by Mark Henwick
How quickly would the SWAT team get here?
There was a brick building in front of me, squat as if it were crouched beneath the overpasses. A factory. Corrugated sheet metal production. All this passed in a blur as I dodged down the side and took the invitation of an open window.
From the hallway I landed in, I moved into the noisy main factory. There was no one around. I switched the lights off and it went dark. Good. I’d need every advantage I could get, and then some.
I didn’t want to use the gun unless I had to. I had no silencer and a limited number of bullets.
And there had to be workers somewhere in the building, even if I couldn’t see them. I didn’t want them caught in the crossfire.
The Nagas would kill them without blinking.
I texted José in the dark.
Trap. 20+. Armed. Special forces. Extreme caution. Backup++. Quickly.
How long? Twenty minutes, maybe, for the first of them to arrive. I needed to survive for twenty minutes.
Too long.
I slipped through the darkness. Great shadowy hulks of automated pressing machines screeched and banged. Rollers turned, and sheets of metal clanged along rolling lines to more machines that stacked them up into pallet loads.
Workers would have to come move those soon.
I couldn’t hear them through the din, but in the darkness I could almost feel the Nagas come into the factory.
They’d move cautiously. They’d know there would be a time limit, but this was a small factory and there were a lot of them. I had minutes.
There was an electrical panel on the wall. And a fire alarm. I had to get the workers out of the building or the Nagas would kill them.
I hit the alarm. I pulled the panel open and gave thanks. Good solid, industrial fuses, not rocker switches. I yanked them all and hurled them into the deepest, darkest corners of the room. The machines stopped. The alarm continued yelling. It had to work from a different electrical connection, maybe a battery somewhere.
Still, no lights coming back on for a while, boys. Find me in the dark.
But it’d slowed me down. I heard doors opening, feet running, commands grunted. I’d run out of time.
Behind the main machine room was another corridor. Offices with desks and chairs. A locker room with rolled-up blankets in the corner. All empty. Too early for the day shift to come in. And a dead end. Nowhere to go, no way back.
Shit!
I could hold them off for a few minutes with the HK, but if I’d put this team together, they’d have grenades. A couple down this corridor would end it.
Up!
But the ceiling held nothing.
No hiding spaces. Not in the ceiling, not in the offices, not in the locker room. I was trapped. I’d lost the advantage by hiding in a building. Stupid.
Deal with it. What have I got? What can I do in the next sixty seconds?
Something I really didn’t want to do, because I couldn’t predict what would happen. If anything.
Always create surprise. Surprise doubles your forces.
Well, Top, this’ll sure surprise the hell out of them, especially if it doesn’t work.
I shucked my clothes and flung them into a locker, hiding my HK beneath them.
I spread the blankets in a corner. Oh, the irony. One of the day workers must leave his dog in here on the blankets. They stank.
The alarm cut off. They’d have to be in the factory to do that. Right next door.
Thinking about that’s a distraction. Ignore it.
How had Noble described it?
Running.
I sucked the stale, oily air down into my lungs and tried to taste the sweet pine breezes of Bitter Hooks.
The strongbox groaned. I had to ignore it. Sweat popped out on my skin, as if I were really running through the woods. My head felt light. My skin felt wrong. I wanted to tear it off.
Fly behind her. See what your wolf sees. Flickering shadows of trees whip past. Sense what she senses.
Distant sweet call. Far away.
Closer. Closer. Falling.
Not the sweet pine. The smell of metals, harsh and cold. Oil. Dust. Fumes from the interstate traffic. Not the gentle sigh of wind, but the rumble of trucks. Cold, hard concrete under my feet. The staccato beat of boots outside. Now or never.
Sudden slamming.
Ow! Shit! What the hell?
All wrong. Crouched.
Have to hide, have to. Want to kill. Threat. Protect my pack. Melissa is pack. Kill!
No! Hide!
