“Okay, okay. I got it.” Having passed what could be described as irritated ten minutes ago, when the call came in, and now squarely in the zone of ‘pissed off’, Rhiannon pressed the red button on her phone to end the conversation. She raked fingers into her hair and gulped a deep breath. Since coming to Nevada, effectively severing the formal connection between herself and her mother’s family, things had gone radio silent. Now contact had resumed, with Rhiannon agreeing to run an op on their behalf in exchange for cash, and although it carried on through the buffer of a phone line and 1,800 miles, things were strained. The hunter was remembering the reasons why she left.
An idea occurred to her, that maybe she’d skip the middleman next time and work directly with her family’s contacts. It had some merit. Plus, it was bound to tick them off, and that part appealed the most. She pushed off the wall of the Milling and Mining coffee shop and set off on foot for the El Rey motel, a quiet figure in boots, dark jeans, and a cobalt tank top. Rhiannon wound her fingers through her hair for a quick braid.
The exchange had been arranged last week. Rhiannon was to meet Tom Sandler, a paunchy fifty-something guy who made his living shilling rare artifacts and weapons for cash, in the parking lot of the motel. He was infamous for selling to whomever was buying all over the American southwest; the man didn’t discriminate. This time, the Corrigans were the highest bidders. Rhiannon had spoken to him once in the Blindeye Diner, so she knew that she was looking for a pick-up truck, one that would pull off highway 95 long enough to make the hand-off.
She rounded the corner of the hotel by the ice machine and checked the lot. The truck was parked across the way. ‘Huh’... A pair of legs stuck out. Above them, a brunette figure squatted over the contents of a case. Not just any brunette, but one with fangs and an unbelievable superiority complex.
“Katherine, you ass!” Rhiannon yelled, taking off in a run.