On Midnight Wings by Adrian Phoenix Page A

Purcell pointed out. “Sounds like you stumbled across a copy of True Blood Psychos for Dummies in the bargain bin at Barnes & Noble. Care to share?”
    “Psycho,” Díon rolled the word slowly as though tasting it. “Given that the whole purpose behind Bad Seed was to create sociopaths, I’d think that you’d be proud of S. But it sounds like you resent him for being what he was conditioned to be. Did you feel the same contempt for the human members of Bad Seed—before they were permanently retired?”
    Folding his arms over his chest, Purcell shook his head. “See . . . I always thought Bad Seed was one huge fucking mistake—not that my input was sought, needed, or welcomed. Creating sociopaths to study them? What bullshit. That was never the plan.”
    “But creating them to use and control was?”
    “Bingo. The day that I transferred out of the project to become Underwood’s assistant was a good day. But I never forgot S. Never forgot what he was capable of. Or what he was programmed to do. Fucking little psycho.”
    Díon shrugged. “I’m not convinced that term applies to Baptiste. He did everything he could to keep away from Violet, despite his hunger and blood loss. Hardly the actions of a psycho.”
    “That’s what he wants you to think. S is just playing games with us. You don’t know him the way I do. Let your guard down and I promise you, that fucking psycho you’re so busy defending will tear your heart out and eat it.”
    “Hence the resin,” Díon pointed out. “I have no intentionof letting my guard down. And I’m not defending, merely trying to understand. Know thy enemy, yes?”
    “Definitely,” Purcell agreed, holding the interrogator’s gaze. “Always wise.” But S wasn’t the enemy as far as Purcell was concerned, only an evil in need of eradication. Díon, on the other hand, was another story entirely—especially since Purcell had an ever-deepening suspicion that Díon had somehow caused Underwood’s fatal stroke.
    She never would’ve told Díon about our plans. Never would’ve included anyone else. Not when our lives depended on no one ever finding out we were behind it.
    “Looks like we’re going to have to try something else where Baptiste is concerned,” Díon said. “This bit with ‘Chloe’ didn’t work.”
    Purcell glanced sourly at the blank monitor. “Even if the bastard had killed the kid, I never thought it would break him. He survived Chloe’s loss the first time he murdered her.”
    “Which is why I wanted Heather Wallace,” Díon said. “For now, let’s get Violet out of that room, then send a medic to clear Baptiste’s lungs.”
    Activating the com set hooked around his ear with a touch, Purcell issued the orders, making certain his men understood that restraining S was their first order of business. “Don’t hesitate to put another bullet in his skull, if necessary. And get that goddamned T-shirt off the camera.”
    Purcell caught a whiff of Díon’s cologne—a hint of vanilla spice and dandelions—when the interrogator moved from the wall to rest one hip against the edge of the control panel. “Have you heard anything yet from your Bureau contacts about where James Wallace might’ve taken his daughter?” he asked.
    “The Bureau’s official line is that Special Agent James Wallace is on leave while he tends to personal matters,” Purcell replied. “Wallace didn’t say where he was going or what he was doing, and his SAC probably didn’t ask, but whether it was by GPS tag or a tail, you can bet your well-tailored ass he knows.”
    “No doubt.”
    “But the only way we’re going to find out where Wallace went is for you to fly to the Portland field office and extract the information directly from the SAC’s mind.” Purcell shook his head. “Forget Heather Wallace.”
    “No, she’s key to breaking Baptiste.”
    “You’re wrong,” Purcell stated matter-of-factly. “I doubt Heather Wallace is anything more than a piece of