Page 129 of Hoofin’ It

I didn’t hide my admiration while Marian wiggled into a pair of jeans and a form-fitting blouse. “I don’t know who the Babylonians stole those jeans from, but remind me to thank them later.”

“You’re welcome,” Quinton replied, laughing. “I left while you were napping. Your lady needed some space, so I went up top for a few minutes. I could have asked Abil Ili, but I thought his time was better spent elsewhere. You need to loan her one of your cute pocket toys, though. It was one thing to duck into a store. Getting firearms would’ve drawn too much attention.”

“I’m running light on ammo,” I warned.

“Then I suggest you make every shot count.”

“It would help to know who we’ll be shooting.” Checking my pockets revealed someone had stuffed a tie inside, which somehow hadn’t wrinkled. At Dad’s insistence, I’d mastered the art of tying my ties without using a mirror on the grounds if a woman spent hours looking pretty for, I needed to put in the few extra minutes to make myself pretty for her, too.

We both agreed I needed all the help I could get.

“I’m sure we’ll find out soon.”

“Very soon,” Abil Ili announced, separating from the crystals near Marian. She launched towards the ceiling and almost reached me before she touched down. With a soft laugh, I caught her and pulled her to me as Abil Ili announced, “We are ready. I have a list of names, locations, and information. Follow, and I will tell you all I have learned—and the role you three will play in the hours to come.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Babylonians didn’t appear to be technologically inclined until Abil Ili guided us several floors beneath the ziggurat to their server room. My first glimpse into the cavernous chamber took my ignorance, bashed me over the head with it, and made my fingers itch for a chance to play with the countless systems packed inside. The computers needed a lot of electricity, but I couldn’t fathom where they got it from; I hadn’t seen a single power outlet anywhere in the caverns, nor sign of anything modern, not even a lightbulb.

Yet computers surrounded me, installed into countless racks forming aisles, fans buzzing while thousands of lights blinked. Abil Ili marched ahead, and Marian shoved me to spur me into motion.

“That’s a lot of computers,” I stammered.

“While we still have our traditional library, knowledge has evolved, much like humans. There is a certain amount of wisdom in making knowledge accessible.”

“It’s my fault,” Quinton admitted, flashing me a grin. “About a decade ago, I made the mistake of showing them my new cell phone. They’d been rather reclusive and missed the dawning of the technological era. They rectified the situation with their typical determination. When they discovered a wealth of information could be at the tips of their claws in an instant, they embraced computers. Now, many of them fill their hours separating truth from lies, taking news and hearsay and distilling them to truth and fact. They even have a library dedicated to the study of human fallacies. It’s interesting. Perhaps they’ll show you one day.”

“One day,” Abil Ili murmured, turning at an intersection. “We have more important things to do now. Follow, else we will be late, and the other hives will be displeased with us for being poor hosts.”

At the end of the aisle, an archway waited, which Abil Ili ducked through, vanishing beyond a shimmering curtain of light. Quinton waited for us, gesturing for us to precede him. “This blocks the sound of the fans so those beyond can work. It’s quieter than normal; they’re shutting down many of the systems since no one will be here to maintain them.”

Marian and I exchanged worried glances. I stepped through first, uncertain of what to expect. A cool breeze washed over me. I blinked at the dim illumination, squinting to adjust to the unexpected darkness.

Someone had watched too many war movies, basing their construction on the White House Situation Room. Counting chairs, I wondered why anyone would build a table big enough for thirty people—and whether Babylonians even bothered with chairs. The ten in the room were all standing, their attention focused on the largest digital screen I’d ever seen.

I added television crime dramas to the list of programs someone spent too much time watching. The CPD station where I’d worked had exactly one digital crime board, an ancient model less effective than a standard white board and markers.

Captain Martins used it as a status symbol.

Since patrol officers didn’t get to use any type of crime board, I thought my drooling over the ten foot wide, clear-backed display was justified. Laughing, Marian wrapped her arm around me and squeezed. “If you want to play with a murder board, arrangements can be made. I have one at home.”

First she gives me two guns, and then she tells me she has a murder board I can play with? Ah, heaven. I’d found it at last. “Take me home with you.”

“I can’t tie you to my bed and have my way with you if I don’t take you home with me, so I suppose I must.”

“Well, that got his attention. You’d already talked him into going home with you with the murder board.” Quinton snickered. “I don’t think he needs extra encouragement, Marian.”

“I’m making sure he understands there is no point in resisting.” Turning her attention away from me, she stepped to the gathered Babylonians with no evidence of her earlier fear, planting her hands on her hips while she regarded the panel and its data. “Nice board, terrible organization. You’re going to have to start over. Make it snappy. Also, your board privileges are revoked, so after we’re done, that board is coming home with me, where it will be used properly.”

I laughed. “I see she wants it, too.”

“Who doesn’t? That damned thing’s state of the art and cost a pretty penny. That woman’s going to tire you out, Gibby. Anytime you need rescued, you let me know. I’ll take you over to Papa’s, and he’ll keep you until she comes storming the castle to retrieve you.”

“I’ll remember that.”

The Babylonians made space for Marian, and not to be outdone by the FBI agent, I came up behind her, wrapped my arms around her waist, and rested my chin on her shoulder. A grid of faces and names appeared, and the one in the upper left corner caught my attention. “Surprise, surprise, Mark O’Conners.”

“New York City, Italian Mafia,” Abil Ili confirmed, pointing at the man who’d shot me. “He is our linchpin. He and those he knows that tie them all together, an intricate tangle of the red threads of death.”