettias and evergreen wreaths. On the street, a brisk, cold wind blew, carrying the repetitive jingle of a Salvation Army bell from somewhere nearby and the smoky aroma of coffee beans and baked goods from the Starbucks on the corner. Tavia's stomach growled in response, but she headed in the opposite direction.
She tried the senator's cell phone, but it went straight to voice-mail, just as it had the two other times she'd called on her way into the city. He would be at the charity breakfast by now. Normally she would have double-checked with him first thing to make sure he had everything he needed for the event. Normally she would have been in the office for at least an hour already, getting a jump-start on the day's tasks while he was out courting his public.
Normally ...
Nothing about the past few days seemed normal.
Not even close.
Tavia walked along the City Hall plaza toward the senator's offices, her head down, face dipped into the folds of her knit scarf as another wintry gust rolled up. She cut between the pair of towers and the squat government building next to them, hearing the cacophony of a gathered crowd even before she rounded the corner and saw the commotion.
News vans and camera crews from every local network and a couple of national cable channels lined New Sudbury Street like vultures. Police vehicles, not an unusual sight at the government offices when a large precinct sat directly across the street, were blocking the entrance and exit, shadowed by black federal-issued SUVs parked in front of the building doors and all along the arched fire lane at the curb.
Dread squeezed her stomach, turning it into an icy fist in her gut.
"Excuse me." Tavia approached a reporter from Channel Five who was fluffing her unmoving helmet of blond hair and performing a sound check. "What's happening here?"
"Get in line, honey," the woman replied. "That's what we're all waiting to find out. The police commissioner just called a press conference for eight o'clock."
Tavia stepped through the groups of hovering reporters and the gawkers who'd been drawn from around the neighboring streets by all the noise and activity. She weaved between the sea of bodies, trying to make her way closer to the building entrance where most of the police and federal agents had clustered.
Someone took sharp hold of her arm. "Ms. Fairchild."
"Detective Avery," she said, the kick in her chest relaxing a bit as she met the older man's sober gaze. "What's all this about?"
"Come with me, please." He walked her through the crowds and into the front entrance of the building. The lobby was busy with more uniformed officers and armed men in SWAT gear. The detective paused with her, his face fatigued, aging him even more. "When did you last speak to or see Senator Clarence, Tavia?"
The cold knot in her stomach got even harder. "Last night, when he dropped me off at home." "Do you remember what time that was?"
