“Rat Pack isn't complete without Peter Lawford. In fact, I look like Lawford.”
“Not even close. What about Joey Bishop?”
“Guys,” I said. “We're in the middle of a negotiation.”
“Look, I can send in a 'crew.' No problem. Any mutt can get into the compound, but getting out is the trouble. I need someone who can enter and exit without raising alarm or causing suspicion.”
“Maybe you arranged an ambush. I saunter into a compound full of potential disease, and your mob of goonies jumps me.”
“You watch too much television.”
“Valid concern, though,” Marc said. I looked at him and he shrugged. “I wouldn't trust us either.”
Not a recommendation, but the fact that he acknowledged my conflict encouraged trust. No, trust was too strong a word. More like he reduced my blaring suspicion.
“We could have killed you several times already.” Rainer lifted his hands. “I promise there is no set-up.”
“And I'm to take your word?”
“Yes?” he said.
“You don't deal with many criminals, do you?”
He laughed. I flinched, alarmed at the sudden sound. His joy rolled over me like a shot of whiskey. Could a person who laughed so honestly ever do me harm?
“We're all criminals, aren't we?” Rainer said. “Semantics aside, I need help. How can I convince you that I want you to leave the bureau’s compound unscathed and well-informed?”
“You can start by showing me the way out.”
“When we're done here, I guarantee someone will get you home safely.”
“No, I plan on walking out. No blindfold or stun gun involved, so I can see exactly where I am. When you've revealed the location of your basement, and after I've put security measures in place, then we'll barter.”
“Or you could go straight to the feds and turn me in, Ms. Durant. I get nothing but screwed, and you don't do jack for me.”
“Where's the trust?” I teased. My smile wasn't even half as credible as his. “Besides, you're the one who attacked a federal agent, an innocent woman who was doing nothing more than petting a puppy dog in a porn shop.”
“If we safely establish the doc in a lab of his own, fewer people will die. That's a promise. How can you ignore such an opportunity?”
“A drug solution sounds like a pipe dream, no pun intended. Scientists haven't even determined if the disease is biological or spiritual. They’re talking about magic in science labs, Rainer. How can a pothead find a cure where others failed?”
“Not a cure,” he said. “More like a coping mechanism. The cocktail works because the Pot Doc knows more about the fantastical application of organic drugs than the average scientist. Plus, he doesn't operate under predetermined distractions. He's not trying to discover where the disease came from or why it's here. Seriously, who cares? At the end of the day, normies only want to understand the affliction in order to kill us better. We don’t need a final solution, Ms. Durant, we need help, now, for our people who will suffer every day until they die. Violently. If we could subdue the disease, even delay it...When the drug reaches distribution, fewer people will die. That's the ultimate payoff. Fewer children harmed. Grandmother won't try to eat Goldilocks anymore—”
“Red Riding Hood,” Marc said.
“Bottom line: you won't have to pick up as many bloody pieces. Wouldn't you prefer a peaceable resolution to wondering how many lives you could have saved if you had given us a chance?”
“Shut up.” I narrowed my eyes. “Don't play emotional hero-cards with me, buster. You’re still a diseased pirate in an underground lair, trying to coerce me into doing your dirty work. I need a moment to think.”
“Is it hard to remain dispassionate about your job?” Marc said.
I gave him my warrior mask, but his smooth face didn't reveal antagonism, simply inquisition. My eyes trampled over his form. The height, the fullness of his limbs, lean waist, hands that could engulf my face. While my eyes took inventory, my brain smashed full-speed ahead into a fantastical curiosity: Can he have sex without shedding mid-coitus?
Was I willing to investigate? My eyes lingered on the valley of smooth brown flesh below his clavicle and between his pectorals before heading toward lower territory.
He stepped back like I'd shoved him.
Good lord, can mutts read minds?
Perhaps I made my desire too obvious. Embarrassing. I tried not to blush, but flame scorched my cheeks. I became painfully aware that I was a chick in her bra trapped in a room with two guys. Think about killing him; that should squelch the lecherous flame.
