Free Brighid's Flame by Cate Morgan

been the next logical step on a well-planned road.
    No, his ire was directed at Gwen. Only she could have shaken Vincent’s confidence in him, shaken Tara’s unquestioning loyalty. Only she could have made Tara and that brilliant milksop Stephen so irrevocably disappear.
    Julien hated to have his routine interrupted, his neat plans derailed. In fact, he paid a lot of people a great deal of money to ensure his life ran smoothly. This was a hitch at a critical juncture he could ill afford. Tara had been a languid, melting armful in his possession, and now she was gone.
    Tara was absolutely central to Julien’s plans for the city. He’d assured his supporters in the government and among the city’s elite who didn’t share Vincent’s vision that he could make of New York an empire to be carved between them like a Thanksgiving turkey—as long as it was Julien wielding the carving knife. Vincent, sentimental romantic that he was, seemed to sincerely believe the city belonged to is citizens.
    At first glance, all was business as usual. He worked at his desk with the heavy drapes drawn shut against the cold steel winter beyond his windows, and tried to focus. Video conferences with potential allies and enemies alike, plans for revitalizing Fifth Avenue to its former prime, which would include the relocation of its current occupants. He would need to go on a hiring binge in the security department before long. The idea of his own personal army pleased him.
    And all the while, he waited impatiently for word.
    It finally came, interrupting a discussion via satellite feed about diverting funds from the Liberty restoration budget to the Fifth Avenue project. It wasn’t going well—no one said so outright, but it was clear that as long as Vincent was still in charge, no one was willing to act against him.
    â€œGwen is no longer an issue,” he assured the four worried faces staring out at him from his video frame. “In fact, she is in the process of being resolved as we speak.”
    The second, empty frame on his gentlemen’s desk flickered to life as one of the faces mouthed empty platitudes. Julien interrupted him with an excuse and bowed out of the meeting.
    â€œAgent Carson,” Julien greeted the man. A field of unclear grays and blacks served as background, with what appeared to be an abandoned subway vehicle off to one side. “You have news?”
    â€œWe tracked her last signal not far from here,” Carson reported, handsome face smug with anticipated success. “Found debris from an earpiece, identified as hers by the serial number on the chip. Looks like Miss Fitzpatrick put up quite the fight, but was ultimately taken. Outnumbered, most like.”
    Pride warred with disappointment. “So she didn’t just disappear—she’s a hostage.”
    â€œBy the Underground, sir.”
    â€œI want these people stopped, Agent.” Julien pressed his palm against the padding and bandages against his chest for emphasis.
    Carson gave him a curt, professional nod. “Understood, sir. Their warren has been evacuated recently, just a matter of hours. They know we’re after them, which leads me to believe they know exactly who they have.”
    â€œWe still have Nearly Nick in custody?”
    Another sharp nod. “Would you like him interrogated again, sir?”
    â€œYes. As hard as possible.”

Chapter Six
    Nearly Nick Santos swayed drunkenly in a dented metal folding chair, remaining upright only because he was tied viciously in place, the rope cutting deep into the soft tissue of his limbs. He no longer had any perception of day or night. His meals arrived at irregular intervals, and just when he finally stepped on the brink of sleep, floodlights filled his cement cell with their unholy light, burning his retinas even with his eyes clamped shut. It felt like days since he’d last had a sip of the fetid quarry water they’d been