Riley snorted. “Not here,” he said, and all traces of amusement fled. He shot a grim look out the window at the glittering structures lining the roads. “Definitely not on the Strip. Vegas is a huge cash flow for the organization. They have their claws in basically every vice you can imagine—
gambling, drugs, strip clubs, you name it.” Riley pulled a disgusted face, curling a lip. “Thankfully, there aren’t many actual dragons in Vegas. Just one, really. But he’s a temperamental bastard who makes even Talon nervous, and he owns nearly all the hotels and casinos on the Strip. We step into the wrong building, we might as well be walking around with glowing signs above our heads.”

“Then why are we here?” Garret asked, voicing my own question. “If this city is so heavily influenced by Talon, why are we risking exposure by staying?”

“Because I want to know what Talon is up to,” Riley snapped, glaring back at him. “I want to know why my safe houses keep disappearing, and if Talon is doing anything shady. More shady than normal, anyway. I want to know how the Order knows about me, knows who I am, when they didn’t have a clue in the past. If my entire network is in danger, I want to know why, and what I can do to stop it.” He turned back, gripping the steering wheel, eyes narrowed and hard.

“I have a contact here,” he said at length. “One who keeps tabs on any movement between St. George and the organization for me. Nothing happens in Vegas without him finding out. If anyone knows what’s going on, he will.”

We turned off the Strip, leaving the mega hotels and dazzling lights behind. Several minutes later, Riley pulled the car to the side of the road and killed the engine.

“All right, let’s go. The hotel we want is two blocks down, but we’re ditching the car here. I’m sure it’s been reported as stolen by now.” He turned in his seat to look back at us and glanced at the pistol I still held. “Stash the guns,” he ordered, and Garret immediately turned and pulled the duffel bag from the backseat. “Last thing we need is for someone to call the cops on us. Everyone keep your head down. We do this quick and quiet. Oh, and one more thing. Wes, you got them IDs, right?”

The human mumbled something and held up two plastic cards without taking his gaze from his computer. Riley snatched them from his fingers and held them out to us. “Cover identities for the hotel,” he explained as I took my driver’s license and peered at it curiously. My face smirked back at me, familiar and baffling; I had no idea where he’d gotten the photograph. According to the license, my name was Emily Gates, and I was twenty-one years old.