“Also something I can't promise.” His grin made me grin. I liked Rainer. It would be a shame to kill him.
Marc walked several paces ahead and led me up the stairs. I had no choice but to watch his ass. Seriously, it was right there. And luscious. His thick, defined trunks were equally awesome. Too soon, we reached the top. He slid the panel away and we walked into a stall the size of a telephone booth with handlebars on both sides and a small seat.
“Close the door behind you,” he said.
I hesitated. That would leave me stuffed in a tiny booth with the big guy, and I wasn't really armed. His body lingered scant centimeters away from mine. I could feel his heat. His ass screamed, hello there!
“Rainer won't open the door until you close the panel,” Marc said.
Teeth clenched, I took the last step into the booth and closed the panel. There wasn't enough room. Marc's hip pressed against mine. He turned, which put his pectorals in my face. He squeezed around again and his butt rubbed against me.
“Christ,” I said, frustrated because he felt good.
Marc pounded on the wall. “C'mon!”
Nothing happened.
“What's the problem?” I sucked in my tummy so it wouldn't touch his butt. He had great shoulders. His back muscles strained against his cotton shirt, which stretched tight over everything except the sway of his lower back. I imagined the corded muscle underneath. The small of a person’s back, with its intimate curve and responsiveness, was one of my favorite erogenous zones. I loved to put my hand on that sensitive skin. If I reached out—
“He's playing with us,” Marc said.
“How's that?” I squeaked. Trapped in here forever?
Marc shook his head, reluctant. Goosebumps sprung across his sizable biceps. “You've heard lycanthropy enhances human perception. Some people think we can even read minds. As far as I know, wolves can't really smell thoughts. Too much gray area. Guilt smells like a lie, so does doubt and indecision, sometimes embarrassment. Yet we can smell desire very distinctly, especially in females. Rainer is teasing you.”
“Teasing me with your body. What a twat!”
He laughed, throaty and a bit tense. The sound distracted me from our claustrophobic plight. Goose bumps traveled across the back of his neck. He wasn't unaffected by my closeness. Since I wasn't really armed, I had to assume my desire distracted him. Maybe Marc liked me more than he let on. I fought the urge to deliberately press against him.
Hell, I felt the same post-adrenaline urgency that inspired sexual romps after funerals and fights.
I lifted my hand and flipped off the camera. The panel finally slid open. Marc quickly stepped out, giving me space and a view of the room. And the porno rack. We stood in a jerking booth.
“Ew.”
Rufus perked up and wagged his tail.
“Oh, no. Don't you start,” I said. “Not this time. I never saw a more cheerful piece of bait.”
“He likes you. I didn’t see that coming.” Marc put his hands on hips. “Rough neighborhood. Want me to walk you out?”
“You're kidding, right?”
“You have a busted hand. I'd hate for you to die before Rainer gets what he needs.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” He held the door open. “This whole situation is a little...”
“Fucked up?”
“Yeah.”
“I hear you.”
I exited, feeling naked without silver ammo. My truck was parked where I left it. Inside the cab, I eagerly loaded my Jericho with Ag rounds.
Chapter 29
Knowledge is power. Information is dangerous.
Data gathered by the unconstitutional tagging of citizens created an archive of easy targets. Someone sworn to protect that information sold it to sadistic murderers. I could ask Yoshino to research leaks in the tech department. He'd find something, then we'd terminate Thaddeus Nolan and file a report. Case closed. Nolan might even go to trial. Depending on how the political arena felt that day, the case could be handled as manslaughter or animal abuse. Most likely the latter. If prosecutors charged Thaddeus with animal cruelty, he'll be out of jail in six months. Provided we could prove the poaching connection. Most likely, he'd be fired without benefits and sit on the couch while Rainer violated his bank account and made the toilet malfunction.
Not good enough.
Popping a few low-grade pain killers lowered the intensity of fire coursing through my body.
