Dark Oracle by Alayna Williams Page B

quartz pebble tumbled into the shape of a perfect marble. Tracing its labyrinthine occlusions with her eyes, she breathed her intent into it. Find me someone who can lead me to Tara Sheridan.
    She knelt and set the marble on the floor. Giving it a nudge, she watched the marble roll a few feet from her. It wobbled and began to spiral, fanning outward as it wove behind the pool table, between feet, around chair legs. It spiraled more quickly, gaining speed as it traced its way through the peanut shells and cigarette butts. Finally, it came to rest against a polished black boot.
    Adrienne straightened and strode toward the owner of the boots.
    “You have a job for me.” It was a statement. Black hats never asked for jobs.
    Gabriel drained his drink and set it down on the scarred table. He gestured to the empty seat opposite him. “Have a seat.”
    Adrienne slid into the booth, placing both her hands on the table. She knew Gabriel from previous jobs. He liked to see people’s hands; it put him at ease. She waited for instructions.
    Gabriel lit a cigar, gave it a couple of puffs before he began with his terms. “I’ve got a problem. I need you to track someone for me. The daughter of a scientist. She’s being protected by a couple of rogue operators. They also have some data I want.”
    Gabriel shoved a grainy, folded-up photograph across the table. Many employers brought photos to black hat interviews. Some black hats were squeamish and superstitious, and would reject a target on sight, without explanation. Some wouldn’t work on assignments involving women or children. Adrienne knew one black hat who, for whatever reason, wouldn’t take out anyone who owned cats. Better to know at the interview than out in the field. “These are the operators.” A grainy surveillance photograph of some type showed what Adrienne assumed to be a military installation, bounded by a chain-link fence. The photograph captured a man and a woman standing outside the car. Adrienne didn’t know the crisp-suited Asian man, but she recognized Tara. Her quarry was looking off in the distance, a distracted expression on her face.
    “This is the primary target.” He flipped down a photo of a young woman clipped from a college newspaper. She was standing in a crowd, holding a sign protesting global warming.
    Adrienne smiled, but it did nothing to warm her cold eyes. “What are the terms?”
    “Loose. First priority is the data. Having the girl taken alive is negotiable. I prefer the rogue operators to be rendered inactive. Time’s of the essence on this contract.”
    “Rendered inactive” was bureaucratic double-speak for “dead.” And that was how Adrienne preferred it.
    “Terms accepted,” she told him.
    “O SCAR ?”
    Sophia’s key slid from the lock of Tara’s cabin. The tabby usually came running to her, winding between her ankles before she even had a chance to take her coat off. Sophia clomped the snow off her boots on the rug inside the door.
    “Oscar?”
    No cat. Alarm twitched through her. Tara would never forgive her if she’d let harm come to Oscar. It had been two days since she’d been here, and the tomcat had seemed perfectly hale and hearty. He’d coughed up a hairball in front of the refrigerator, but Sophia had thought it was normal—she’d never met a cat who couldn’t throw up at will. She glanced at his dishes. Still full.
    She peered underneath the couch, arthritic knees creaking. She opened the closet doors, peeked behind the fridge, and finally found a tight, furry gray ball under the bed. The ball didn’t respond when she spoke to it.
    “Oscar.” She reached under the bed. Please don’t let him be dead. . . Her lips worked around a prayer as her fingers grazed his ribs. He was still breathing. One amber eye peered up over his spine, and Oscar mewed.
    “Come here, baby.”
    Oscar slowly crawled out, ears flattened, into Sophia’s arms. He worked his way under her open coat and jammed his head into