“A real witch could tell which kind of fighter you were. The Marines?”
“Army Rangers. I rolled out about a year ago.” The thought made me stop. “Almost exactly one year, in fact.”
“Your anniversary. And your birthday soon, too. Cyn did tell me that.”
“Next week. I haven’t had much time to think on it.”
We reached the shore. A graded path ran along the rocky beach. We strolled north, letting Stanley sniff at each bush and random stick. The wind was in our faces, carrying the smells of salt and seaweed abandoned by the low tide.
Wren described growing up with her extended family, the bunch of them going wherever her father’s job as a solar engineer took them, then continuing that nomadic life into adulthood. I gave her a very abbreviated and slightly sanitized history of my own upbringing with Dono. I said he’d been to prison and I’d been a foster kid for a time before we came back together.
And, suddenly, I found myself telling Wren about Moira.
“I’m curious about her in a way I never was growing up,” I said. “Instead of what she was like when she was with me, I’m wondering what she had planned for herself.”
“As a person, not just your mother.”
“Right. She was twenty-two when she died. I was about to start school. Was she finally going to college? Starting a career?” I shook my head. “All those things she never got to do.”
“Of course. You’re working on your own direction, seeing a reflection in her.”
“Did you pick up a psych degree in your travels?”
“I’ve spent enough on therapy,” she said, nudging me with her elbow. “I might as well get something from it.”
We turned inland, finding another path that would take us out of the park. This trail was narrower than the first. Hiking up the easy slope, Wren’s shoulder brushed mine every few steps.
“Your birds.” I touched a fingertip to her arm and its tattoos in flight. Despite the breeze, her skin was hot. “From your name?”
She nodded. “A new one every time I migrate. Sometimes two. It’s not a strict rule. Wren is a nickname for Raina.” She pronounced it as if there were an accent over the n: Rain-ya.
“‘Van’ is short for ‘Donovan.’ My grandfather’s name.”
“And yours. You own it. Donovan. It’s strong.” She tilted her head. “What do you want for your birthday, Donovan Shaw?”
“I don’t know your last name,” I said, a little embarrassed at the realization.
“Marchand. That was an easy gift.”
“Friday night, then,” I said, “if you’re free.”
Wren considered. “I could be. I have something early in the evening, but it won’t take long. You could meet me there.”
Back at the house, we traded numbers and she said she’d be in touch about the time and place. She declined my offer of help and hefted the box of free weights without much effort. As she reached the sidewalk, Wren paused and turned back, pivoting as gracefully on one foot as if she wore her skates.
“Friday. The whole night?” she said, with a touch of a smile.
“Or as long as you can stand my company.”
“We’ll have to find out.” She walked away and climbed into a well-dented camel-colored Jeep to drive away.
Damn. Maybe Hollis knew something I didn’t. He had managed to make inroads with Doc Claybeck. And I was wearing Hollis’s shirt today. I’d never make fun of his fashion choices again.
Twenty-Eight
Just after two o’clock, four of us met at Willard’s house near Green Lake: me, Hollis, Elana, and Willard himself. The big man had owned the place for decades. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say he’d owned the land, as the house had been rebuilt from the ground up within the past three years. What used to be little more than a cottage—cozy for most, positively cramped for Willard—was now a two-story gabled home with solar panels on its bronzed metal roof.
I arrived in time to see Hollis’s sky-blue Cadillac sailing down the street in search of a parking spot. The convertible top was up today. He waved a hand as he coasted past. Elana sat on a dining chair outside the front door, long legs crossed and propped on a garden planter as she vaped lightly from an ivory pen.
“No smoking inside,” she said, “in case you were inclined.”
“Good thing that’s my resolution this year,” I said.
I let myself in. The first story had been made an open design to maximize square footage. From the entry I could see the living room with a fireplace, dining area, and part of the kitchen beyond. Most of the furnishings were steel and cedar, and all of them were large enough to accommodate Willard’s frame. The walls were papered in a putty-colored bamboo pattern that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did. A tang of dark tea filled the space.
