I parked my truck behind the ugly, flat, long porn shop. No other cars occupied the dirt lot behind the short strip mall. Of course, it was early.
Neon lavender signs blinked “open.” I pulled the hood over my head and snatched a handful of the mail. Stomping to the door, I planned to give the owner of the establishment such a talking-to that he'd piss himself. I wasn't above pulling a gun, badge, or sucker punch to emphasize my point. I went inside.
A growl rose through the air as I entered. My heart kicked. I pulled my weapon and stepped to the side, aiming down—
Down?
—at the mutt.
A dog sat near the door. A real, genuine, honest-to-Buddha-Christ dog. An American terrier pit bull. Collared. Smiling. Well-fed. Shiny coat. No evidence of fighting scars. I hadn't seen a real, beloved pet dog in so long it might as well have been the second coming of Christ.
He wagged his tail so enthusiastically his whole body did a jig. Tongue lagged merrily outside his mouth as he panted. Pure dog.
He was chained by the collar to a porno rack laden with gallon-bottles of lube and black rubber sex toys.
I slowly holstered my weapon and let my hand drop to my thigh. He sniffed both sides, bumped it with his eager snout, and huffed warm doggy breath on me.
“Hey, boy,” I said.
His hide was a brindle of brown tones with a white diamond atop his spine. He didn't look averse to being touched. I rubbed his spine, feeling the bristle of genuine canine hair. Short. Rougher than a cat's. He smelled like a dog, which was almost like a mutt, but without the blood, aggression, and urine that accompanied a screaming massacre. His frame gyrated enthusiastically as I used my knuckles to scratch behind his ears. He rolled over and gave me the belly.
“Oh, look at you,” I said, sounding nothing like an educated adult. “Look at you! Not much of a security guard, are ya? No fighting here. You're a big lover, aren't ya, boy?”
I realized I was being silly and the porn shop was entirely empty.
Then something—not the dog—bit me.
I fell and lost consciousness.
* * *
I woke in a hospital with my bundled wrist handcuffed to the bed. Didn't even see it coming. Brain rattled and addled. Head hurt so bad I wanted to scream. Muscles clenched, weak and sore. Mouth tasted like vomit. What the hell? How'd I get here? My shirt was gone, leaving me in a sports bra and jeans. No machines or monitors present.
This wasn't a real hospital.
My heart tripped over its feet and couldn't catch its balance.
I performed a pat-down.
Guns gone: not cool. I reached for the panic button on my RFID tag, but the whole getup was missing, which was actually a good thing. When the device realized it wasn't monitoring my vitals, it would send a distress signal to FBHS headquarters. Agents could track my last location and come in with guns blazing. All I had to do was stall.
Or find someone to kill.
Something was stuck to my side. A bandaid. I pulled it off and revealed two puncture marks.
Vampires?
My heart fell flat and then sputtered into hatred and fear. But really, what kind of vamp bite induced vomiting? It had to be something else.
Some asshole tased me and handcuffed me to a bed.
I definitely wanted to kill someone now.
My view of the room was obscured by an ugly green curtain enclosing the area. I couldn't see shadow or form through it, couldn't hear anyone on the other side. The ceiling was solid cement, like a parking garage, and near the fluorescent light I saw something the size of a pencil tip. A camera. Goddamn. If they didn't know I was awake yet, I didn't have long.
First, to get out of the bed. The handcuff was secure and the hospital bars were reinforced. If I could tear the cast off, I might make enough room to slide my hand out. If that didn’t work, I could always dislocate my thumb. I grimaced. Either I incapacitated my hand for a few more weeks or waited for the bad guys to return while I was trapped.
I clutched the edge of the cast and began to tear. That alone was agonizing. My left hand trembled, full of hairline fractures from my mutt-punch.
No pain, no gain.
Damn, I hate this kinda shit.
I took a fortifying breath and seized my doomed thumb.
“Don't!” A male voice. “Don't do that. Christ, woman!”
I turned my head so fast my ponytail struck my face. The curtain flew back and I confronted my captor.
Neon pink hibiscus print on purple swim shorts, bare chest, yellow flip-flops, gold chain necklace. Long black hair. Lean, bronze, lax posture, rosy cheeks, no weapons. A startled, blushing, half naked surfer dude?
The sight of him disarmed me.
“Who the hell are you?” I said.
“Don't hurt yourself and we'll talk.”
“Hows-about you talk or I hurt you?”
His bone structure and coloring bespoke a Native ancestry, but his face was as tight and lean as his body. Either this dude was a mesomorph who exercised like a hamster, or...
I caught the gleam of unstable energy in his eyes. Not like a crazy person, but like someone who was scared of me. Something dark glinted in his gaze and it startled me in return.
A mutt.
I inhaled slowly.
This didn't make sense. If a mutt caught and trapped me, why not kill me?
Yet that's what he was: a dirty mutt.
It didn't make sense.
I wasn't staying a moment longer than necessary. I braced myself to decimate the weak joint.
A rustle of curtain. A hot black hand caught my right wrist. Grip like a vice. His bones bruised me on contact. I'd been so focused on surfer-boy I didn't see Goon Number Two lurking behind my bed. He squeezed until my hand lost its hold. My eyes sailed up to meet his.