“So, uh…” Rainer wiggled his toes and glanced aside, embarrassed.
What did I really know about him? He had warned me about the Neo-Nazi under my truck, found my blacklisted books but didn't report me, and had the opportunity to slash my throat while I was unconscious but didn't. That trinity of facts left me inclined to believe he needed me.
I thought about how many ways the situation could go wrong: infinite. The possibility of gain: significant.
What if the Pot Doc was real? A doctor who might better the situation instead of letting innocents die?
A fat knot of curiosity braised in my gut and broiled into compulsion.
I groaned, knowing I was in trouble. Halfheartedly, I tried to talk myself out of becoming further involved.
There's a phrase: Curiosity was framed. Stupidity killed the Cat.
I was about to lay down with dogs and rise up with the proverbial fleas.
At the end of the day, I was tired of a one-gun solution to the mutt problem. Killing the maddened victims of violent crimes, individuals who already experienced a lifetime of fear and sadness. Sure, lycanthropy was an unclean, murderous scourge, but did it have to self-destruct? Maybe.
Maybe the bureau made the problem worse. Lycanthropy was evil, but that didn’t make the FBHS good. Black and white issues never lasted long with me: too dichotomous, too Old-Testament God. This group of people—mutts—was researching alternative resolutions.
“In exchange for this information, I want three things,” I said. “I demand to know how the poachers recruited mutts, I want to know where I am now, and I want a sample of the drug before and after it is complete. I'll meet with your contact with the hope of finding your illusive, possibly imaginary scientist. Oh, and I want all my money back. Every red-fucking-cent, you thieving bastard.”
“Deal,” Rainer said. He looked at Marc. “Have I made a pact with the devil?”
I laughed, wondering the same thing. My humor acted like a handshake, sealing the deal. Both males relaxed.
“Alright, genius,” I said. “How do poachers find a steady supply of mutts?”
“Someone in the FBHS has been selling information.”
Mullen? No, not his style. He'd be the one hunting and skinning. He was a sociopath, not a salesman.
“Who?” I said.
“I must ask, what will you do to this person?”
I shrugged. “File a report.”
“The FBHS has a vast surveillance system. They can access every camera on the grid, commandeer personal property, medical history, and psychological records. This information usually works to track a suspected threat. When the bureau suspects L-strain exposure, the perps get tagged.”
“We call them potentials, but yes.”
“RFID tags send data to FBHS techs who monitor signs of distress. If a potential panics, has biometric anomalies, or behaves erratically, agents receive a call to go in with guns blazing. Except someone began siphoning a few alerts. Instead of logging potentials based on their suspicious vitals, one of the dispatchers created a cache of salable information which he distributed to local buyers. He put the tag in limbo long enough for the victim to be snatched, then cut the feed. He deleted records to cover his tracks, making it look like the mutt never existed.”
“Salable,” I murmured. There was that word again. An insider used the FBHS powerhouse to g
ather and sell victims. I schooled myself: not victims, mutts.
Just now, semantics didn't help. Anger clenched my spine in a burning grip. “Who is our enterprising informant?”
“Thaddeus Nolan.”
“Never heard of him. What makes you think he is the culprit? And I don’t even know if I believe this is possible. Surely there is some trace left. I mean, no one can make everything disappear entirely.”
“All the tags had erratic malfunctions where data went on a loop. Someone knew enough about the system to manufacture artificial readings and blend it into the stream.”
“Everything you're telling me, you had to be deep inside the system to discover. Did you hack into multiple federal mainframes, prance through all the great big security tech they put up, with all its safeguards, booby traps, and complex math that's way beyond anyone's understanding?”
“Now, agent! That would be a crime.”
The sneaky bugger. Given the way he manipulated my money in secure banks, dipped into classified video streams, and altered federal records, I believed him. What couldn’t he do?
“Oh, hell, Rainer. Say I believe you. How do you know Thaddeus is responsible?”
“He's in debt, overqualified, and his accounts received large monetary deposits that coincide with the demise of known murder victims.”
