Page 68 of Whispers at Dusk
“No,” Mason said quietly. “You need to be here. This is where you can help us the most.”
“He’s right. Stay here, Frasier, please! We need you at a base where they might come,” Robertson said.
They left MacLean and his rental house, hitting the street again.
“This is my fault. I should have said something to him. He could have stopped them somehow, if he’d just known—”
“You might have gotten your friend and Lydia killed right then and there, Detective. Now we have a chance. Let’s start moving.”
“There are eleven pubs in Kirkwall proper,” Robertson said. “Plus, the new one. We’re going to have to split up if we’re hoping to trace them.”
“There’s a place right down there. I’ll head that way,” Della offered.
“Two blocks up and—”
“Robertson,” Mason said, “we’ll pull up maps. I’ll take the north, you take the south, and let Bisset know to stay where he is and send Taylor and Lapierre to the east and west. We’ll cover them all, and the streets, and it’s early, so...”
“My fault!” Robertson replied.
“No! He has a method in his blood-taking. If he’s going to drug her, he has to get her to a pub,” Della said. “Ian! Seriously, if this guy is spooked, he’ll kill without thought. This way, we have a chance. You are at no fault! This is our best chance yet!”
She hurried off to the pub she’d indicated.
Mason watched her go, longing to stop her. He wasn’t perfect, and he wasn’t inhuman. He had felt fear, especially when he’d first gone into the military.
But he didn’t often feel it for himself, not because he was stupid, but because he was good at what he did and didn’t behave recklessly.
Della wasn’t reckless, but she was daring. And while he had wanted so badly to protect himself—to never lose another partner—she had become so much more than a partner; in just a couple of days, she was his strange best friend.
He had to trust her. Had to trust her ability. While most police in Scotland and the United Kingdom were not armed, specially trained officers, Robertson among them, did carry weapons. Jackson Crow had seen to it his agents were armed here as they had been in Norway, because they weren’t going to be on the hunt for a monster without recourse.
She was smart, wary...
And determined.
“Mason?” Robertson said.
“Right! And she’s right. Della is right. Now yes, we move!”
She was his partner, an exceptional partner. And if he was going to keep her, he had to give her all the respect he expected in return.
He moved on. They were close. So damned close. Maybe, just maybe...
The call came just before Della entered the pub on Bridge Street.
She frowned at her phone. She didn’t recognize the number, and it wasn’t in her caller ID, but she decided she needed to answer it. The call was from somewhere in the European Union.
“Hamilton,” she said.
“Ah, and there you are, lovely lass, the one and only Special Agent Della Hamilton!” a voice said. It was rich and masculine, deep, and threatening.
“Ah, would this be Stephan Dante by any chance?” she asked. Was it him? How had he gotten her number, and where was he that he’d dare call her?
He had seen them. He knew they’d all split up.
She hit the tiny button on her phone that would record their session. Maybe, just maybe he would think she couldn’t do such a thing, not out on the street with just her cell phone.
“Dear God, no. Stephan Dante was a pathetic nerd, bullied by everyone out there, including the popular girls!”