Him.
The lurker in the bar. The complementary guy in the coffee shop. How long had he been following me? What was this about? And another thing: why was my hair in a ponytail? What an odd thing for a captor to do.
“Where's my shirt?” I snipped.
“You puked on it. A little in your hair, too, but we washed it out,” the black man said.
“Most people piss themselves when they come in contact with aggressive electrical currents,” surfer dude said.
“I have an odd gag reflex,” I said. “Once, I sneezed three times in a row and it made me puke.”
“Cool.”
“This is weird.”
“If we take the cuffs off, do you promise not to hurt yourself?”
As if I was a crazy person.
“Well, excuse me if you think I'm acting rashly. I was knocked unconscious, hustled to a remote location, and tied to a bed by two strange males. On principle alone, that warrants an extreme response. Not to mention my shirt has gone missing. Did you ambush me using your dog as a decoy?”
“Truthfully, I pictured that ending much worse. I expected you'd shoot Rufus on sight.”
I huffed. “I don’t like killing dogs.”
“Surely you can appreciate how silly that sounds, coming from someone like you?” the black man said, voice smoldering. His hand was weirdly electric on my wrist. It would have been silly to pretend I didn’t know they were both mutts.
“Surely you can appreciate I don't want someone like you touching me, getting all intimate with my bones and such,” I said.
He snatched his hand away as if I was the most repulsive creature on the planet.
Shouldn't the bureau be knocking down the door about now? Something had gone wrong. Maybe they couldn't find me. I wasn't going to be rescued.
“So you two mongrels caught yourself a trophy. Hurrah. Surely this ends with my head mounted on the wall. Or maybe y'all have something to say, some reason I'm still alive. Let's get this over with so I can find a way to kill you both.”
“If we wanted to hurt you—” the first guy informed, but I knew that much, at least, was true.
“You're wasting my time,
boys.”
“Maybe we should bring Rufus down to soften her up,” the black man said. “She melted—went all gushy—over him. Seeing him might make her more reasonable.”
That was low. I flushed over the way I had baby-talked the dog. Bring him down? Which meant I was below the porn shop. Okay, keep them talking. A few ideas came together.
“You're the asshole who's been stalking me via bill boards, phone calls, and pornography. Mister We-Should-Meet.”
Surfer-boy spread his hands and gave the tiniest smile.
“Hello,” I said. “We've met. It's been a pleasure. Time for me to go.”
“She won't relax until you uncuff her,” the black dude said. “She hasn't unclenched her injured fist despite the apparent pain it’s causing.”
Creepy that he'd noticed.
“I'll go with that,” I said. “Handcuff comes off, then we'll talk. Chit-chat all day, small talk and everything.”
“Handcuff comes off, we'll chat, and you'll stow the sarcasm.”
Tough bargain, but of course I nodded.
“I'm going to ask you to remain seated,” the black man said. “We wouldn't want to agitate an already tense situation.”
“What's your name?” I said.
“Why do you need to know?”
“Making small talk.”
Of course, I don't think he wanted me to know anything about him.
“I'm Rainer,” the surfer-boy said. “This is Marc.”
Marc cast Rainer a disapproving look.
“How long have you been following me? Rather brave in the coffee shop, weren’t you, Marc?” I said.
A confused expression passed Rainer’s face while Marc shrugged.
“A chance meeting, I promise,” he said.
I didn’t believe him. A mutt risked a lot by speaking to me in public. If I hadn’t been so distracted that day, I might have noticed his contamination and killed him on the spot. Plus, when I threatened him with my guns he had backed harmlessly out the door. Restraint, endurance. I wondered how old he was. An ancient?
“I'll solve your problem if you solve mine,” Rainer said.
I chuckled. “That's the game you're running? You show me yours, I show you mine?”
“Ever wonder how human hunters were able to find so many mutts?”
“Yes, how?” I said, disarmed by my own curiosity.
“First things first.”
I gestured to the cuff. Marc stepped forward to unlock it. His heat melted over me and he held his breath. The mutt was nervous. Considering some mutts panicked and shed at the sight of me, I was impressed by his self-control. When the cuff and its chain clinked away, he stepped back. I felt better already. I wasn’t any safer, only one step closer to making a decent stand before they killed me.
“What do you want from me?” I said.
“I believe we’re facing a problem greater than the two of us,” Rainer said. “Now, I’d like you to keep an open mind. I know for a fact you don’t buy the company line, at least not a hundred percent. I’ve seen enough of your dissidence to believe you mean the best. Good intentions, and all that. For a moment, forget you should kill me and I should kill you.”
“Enough with the preamble. What the hell do you want?”
“A rebel scientist is developing a revolutionary formula, a medication to suppress lycanthropy.”
“There's no cure. You're talking pure fantasy.”
“Maybe we can't cure the disease, but we hope to prevent outbreaks. Like herpes, I guess. It's there, but it doesn't have to be a danger to everyone all the time. We're hoping to find a way around this fatalistic virus and make it manageable. There must be a better way. Drugstore suppression doesn’t work.”