I drove to the FBHS building, aware that Rainer would undoubtedly be watching. What could he do? In my clean ride without electronic override switches, I couldn't be stopped. Lock me in an elevator? Crash my computer? Maybe revoke my security clearance? He'd have to learn to trust me, sooner rather than later. I imagined him glued to a computer, anxiously monitoring me, worrying that I'd report him to the authorities. He'd be wringing his hands. Marc would be ready to rampage.
I texted Rainer via the black phone: Relax.
He didn't respond.
I strolled through the offices, tucked a blank information request file under my arm, and went down to the tech floor. A dozen researchers were tucked in their cozy cubicles, monitoring the world.
“I have a file for Nolan,” I said.
The nearest tech remained engrossed in his screen, guzzling an energy drink and clutching a fistful of licorice. “Third desk on the left.”
I sat in Nolan’s creepy little chair at his sleazy little desk and played on his computer. I found his address, noted his vehicle registration, and verified he didn't own a tagged government weapon. I checked the registry for a fur shop on Bravo called Fur Essentials and saved the address.
I opened a few drawers and searched for clues. I wasn't Sherlock Holmes, but Thaddeus was a cocky, sloppy son of a bitch. Trash cluttered his desk, including a receipt for lunch at a restaurant next to the Fur Essentials. Which proved only that he'd been near the shop.
How did I know Nolan was guilty? Maybe Rainer fed me a line. My security clearance would permit me access to Nolan's financial records, but even if I verified large cash deposits, I couldn't trust that a genius like Rainer hadn't planted the info. He had, after all, made my money disappear without a trace. I needed undeniable proof.
A freaking fur shop. Did they sell the product to the public, under the fluorescent lights of a legal business?
Noting Big Fed’s camera angles, I chose the cleanest approach to Nolan's residence. I took a blank index card off his desk and tucked it in my pocket.
My brain hummed like an old, loud computer. I never killed someone who wasn't contaminated or wasn't trying to kill me. Never murdered a pure human in cold blood. Shit. That sounded like something Keats would say. I should kick myself for even thinking that.
Why did I care anyway? Someone killed mutts, big deal. I did that every week. My gut was gravely offended. Deep down, I knew my job was about protecting people. Maybe not all the people all the time, but I eliminated a threat. I didn't kill for sport. I killed because if I didn't, someone else was going to die. What Nolan and the poachers were doing was cruel and unnecessary.
I sighed, holding my head. My bandaged hand hurt. I should go home and stop playing detective. Rainer was undoubtedly watching me, investigating my motives. He would spy on me until he could trust me, which was pretty much for the rest of my life.
Time to test the waters. I lifted the locket Rainer gave me, opened it, pressed the button, and waited.
The black phone buzzed with a text. What are you doing!
I responded: Establishing trust.
He'd either have my back or he wouldn't.
With my tag hopefully in stealth mode, I returned to my vehicle. I grabbed a pair of shooting gloves from the dashboard and slipped them into my pocket. I reached under the seat for an untagged, unregistered Glock and secured it in my appendix holster. The illegal weapon alone would earn me ten years in prison. Bringing it onto federal property would double the sentence.
I slipped the tag from my neck, undid the clasp, and left it on the floorboards like it had fallen off. Waited to three minutes see if feds came running. No one did. I felt free.
Could run, if I wanted. Be halfway to nowhere before they got me.
Probably not. Probably, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself out there in the great unknown. Back to the original plan.
I strolled to the parking garage where the company vans waited. Some wore the bureau’s crest, others remained unmarked. Getting a vehicle wouldn’t be a problem. Once, a team driver had been eaten—keys and all—leaving a team stranded in a massacre. Since then, we all left keys in the ignition.
Vincent’s team approached the yard and fell in line. He looked leaner. Quintessential whiskey marked his breath. His eyes were so red they resembled radishes.
“How’s the new gig?” I said.
“Glorious.” His expression promised homicide at the slightest nudge. “What the hell is your problem?”
“Me?”
“Looking all intense, Durant. Like you’ve had a worse day than me.”
“Maybe.”
“Stop being a pussy. I’m dealing with six fresh-off-the-assembly-line rookies. Ain’t nothing in the world as bad as that, except working with an asshole like me.”
