Rowan's glance traveled over the evidence of the violence and death that had gone on unchecked in the club earlier that night. That it was perpetrated by members of the Breed was obvious, but never in his hundred-plus years of life had he seen such brutal disregard for human life. The fact that the slayings had almost certainly been carried out by his fellow Enforcement Agents sickened him to his soul.
"And no one has come forward as a witness to what went on here?" he confirmed. "What about Taggart; isn't he usually manning the door most nights? He had to have seen something. Or any one of the other dozen Agents who frequent this place like it's going out of style?" "I don't know, sir."
Furious over all of it, Rowan wheeled on the Agent. "You don't know if they were here tonight, or you don't know if they're responsible for slaughtering these humans in the middle of goddamn Boston?"
"Um, neither, sir." The Agent's face blanched a bit under his superior's glare. "I wasn't sure where to begin with a situation like this. You were the first call I made."
Rowan blew out a frustrated sigh. The Agent was young, new to his post. Freshly promoted from the general ranks, he was afraid to step out of line or make a mistake. And he was devoted to justice, a rarity within the Agency these days, Rowan had to admit. He wondered how long the kid would maintain his sheen.
"It's okay, Ethan." He clapped the youth lightly on the shoulder. "You did the right thing here. Let's call in your team and start cleaning this mess up."
The Agent gave a brisk nod. "Yes, sir."
As he strode out to summon the others, Mathias Rowan took another long look at the bloodshed and death that surrounded him. It was heinous, what happened here. It was inexcusable. And he couldn't help feeling that the carnage bore the stamp of a villain he was coming to know all too well.
Dragos.
During the several months that Rowan had been covertly allying himself with the Order, he'd learned firsthand what Dragos was capable of - from the abduction and abuse of scores of innocent Breedmate females, to the recent attack on a local Darkhaven that took the lives of nearly everyone in that prominent Breed family.
And then there was the breach of the Order's secret headquarters by human law enforcement less than twenty-four hours ago.
More havoc instigated by Dragos.
Now this.
Rowan was certain Dragos was at the root of what went on here tonight. What better time for the devil to come out to play than when the Order had their hands full with a forced relocation of their compound and the surrender of one of their own to police custody? Rowan should have expected something like this. He should have been prepared to step in for Lucan and his warriors tonight, with half the Agency behind him.
Of course, that assumed half the Agency was still loyal to their oath of service. Rowan really wasn't sure about that, definitely not anymore. The Agency had not been without its share of problems over the many long decades of its existence. Bureaucratic, slow to move, far too political at times, it was the bloated, impotent cousin to the Order's lean, surgically precise efficacy as protectors of the Breed and humankind alike.
Corruption among the ranks was rampant, if festering below the surface. More and more, it was growing impossible to know who could be trusted. Good men did remain, but there were others - more than Rowan cared to admit - who hid their malfeasance behind a mask of Agency duty and authority. Dragos himself had been one of them, rising to one of the highest positions in the organization, and no doubt garnering a league of loyal followers, before the Order exposed him and sent him scurrying into deep hiding roughly a year ago.
No, Rowan thought grimly. There was no question that the mass slaughter tonight on Enforcement Agency turf was Dragos's way of pissing on both the Order and the Agency at the same time.
"Son of a bitch," he snarled into the tomblike silence of the club.
There was nothing to be done now, with morning about to break and the Order setting up temporary camp some five-plus hours north of Boston, but Lucan had to be informed of the situation.
Rowan pivoted away from the carnage and headed outside, passing the incoming team of Agents armed with body bags and cleanup equipment on his way to his vehicle. Once seated inside the sedan, he dialed a scrambled access line given to him by the Order. It rang through. "Gideon, it's Mathias Rowan," he said when the line connected on the other end. "We have a situation down here. Lucan isn't going to like it. Bad news, my friend, and it's got Dragos's name written all over it."
"SHIT, SHIT, SHIT." Tavia checked her watch again, impatiently waiting for the snarl of early morning commuters in front of her to step off the train at Boston's Government Center Station. It was almost 8:00 A.M., and she was late to work.
Definitely a first for her, although it wasn't as if she didn't have a good excuse. The stress of the past few days apparently was getting to her. She was still tense from the incident at the police station and Senator Clarence's odd behavior afterward.
The troubling dream hadn't done anything for her nerves either. While doubling down on her antianxiety meds had allowed her to sleep, it had also made her hit the snooze button on her alarm one too many times this morning.
She saw an opening in the slow-moving throng and dashed through it. Walking briskly, she crossed the snow-spattered bricks outside the terminal, rushing past a florist stand bursting with red and white poinsettias and evergreen wreaths. On the street, a brisk, cold wind blew, carrying the repetitive jingle of a Salvation Army bell from somewhere nearby and the smoky aroma of coffee beans and baked goods from the Starbucks on the corner. Tavia's stomach growled in response, but she headed in the opposite direction.