by R. J. Blain
“And then dumped you with the NYPD.”
“I never said my supervisor was smart or wise,” I countered.
“This is true. So, let’s start with Arkansas, shall we?”
I grabbed the stack and plucked the first two sheets off the pile, which were clipped together and had a sticky note with the state’s name. After working with the CDC for so long, the form didn’t bother me as much as the list of special rules for law enforcement in the state. One of the entries startled me. “Law enforcement officers must wear pants with their uniforms?”
“Yes.”
“What about shorts? Doesn’t it get hotter than hell here in the summer?”
“It’s not a law many appreciate, but some men made a fuss because women were wearing skirts to work and they weren’t allowed to wear shorts, so all uniformed law enforcement must wear pants. As a result, no one is happy now.”
Damn. “Perkette, remind me never to move to Arkansas unless that dress code changes. I’d also like an undercover rating for this state.”
Alfred chuckled. “As a chief, you can decide when you’re undercover.”
Score. “I don’t wear anything other than pants and I don’t even have a uniform right now, so I’m undercover effective now. Got a pen?”
The FBI agent slid one to me across the table, and I made a note on the form about having to declare my status as undercover. The rest of the rules seemed simple enough, and I tossed Arkansas’s aside and picked up the next form, scanning over it. When it seemed sensible enough, I put a checkmark on it and tossed it onto the pile.
“Effective,” Alfred said, watching me work. “You’re no stranger to paperwork.”
“The CDC just loves its red tape.” I went through most states before halting at Nevada. “Nevada has a flat out ban against law enforcement marrying each other on the state level?”
“Yes.”
“That’s stupid. I’m married to a cop, and I refuse to be unmarried to my cop. Exemption or Nevada can take its jurisdiction and shove it up its ass.”
“An exemption will be made. You just can’t actively marry a law enforcement officer in the state.”
“Exemption.”
“Pardon?”
“Ex-emp-tion.” I lifted the form and waved it in his face. “If my husband comes anywhere near Las Vegas, I’m paying an Elvis impersonator and renewing my vows. That counts as marrying take two, right?”
He laughed. “I’ll make a note in the file that you have plans to renew your vows while in Vegas. Figure you may as well enjoy the experience?”
“We had a courthouse wedding,” I admitted.
“Your marriage and vow renewal plans are safe. Exemptions are made for this one all the time. We have a special form for it. I’ll make sure you sign it before you leave, and your husband will also be required to sign. We need the form any time our liaisons are married to cops, which is somewhat frequent. Liaisons can’t seem to keep their hands off the local law enforcement.”
“Cops are hot,” I informed him. I pointed at Perkette. “Just ask her.”
“Cops are hot,” she agreed.
“I see where you ladies stand. We’ll make sure your marriage isn’t hampered by Nevada’s rules, Chief Quinn.”
“I’m going to need to either go by Gardener or add something to the front or use my full name, or everyone will look for my husband,” I complained.
“Sam will not be happy if you go by Gardener. He’s a bit territorial,” Perkette announced.
I snorted. “A bit? And anyway, I think he secretly misses growling Gardener at me.”
“He would. He’s almost as hopeless as you are.”
As I lacked a sufficient rebuttal, I rolled up Nevada’s form and smacked her with it before making a note about the exemption and tossing it into the pile. I blitzed through the rest of the forms and slid the stack across the table to Alfred. “What else do I need to do?”
“Sign the actual forms and fill out the exemption forms as needed. I’ll send you a copy of the list, issue your firearms, and obtain—”
Sylvester popped into the room with a flash of golden light and set a pile of blue uniforms and a box on the table. “I have two sets of your uniform, Bailey, your badge and firearms, and some other permits the NYPD printed out for you.”
Alfred sighed. “Firearms is plural.”
“My grandson has more issues than sense. It seems he has picked three firearms for his lovely bride. They are, rather like him, ridiculous.” Sylvester removed a holster from the box and offered it to me. “This is a Beretta M9, and it is your primary firearm.”
I took the gun, and as I was annoyed everyone felt I was completely useless with weapons, I put on a show of checking the chamber, ejecting the magazine and checking the clip, and doing a full inspection of the weapon. “For the record, for the assholes at this table who presume I’ve never handled a firearm, the CDC made me qualify as part of my bomb squad activities. Apparently, they somehow assumed I would be capable of operating a firearm while sporting hooves. I’m proficient.”
“You should compete,” Alfred replied. “Your qualification results are in your file. You could use some work in motion, but if you’re standing still, you don’t miss.” Alfred checked his phone again. “And your adjustments for environmental conditions are excellent.”
“The qualification test was a bear, I hated it, and I wanted to light the ranges on fire, especially the outdoor range.”
“Chief Quinn, you qualified for a full Federal license. That qualification test is much more difficult than the one standard law enforcement use.”
I blinked. “What? I didn’t take the standard test?”
“No. You took the Federal test.”
I slumped in my seat. “The CDC played me again?”
Perkette blinked. “She qualified for a Federal permit?”
“Yes. The note here says her handler made the request for additional education with firearms and explosives.”