Willard came down the stairs, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt.
“Place looks good,” I said.
“I had help.”
“Interior designer?”
He shook his head. “Sonny. A friend with an eye. You want coffee? Tea?”
“Either.” Passing by the mantel, I stopped to look at framed pictures of Elana and her parents when she was younger. And one of a tall, lean black man with a ring of silver hair around his temples. I guessed him for Willard’s friend Sonny. Willard had always been very circumspect about his private life. His confirmed bachelorhood an open secret, but never stated, as if it were fifty years ago. I assumed that discretion worked for him. For them both, maybe.
Hollis and Elana came in, Elana exhaling her last drag in the rough direction of outside before closing the door. I set my rucksack down and extracted the cryo bottle with Aura’s eggs.
“That’s it?” Elana took it from me, weighing it in her hands. “Huh. I figured it would be heavier.”
“Mostly padding and vapor,” I said.
“And three lives,” Hollis said. “Imagine.”
We joined Willard at the dining table. He’d set a pot of coffee on a trivet and passed out mugs.
“I can’t think about it that way,” I said. “Like the eggs have any value beyond what Aura and Bilal give them.”
Willard gave me a flat look. “So if you can’t agree on a deal with them, you’ll toss her eggs in the trash?”
“They’ll deal. They’ll never be more willing.”
“You don’t have to hand all three eggs over,” Elana said. “Give them one. Keep the other two as insurance.”
Willard looked at his niece like she’d sprouted horns. “That might be even colder.”
She shrugged. “They started this.”
“They did,” I agreed, “and I thought about splitting up the eggs, too. But all three might be destroyed in the attempt. Even if we did it right, if Bilal and Aura are successful in having a kid with their first try, I’ve lost my leverage. If they can’t, we’re right back where we started. I don’t want to do this again in a few months.”
“Haven’t these dickweeds heard of adoption?” Elana muttered.
Hollis hummed as he swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “I have to admire his commitment to her.”
“You would,” said Willard.
“It’s true,” Hollis protested. “Aura might only have one option, to get her eggs back. But Bilal doesn’t. He could go off and have a kid with any willing woman before he kicks off if that’s so damned important to him. Hell, he could sire a whole brood.”
I stopped in midpour. “You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. I know how children get made.”
“About Aura being in a corner. She’s the one who’s truly desperate.” I was looking out the window but not really seeing anything beyond the idea that was taking shape. “She’s the one who’ll be left alone when Bilal dies.”
“Alone raising a brat,” Elana said.
Hollis grimaced. “What is it you’re thinking, Van?”
“Bilal has the money and the soldiers. But it’s Aura I’ll need to reach an agreement with,
” I said.
My first thought had been to talk face-to-face with Bilal and Aura, once I’d figured out exactly how to ensure my continued safety. Now I was peering down a path I hadn’t spied before.
“We’ll have to arrange a meeting,” I said, as the idea occurred, “and let Bilal come heavy.”
Willard rumbled. “Well, that sounds like ten kinds of crazy. You know if he sees a chance, he’ll grab you and torture you until you surrender the eggs. After that . . .”
“That’s what I’m counting on. Him seeing a chance. I’ll need you and Hollis to be my eyes.”
“You’re not cutting me out again,” said Elana.
“Nope. You’ll be critical”—I stopped Willard before he started—“and out of the line of fire. You’ll all be away from the heat.”
“Speaking for myself, lad,” Hollis said, “you walking in alone to meet those two and all the muscle they can hire is just mad-dog cowboy shit.”
“Rabid, reckless, and all the rest,” I agreed. “Let’s pray Bilal Nath thinks so, too.”
Twenty-Nine
After leaving Willard’s, I drove around the lake and wound my way toward downtown, the side roads giving me time to puzzle over a different problem, and a different threat. All my careful maneuvers with Aura and Bilal might come to an abrupt end if Sean Burke appeared and caught me by surprise once more.
