Blood Ties: A Grace Harper Novel

by J. T. Hardy

  I admired the cases full of survival gear, an impressive assortment of knives, guns in all shapes and sizes, and everything a gal needed to carry them. In the event of a zombie apocalypse, I knew where my first stop would be.

  "Liberty!" bellowed a solid chunk of man across the shop.

  Libby held firm, and even smiled. "Uncle Roberto."

  He moved from behind the counter like a ship smashing through ice, stopping when he reached her. After a barely perceptible awkwardness, he scooped her up in a hug that would have snapped a weaker woman. "I've missed you, chula."

  Libby hesitated for a heartbeat, but hugged him back. "Me too." They stared at each other for a moment, and then she turned to me and made the introductions.

  "Grace, Roberto Torres, Uncle Roberto, Grace."

  "Nice to meet you," I said.

  "Same. My girl said you're in some trouble."

  Libby told me to be straight, yet vague, with the guy. "I am. Missing father. Bad people looking for us both. I'm all kinds of screwed."

  "It happens to the best of us. Tell me."

  Libby jumped in, summarizing my messed-up life with military precision. I wasn't sure if it sounded better or worse that way.

  Roberto didn't hesitate. "Come with me."

  We followed him into a back office. Photos of a much younger Libby and a bunch of guys in fatigues hung along one wall. Four of them had "Torres" stitched on their pockets, and looked like the guys in the photos in her apartment. An older shot had a young Roberto and another guy who looked a lot like him sitting on the hood of a Jeep.

  Roberto shut the door and crossed his arms. He gave Libby a look I was happy not to be on the receiving end of. This time she did flinch.

  "Liberty, does Jacqui know you're here?"

  Her mother, I assumed.

  She raised her chin. "I don't need her permission to help a friend."

  "Did I say permission, chula? Something happens to you on my watch, it's my ass."

  "It did not occur to me to tell her."

  He harrumphed. "I don't see you for two years, then you call with a crazy story and request an arsenal."

  "If you don't want to help--"

  "Did you hear the word no? I was worried about you."

  "I'm okay."

  He frowned. "You haven't been okay since Luis--"

  "Tio," she barked, glancing at me. "No saques los trapos sucios."

  He shifted to Spanish, and while I could only pick out a few words here and there, I didn't need a translator to know Libby was getting the old, "I'm concerned about your behavior and you're denying there's a problem which will only make it worse" speech. I'd heard that one many a time, from teachers, guidance counselors, and even a few times from Dad.

  I edged away as much as I could in the small office and focused on anything but them. Lots of photos of soldiers on Roberto's desk, though I doubted they were all family members. I checked the names, noting at least three non-Torres, then froze. Libby wore a uniform in one of the photos. She stood between two other women in tan fatigues with her own name stitched on the pocket. Well I'll be dammed. That explains a lot. She looked good with short hair.

  I guess she really could take care of herself.

  "Fine, I will," Libby said, throwing her hands up. "Dejalo ya?"

  Roberto considered it, lips pursed, then nodded. "Si." He sighed, and I got the feeling neither of them had won this fight.

  She put a hand on his impressive arm. "Can we help Grace, now, please?"

  "What do you need?"

  "A pair of self-defense packages if you could spare them. Do you have any stun gun brass knuckles? Grace is partial to the knuckledusters. And anything coated in silver that packs a punch."

  "Silver?"

  "Special circumstances."

  Roberto hesitated, but nodded slowly. "Let me see what I have in stock." He left the office.

  I turned to Libby. "He's going to just hand over weapons?"

  "He's family."

  "He doesn't even know me."

  "I vouched for you." She poked me in the chest with one finger. "Don't make me regret it."

  Aside from Dad, no one had ever given me weapons before. "I'm kinda choked up over here."

  "It's non-lethal, no need for tears."

  "Still, I'm touched."

  Roberto returned with two backpacks and set them on the desk. He opened one and rooted around inside. "Nothing silver, but we have your standard pepper spray--" he pulled it out and set it on the desk "--stun gun, personal alarm--" these also went on the desk "--an expandable steel baton." He flicked it open, then slid it closed again. "And finally, your Zappers."

