Kim Harrison - 10.5 trouble on reserve - The Hollows Series.pdf

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Trouble on Reserve
A Hollows Adventure
Kim Harrison
Contents
Trouble on Reserve
Copyright
About the Publisher
T
he guy waiting across from me was meaty, but the way his eyes moved in a calm study of the dockyard
showed that the thickness about his middle didn’t extend to his head. He would be fast and unforgiving,
but if you were allowed only one piece of security, you usually took your best.
My foot ground the grit between my low flat and the dock, and the man’s eyes darted to me—answering
my unspoken question. Smiling, I shifted to show off my curves a little. I didn’t expect any trouble, but
why not use all my resources? “Whatcha packing?” I asked, trying for some small talk. Trent and this
guy’s boss had been here only twenty minutes, but this hadn’t been on the agenda, and I was fidgety.
The man’s lips quirked. Pulling himself straighter, he lifted the hem of his coat to show a Glock tucked
right where I thought it would be. He was proud enough of it to like what he did, and casual enough to be
a good shot.
I bobbed my head, again trying for arm-candy-with-a-gun. In the distance, a train hooted as it crossed
the Ohio River. The dampness was beginning to rise, and I hoped Trent would finish up soon. Impromptu,
sunset meetings on an empty dock smacked of illegal dealings, even if the three-story boat they were on
was shiny, extravagant, and probably under more cameras than the Mona Lisa.
“That’s nice,” I said as I pulled my shoulder bag off the retaining wall behind me and slowly, so
there’d be no misunderstandings, found the smooth, cool metal of my own weapon. “Me, I got myself a
splat gun,” I said, hefting it in the buzzing haze the security light was making. “No need for a permit. No
ballistics on record. If I have to shoot it—and I do shoot it—it’s quiet and untraceable.” The untraceable
part wasn’t entirely true, but the quiet was since it ran on compressed air. “What’s that you’ve got? A
Glock?”
He nodded, uneasy and off balance—just the way I wanted it. Splat guns were basically paint ball guns
with the dye removed and spells added. What kind of spells was up to the practitioner. Mine was not a toy
but a precision instrument, heavy and cherry red so the FIB would quit trying to take it away from me.
Satisfied doubt would make him a shade slower, I dropped it back in my bag. Like I said, I didn’t think
there’d be any trouble, but a little intimidation is good for the soul. Leaning back, I put my elbows on top
of the retaining wall and looked past Trent’s floating status icon to the Hollows beyond. Behind and
above me, Cincy woke up as the sun went down. Something felt off, but I was chalking that up to Trent’s
change in plans.
Despite my better judgment, I’d taken a one-night security job filling in for Trent’s usual security. I’d
said yes to the hospital fund raiser, not an after sunset meeting at a boat. If I’d known it was something this
slimy, I would have worn my leather to keep from leaving skin grafts on the pavement, not security-black
cotton pants and jacket. The thought that this had been Trent’s idea all along was simmering—pissing me
off. I did not like being used. I decided who I worked for. I chose who, where, when, and most
importantly, why.
A light clicked on in the stern of the boat, dim and battery yellow. V
oices grew louder,a and I pushed up
from the wall. Mr. Glock did the same. Clearly the meeting was over, as two men moved onto the covered
back deck, still talking. They were both in suits, one slightly overweight, the other slim with youth.
More blah, blah, blah ensued as they finished up. Trent looked as calm and collected as always, the

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