I wanted to find out who that handler was and shove my M9 right up his ass crosswise. “Which handler?”
“Marshal Clemmends. He seems to have taken an unusual interest in your safety.”
“In my safety? He tries to blow me up several times a week, and then he transferred me to the NYPD!” I hesitated. “I’m not complaining about the transfer.”
Alfred humored me with a smile. “I figured as much. It’s a compliment, really. Marshal Clemmends has a reputation.”
“As what? An asshole?”
“That, but he does work to ensure his staff is equipped for everything they need. Looking over your supplementary training, he’s been planning to move you into law enforcement for a while. The contract also seems to indicate an intent to transfer you.”
I frowned. “Really?”
“I’ll be back. I’ll print something for you to review that may help clarify the matter. I’ll also make a note about the serial numbers of your weapons, if you could give them to me?”
I read off the serial number of my M9 and Sylvester read off the numbers for a Glock and a SIG.
Alfred frowned. “That’s not a Glock 18, is it?”
“It’s a Glock 18. Do not ask me why the NYPD wants her to have a fully automatic gun. I’m just delivering the packages.”
I perked up. “My baby!” Setting the Beretta aside, I grabbed the Glock and set it on the table in front of me, stroking its sleek, lethal lines. “I got to use this one at the range. I had to qualify with fully automatics in the entire range. I like this one even more than the Browning.”
“Browning?” Perkette’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean a machine gun, do you?”
“Yes. They brought out a military trainer for one week of my range lessons, and I had to use a bunch of different weapons.”
“She’s gotten a very extensive weapons education through the CDC. As I said, Marshal Clemmends took special interest in your general education. There’s a note you’ll particularly like. Excuse me for a
few minutes, and you’ll understand when you see it.” Alfred left with the serial numbers and forms.
I frowned. “This is so weird. This is more than just weird, it’s freaky. Clemmends hates me.”
“Don’t judge him so readily, Bailey,” Sylvester scolded. “Certainly, he holds a certain amount of dislike for you, but he doesn’t willfully endanger those he’s responsible for. While he certainly views getting rid of you to the NYPD as directly beneficial to him, he takes his job seriously, and that means preparing you for the work. Did it not occur to you that you have a far more extensive education than basic CDC contractors?”
“Well, no. It hadn’t. I mean, sure, I know some rules and regulations, but I need to know them for my work. All contractors know the regulations associated with their work. We need to stay legal.”
“Bailey.” The angel sighed. “Once again, you underestimate yourself and your education.”
“I do not!”
Perkette jabbed me with her elbow. “You learned how to fluently read bomb schematics in a week.”
“I didn’t want to be turned into unicorn goop.”
“A week, Bailey.”
“I really didn’t want to be turned into unicorn goop.”
“It’s typically a two year Master’s degree program, Bailey. You picked it up in a week.”
“Really. Didn’t. Want. To. Be. Turned. Into. Unicorn. Goop.”
“Yes, we heard you the first two times. What we’re saying is you have a ridiculous capacity for learning, and once you’ve digested the basics of a subject, you assimilate it. You learned a complicated schematic in a week. Not only did you learn a singular schematic, you were then able to apply what you learned to other bombs. It’s only when you find a new type that you get confused and fall to the urge to just eat the fucking payload rather than disarming it properly! With your fucking claws.”
“I don’t understand why you’re upset over this issue.”
“You disarm bombs with your claws and teeth.”
“What else am I supposed to use? I don’t have the option of using my hands! I’m not impervious to bombs when a human.” I pointed at my face. “See? See these little scars? These little scars say I’m not impervious to bombs when I’m a human.”
“You should just have those removed,” Perkette grumbled.
“Quinn likes them.”
“He likes that you’re his because of them. He doesn’t actually like that you were hurt by his ex-wife. It reminds him of that every time he sees them.”
I turned to my grandfather-in-law and pointed at my scars. “Can you remove these for me for Christmas?”
“I could remove them for you right now. There’s no need to wait until Christmas.”
“Would you please remove them now? If Sam doesn’t like them, I don’t want them. I thought he liked them. I could get the creams, but those take weeks to work.”
Perkette’s eyes widened. “You called him Sam.”
“I call him Sam!” I scowled.
“You usually call him Quinn.”
“She saves Sam for the special occasions because my little grandson loves when she calls him Sam or Samuel that much,” the traitor angel announced.
Asshole angel. “That,” I admitted, as there was no point in trying to hide the truth with a pesky angel around.
Perkette grinned. “You’re absolutely unbelievable, Bailey.”
I sighed. “No matter what I say, I just can’t win, can I?”
“Nope,” she replied. “You really can’t.”
Chapter Fourteen
Quinn
It occurred to me I could beat Bailey to Vegas in one simple way, and it wouldn’t even cost me anything. Over the years, I’d accumulated various favors from angels, devils, and demons alike, smoothing things over with local law enforcement or simply helping them because I could. If I called in some of those favors, I could have everyone teleported to Vegas within a few hours, which would put me in position to reach Bailey if she needed me.