  "Sweet." I picked one up. Similar in shape to my knuckledusters, but with sleek black rubber, raised sections on the middle knuckles, and metal stunner pieces. Plus a safety switch button by the thumb. A good left-handed weapon for the next time a Pretty Boy got handsy. Provided, of course, that forty thousand volts worked as well as silver.

  Roberto turned to Libby and pulled something out from behind his back. "For you--Lola."

  Libby pressed a hand to her mouth. "You're lending me Lola? I'd be fine with a loaner SIG, maybe a Glock, but her?"

  Lola was a gun, and despite Libby's enthusiasm over it, it didn't look any different from the one she'd had at her apartment.

  "Thank you," she said breathlessly.

  "There's ammo and a vest in each of your packs."

  I put the Zappers and the rest of the gear back into the open backpack. I'd move the rest of my stuff into it later. "I appreciate this, Mr. Torres. I feel safer already."

  "Roberto, please."

  "Roberto."

  "Liberty, you need me to watch your six?"

  She tossed the pack over her shoulder as natural as could be. "Not yet. If I do, I'll call you."

  "I expect regular sitreps or I'll send in the Marines." He smiled, but based on the amount of fatigues in the photos, he probably meant that literally.

  "Daily sitreps then."

  "Oh eight hundred hours."

  "Roger that."

  Roberto hugged her, then nodded at me. "Be careful. Tell me all about it when it's done and over."

  I nodded. "I'll buy the beers."

  We stopped at a diner a few blocks down the road for a quick breakfast, our stomachs rumbling almost as loudly as the highly unusual thunder. Vegas didn't get a whole lot of rain.

  "That wasn't so bad," Libby said. We slid into a booth, setting our backpacks down beside us in sync.

  "He seemed nice."

  "He is. He held back on the lectures with you there, so, thanks for that."

  I paused. "Lectures?"

  "It's--" She waved a hand like I shouldn't worry about it.

  The waitress arrived and took our order, delaying my questions. Libby got the eggs, I got pancakes, and we both got the biggest coffee they served. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping either of us standing.

  Libby was as unreadable as a rock, except for the "don't ask" vibe. I had so many questions, but I'd be quite the hypocrite if I asked them.

  She leaned back and closed her eyes. I'd have been wise to follow her lead, but catching a catnap in public wasn't part of my skill set. Too many people in the diner, even though none of them looked like a threat. Just tourists beginning their days with full bellies of cheap food before trying their luck at the casinos.

  I could use a little luck myself.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. I snatched it, heart racing, but it was just the reminder about Dad's chemo. He had a treatment today. What happened if he didn't get it? He had medications to take, too. Did he have enough? Would the Pretty Boys let him take them? If they wanted him alive, they'd have to.

  Dad had never been a quitter, but a year was a long time to fight dying, especially when it was inevitable.

  The waitress returned with breakfast and set the plates down. Libby opened her eyes with a small shake of her head and grabbed the salt. I poured syrup over my short stack and
sighed.

  "It'll be okay," she said.

  "Sure, now that I've got military protection."

  "You saw the photo."

  "You were a Marine."

  She nodded, grabbing a bite of her eggs and chewing slowly. "Family tradition. Did my three years, got out."

  "Didn't like it?"

  Her shoulders tensed. "Some of it. Not all of it." She gestured at the bagel on my plate. "You eating that?"

  I slid the plate over to her. She spent too much time spreading the cream cheese and not looking at me. I could take a hint, and I owed her the discretion.

  I nibbled on my pancakes. Not enough butter, but it wasn't worth asking for more. I barely tasted it anyway. I set my fork down and sighed. "This sucks."

  "Told you to get the eggs."

  "That's not what I meant."

  "I know. We'll figure something out."

  "How?"

  She opened her mouth, then closed it and shrugged. "I've no idea."

  "We could set a trap." It was crazy, but a thrilling thought all the same. Turn the tables on them. "They want me, so we set up an ambush and use me as bait."

