Fired Up (Dreamlight Trilogy #1)(42)
Author: Jayne Ann Krentz

Wheels of fruit whirled, bells clanged. The bulked-up biker had just won. Probably all of ten bucks, Jack thought. No telling how much money the guy had poured into the machine before getting the pay-off. But it would probably be enough to make him hit play again. He would feed all ten dollars back into the slot. That was how gambling worked. You only had to win occasionally to keep you coming back for more: the theory of intermittent reinforcement in action.

On the landing, he brought Chloe to a halt and looked back down into the lobby. Instead of hitting play again, the heavily muscled man in leather and denim was collecting his winnings. He walked outside and disappeared from view. So much for the theory of intermittent reinforcement.

Jack put his mouth close to Chloe’s ear. “Take a look at the slot that guy was using.”

She peered down into the lobby. “What about it?” she asked, equally soft. “Looks like every other slot machine I’ve ever seen.”

“Use your other sight.”

“Oh, right.”

Energy swirled delicately in the atmosphere around him as she slipped into her other senses. Like some subtle, exotic perfume, it aroused him and stirred the hair on the back of his neck in a very intimate way. A man could get used to this feeling real fast.

“Oh, geez,” Chloe whispered.

She shivered and stepped back quickly, coming up hard against his chest. He steadied her.

“What did you see?” he asked.

“Heavy splashes of dreamlight all over the machine. The man is definitely a talent and he was running hot, but the colors are very strange.”

“Define strange.”

“Abnormal. Sick. Wrong. I can’t explain it. It reminds me of the unwholesome energy I’ve seen in the footsteps and handprints of some mentally unstable people on the streets. But it’s not quite the same. I’m guessing the guy who was playing that slot is using some major pharmaceuticals. Judging by all those muscles, probably steroids.”

He thought about that for a few seconds. “Not the kind of operative Fallon Jones would hire. Maybe there are such things as coincidences. You’re sure the guy is a talent?”

“I can’t tell you what kind of sensitive he is, but, hey, this is Vegas. Maybe he’s a probability-talent who makes his living playing the odds here. If he’s got a gambling addiction, that might explain the sickness I saw in his energy.”

“I don’t like it.” He turned to continue down the hall, reaching for his key. “Let’s go. I want us out of here as soon as possible.”

She halted abruptly.

“Jack,” she whispered, her voice strained.

He stopped. “What?”

She wasn’t looking at him. Instead she was staring at the floor of the hall with an uneasy expression.

“More psi prints,” she said softly. “Same bad energy.”

“He was up here?”

“No. Someone else.” She looked toward the far end of the corridor. “The prints came from the direction of the emergency stairwell, not the lobby stairs. But it’s the same kind of sick dreamlight. This is so creepy.”

“So much for the coincidence theory,” he said.

They both contemplated the doors of the adjoining rooms.

“He went into number fourteen,” she said quietly. “No exit footsteps. He’s still inside.”

29

“FALLON JONES, YOU SON OF A BITCH,” JACK SAID.

He kept his voice very low, barely audible, but he felt rather than saw Chloe flinch in response. In a heartbeat he was in the zone, his senses operating at full throttle. He knew she could feel the energy that he was pushing although it was still unfocused.

“What now?” she whispered.

He looked at her. “Put your key into the lock of number fourteen and make some noise. Pretend you’re having trouble opening the door.”

“Jack—”

“Just do it.”

He set the duffel bag and his computer case on the floor beside her and went down the hall toward the door of the adjoining room.

She took her key out of her pocket and went to fourteen. She made a production of trying to unlock the room.

“There’s something wrong,” she said loudly, rattling the doorknob. “The key isn’t working. We’ll have to go downstairs and get another one.”

Jack shoved his key into the lock of the second room. He was running hot, but until he located a human target he could not use his power effectively. The laws of para- physics were hard-core when it came to using talent. To make it work you had to focus on another person or, as in the case of Chloe’s talent, on the residue of psi left by that individual. You couldn’t just broadcast a field of energy and use it as a shield or a weapon of mass destruction. Anyone passing him in the hall at this moment would probably have been aware of a strange, unsettling sensation in the vicinity, but that was about it.

He slammed open the door and went into the room, moving as low and fast as possible.

The bastard was in the adjoining room, gun aimed at the door. When he heard Jack he whipped around with lightning speed, aiming through the opening between the rooms.

Hunter, Jack thought. The guy was seriously bulked up on steroids like the biker downstairs.

He sensed the intruder was starting to pull the trigger, but he had a fix now. He slammed the full force of his talent at the gunman, hitting him with a river of focused energy.

The man stiffened, as though electrified. His eyes bulged as he stared into the abyss of his own nightmares. His mouth opened in a silent scream, but he was already going unconscious.

He managed to get off one shot before he fell to the floor. Jack heard a pffft and a thud as the bullet plowed into the bed behind him. Silencer. The guy had come prepared.

The intruder crumpled, unmoving, to the carpet.

Jack got to his feet and went cautiously forward. He crouched beside the gunman and started going through his pockets.

Chloe appeared in the doorway of the connecting rooms. She had her satchel in one hand, the duffel slung over her shoulder and his computer case tucked under her arm.

“Is he—?” she whispered.

“No. Unconscious.” He abandoned the clothing search, picked up the gun and got to his feet. “But I don’t know how long he’ll be out. Now we really need to move fast.”

“Okay.”

She gave him the duffel and the computer case and rushed across the room to where her carry-on stood open. She started to zip it closed.

“Leave it,” he said. “A suitcase will slow us down.”