“No shit. The disease is stronger than every substance known to man.”
“Unless you have a renegade scientist who spends his life studying the combination of substances, ultimately leading to the most advanced chemical solution available to man. Or mutt.”
“A drug dealer.”
“A scientist,” Rainer corrected.
“A mutt?”
“A sympathizer.”
“And you want me to do what? Copy his homework?”
“Help me find him. He's on the paranoid side of eccentric. Gone deep underground.”
“Great. He's a manic tweaker or a paranoid schizophrenic,” I said.
“He's cautious.”
“How do you know he exists? Maybe he's a rabbit in a trap, bait to smoke out mutts like you.”
“He's real,” Rainer said.
“Fine. Maybe he is. You want me to help you run drugs?”
“Help me find this doctor, that's all.”
“Why?”
“So maybe you won't have to kill as many people.”
That would be nice.
“You aren't asking me to stop killing mutts? No threats? No 'you quit the bureau or else'?
“I'm not a fool. I couldn't wring such a promise from you, nor do I expect you to stop working for the bureau. I'll go so far as to acknowledge you’re good at what you do. Hell, sometimes the job is even necessary. Please, help me make it necessary less often.”
“Assuming I believe you, Rainer, how will I find this scientist?”
“We organized a secure transfer of the doc and his lab, but the last known contact was wrangled and brought to an FBHS facility outside of Phoenix before details could be finalized. We have no way to contact him, so our scientist is essentially dead in the water. We need to speak with the initial contact.”
“You want me to enter a secure compound, spring your guy, and reconnect with your miracle-working doc.”
“Smarter than I expected,” Rainer said.
Then he smiled. The sight threw me back a few IQ points because it was blisteringly honest and childlike. I had nothing to say and wasn't sure I remembered what we were discussing. His smile faded to a mere remnant, but even that was genuine.
“I don't want you to break my contact out of prison. He made a fatal mistake. Lost control. I can't ask you to release him into society where he might hurt someone else. I simply need to know where we can find our scientist. Bring us the necessary information, leave the bad guy behind bars, and together we'll reduce the number of mutt-murders. Both our jobs will be easier.”
“Can I stand? I think better on my feet.”
The mutts shared a look. Finally, Marc shrugged and gave me more space, drawing the curtain entirely.
The building was easily four times as long as it was wide. Cement and steel walls, reinforced, militant. A cluster of computers, monitors, and other tech devices in a horseshoe shape. One chair. Filing cabinets lined up like little soldiers next to a kitchenette. The door, which I presumed was the only exit, looked more secure than a vault at the Federal Reserve.
A freaking bomb shelter?
Marc clasped his hands together and stood in default security guard mode. Rainer brushed his palms over his Hawaiian print shorts. I slowly rose and started to cross my arms over my chest, but my left hand was still painfully broken. Fighting both these mutts without a gun was a last resort. There didn't seem to be a way out of the bunker without the wizard behind the curtain. If I even managed to kill Rainer (which was unlikely even without the quality muscle standing beside him), I might be trapped underground forever.
I settled my good hand on my hip. The air chilled my stomach and breasts, but I didn't feel naked. My habit of garbing from head to foot came from a desire for anonymity, not modesty. Couldn't be invisible with a body like mine. Scars give people the willies. Everyone wants a few cool ones, like the time I jumped the rail at a skateboard park and nose-dived into pavement. No one wants my caliber of damage. No one wants to be disfigured. My body told a story, and these mutts had seen it. They thought they knew all about me now.
They didn't.
“Back to the immediate problem and its possible solution,” I said. “How do you know this fantasy drug works? I've seen a lot of mutts take a lot
of drugs, none of which were effective in the long-term. Supernatural metabolism can decimate any human concoction.”
“Volunteer test cases showed promising results. As far as we know, the formula hasn't been perfected, but it is close.”
“Do you have a sample? Maybe you could reverse-engineer the formula.”
“Even if we had the means, I don't have the necessary pharmaceutical background. Beginning the process again would take much longer than getting the original maker to perfect it.”
“What's this guy's name?”
“The Pot Doc.”
“What?”
“My contact called him the Pot Doc.”
I waved my hand at Rainer’s computers. “With all this equipment, you can't find him? Or at least a grown-up name you could use to track him?”
“I never found Lurch.”
“Really?”
“Some people have perfected anonymity. Likewise, the Pot Doc is ghostly paranoid.”
“Probably because he's a pothead.” I paced. “All I have is a story about a possible-yet-unconfirmed drug dealer with a theoretical suppressant for a disease which scientists can't trace. All this information was given to me by a mutt and his handsome yet imposing mutt bodyguard, after I had been snatched and locked in a basement.”
“Basement?” Rainer said, offended.
“High tech and clean, but a basement nonetheless. What do you want?”
“Precisely what I've said.”
“Maybe you don't need me. Send your crew after the informant.”
“Crew?” He grinned at Marc. “She thinks we have a crew. How cute.”
“More like the Rat Pack,” he said.
“I'm Sinatra.”
“Please, Rainer. You're more of a Bogart.”
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