“He was smart enough to rig the tags but not smart enough to hide wire transfers?”
“He already had access to the FBHS system. Banks are a different matter, and his math skills aren't as snazzy as mine.”
“No one likes a braggart,” I said. “Don't suppose you know how he contacts his buyers?”
“They work out of a fur shop on Bravo, a place called Fur Essentials.”
“Tacky.”
I put my good hand in my pocket and rocked back on my heels. My brain ran two pictures side by side: the mutts skinned and hung up to dry, tortured in a barbaric, agonizing way, and then Mullen in my office, talking about the sporting business and salable products.
Fury poured through me and swelled with resolve. Rainer took a step back and Marc’s nose twitched. If I let my temper get away from me, I might set these boys off. I inhaled slowly and counted to ten.
“Well, Rainer, Thaddeus' indiscretions will create a quagmire of paperwork. Not for nothing, but Big Fed will probably hand him a pink slip and call it done. If you were standing in my shoes, what would you do?”
“Jam his accounts, steal his identity, kill his credit, and send him embarrassing amounts of depraved porn. Generally make his life miserable.” Rainer rubbed his hands together. “Plus, he lives in an AI unit. I could devise all sorts of nuisances: turn down his thermostat so he doesn’t get heat, turn all the electronics on at three in the morning, lock the fridge, and whatnot.”
Not good enough.
“Hold off until I find proof of wrongdoing,” I said. “Ready to walk me up?”
“Oh, I'm not going anywhere. Marc can take you.”
“Fine.”
Rainer kept his back to the wall the whole time, and it wasn't until he moved to put on a shirt that I saw why. Puckered flesh peeked around his hipbone.
“Stop,” I said. “Turn around.”
He didn't. Eyes grew wide, flickered, and then narrowed.
“You saw mine.”
I spread my arms. Shirtless, most of my scars were available for public viewing. Even after Rejuve, it wasn't pretty. Clusters of old claw gouges, tooth marks, skin grafts, knots of oddly-healed tissue, the tread around my neck where a bite should have severed my spine but somehow didn't, and a ridge of grafted skin under my jaw. Like I fell into a wood chipper and was sewn back together by all the king's men.
“Show me yours, Rainer.”
The tremor of his throat telegraphed emotional distress. His knuckles whitened. His cheekbones pulsed.
Possibly, I acted out of spite. I didn't like their tricky snatch-and-grab, even if they hadn't hurt me and cleaned the vomit from my hair. I hated that my guns were MIA. I despised being wounded and vulnerable. Someone had to pay for what I was feeling.
Marc crossed his arms, tense and protective. I ignored his glare.
Rainer pulled his long hair over his shoulder and turned his back. The scarring began at the base of his skull, dove past the waistband of his shorts, and covered the entire canvas between. Knobs of his spine stood out roughly where the meat had been stripped away and only skin had regrown. Like two macabre sides of a coin, his front appeared perfect and his back had been destroyed. Not by fire: this mess was knotted and scraped into rough edges. Motorcycle accident, maybe. Or like he'd been dragged.
I cleared my throat. He turned around and our eyes didn't meet.
A gold ring dangled on a chain around his neck and glistened like a tear.
“Can I have my guns back?” I said.
“I don't like that idea,” Marc said.
“Sweetie, if you try and keep those guns from me, you'll regret it for the rest of your short, miserable life.”
Not a clever threat, but I was too worried about my guns to be inventive.
“It's fine.” Rainer slid into a cotton shirt, covering the scars without meeting my gaze. “We took the silver anyway.”
“Lead still hurts,” Marc said. He must think I'd shoot him in the back. Even so, he went to the filing cabinet in the corner of the room and pulled out all my weapons. He set three guns, holsters, and magazines on the rolling chair and pushed it in my direction. I tried not to look as relieved as I felt. They had taken my silver bullets, so for all intents and purposes, I couldn’t kill them.
Oddly, I didn't think they'd hurt me unless I acted stupid.