I turn and curl on blankets. Stupid dog smell. Not dog. Wolf. Threat, coming into the room. Want to kill. Killing breath shaking in my throat, slipping through my teeth.
Sounds. Meanings. Important.
Harsh voices. Excitement. Confusion.
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
Lights. Flashlights shining.
“Can’t be. Where the fuck’s she gone?”
“Nothing here but a big mutt, Sarge.”
“Get out here. Russell, you’re backstop. Wait here, cover these rooms. The rest of you, next block.”
I want to kill. I don’t want to have to cower like a dog.
Squawking.
“Shit. Scout says SWAT in ten. Move. Move. Out in five. You don’t make it, you’re on your own.”
Boots not thudding like before. More shuffling now. Puzzled. Angry. Excitement gone. Moving away. Quieter.
I want to kill.
His face was pale and blank with shock, his eyes staring at the ceiling. I couldn’t see what color they were. That was strange, because I knew his name. He was called Russell. He was the backstop. He was dead. His throat was destroyed, chewed through to the spine.
Then I realized that I had bits of his flesh in my mouth.
I vomited all over him.
Cold. Cold. Shivering.
Stomach empty, still heaving.
I’d gone wolf. And I couldn’t control it.
I wiped myself down on the dirty blankets and dressed, hands shaking badly.
I had to get outside. What had they done to Melissa? What would I find at Mayne’s?
Ops 4-16 was gone. Their operation timer had hit the end and they’d just left. No one checked on Russell. Anyone who hadn’t made the call had to fend for themselves. But he hadn’t been prepared for me.
I could still taste his flesh. I would never get rid of that.
I pitched over, dry heaving again.
The front doors were open, allowing the snow to swirl into the building. I stumbled outside.
And stopped.
The SWAT team was in place.
I raised my hands, laced them on my head. “I’m Amber Farrell. I made the call to Captain Morales to bring you guys in.”
“Keep your hands up there.” The voice came from my left. “Walk forward.”
They guided me between two SWAT vans, and were about to cuff and search when Lieutenant Edmunds came running up.
“I got it guys, I got it. I know her.”
They back off and he leaned in close. “Anything in there?” he asked quietly.
“One dead. I upchucked on him,” I said, my stomach churning. “The rest got some kind of warning. Someone watching the depot, I think. They’re gone.”
He turned to the squad commander.
“There’s one body in the building. We think the others have gone. Check it carefully. I’ll be with Morales.”
“You got it, Lieutenant.”
He took my arm and started pulling.
“No, I need to check the building they set up as the trap. Melissa—”
“No time. José’s orders. Straight to her apartment.”
We trotted to a waiting squad car and I’d barely got my butt on the seat when he took off, relying on the lights and sirens to keep the road clear.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know.” He shook his head before I could even ask the question. “He just said to get there quic
k.”
Chapter 60
We arrived at Melissa’s apartment in Glendale and I ignored the elevator to sprint up the stairs.
The door was open. José had heard me on the stairs and he was standing just inside.
“Amber.” He tried to slow me down, tried to block the way.
I shoved him aside.
The place was barely touched. Tables and chairs were in their places. Pictures sat square on the walls. Everything screaming that it was all right. Nothing to be concerned about. Everything was normal.
Except it wasn’t.
An empty bowl was lying on the floor. The sofa blocked my view, but beyond it, I could see feet on the carpet, and the dread that had gripped me since I saw the text that morning became the sickening, white-hot pain of certainty.
I slowed. I didn’t want to see this, and I had to.
I could hear Edmunds at the door behind me. Sirens outside. Muted traffic sounds. A whole world that just kept on outside this apartment, without caring or noticing.
Another step.
Her feet had been bound together. One shoe had come off and sat there as if at any second she’d slip her foot back into it. It was her sensible working shoe, dark-colored and low-heeled. A little scuff on the toe.
Her hands had been bound behind her back.
She was wearing her gray pants and a red shirt.