Taking a pair of young gorgons on a public flight was a recipe for disaster and mayhem, and while I’d be entertained, the effort would delay us long enough that driving might be more efficient.
Sometimes, the simplest solutions worked the best.
My first step was to call the FBI and process a jurisdiction request for Nevada. When I finally got a hold of someone, I discovered I’d been granted country-wide jurisdiction for the purposes of recovering Janet—and that my sneaky wife had made a few requests regarding the rules and marriage in Nevada.
Once I resolved the jurisdiction issue, dealing with Perkins was next on my list. He wouldn’t be happy when I told him about my plan, but I needed to make sure he’d be okay with it before forcing him to teleport across half the country. After his experiences teleporting with Bailey, I worried he would take my idea poorly.
I sighed and glanced at him. “I have an idea.”
“Those are the scariest damned words you could possibly say to me right now. Ideas are dangerous things. The only thing more dangerous than you having an idea is your wife having an idea—or my wife having one.”
Damn, my friend wasn’t pulling his punches. “How does teleporting to Vegas sound to you?”
“You are permitted to have a single idea today, and that is the idea you’re permitted to have.”
I laughed. “You’re in a mood.”
“I’ve been socially engineered to be incapable of expressing gratitude in gracious ways, so I’m resorting to mockery, sarcasm, and generally being an asshole to express my gratitude.”
I raised my brows at that. “You’re welcome.”
“Right. I was supposed to say thank you. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I repeated, directing my attention back to my phone. “Take us to the nearest FBI building. We can use that as a staging point, get them to deal with our rental, and prepare. I’ll call in a few extra favors to have our firearms and uniforms retrieved and make arrangements for a babysitter when we can’t watch the kids personally.”
“Gorgons?”
“I was thinking angels or a divine.”
“Has it occurred to you that you may be taking the overprotective parent thing a little too far?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Sam, you can’t ask a divine to babysit the kids.”
“Like hell I can’t. And I will. The Sphinx adores kids, and she’s the best protector I can think of, and she’s immune to petrification. My grandfather’s a good choice, too. I’d like to see someone get to them with either of them on guard.”
“You’re serious.”
“Sure am. I mean, I’m going to be calling in favors from demons, devils, and angels to get us to Vegas in a hurry—and get us everything we need to be able to act once Bailey finds Janet. I don’t want to be halfway across the country when she might need us. Our wives, too. But Janet’s going to need the most help.”
Perkins stared at me, his eyes wide. “Did you just admit someone might need more help than Bailey?”
“Yes. Actually, I’m more concerned about what Janet will do if she’s able to escape. That woman has backbone.”
“I’m worried Janet hasn’t set herself free. If she could, she would.”
“Petrification. I’m hoping not with gorgon dust, but my bets are on petrification. This makes me wonder if that ex-cadet was involved with the 120 Wall Street incident, too.” I growled, remembered we had kids in the car, and fell quiet. “I’m worried this is more extensive of a plot than mere revenge.”
“We need to figure out who his accomplices are. He has to have them.”
“That’s what Thomas thought, too.” I frowned.
“Thomas?”
“He’s a gorgon from Florida. Winfield had contacted him, and he tipped me off about Bailey. He’s definitely in league with gorgons; he’s been able to contact multiple hives. I just don’t know which hive he’s working with.”
“And it’s not that bitch’s hive,
either.”
I wrinkled my nose but didn’t argue with him or his choice of terms.
“That’s a bad word,” Beauty announced. “Say you’re sorry.”
Perkins sighed while I grinned.
“I’m sorry, Beauty. She was a very bad person who’d done very bad things to your foster parents. She earned the title.”
“She’s a dog?”
“Basically,” Perkins replied. “But you’re right. It wasn’t a nice thing to say.”
“What mean things did she do?”
“She targeted your foster mother with a bomb, and when that didn’t work, she kidnapped her.” Perkins grunted. “She emotionally abused your foster father, too.”
As he said nothing but the truth, I kept my mouth shut despite wanting to protest his choice of words.
“That bitch!” Beauty blurted.
My annoyance over my ex-wife’s actions faded. I fought my laughter over Beauty’s reaction, but it escaped, and choking it back only made things worse. “We’ll just call that even,” I gasped out between fits of laughter. “She’s dead now, so we really shouldn’t be saying bad things about her even though they’re true.”
Sylvester giggled and leaned between the seats. “We’re not in trouble?”
“Not at all,” I assured him. “But let’s not say mean things moving forward.” I worried Bailey would also help expand their vocabulary, but the realist in me recognized raising two gorgon children in New York around a bunch of cops at the station would result in colorful language and a certain hardened view of the world.
Gorgons needed a hardened view of the world.
Perkins pulled over long enough to input a new address into the navigation system, and he sighed at the hour-long drive ahead of us. “It could be worse, I guess,” he muttered.
“It could be. We could have to run to Vegas. Bailey’s going to be wiped.”
“Hey, just think about it this way, Sam. You’re always worried she’s not getting enough exercise. I think she’s covered for a while.”
“Your silver linings need work, Arthur.”
“Yeah, they’re a bit tarnished, aren’t they?”