“Can I have my shirt?” I said.
Marc passed me my clothing, freshly cleaned and warm. I slipped the shirt over my head.
“Where's my tag? Why didn't it send a panic signal when you abducted me and removed the device? Did the taser cause an electrical short?”
He tossed me the wretched tag. “I asked it not to say anything. I copied your usual biometrics and laced them into the feed. As far as the tag is concerned, you're running paces on that treadmill. Tech sees what I want, when I want.”
“Can you hide me around the clock?” Hope swelled. Maybe I wouldn't have to wear it. Freedom—
“Not a good idea. If you're in a situation I'm not aware of, I can't predict your vitals and adjust the feed. We wouldn't want the computer to believe you're sleeping when you're in the middle of a firefight.”
I sighed. Figures.
“Relax, Jane Bond. You get toys.”
He flipped a small black phone through the air and I caught it. It appeared completely unremarkable.
“What does it do?”
“Makes calls.”
“Smart ass.”
“It's a clean line. A hundred-percent off the grid, no GPS, no nothing. Only use it to call me. I'll know if you don't.”
I approved.
“And this.” He held out a necklace, a brass locket with bland floral etchings on the face.
“Jewelry?” I cracked it open. No picture inside.
“It's a DNAcoy, my design. Consider it like a stealth-mode panic button. If you need to hide from the GPS in your tag, open this and press the surface. It verifies your print, mimics resting vital signs, and locks the GPS device to your current location. But you can't leave it on for long, or someone will notice your body hasn't gone through its fluctuations and you've been standing in a coffee shop for six months. It forwards that information to your phone so you know where Big Fed thinks you’ve been and for how long. It would be pointless to establish an alibi if you don’t know about it. If the situation gets complicated, you can call me and I’ll create an artificial memory to convince the RFID tag you were heading in a specific direction or loitering in a certain place. Big Fed will see only what I allow.”
“Where have you been all my life?” I said. “I get to keep this, right?”
“I insist.”
�
��Which compound has your informant?”
“Willington's Home for Boys.”
I shuffled my weight. Davey Aberdeen resided there. If he still lived.
“Problem?” Marc said.
“You don't expect me to get your boy out, right?”
“No,” Rainer said. “He killed two people. I can't ask you to free him. Although he did make a request.”
“Of course, he did. Why does that give me a sinking feeling?”
“He swore, if he ever rampaged or was captured, he wanted to be put down.”
“Euthanasia? Convenient how you didn't mention this before. I'm a government merc, not a thug for hire. I sure as hell won’t kill a kid in chains. He’s locked up. My job is done.”
Rainer lifted his hands. “Completely optional.”
“And you approve?”
“I understand.”
I did, too, which eased my temper flare.
“The contact's information is in the black phone. Let me know when you've got what we need.”
“How will he know to talk to me?”
“Quote this.” He handed me a small sheet of paper.
“My love is like a red red rose that's newly...” I read. “Dude, I can't be caught with a love poem in my pocket, especially Robert Burns.”
“You are outrageous. It's the signal. It needs to be specific and unusual.”
“Cruel and unusual,” I insisted. I folded the piece of paper and stuck it in my pocket.
“Ms. Durant, despite the fact that I've only spying on you for a few months, I feel like I've known you forever.”
Alarmed, I realized how true that felt. Kinship. His smile lifted my heart.
“Thanks,” I said. “And stop spying.”
“Yeah, not likely. I must warn you, if you betray us, I'll make your life so miserable that you'll gladly eat your lovely gun.”
I believed it. Hell, he had my address, fingerprints, DNA, and evidence from enough of my illegal activities to have me black-bagged a dozen times over.
Marc moved to the door, ready to escort me to the surface. They made me squeeze my eyes shut while Rainer typed a code into the vault keypad. It parted quietly. A foot of steel separated us from a narrow, steep stairway.
“It's been swell,” I said. Remembering why I had come, I narrowed my eyes and pointed at Rainer. “Stop sending me embarrassing amounts of depraved, ungodly porn.”
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