Except it wasn’t a red shirt. It was white, soaked in blood.
A shiny spoon from the kitchen had fallen onto the carpet, distracting me for one last second from her face, and then it all rushed in on me.
Her eyes had been gouged out with the spoon. Then she’d been stabbed, if you could call it that. She’d been subjected to a prolonged, frenzied assault with a knife.
“…evidence of almost uncontrollable rage…” I could hear her measured description of the rogue’s handiwork as if she were standing beside me. “…140 stab wounds…”
I knelt at the edge of the carpet. I was hyperventilating, dizzy.
I forced myself to look at her face, and another voice came back to me: “… or I’ll rip those eyes out myself…”. The voice calm, as if it would be no big thing to carry out his threat.
Silas!
A bitter despair and a gut-twisting anger swept through me.
It fell into place. We were getting too close. Maybe Ursula had called him and told him I was asking questions about Clayton. He’d needed a distraction, and Larsen just fit the bill.
The Larsen I’d seen wasn’t the rogue. His bewildered terror at what was happening had been too…human.
And I’d let it happen. They’d hauled him away to some kind of trial, with Larsen of course claiming innocence. But I’d laid the groundwork to ignore that. A sociopath could say anything convincingly. Silas must have produced some manufactured evidence. The pack had probably taken Larsen to Bitter Hooks and extracted their revenge this morning. That’d be where they were.
And Silas had managed to divert here first, to lure Melissa out and kill her.
My friend. My House.
Tears streamed down my face.
On my Blood, I would not rest until I tore him apart, strip by bloody strip. I wanted him screaming his life out under at my hands.
If I could.
The strongbox had been loosened. The wolf wanted out again.
I was shaking violently with the effort of holding it together. I couldn’t even stand up.
As if it were happening to someone else, I heard voices behind me.
Griffith.
“I warned you, Farrell,” he said. “You have the right to remain silent…”
I clenched my teeth together. The shaking would not stop. I wanted to kill him and anyone else who got in my way. Kill and kill and kill, until I got to Silas, and then kill him too.
I was shaking so badly, they had trouble putting the cuffs on.
They were shouting at each other. José, Edmunds, Griffith. It washed over me.
I could hear, but I couldn’t listen. If I let go for one instant, for one tiny second, I would change right in front of them and kill them all.
Chapter 61
They’d injected me with something. The shaking had stopped. The tears had stopped. Only the anger was left. It was a sullen, formless blanket over everything, pressing down on me, crushing my heart.
Melissa.
I was so tired.
I was at the CBI in one of the interview rooms. I slumped in a chair and waited for Griffith to come back.
He wasn’t far away.
There was an argument right outside the door.
I frowned. They’d been arguing around me like wasps since I’d been arrested, but there were some new voices now.
“I don’t care if you’re her lawyer. Farrell is being held under the Patriot Act. I don’t need to allow her access to representation yet.” That was Griffith.
“How the hell are you trying to swing that, Griffith? This is gross abuse of process. You can’t hide behind federal indemnity.” Morales.
“I don’t actually have to tell you, but I have a military assault rifle with her fingerprints on it.”
“Now, we’re getting somewhere. Thank you, Agent Griffith. So, this assault rifle. What is it, a Kalishnikov?” Who was that? He had to be a lawyer, because he knew the answer to the question he was asking. Someone from Jen’s lawyers? No, the voice was familiar. Who the hell did I know who was a lawyer? Apart from Kath, who would probably have been cheering Griffith on.
“You arresting everyone who owns a rifle?” Morales said.
“No.” Griffith said. “No to both.”
“So? What is it? What type of rile are we talking here?”
“An FN Special Operations Combat Assault Rifle.”
“Ah. One of our own,” the lawyer said. “I see. Someone has been providing weapons to the enemy. Well that certainly is a major felony, putting our own weapons in the hands of terrorists. Now, this rifle, would you happen to have the details on it? Serial number? Provenance? How did it get into the hands of a terrorist? And back again?”
