at his emphatic tone. Interesting, to see Ehwoord ruffled. Interesting, to see that Tarras feared. “We hardly need half a posse tramping around in the woods if the Sentinels have found the installation. You may, however, take Ciobaka. He can warn you of Sentinel presence long before you detect them. They are, at all times, far too cocky about their presence in woods such as these.”
“Wahnnah!” Ciobaka said, and barked an exclamation as his tail quivered in anticipation. “Ouwwtah!”
“Out,” Ehwoord said, flaunting his human tongue and lips. “And yes. Of course, you will wear the collar—and you still bear the obedience amulet within you. If your behavior is less than exemplary, there will be punishment upon return.”
Ciobaka flattened his dingoesque ears, crouching slightly in the submission that Ehwoord wanted to see. But he flexed his newly mobile dewclaw thumb, pondering the buckle to his electric collar—and made sure Ehwoord saw that not at all.
Chapter 5
In truth, Ruger had only meant to stop the Core minion from pulling the amulet from his pocket. If the man hadn’t triggered the thing in hand, he’d still be alive.
He’d been a handsome man—as were many of the Core, in a snake-oil kind of way. Not because of their strikingly swarthy skin—more olive than Mariska’s stunning complexion, not as dark—but from the affectation of their hair, slicked back into a short queue and always black, whether natural or dyed. And the silver jewelry, heavy at wrist and neck and ear.
And their ubiquitous suits. Especially in the highlevel posses—those serving the regional drozhar or even the Septs Prince, leader of them all. High sheen, beautifully cut… always just a little bit I think much of myself.
Not that this man was any of those things any longer. His black hair had gone dry and brittle; his skin taut, dry walnut stretching over bone. His clothes had been woodsy enough, the camo jacket over fatigue pants and a black T. But whatever else he might have had to tell them, they’d lost it when his tongue dried up. All they’d ever know was that this place wasn’t quite as abandoned as they’d thought it to be.
“He’s safe,” Ian said, coming to inspect the man now that he’d cleared the installation’s entrance of security workings. “I’ll leave the rest of it to you.”
Ruger hadn’t expected Mariska to display any squeamishness over the chore, and she didn’t. She leaned over to search the man, displaying her truly fine ass in the process. Ruger watched until he realized the riveted nature of his gaze, and scowled as he moved off across the swale. “I’m going to take a look inside with the AmSpecs. Let us know what you find.”
“Nothing so far,” she said, all business, her voice muffled as she bent to her task—and as he put distance between them. “Whatever he was up to, I don’t think he’s going to give us any clues.”
One of Ian’s poorly introduced AmSpecs waited by the entrance. It turned out to be a substantial door set within the rocks at the base of the opposite slope, obscured by light and shadow and a truly clever camouflage of combined paint and netting. Of course, Forakkes wouldn’t expect anyone to get this close, given the deterrent workings he’d had set in the area—and likely no one had, until now.
“Jack Ivers,” the man said, as Ruger approached. “AmSpec grunt. Glad to meet you.” He grasped the inset latch and twisted, and then put enough effort into shoving the heavy metal door that Ruger propped a hand over his shoulder and pushed, speeding the process considerably.
Of course, then he had to duck. Not even the Core, with its typically lavish appointments and luxuries, would dig an underground hallway any larger than it absolutely had to be.
This one sloped sharply downward, with fourteen-inch circles of solar tube lighting overhead—eventually they’d find the discreet plastic domes that served to collect and amplify the light. Darkened LED lights also lined the sides of the hall and the center of the ceiling. Wire mesh served to reinforce the packed dirt walls, anchored and slightly concave. The good, clean scent of dirt went a long way toward cleansing Ruger’s head of the inevitable stink of Core workings.
The stink when they entered the installation was another thing altogether. Harrison, the other AmSpec grunt, stood off to the side, his complexion gone a little gray. “All clear so far,” he told Ruger. “We’ve checked the amulet station and the animals.” He nodded at the place, a cavernous Quonset structure also lit by solar tubes, subdivided into distinct areas, and full of such dim corners and visual clutter that Ruger couldn’t immediately make sense of it all. “This is where they work; they don’t need to trip over their own amulets every time they turn around.”
Ruger merely made a noise deep in his throat, an absent acknowledgment. He understood, for the first time, what they faced in this newly emerged rogue—Forakkes, a man who currently defied his own Core as much as he defied the Sentinels. And he understood, for the first time, the truly terrifying nature of Katie’s vision. The pain of this place hit him in a miasma of feeling—all the wrongness, all the misery, all the reeling desperation, striking hard against his healer’s perceptions.
And I can’t do a damned thing about it.
He stood rooted, all his energy focused on just one thing—filtering out the need of this place so he could think.
“I left our friend outside the door,” Mariska said, speaking from behind him before she reached his end of the tunnel. “I didn’t find anything, but maybe a closer look—Oh, hell.” She came up beside Ruger and stared, openly stunned, at the structure spread out before them.
Crates lined the wall on the far end; in the corner stood shelving stacked with aquariums and terrariums. Additional shelves bore bags of esoteric kibble, and one organizational niche held a sophisticated and complex computer station while another held autopsy tables and a third held a wooden worktable and a series of wood cabinets. Closer to the entrance, several completely enclosed spaces looked as if they’d once been private quarters, and a large cage of stout bars still held not only straw and troughs, but the notable stench of javelina.
“What is that smell?” Mariska asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Collared peccary times ten or so,” Ruger told her, absurdly pleased to find he had complete control of his voice. “The creature Maks fought must have lived here. But there’s a lot more here than that.”
She nodded. “Death, for one.”
“Death, for one,” Ian echoed. “No kidding.” Then he pointed out the wooden worktable to his assistants. “That’s where we’ll want to start. I don’t want to touch anything today—it’s enough to see what we have to work with. We’ll make a plan and come at it tomorrow.” He headed that way, glancing over his shoulder at Ruger. “I suggest you do the same. Go slow.”
Mariska watched him—hesitating, for once, before she charged forward.
Then again, so was he.
“Look,” Mariska said, as they closed in on the rack of stacked crates; she nodded to the shelving that held the small animal cages. “Fresh bedding. They all have water. Maybe our guy was here to take care of them.”
“Doesn’t make sense.” Ruger pulled his thoughts together, pushing away the assault of misery. No wonder it had grabbed him so hard from the outside looking in—demanding help, demanding mercy—drawing him past the perception
