I pursed my lips.
"Deidre," Michael insisted in a low voice, almost a growl. His face was hidden in the shadows, but the gray of his eyes caught the light. The hard lines of Michael's face, which I'd been so attracted to, looked menacing now. I wondered if I'd made the right choice, after all.
"I made a deal with the devil to bring these lights down," Michael continued. "Don't make my sacrifice meaningless. Let's get out of here while we still can."
I grabbed the shoe. Wedging it on, I felt a sticky wetness curl around my toes. I was grateful for the darkness as I hauled myself into the maw of the anteroom. I slid onto a table headfirst and banged my already bruised chin.
"You know," I said loudly. Finding the edge of the table with my fingers, I pulled my legs around and felt for the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about sacrifice for. Mouse gets credit for this brownout, so don't go attaching your sig file to it just yet."
I had just stumbled onto the floor, when I heard Michael vault easily onto the tabletop. He landed with a soft sound that belied his obvious mass. A quip about how much I despised his cyberware advantage died on my lips as I suddenly remembered the strange infrared I'd gotten from the FBI agent's vantage point. That image was nothing like the normal readout on a cyborg. Even the best shadow-ops hardware could only reduce body temperature a few degrees. Michael's body appeared as cold as the rest of the room, all except that strange bright center.
"You nuclear-powered, big guy?" I asked quietly.
I heard the sound of leather against leather as Michael moved around the small room.
"I found the door," he announced in lieu of a response.
There was a loud popping sound as Michael forced the lock. The hallway was illuminated by a thin string of battery-operated lights.
"If we get out of here, you'll tell me exactly what you are, Michael."
"If we stand here arguing about it, that isn't going to happen, now is it?"
Twisting my mouth into a grimace I hoped he could see, I pushed past him. "Follow me."
We were lucky that the door Michael found opened into a back hallway. Despite the evidence of Dorshak's raise, it seemed the police department never got that remodeling money they'd been begging tor since my days on the force. It took me three seconds to remember the layout. I'd be more surprised at my ability for recall, if it wasn't for the fact I spent most of my dream time still walking these halls.
"This way," I told Michael. I slipped off my shoes and took off at a run. My pounding strides made a sharp slapping sound on the concrete floor. Over my shoulder, I shouted, "Let's take this deeper into the station. It should be deserted, what with most people trying to get out. Plus, it will give me a second to hunt up some files. From there, I want to find ..."
The backup generator interrupted me. The machine groaned deep within the station walls. The lights flickered, then sprang back to life. In the brilliant electric flash, someone appeared in my path. I instantly recognized his coppery, shoulder-length hair and handsome, arrogant features. He still wore the Armani suit from this morning's escapade at the restaurant. A tiny dab of mustard on his lapel was the only sign of his scuffle with Michael. Otherwise,
he looked impeccable.
"Morningstar." I slid to a stop. "Where the hell did you come from?"
"Exactly," he murmured with a laugh. It was a dry, feathery sound, decidedly unpleasant. Turning to Michael, he said, "You squandered the opportunity I gave you, Michael. I hope you don't think that nullifies our deal."
"He's the one you made a deal with?" I jabbed my thumb in the direction of Morningstar's chest. Michael didn't acknowledge me, but I could tell by the fierce way he stared at Morningstar that it was true. "Oh, Michael."
Now I understood. It was no wonder Michael had been acting emotionally closed off. He'd gone back to the "family." I only prayed, for Michael's sake, his deal didn't involve another job with the Mafia.
Though his expression was impassive, Michael's eyes searched Morningstar's face, "As long as Jibril is free."
"He proved much more decisive than you, dearest brother, albeit not as much of a team player." Morningstar smirked. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he added, "Jibril has flown the coop. He's long gone."
Michael's jaw flexed. "Don't call me that."
"What? 'Brother'? We're made from the same stuff, Michael. You can hardly deny that."
I felt absent from this conversation, almost invisible, yet totally absorbed, just as I had at the restaurant. Michael and Morningstar dominated whatever space they occupied. It was as though the sheer power of their personalities muffled the very fabric of the universe.
I made my living noticing things other people didn't, but I never even heard the cops approaching until they were right in front of me. Even then, they had to shout in order to get my attention.
"You there!"
I jumped at the sound. Two plainclothes stood at the end of the hall. Their standard-issue guns already drawn, they stood like partners who'd been together for a long time. The older one stayed slightly behind and a little to the left, watching their backs, yet ready to cover the front.