Free No Rest for the Witches by Karina Cooper

was involved, but the guard was equipped with state-of-the-art body armor and a machine-pistol—one part pistol, one part machine gun. Military-grade and deadly as hell. The New Seattle Riot Force, as close to a military force as the metropolis had, carried them for the real big problems.
    Not standard Mission weaponry, last he knew.
    He turned, studying the interior of the warehouse. As far as he could tell in the dark, it was an open floor plan turned into a series of narrow corridors by the metal crates stacked within it. Near the center, a single fluorescent light guttered on and off—the humming voltage shorting through it sent up an echoing buzz throughout the complex. It made Silas’s teeth ache.
    Shadows loomed out from that flickering light. Corners of crates, some gaping open to reveal more shadows. More dark places where men could hide.
    He didn’t sigh. He wanted to. Adrenaline slid through his veins, wiping away any traces of ache and fear, but all he wanted to do was get in, get out, and go home.
    Where Jessie was waiting for him. Hopefully conscious.
    He rubbed the back of his neck with one large, callused hand.
    â€œHere.” Naomi pressed the machine-pistol into his hand. Her whisper barely disturbed the dusty, mote-ridden air, but she wrinkled her nose as her nostrils flared. The smell was awful: rotting refuse creeping in from the filthy alley beyond the broken window behind them, layers of dust and decay filling the warehouse.
    Nothing moved, and he didn’t like it.
    He took the weapon, checked it automatically. He didn’t need perfect sight to do it; the Mission had guaranteed he could fieldstrip a weapon one-handed and blind, if he had to. The metal clicked into place, sending echoes scattering out like ripples in the dark.
    Every hair on Silas’s neck lifted. The whole fucking thing smelled like a trap, but he’d seen nothing beyond this initial guard.
    Naomi passed him, easing through the dark like the hunter she’d been.
    She still didn’t carry a gun. He wasn’t sure how to bring it up, and wouldn’t now, but eventually, they’d have to discuss her viability in the field. Not a fight he was looking forward to having.
    Despite paranoia knocking between his shoulder blades, nothing triggered an alert. No sounds, no lights. No footsteps. Just the single light in the center.
    Which was enough of a gimme that he figured they were walking into some kind of shit storm.
    He followed Naomi into the maze of crates, caught her by the back of her black sweatshirt when she would have cut right through the heart.
    She waited. Enough of a blessing that he wouldn’t question why. She’d been leashed down so tight the whole ride up through the foundation streets. Violence simmered under her skin, so close he could practically feel it coming off her like radiation.
    But she met his eyes. Raised a silver-decorated eyebrow.
    He lifted two fingers, slid them in a line towards the center. When her eyes narrowed, he pointed at her and mimicked a semi-circle.
    â€œHell—”
    He cut off her heated whisper with a hard look and slash across his throat.
    Full mouth thinning into a white line, she shook her head and signed a curt message he didn’t have to see all of to read. He’d fuck himself later—better yet, he’d go home and lose himself in Jessie for a few hours. Drown in her whiskey eyes and sweet voice and warm body.
    Right now, he had other pressing matters.
    Raising the gun to his shoulder, he reached out and caught a fistful of her sweatshirt, pulling her forward until they were practically nose to nose. He didn’t have to say anything. Though one gloved hand wrapped around his wrist, she jerked her chin up. Bared her teeth.
    But she was trembling against him.
    Damn it. Naomi was losing her shit, and he couldn’t afford it. “Cool it,” he ordered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Or get out.”
    She