My subconscious had been picking at the tangled knot of just how Burke had tracked me to the parking garage on the night of the museum gala. I had an inkling—my only idea this side of crazy notions like Burke following my car with a team of flying drones—but its implications were unnerving.
I’d used my personal credit card to purchase an evening pass when entering the garage that night. Burke knew my name and my car. If he’d somehow put a trace on my accounts, he might have known where I was within minutes. Perhaps even before I’d chosen a parking space.
Was that even possible? Burke’s Russian boss, Liashko, had money, and pull. Did his reach extend to flunkies inside major American banks? Guerin had said the arms dealer wielded enough power to control his interests without setting foot on our shores. Wielded through men like Burke.
I was as realistic—Addy would say cynical—as anyone about the corruption of those in power. Hell, I’d bribed an FBI employee less than a week ago. But Liashko having that level of influence at his command gave me one very long pause.
And a theory I could put to the test.
Some car juggling was required. I drove my truck downtown. On the holiday, the streets were halfway to deserted and I had my choice of metered parking spots. I left the truck at the curb, not far from the museum. Caught a rideshare back to Addy’s to retrieve the Barracuda. And drove the muscle car right back to the garage where Burke had aimed his gun at me. With intent, as the law would say.
I used the same credit card to buy a two-hour ticket. Wondering if, somewhere, the charge on the card was even now sending a flag to alert whoever might be watching.
Five minutes later the Barracuda sat nestled in a spot on the second level, copper paint gleaming in the low January sun, and I was back at street level, sitting in the truck. Watching the garage entrance.
I’d set the shiny lure. Now came the waiting.
If I was right, Burke had waited for me to return to the Barracuda after my visit to the museum. The more I thought about that, the less I figured he had stood outside on the roof of the garage, exposed to the cold and to witnesses. He’d have kept watch from a car of his own. Not his personal vehicle. Something untraceable to him, in the chance that he would have to leave me dead, with my rapidly cooling blood flowing down the slope of the garage ramp.
My phone rang, with the number of the answering service I had called early in the morning.
“It’s Jessica,” said a contralto voice. “You remember?” Ondine’s bodyguard from the museum.
“Sensible shoes and a lethal purse,” I said. “Can you speak for your boss, or are you just relaying messages?”
“This line’s secure.”
I took that to mean Jessica had some authority beyond being Ondine’s flyswatter.
“Good. Let’s cut to it. I need to set up a meeting with Bilal Nath. He knows it’s coming. I figure he’ll circle back to you to recruit more soldiers. Maybe he already has.”
“Go on.”
“Your boss told Nath I was unmanageable. Play that up. Make me out like some rabid dog. Encourage him to bring along a full team, racked and ready.”
“Why?”
“That’s my business.”
“I’ll state the obvious,” Jessica said. “We don’t take orders from you.”
“No. But you are taking commands from Nath right now. Right? What’s it worth to get Bilal off your back for good?”
I waited through the silence that followed. Jessica might be conferring with Ondine.
I’d sounded much more confident than I really was. In truth, I was playing a hunch, based on my hard-won experience with Ondine Long.
She had shared Bilal Nath’s biography with me far too easily. My confronting her at the museum had been like an opening bid, and she hadn’t responded with a counteroffer. Instead she’d folded, telling me what she knew, and quickly, before the guards showed up to end our conversation.
So why would the most mercenary woman in Seattle be willing to give me intel on Bilal for free? Her client, who’d paid her for Claybeck’s services?
Unless he wasn’t a client. Bilal was very adept, Ondine had said. A bitter aftertaste in her statement. Maybe Nath had a leash around Ondine’s neck, just as he had on mine. Had she been gambling a little herself, on the off chance my thrashing against Bilal might solve a problem for her?
Jessica came back on the line.
“Bilal has to stay alive,” she said. “If he dies . . .”
“Agreed. This isn’t that kind of op.”
“But you want him protected?”
