The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) Brad Magnarella (ink book reader txt) 📖

the file and dropped into the chair next to mine. He flipped it open and frowned over the list. “And you’re sure the mother’s one of these?”

“Almost positive,” Vega said.

“Where’d you get the info?”

“A nightclub owner named Sonny,” Vega said. “The one we talked to earlier.”

Hoffman nodded and tucked the folder under an arm. “I’m on it.” Halfway to the door, he stopped and turned. “Oh hey, were you able to find your kid?”

“Yeah,” Vega said.

“And he’s all right?”

Vega’s eyes dropped to the folder. “He will be.”

“Good to hear, good to hear.”

I waited until Hoffman left and I heard the elevator door close behind him before holding up my trembling cane. “It’s locked onto the folder.”

“And I was able to pair to his cell,” Vega said, showing me her smartphone.

“All right, but keep that thing away from me. I don’t want to mess it up.”

Vega was preparing to say something when the phone rang. She raised a finger for silence and carried the phone to the far corner of the office before activating the speaker.

Someone picked up.

“Yeah?” a man’s voice asked.

“I’ve got the file,” Hoffman said through the crackling exchange.

“Good. You know where to drop it.”

“I’ll have it there in a few,” Hoffman said.

Vega swore under her breath as she put the phone away.

I stood. “Sounds like the hunt is on.”

Vega drove while I aimed my cane out the window, calling out the turns. The streets were practically deserted, one of the reasons for the hunting spell. Hoffman would have spotted us had we tried to tail him.

The spell directed us into Little Italy and down Broome Street, confirming my suspicions.

“There he is,” Vega said, easing off the gas. Blocks ahead, a blue sedan was turning left, brake lights glimmering red off the still-wet asphalt.

“He’s already made the drop,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“Because my cane’s pulling us to that corner.”

In fact, my cane was jerking like it had hooked a marlin. I choked up my grip to keep the spell from yanking the cane from my hands.

Vega pulled up to the corner and idled.

“The mailbox,” I said, cane aimed at the squat blue receptacle bolted into the concrete.

“All right, we’ll put eyes on it.” She drove through the intersection and U-turned at the next one, parking in front of the rolled-down steel door of a butcher shop about a half block from the box.

She killed the lights and engine.

“The son of a bitch lied to my face,” she said.

“Hoffman?”

“You were there. He looked me straight in the eyes and told me he had nothing to do with Moretti.” She shook her head. “And I trusted him. When this is over, his ass is history.”

“I know I don’t consult on hirings and firings, but that sounds fine with me.”

“Shh,” Vega said, sliding down in her seat.

I did the same and peeked over the dashboard. Headlights were swimming into view from straight ahead. We slid even lower as the car behind the lights took shape—a classic sports car. At the corner with the mailbox, the car cut right and droned out of sight. I glanced over at Vega as I scooted back up.

“False alarm?”

“Stay down,” she said. “The driver’s probably circling to make sure he’s not being tailed.”

She was right. The same headlights reappeared a minute later. This time, the car pulled up to the corner. A man in a hat and coat got out of the passenger’s seat, looked around, and hunkered on the far side of the mailbox. Seconds later, he stood and returned to the car, a familiar-looking folder in hand.

“Recognize him?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s one of Moretti’s men. How’s your spell holding up?”

“Should be good for another thirty.” I watched the car turn left onto Bowery.

“Moretti’s place isn’t far from here, but they’ll probably tool around the neighborhood for a little to make sure no one’s following.”

We gave them a few minutes’ head start before Vega pulled from the curb.

My cane tugged us north onto Bowery. Following a couple of jags, we ended up on Second Avenue, skirting the worst of the East Village. Blocks away, ghouls rummaged through garbage piles. They were getting bolder, something that was going to become a problem for Mayor Lowder as eyewitness accounts increased and more New Yorkers went missing.

When the spires of Midtown rose around us, Vega asked, “Still north?”

I could hear the uncertainty in her voice. We were miles from Little Italy. “Until my spell says otherwise.”

Her smartphone rang, and she pulled it from her pocket. “Vega,” she said.

On the other end, I picked up what sounded like a woman’s urgent voice.

Vega squinted as she listened, as though trying to hear better. “Where are you?” she asked. The woman’s voice was interrupted by a shotgun blast before she resumed.

“Shit,” Vega spat, more to herself, it seemed. “All right. Hang on. We’re on our way.” She threw the phone onto the dash and performed a vicious U-turn, mashing me against the door. “That was your vampire-hunter friend Blade,” she said when we’d straightened.

“Blade? What’s going on?”

“They’ve got the creature pinned in a basement at Frederick Douglass Apartments, a project just north of Ferguson Towers.”

I glanced back in the direction we had been heading. “But … the file.” I had very nearly said your son.

“The hunters can’t stop the creature. She’s out of control. And right now Blade and her friends are the only thing standing between her and the thousand-odd residents of Frederick Douglass. They need backup.”

“How did they even know where to find her?”

“They picked up some chatter on their police scanner. Someone called in a murder in progress. Another junkie.”

“That’s what Alexandra came to the city for,” I decided. “Heroin.”

“What?”

“Well, blood and heroin. She’s targeting junkies, not because they’re low-hanging fruit, but because she’s feeding an addiction. Remember the victims at Ferguson Towers? The way the blood had been lapped up? I’m betting it was because the blood had been freshly injected.”

“Great,” Vega said. “So we’ve got a werewolf-vampire hybrid who also happens to be a