  "You've lost your mind."

  "Have you got any better ideas?"

  "Not being the bait?"

  "Might need to work on the specifics on that one."

  She huffed, but didn't suggest any safer options. "Fine, I'm not saying it's a good idea or that we should do it, but how would your trap work?"

  "We'd, uh, build something Pretty Boy proof and lure them into it."

  Libby rolled her eyes and threw some cash down on the table. "Might need to work on the specifics on that one."

  "What if I swallow a tracker and let them kidnap me?"

  "I think we'd better keep thinking." She slid out of the booth. "Be right back," she said, heading for the restroom.

  I grabbed my wallet and paused, fingers hovering over a ten. My Grace Harper credit card was right there, snug in its pocket. I've always assumed they could only track us by name, since leaving town and changing our IDs shook them off our trail, but I've never put it to the test before. One tiny charge could bring a Pretty Boy right to us, and through him, we could find Dad.

  How? Think about how stupid this sounds.

  I didn't have any more time to think. It wasn't much, but what evidence we'd found strongly suggested that Dad was in Pretty Boy custody, probably without his meds. He was sick, and I'd be damned if I'd let him die surrounded by monsters.

  But he is dying, and he told you to run...

  I winced. The cold, calculating part of me he'd trained to be rational heard the truth in it. A brain tumor was killing him already, so why was I risking my life to get him back? We'd have mere months, maybe, and it would be just as painful to watch him wither away and die. He wouldn't want me to risk myself for that. He'd certainly not want me to risk my life on the chance that he was still alive.

  And all my instincts said he was alive.

  He's my father. My family.

  I had my silver knuckledusters, and we had the zappers and all the weapons. Libby even had a pair of handcuffs. I bet the first place they'd look would be Dad's apartment, and we'd have time to get ready for them. No way would they find us before tomorrow.

  The waitress appeared. "All set?"

  I threw down the card. "Absolutely."

  Chapter Eight

  Halfway back to Dad's place, I got the shakes.

  I was an idiot. A sleep-deprived, impulsively reckless idiot. What was I thinking? Even with days to prepare, we weren't ready for an up close and personal Pretty Boy encounter.

  "If I tell you something," I said, "will you promise not to be mad?"

  Libby glanced sideways at me. "That question alone has me on edge. What did you do?"

  "Paid for breakfast with my credit card."

  Silence for a heartbeat, though she gripped the wheel so tight the veins in her hands stood out. "Why?"

  "Moment of weakness."

  She took a slow breath. "That was..."

  "Moronic. Idiotic. Ridiculously stupid."

  "Yet you did it anyway."

  I nodded. I wouldn't have blamed her if she'd thrown me out of the car right then and gone home.

  "How soon until they find us?" she asked instead.

  "I don't know."

  "Dammit, Grace!" She slammed her palm against the wheel. "You're smarter than this."

  "I just..." had no good excuse.

  "Well, we can't stay at your dad's apartment anymore."

  "But it's the perfect spot for a trap."

  An angry string of Spanish poured from Libby and she pulled over into the closest parking lot. "You want to launch an attack against an enemy you don't know the full capabilities of."

  "I want to catch one of those things and force him to tell me where my father is."

  "How?"

  I hesitated. "Um, what if we collect some holy water and a few stakes, gather as much silver as we can buy. We hit a few pawn shops and I bet we can buy enough silver necklaces to make a net."

  "So your plan is to rely on every vampire cliché in the book and hope one of them actually works?"

  "Silver does work."

  She rubbed her eyes and groaned. "Grace--"

  "What stupid thing would you have done to save your father?"

  "He was killed by an IED some asshole buried in the road," she yelled. "I could have been sitting next to him and it wouldn't have made a damn bit of difference."

  I flinched. "I'm sorry."

  "You should be."

  We sat there without looking at each other. I hadn't had enough friends to know how to apologize to one.

  "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," I muttered.

  She scoffed. "You think?"

  "Let's just go."

  "Fine."

