Proof of Life (The Potentate of Atlanta #4) - Hailey Edwards Page 0,23
was a possibility, but it fit that an enforcer overheard a rumor about their date night and set their plans in motion. An enforcer would also have known ahead of time when the Knoxville pack was in town, and how much chaos they brought with them. An enforcer could have made certain they were in the lobby, hidden in plain sight, to overhear any plans that were made. That could explain why the bar blew after Hadley left.
A bomb took time to place, set, and detonate. To get in and out again on the fly would prove difficult. To go undetected? Almost impossible. Unless you were a local the visitors had recognized and dismissed as a threat.
Had the Knoxville pack’s arrival sparked this latest outbreak of violence? Or was the coven lashing out in response to Hadley’s family visiting? Either way, the combination formed a perfect storm of distractions.
“What are you thinking so hard about?”
Midas glanced over at Hadley to discover they had circled back around to the Faraday. “Everything.”
“I get that.” She took his hand. “Are you up for visiting Abbott with me?”
“You just don’t want to be alone with him.”
“He’s started harping on me taking vitamins,” she grumbled. “How does that make me less flammable?”
“Maybe he wants you to live a long and healthy life, flame retardation aside?”
“Please?” She leaned in and fluttered her lashes at him. “I’ll pay for your cooperation in hot wings.”
Neither of them had felt up to eating on patrol, but a headache was settling in from the lack of calories.
“Only if you spring for extra ranch.” He led her to the elevator. “Abbott is only pushy because he cares.”
“He’s worse than a mother hen.” Her shoulders drooped. “Always pecking at me.”
The doors slid open on Abbott, who stood waiting for them, and she greeted him with a low groan.
“How did you know?” She curled her lip at the pills on his palm. “It was Hank, wasn’t it?”
Mumbling death threats, she picked up the red and purple children’s chewable vitamins and ate them.
Midas kept his tone light. “Flintstones?”
“She won’t swallow pills.” Abbott held up a bottle. “This is the only brand she’ll accept.”
“Vitamins are horse pills,” she complained. “Plus, they taste funny.”
“Mom takes these individually wrapped cubes that resemble Snickers bars. Mybite, maybe?”
Hadley snapped her heads toward him. “What?”
“Hey.” Hands up, Midas stepped back. “I would have mentioned it sooner if I had known.”
“Find me that brand,” she bargained with Abbott, “and I solemnly swear I will devour nougaty vitamins of my own free will.”
“Done.” He dug out his phone and sent a text. “I’ll forward the information after Tisdale verifies.”
“Thank you.” She worked her mouth like the remaining grit bothered her. “Now, we have to talk.”
Mood brighter, Abbott led them to his office. “Come on in.”
Once Hadley and Midas sank into their respective chairs, Abbott shut them in and locked the door.
Leaning forward, Hadley asked, “Have you made any progress on field testing for hosts?”
“Yes and no.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “We have a test that’s accurate four out of five times.”
“That sounds good.”
“The problem is how the test is administered.” He linked his hands on his lap. “Accuracy is dependent on a fresh blood sample akin to a diabetic pricking their finger to test their blood sugar levels.”
“Not exactly inconspicuous,” Midas said, reasoning it out. “The host and—whatever we’re calling the skins being worn—would know they had screwed up and were under suspicion.”
“Blood sugar testing takes seconds.” Hadley frowned. “It would be harder for them to dodge us than if we had to send off samples for results.”
“I doubt they would let it get that far.” Midas crossed his ankle over his knee. “They would see the finger stick and bolt. Or attack.”
A close cousin to amusement brightened her face. “That would make it even easier to spot them.”
“Unless they suffer trypanophobia,” Abbott explained at their blank expressions. “Fear of needles?”
“Okay,” Hadley rallied, “so it’s an imperfect solution.”
“Right now, the kit consists of a lancing device, lancets, and a meter,” Abbott explained. “I have one.”
“One meter?” Hadley bounced her leg. “Or one to spare?”
“Both.” Abbott rose to his feet. “You can use the prototype, should an opportunity present itself.”
“I’m not sure how much good it will do.” She held out her hand. “It can’t hurt, though.”
Actually, it would hurt. A lot. For such tiny needles, they inflicted a disproportionate amount of pain.
Abbott lifted a finger and left the room, and her arm dropped to her side as she