I glanced up, saw a glimmer in his eye. A joke from the Gargoyle? His unprecedented display of humor nearly made me smile. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth.
“Go get a drink. Lookin’ like shit.” He turned to his team. “Get in the motherfucking van, you cocksucking little faggot bitches. Acting like you’re fucking housewives at the goddamn spa—”
What a charmer.
I chose an unmarked van and drove calmly through empty, post-curfew streets. Parked down the road from Thaddeus' apartment, pulled the sweatshirt hood over my head, and slipped a glove onto my right hand. My bandaged left had endured enough pain already, so I didn’t even try stuffing it into a glove. On the stolen index card, I wrote:
I have your money. New arrangement. Come to the place.
I walked under the car port and stopped at his door. I set the index card on the step and stared like it would answer all my questions. It gleamed dumbly in the moonlight. I rang the doorbell with my knuckle and pressed until the light came on upstairs. I slipped away and crouched behind a truck in the car port.
Thaddeus came to the door wearing only jeans. He was young, probably my age, with a touch of a belly protruding over his pants. The rest of him was formless, obscure. No muscle to speak of. He'd be fat soon. He sleepily looked around. Saw the card. Picked it up. Read it.
He put the index card in his pocket and reached for shoes.
Now, an innocent person would be like, what place? What money?
Guilty as sin, Thaddeus Nolan put on his jacket. I watched him get into a PT Cruiser and pull out of the lot. I walked to the van, waited until his tail lights were nearly around the corner, and then followed. He drove slowly with his tire on the center line and didn't use a turn signal. I hated everything about him.
It was four-thirteen in the morning and the road was empty, so I kept my distance. He rolled down Bravo Street and parked roadside. I idled the van across the street two blocks behind. He exited the vehicle and walked directly to Fur Essentials.
Bastard.
I waited to see if he'd call someone. If a buyer came, I could get two birds with one stone.
He didn't call. No one came. Eventually, he walked back to his car.
Thaddeus Nolan betrayed his government and humanity by selling victims to sociopath butchers.
I'm not smart. I'm not fearless. I'm not even courageous, which is better than fearless but somehow easier for most people to come by. Life gave me lemons and I still have lemons. I'm an alcoholic and a social disaster, but those were my bad qualities. My good quality (and I only claim one) is that I act. Actions speak louder than words, absolutely, and actions come faster to me than thoughts, than fear, than anything else. Action. Response. Movement. I acted on a plan and worried after the fact. Like jumping off a pier with no concern of drowning until after I was deep underwater.
I didn’t consider guilt or regret until afterward, either.
Better to ask forgiveness than permission.
I put the van in gear, circled the block, and drove quickly back to his place. I parked and loaded my spare weapon with cheap non-Ag rounds. The untagged Glock's grip felt glued to my hand. I left the van, lurked behind the dumpster, and rested the gun comfortably across my leg, safety off. A slight chill stuck in the air, soaking into the scar tissue on my neck. My nose was cold.
A few minutes later, his car pulled into the lot. He strolled to his apartment, tired and unaware, and slipped his key in the lock. I left my hiding place and came up behind him as he swung the door open then closed. Lock clicked. Allowing him a moment to take off his jacket, I planted my foot beside the knob and kicked in the door.
“The hell—” he said, eyes wide, mouth open.
“You're experiencing a home invasion.” I shot him in the chest. Planned to shoot him once, but the memory of skinned bodies flashed through my head. Squeezing the trigger felt good, justified. Seven rounds later, I was satisfied.
Rummaged in his warm pocket, took the index card, and left. Didn't run. A light came on in the complex while I slid into the big empty van. No one poked out their head.
Drove steadily, merged onto the barren freeway. Could stop for coffee, a post-murder drink. Not in the company van, though. Caffeine would have to wait. Back to the bureau, I parked the van and exited without a sign-out or a hassle.
God, I stunk. Needed a shower.
Fished my tag from the floorboard and hit the button on the DNAcoy to signal Rainer that I was finished. He knew, or would quickly learn, what I'd done. Didn't matter. My eyes were grainy with fatigue. As Vincent said, I looked like shit. Time to go home and get at least two hours of sleep.
