LITMIR.BIZ

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the elevator, she made a quick appraisal. Not bad, but not perfect either. Much as she loathed being judged for her looks alone, around men like Gibby, her image was her armor.

      “Good, you’re here,” said Jackson, startling her, his heavy footsteps beating a loud rhythm behind her. Subtlety was not one of his character traits. “I need to talk to you.”

      Three boxes of sugary cereal balanced precariously in his bulging arms, along with spoons, a half gallon of milk and two bowls large enough for popcorn. Without waiting, he brushed past her and headed toward the game room.

      “Listen,” she said, following him. “I’d appreciate it if you’d try to be a good example for the new guys. I know it must be hard, but for godsake, you’re the acting field team leader. They look up to you. The least you could do is encourage them to follow procedure. They’re in place for a reason.”

      “What are you talking about?”

      “Kip, that’s who I’m talking about. He used to be so responsible, but hanging out with you, he’s—”

      “Hold on. All this … it’s slipping.” The snake tattoo on his biceps, with its open mouth, fangs and forked tongue, looked eager to be eating Tony the Tiger as Jackson juggled everything.

      She grabbed the bowls from him. “And why didn’t you give me a heads-up that Gibby was here? You know I can’t stand him.”

      “What? I figured you knew. Sensed him or smelled him or something. Sorry.” With a snap of his head, Jackson flicked his hair out of his face, blond and gold highlights mingling with the brown, the splayed-out ends settling back along the top of his shoulders. Ever since he’d dated that chick who worked at one of Seattle’s top hair salons, the guy had been addicted to funky highlights. Two weeks ago they’d been various shades of blue.

      “I did, but … not soon enough. I’ve got a head cold. I would’ve changed into something else before I came over.”

      He gave her a quick head-to-toe. “What are you talking about?”

      How could she explain it to someone so obtuse? No use beating around the bush with him—he’d never get it. “Because you’re all used to seeing me like this, eh? We hang out together and have a good time. But the guy’s a total Richard. Sorry, he is. It makes me uncomfortable when I know I could look better.”

      “That’s dumb. You look hot.”

      Oh man, why had she even bothered?

      She followed him into the game room, half expecting to see Kip inside. Without looking up, Val Gibson leaned over the pool table and took a shot. He didn’t bother to acknowledge her, so she returned the favor and stayed silent.

      After setting the bowls on the wet bar, she leaned against the doorjamb and absently flicked the tiny chain hanging from her navel while her annoyance grew. This better be fast. I’m sick of him already.

      Jackson held up two boxes and looked at the cartoon characters on the front as if trying to decide which was more worthy. Evidently he couldn’t make up his mind because he dumped some of each into his bowl.

      She cleared her throat. “Jacks, you had something you needed to—”

      “You gonna take a shot or not?” Gibby asked Jackson, interrupting her as if she’d never spoken.

      Her skin prickled. She plucked a stray blond hair from her sleeve as she counted backward from ten to one.

      “In a sec,” Jackson said to him. “Lil, did you hear DBs might be looking for Trackers to help them locate sweetbloods? Wanted to make sure you watch your back when you’re out.”

      “Yeah, they want to bring you over to the dark side,” Gibson said in a faux announcer’s accent, like the whole thing was a joke. He dumped at least a half box of cereal into his bowl, then held up the carton of milk and poured it in a slow, steady stream.

      Oh please, did he need to make sure each piece was coated? She gladly tore her eyes away as Jackson continued.

      “They’re looking to convert Trackers. Use them like, well, bloodhounds—tracking and finding sweetbloods. They’re branching out to places not previously popular with Darkbloods. Building up their blood inventory levels, I guess.”

      Gibby had discovered that? It sounded way too covert for a musclehead like him to be in on. “Converting Trackers? How’d you get that intel, Gibby?”

      “Ah, he didn’t.” Jackson kept his head down and stuffed a large spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “Alfonso called.”

      “Alfonso?” The blood drained from her face and she felt light-headed for a moment.

      Why should it be surprising that her former lover didn’t want to deal with her and went straight to Jackson with this news? Acutely aware of a sudden ache deep inside, she folded her arms tightly across her chest and kicked at the carpet nap with the toe of her flip-flop. She most definitely didn’t have feelings for him any longer—just anger at herself that she’d been gullible enough to ever believe he felt the same way about her. She may have thought she loved him once, but not any longer. Not after what he’d done. “How did he hear that?”

      Jackson stirred his cereal. “He ran into a couple of DBs who told him right before he wasted them. But Gibby says a Tracker disappeared just last week down in the San Diego office, so it could be happening all over. Maybe it’s a new tactic they’re trying.”

      Gibson took a bite and wiped a trickle of milk from his chin with the back of his hand. “I thought you guys were friends with benefits since you were his handler in the Agency for … how many years? You guys broke up, huh?”

      She was not about to discuss her failed love life with Gibby. Especially not after those nightmarish few months with Steven in San Francisco—what the hell had she been thinking trying to start something back up with Zoe’s father? Clearly, she had poor taste in men. She was ready to call it quits in the relationship department altogether.

      It was her turn to ignore Gibby. Flexing her fists, she directed her question to Jackson. “How do DBs think they can get an Agency-trained Tracker to work for them?”

      “Probably by getting them addicted to Sweet,” Jackson said. “Gorge on enough of it and it’s as difficult to kick as a meth or heroin addiction. You’ll do just about anything to get more. Alfonso said they do that type of coercion a lot.”

      He should know. That’s exactly what they did to him.

      With the cereal bowl in one hand and his thumb on the spoon to keep it from slipping inside, Jackson approached her. “He was really worried about you, Lil,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I think if I hadn’t told him you’re training someone—that you haven’t been on patrol alone lately—and that you’re off the schedule for the next few days, he may have come here himself. He asked if you were going up to your parents’ house to see Zoe.”

      “And what did you tell him?”

      “I told him I thought you were. He chilled out a little after that.”

      Alfonso was worried about her? She highly doubted it. He was aware she had a black belt in Krav Maga and, as far as he knew, she was still one of the Agency’s top Trackers.

      “What’s Gibby doing here then?” The guy worked out of the San Diego office most of the time, and she wished he would’ve stayed there.

      “He flew up for the MMA fights. We’ve got ringside seats. It’s gonna be on HBO. You should watch it and see if you can see us.”

      “So what do you say, princess?” Gibson called from across the room, raising his thick eyebrows. “Wanna hook up? I’ll show you what a real man is capable of.”

      “If you’re the definition of a real man, then I’m going to bat for the other team. Jacks, for the life of me, I can’t figure out why you’re friends with a guy like him.”

      “The

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