  Neither of us said a word the rest of the drive. We climbed the stairs in silence and walked down the hall just as quietly. I'd blown it. I had lost not only my friend, but the best backup I'd ever get. She'd probably even take back the backpack of goodies Roberto had given us.

  The worst part? I couldn't even be mad. I deserved it.

  I opened the door and pushed inside. Someone spun around and gasped.

  My heart stopped for a beat, but whoever this was, it wasn't a Pretty Boy. Too small, too nervous, too sneaky. All the Pretty Boys I'd seen were tall, dark, and dangerous.

  "Down!" Libby shoved me aside and drew Lola. Metal cocked. "Show me your hands!"

  Skinny arms flew straight up. "Don't shoot me," said a Latino boy about sixteen or so. Scruffy enough not to be noticeable, but not so much he gave off homeless vibes. I knew the "don't notice me" look well.

  "Don't give me a reason to," Libby said as I put on my dusters. He might not be a Pretty Boy, but no way was he some random burglar. "You have a name?"

  "Eddie."

  "We're off to a good start. Sit." She indicated the couch. "Keep your hands up."

  He sat. She moved and faced him, keeping Lola out.

  "What are you doing in here?"

  He licked his lips. "I wanted a place to crash is all. Storm's coming."

  "On a Sunday morning? Try again, Eddie."

  "It's true! I saw the bald dude who lives here leave. Figured it was empty for a few days, you know?"

  I stepped forward, my heart pounding. "When did he leave?"

  "Last night."

  "Time?"

  He shrugged. "Dunno. After dark."

  "Was he alone?"

  "No, he had some buds with him. Two big guys." His gaze slid down to my dusters. His eyes widened and he jerked away.

  "You don't like my jewelry?" I held the dusters under his nose.

  "They silver?"

  "Why would you ask that?"

  He licked his lips. Swallowed. Stalled. "Cause they're shiny."

  Libby raised her eyebrows at me and I nodded. Oh yeah, he knew something. I ran a finger along the edge of the dusters as if I threatened teenagers all
the time.

  "Why were you watching the bald dude?"

  He kept stalling, trying to fidget without moving enough to piss Libby off. "I dunno."

  "Yes you do, Eddie. Did someone ask you to watch him?" Libby had said earlier that Dad had opened the door, and he wouldn't have done that unless he'd thought it was safe. A scrawny kid standing in the hall looked safe. "Did you help them?"

  "What? Nah, man, I happened to be in the area, it's no--"

  "I'm gonna shoot him," Libby said. She sounded bored.

  Eddie's hands rose even higher. "Wait, wait! Zack. It was Zack."

  My ears perked up. We'd never learned any of the Pretty Boys' names before.

  "Zack have a last name?" Libby asked.

  "Not that he told me."

  I sat on the coffee table in front of him, but not so close he could grab me if he lunged. "Did Zack take him?"

  His eyes widened. "The bald dude? No way. He's not like that."

  Not evil? Or not a Pretty Boy? "But he had you watching him?"

  "No law against that."

  Probably several, but not the point. "Why did Zack ask you to watch the bald dude?"

  "He pays me to check on some people sometimes, give him a heads up if they act all weird. Dude acted weird."

  "Did you see where he went?"

  "No."

  "Did you see the car he and his buds got into?"

  "Was a white van."

  "Did he go willingly?"

  "No." He glanced at my dusters again. "You ask a lotta questions."

  I had the feeling he wanted to ask me a few himself. "You should ask more before you start working for someone."

  He snorted and tossed his head. "He's aiight."

  Like hell he was. Pretty Boys were dangerous and this poor kid had no idea what he'd gotten involved with. I tightened my grip on my dusters. Or maybe he did know.

  "We can help you get away from him," I said.

  "If I wanted that, I just walk off."

  "Like he'd let you? He's dangerous."

  Eddie scoffed. "I've seen 'em worse. Zack's a good guy."

  Not if he was a Pretty Boy. Except, I'd met one who was a good guy. My helpful hottie. "What does Zack look like?"

  "Like the guy from the food shows who does the road trips. Crazy white hair."