“What are you insinuating?”
“That maybe it never got into the hands of terrorists. That it was actually a weapon signed out of FBI stores by one Agent Griffith.”
There was a crashing silence.
“So, what is it, Agent Griffith? I believe the FBI keep good records. What are we going to see if we subpoena them and drag you in front of a judge? You signed it out and it was never out of your possession, but mysteriously has the fingerprints of a terrorist on it, or you signed it out, it was then in the possession of a terrorist and now it’s back in your possession? What would go down better with the judge?”
Ingram. Agent Ingram must have tipped off my knight in shining armor .
Bless your big Texan heart.
But who was my knight? Not something I’d ever thought to say about a lawyer.
“How the fuck—” Griffith choked.
“I think that’s entirely secondary to the central issue of the credibility of your assertion about Ms. Farrell.” The lawyer was warming up nicely. I’d thank him as well as Ingram.
I stood up and walked to the door. Every step seemed to take a huge effort, but just moving helped. The door was locked of course, but I banged hard on it.
“Keep it down, I’m trying to sleep in here,” my throat demon said before I could catch it.
Surprisingly, the door was opened. Agent Ingram stood there.
In the corridor, Griffith was pale as milk and I guessed he was trying hard to back-pedal his way out of a difficult spot without appearing to.
Morales reached my side and peered into my eyes.
“Jesus! What have they dosed you with?”
I swayed and shrugged. Whatever, it was wearing off. It had given me the opportunity to get the strongbox closed again, so I wasn’t complaining, as long as I got out of here now.
The shock was the lawyer.
Taylor. Taylor Tyson, Kath’s fia
ncé.
What the hell was he doing here, arguing my case?
“Taylor?” I said.
“We’ll just be a moment, Amber. I’m sure Agent Griffith has become aware that there’s been a mistake made about the grounds for holding you without representation. I believe we’ll deal with the charge of interfering with an FBI investigation quite easily.”
Ingram muttered something in Griffith’s ear, and whatever it was, it worked. Ingram began shepherding us down the corridor to the lobby.
“I do believe we need further discussion with you this afternoon, Captain Morales, but I think Ms. Farrell has had a difficult time and she should be escorted home. Mr. Tyson, would you oblige?”
“Yes.”
Huh? I looked at Taylor. His answer came out wrong for some reason. I guessed it didn’t matter. If I could just get out of here, I’d be able to find my own way home. Maybe I could call up a bit of Athanate and burn the sedative off. Then again, I didn’t want to try anything, Athanate or Were, at the moment. Shelve that idea.
“We do need to talk again, Ms. Farrell,” Ingram said. “Please don’t wander away from Denver.”
“It’ll be a pleasure,” I said, feeling warm and fuzzy toward him. “I’ll call.”
I got my jacket back, and given the snow flying outside the windows, I’d need it.
Taylor took my HK and a bag of my possessions.
Fine, for now. Just get me out of here.
More shocks in the lobby.
“Kath?” I blinked hard, but she was still there. Not a drug-induced hallucination. I couldn’t understand what was going on, but she was there for me. That meant something. “Thank you.”
“You’re my sister,” she said as she pulled me through the doors into the biting cold. “I’ll stand by you, whatever.”
Damn that wind. Damn the drugs. Couldn’t see straight. Everything moist and blurry.
The storm had settled in over Denver with a vengeance. Snow was falling heavily.
“Light dusting over high ground,” I quoted, stumbling. “They got that wrong.”
Taylor took my arm and helped me walk quicker.
Kath’s car was parked next to a paramedic van. A couple of orderlies came out, shivering and hugging themselves, hiding their hands from the cold.
“It’s okay,” I said, my lips still feeling numb, so I had to talk slowly. “It’s just a sedative. It’ll work its way through. Don’t need anything.”