Chapter 30
I woke, showered, and readied myself to commit more treason while assisting a mutt pirate. Weariness settled on my body. My left hand hurt the worst. Serious painkillers awaited me, but I ignored them and took Gorgonblood and coffee instead.
My stomach tangled in hungry, inconsolable knots. Better get this over with. Time to jump and sort out the rest later. I slipped my hair under a baseball cap, set sunglasses on my nose, and left.
Willington's School for Boys was unlisted. Big Fed didn’t advertise the local youth death camp, but the building wasn't exactly hidden either. It sat on an undesirable plot of land behind the train tracks, surrounded by two craters. The barren ground of the Starlight Incident and the Massacre of St. Andrews Cathedral were now ghost neighborhoods with little more than a trickle of errant drug trade. I drove to the gate enclosing massive cement barricades.
Razor wire. Electric fence. Shooters posted in nests.
I introduced myself, tag first.
“State your purpose, Agent Durant.”
“Follow-up reports on minors in custody. Some i-dotting and t-crossing. You know how our paperless society goes: endless, redundant records. I shouldn't be long.”
Supplementing reports was commonplace during investigations. Given my clearance level, I wasn't worried about getting caught. Truly.
“Hold while we scan your tag.”
I sat still. Silent. Controlled my breathing, three seconds on the inhale, three seconds to exhale. My stomach ached. Why was I nervous? Maybe because I dreaded a compound filled entirely with children. Memories of Davey filled my mind: his face splotchy and red, his ragged arm clutching a dismembered limb. Such trauma would be a cakewalk in comparison to what awaited him in this facility.
“One hour,” the officer said. “Officer Rubin will escort you to the potentials you need.”
“Thanks.”
I drove through the gate, parked the truck, and waited until an officer approached me. Rubin: I hadn't recognized the name, but I remembered his face. He had been active in the bureau before he was c
aught on film, naked, doing despicable things with an underage girl. The film went viral. The bureau, frowning on negative publicity, sent him down the ladder to take out the trash.
His gaze lingered below the collar of my shirt, roving for tits or scars. Sleazy shit. Mustache like a bulbous tumor on his face.
“Agent Durant, we'll see if we can find your subjects, but I can’t make promises. You know how hectic things get here.”
“Whatever we miss, I'll fake it out.” I left the truck.
“Remove your weapons and leave them with security.”
“You have neither the clearance nor the capacity to take my firearms, and you know it. Shall we get this done?”
“Who's first?” he said.
“Billy Budd.”
“Sounds familiar.”
Duh, it was a Melville title and clearly a fake name. Rubin checked his tablet. “Oh, that asshole. He's in solitary. Maybe you want to change your mind about seeing him.”
“I have reports to finish, Rubin. I'd rather get through it without pandering, babying, or dancing around. I won’t get squeamish at the bleaker bits. Hey, it’s a shame about your transfer. A veteran with your experience deserves a better post. I have to report my interaction here with my superiors. Might put in a good word for you.”
He bought the lies because he was an entitled asshole who thought he deserved good things and resented the world when it didn't happen.
“If that bandage covers an open wound, Durant, you’re taking exceptional risk.”
“Fractured my hand a bit, no broken skin.”
“What happened?”
“Punched a mutt.”
He laughed, assuming I joked.
Security buzzed us through the electrified fence with two meters of thick razor wire. Behind the buzzing fence was a concrete wall about five meters tall.
What Auschwitz where?
Rubin led me up stone stairs to a skywalk. Guards patrolled the wall, like an old fashioned castle fortress. Peering down through the plexiglas and iron bars, I saw inmates fill the yard. Boys in various states of dress clustered, idle, like a crowd waiting to get into a concert. Pockets of children huddled for heat, miserable in the early morning chill. A group squabbled over a ratty deck of playing cards. None of them behaved like real boys. Numerous wounds and bruises painted a picture of reoccurring violence. Others scratched roughly at evidence of lice.
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