“I want him ready for a war. And if he demands a kidnap team to make me disappear, give him that, too.”
Another moment passed.
“We can make that happen,” Jessica said, “though we can’t control what the teams do once they’re in motion.”
Meaning I was digging my own grave, from their perspective.
“It’s on you if this goes wrong,” Jessica continued. “In any way at all. Understand?”
“I’ll tell Bilal where and when. Sometime tomorrow.”
She hummed reflectively. “Whatever you have planned, I hope it’s not as stupid as it looks from here.”
I grinned. This was Jessica talking for herself, not as Ondine’s mouthpiece.
“Nice to know you care,” I said, and hung up.
During our call, a few cars had driven into the garage. A minivan with kids in the backseat watching movies on the fold-down screen. Teenagers in a Honda Civic adorned with the cheapest racing mods available from their local O’Reilly Auto, heavy beat pulsing the windows. Nothing that fit the right profile.
Until a black Ford F-250 with a bright silver toolbox across the full width of its bed, like a stripe over a thick beetle’s wings, turned off Seneca and cruised slowly to the garage. Smoked windows obscured the interior.
The Ford stopped for a moment at the entrance, as if smelling the air, before pulling through the gate.
Five minutes passed, then another ten. No one walked out from the garage.
Okay. I hadn’t seen Burke in the flesh. But I was sure he was there. Like the scent of another predator at the watering hole.
I was prepared. I had sandwiches from Addy’s and water, and an open-necked bottle if I had to relieve myself. Mostly I had a lot of practice in waiting and watching. Casing jobs with Dono, back when I was a fidgety teen. Recon of targets in the Rangers, when moving at the wrong moment might bring a hell-storm of opposing fire.
My parking ticket had only been for two hours. I wondered if Burke knew that. He’d paused at the gate, maybe reading the hourly pri
ces and comparing them to the small charge on my credit card. He might be expecting me to return to the Barracuda at any minute.
I hoped so. The more frustrated he became, the better.
While my eyes did the work, my thoughts strayed to Wren. I didn’t know much about the woman yet. But what I did made me want to learn a lot more. She was intuitive as hell. And forthright. There hadn’t been any question she’d been flirting with me, and I could admit I wasn’t always the best at reading women’s signals.
And sexy. Damn, Wren Marchand was an absolute smoke show. I wasn’t positive which of us had asked the other out in the end, but I was glad either way.
I ate a sandwich made from Addy’s leftover roast and some provolone. Sipped at the water. It had stayed plenty cold just from the ambient temperature. This time of year, the shade between downtown buildings was nearly round the clock. Even sheltered from the wind in the Dodge, I kept my watch cap on my head.
The Barracuda’s parking pass had long since expired. Maybe an attendant had already placed a ticket under the wiper, informing me I’d have to pay for the full day. Maybe Burke had seen that and realized that I might not be returning as promptly as he’d imagined.
Another hour ticked by. The edges of the buildings around me began to soften, melding with the twilight sky. Their interior lights defined stripes and squares that grew ever brighter in contrast. Fewer lights than on a normal workday, so that each side of the avenue looked patchwork, incomplete.
The headlights coming down the garage ramp revealed the Ford’s presence seconds before the truck itself hove into view. It stopped at the gate, which rose obediently to allow passage. As the Ford pulled out onto the avenue, beams from a passing delivery truck shone directly through the windshield, overcoming the tinted glass and giving me an instant’s glimpse of the driver.
Sean Burke. Gotcha, asshole.
He turned left onto Spring Street. I U-turned to follow, staying at least one block behind and giving Burke plenty of room as he turned again onto 6th Ave and we made our way uptown.
Not far, as I soon learned. Burke pulled into a lot near the Westin. I drifted past, coming to a stop in a loading zone, watching in the rearview. A sign at the front of the lot had touted monthly parking rates. If the Ford was Burke’s clean machine for work purposes, maybe this was where he kept it.
A Dangerous Breed Page 20