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they catch her? What were their plans?
    You must do exactly as I say if any of us are to get out of this alive, understand?
     . . . help . . . out of here . . .
    He stopped and turned around, waiting on her.
    Did she dare go? If she didn’t, then what? She tried to think, to decide, but . . .
    “No one is going to harm you,” he said, as if reading her mind, his voice dark and deep as the night.
    Again, she looked around.
    Decide.
    Sparkle escaped. And others, she’d heard rumors.
    She looked behind her. Then back at this man who was clearly waiting on her. He shot her jailer. Pretended to be something he wasn’t.
    Dusk took a deep breath and stepped toward him, then another. And another. He waited patiently until she walked up to him.
    His features were hard, unforgiving, yet the edge of his mouth tilted. “I was about to come get you. I really hate to do things the hard way.” He motioned to the car.
    George slid behind the wheel. The man hadn’t said more than six words as far as she’d seen and heard.
    When they were settled inside, she looked to John and wondered again what the hell was going on. “Are you a friend of Mikhail’s?”
    His brow furrowed. “No one is a friend of Jezek.”
    She sighed and looked out into the night. “Can I roll down the window?”
    He glanced out at the other two people, Becca and Shadow—Norgi. The man did look like a shadow.
    John answered, “You don’t have to ask.”
    She didn’t think of what his remark meant, didn’t want to think about it at all. Instead she rolled down the window and leaned back. Again the smells of stale water and oil filled the cold air. The old brick building on one side shadowed the metal warehouse on the other. She could hear the faint lap of water from the river, cars from the roadway, the hum of city nightlife. Shadow’s voice rumbled on the night air, mixing with Becca’s husky laughter. Then they walked toward the car Dusk currently occupied. When they were halfway there, Becca flicked a lighter and tossed it over her shoulder without looking back.
    “You missed,” Shadow said.
    “No, I didn’t.” A puddle caught, blue flames shot along the pavement, an arrow seeking its target. For one instant, nothing happened.
    The first car exploded.
    The back door opened and Shadow climbed in, George reversing even as Becca climbed into the front passenger’s seat.
    She rubbed her hands gleefully. “God, I love doing that.”
    “Pyromaniac,” Shadow said as the driver careened out of the lot.
    “Bet your ass.” Becca turned in her seat. “Damn it all to hell and back, John. Get that collar off. Use your fingers for something.”
    He grinned at Becca even as he reached inside the minibar in this car. He pulled out a leather case.
    Dusk stiffened.
    Would he give her something? Stick her in the arm? How would she know where they were going? Where they planned to take her, or what—
    He unzipped it and said, looking straight at Dusk, his smile cautious, more reassuring, “Tricks of the trade.” He opened it and wicked picks lay in little holders. She scooted back, fisting her hands.
    He sighed and in a softer voice explained, “They are lock picks.” He motioned to the collar. “To take that bloody thing off.” Blond eyebrows rose. “Unless you’d like to leave it on.”
    The collar chaffed, but she’d become so used to doing what she was told without asking for help, she’d just left it alone.
    He moved across the seat toward her. She leaned to the side, offering the left side of her neck to Reyer. She wondered if he could see the bruises on her neck from one of her clients. Which made her think of the john. She shied away from the thought, from her own demons—still too afraid to believe that hope might still be in sight.
    But she also remembered Ebony. Ebony.
    She shivered.
    John’s elegant hands held a tool, the end no bigger than a metal toothpick, as easily as most men held their wallets. She wondered what else those long