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Doyle whirled, hissing, and saw Tucker leap back, hands up in defense, fear flickering in those human brown eyes.
Doyle sagged. “Goddammit.” He fired another sneer Montague’s way. “You didn’t even give the prosecution a chance to argue.”
“Nor was I required to do so. I wonder, in fact, how you came to be here.”
“I keep my ears open,” Doyle said. “Especially where defendants like Dragos are concerned.”
“I’m gratified to know our civil servants are looking out for the public’s best interest,” Montague said silkily.
“Underhanded game playing,” Doyle muttered. “But you’ve forgotten who you’re dealing with, and it’ll be on your head when the bastard skips out on you. How much credibility do you think you’ll have in court after that?”
“My client will be returning to custody within parameters. Or are you suggesting that you are aware of a way to disable the mobile detention devices? If so, I suggest you inform Security Section. The failure to disclose such information is, I believe, a Class A violation of the Concordat.”
“Fuck you.”
Before the advocate had a chance to respond to Doyle’s brilliant comeback, the light above the metal door switched from red to green, and it swung open, the hydraulic mechanism hissing. A beefy demon with a thick, armor-like skin stepped out, followed by Dragos, now clad in the black jeans, T-shirt, and duster he’d worn when Doyle and the RAC team had taken him down.
“Uh-uh. No way.” He looked Dragos in the eye. “Strip.”
The corner of Dragos’s mouth twitched. “Truly, Ryan, you’re not my type.”
“I’m serious. Take it off. No way are you walking out of this room without me seeing the countermeasures.”
“Are you suggesting Wrait is untrustworthy?” Montague asked, stepping in beside his scumbag client. Doyle sneered. What he wouldn’t give to take both of those sons of bitches down…
“Bartok alesian rhyngot!”
Doyle rounded on the demon, got right in his face. “Damn straight I don’t trust you. And the next time you’ve got something to say to me, you say it in English. You understand me, demon?”
“He doesn’t speak English,” Dragos said. “Just transferred from Division 18 in Paris.”
“Yeah? Then how’d he know what I was saying?”
Dragos shot him a bored look. “Subtlety’s not your strong suit, Ryan. It never has been. But if you want to ensure you are understood, speak French. Or demonic,” he added with a thin smile.
“Strip,” Doyle said, ignoring both the taunt and the demon who was still glowering at him. “Right now, or I’m calling Leviathan.”
“You have no authority to—” Montague began, stopping short when Dragos held up a hand.
“Let the little boy throw his temper tantrum. I have nothing to hide.” He shrugged out of the duster and handed it to Montague, then thrust out his arms to Doyle. A band of polished silver-gray metal had been cuffed tightly around each wrist. Doyle grabbed Dragos’s arm and twisted, looking at the cuff from all sides. A muscle flickered in Dragos’s cheek, but the bastard didn’t protest. Satisfied, Doyle finally dropped his arm.
He eyed Tucker. “They’re solid. No seams. No visible breach points.” The hematite bracelets, Doyle knew, prevented Dragos from shifting into sentient mist. He still had strength and speed, albeit lessened, but wherever he was going, he was getting there like a human.
Tucker crossed his arms over his chest, eyed Dragos up and down. “Guy like this wouldn’t cut off his own hands to get free of the bands, either. How would he jerk off if he did?”
Doyle barked out a laugh. “True enough, but that ain’t a real risk. Any attempts to alter the body in order to remove the bands, and the stake is activated. So let’s see it,” he added, turning his attention from Tucker to Dragos. “Show me the stake.”
Pure hate burned in Dragos’s eyes, and it gave Doyle a nice warm feeling of satisfaction to know that he was getting under the murderous bastard’s skin. Dragos’s eyes cut toward the pretty-boy advocate, who shrugged. “The agent wants to pretend he’s got a big dick, I’m not going to stand here and prove to him how shriveled and tiny it is. Just show him, Luke, and let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Dragos set his jaw, then reached up to the neck of his T-shirt. Doyle expected him to yank it over his head, but instead, Dragos clenched his fists and pulled, ripping the shirt down the center to just over his heart. He peeled back the raw edges of black cotton to reveal a thick metal band strapped tight around his chest. Over his heart, a circular-shaped portion of the metal protruded slightly from the skin. Underneath the protrusion, Doyle knew, was a piece of wood, cut so that it would, upon being triggered, expand and lock into the shape of a stake. A stake that would instantaneously be thrust into the wearer’s heart.
Doyle took a step closer, wanting to see the actual mechanism that had the power to end Lucius Dragos, then stopped as he heard the low growl in Dragos’s throat.
“It’s set,” Montague said firmly. “He tries anything, he goes outside of the jurisdictional area, he in any way blows the terms of the deal, and the stake deploys. And I don’t care if you’re satisfied or not at this point. We’re leaving.” He looked at the demon then spoke smoothly in French.
Wrait grunted. “Trois heures. Oui.”
And then, as if Doyle and Tucker weren’t even standing there, Montague and Dragos stepped out the door, and Dragos began the short walk toward freedom.
