A man at the middle of the table was rolling. “Lucky seven, lucky seven!”
The dice landed on four and three. The players applauded.
Jimmy Taylor continued to ignore Saxon as the run continued. The same man rolled an eight next, and more money landed on the table. He hit several more numbers, and then an eight again. The table cheered. There was money everywhere.
But Taylor didn’t seem happy. And when the roller came up with another seven, Taylor actually looked relieved, though sighs went up elsewhere around the table, along with some applause for the shooter, who’d made a lot of money for most of them.
Taylor went to cash in. Saxon held his ground, putting down his money while the next shooter started. On a whim, he played a nice sum on craps. The shooter hit an eleven, and Saxon realized he was coming out ahead, a nice plus for his investigation.
He watched as Jimmy collected his money and headed toward the bar. He waited through the next roll, then cashed in himself and headed back to the Tralee.
There was Jimmy Taylor, his hands rough on a young waitress’s shoulders. Saxon was tempted to step in, but he reminded himself that he was playing for higher stakes. And he knew Jimmy wasn’t going to hurt the girl anyway—not in public, and not in one of Carl Bailey’s establishments.
He followed when Jimmy left the bar. He thought at first that the guy was going to head upstairs, which could prove tricky. Carl’s men would be on him like an infestation of lice if he tried to go up to the rooms.
But either Taylor didn’t know he was being followed or he didn’t care. Either way, he apparently had a destination in mind. Or maybe—Saxon warned himself—a plan.
Taylor headed out to the streets. Saxon followed him down the neon strip, until he took a sudden turn into a back alley. Okay, so a plan it was.
It occurred to Saxon long before he entered the obvious trap that he would need some help, which was easy enough to arrange. It was good to be a cop. But first he wanted about two minutes alone with Jimmy Taylor. After that, it would be great to have some help. He hit the speed dial on his phone and gave the code for “Officer in Need of Assistance.”
Then he took a deep breath and ducked into the alley, keeping close to the wall of the building on his right, one of the smaller casinos and most likely another of Carl Bailey’s properties.
There was a doorway marked Employee Entrance about thirty feet in, and Taylor was heading right for it.
Saxon hurried past boxes and an overflowing Dumpster, and before Jimmy could put his hand on the doorknob, Saxon grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, forcing his thumb on a pressure point in the younger man’s throat as he slammed him against the door.
“Where is she?” Saxon demanded.
The other man couldn’t breathe, which made him desperate. He tried to make the change, no doubt intending to rip Saxon to shreds with his teeth and claws, but Saxon just increased the pressure on that vulnerable point. And if the other man couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t make the change.
Jimmy sagged, giving up, and Saxon eased up just a hair, then repeated, “Where is she?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, so kill me if you want to. But you’d better be quick. You’re going to die soon enough yourself.”
“Not likely. You’ve got good hearing, right? I can already hear the sirens.”
“Great. I’ll have you charged with police brutality,” Taylor told him.
“Where’s your evidence? There’s not a mark on you. Now, you have thirty seconds before I put a shade more pressure on your neck and zap your nerves. You’ll be a paralyzed pup the rest of your life.”
At last Taylor looked scared. “If I talk to you, I’m dead anyway!” he said.
“Dead is probably better than the way I’m going to leave you,” Saxon said. “For the third time, where is she?”
Taylor blinked. “You’re talking about that girl, right? That singer? I told him to leave her alone.”
Saxon tensed, accidentally increasing the pressure on Taylor’s throat. The werewolf let out a sharp squeal and started talking again the minute he eased up.
“I didn’t hurt her. I didn’t do anything to her. I just drove her out there.”
“Out where?”
“His lair in the desert,” Taylor said. “Five miles out Highway 15 there’s a big stand of cactus. You can’t miss it. His place...it’s there, but it’s underground. You—”
Saxon heard footsteps. He pressed Taylor’s neck hard to silence him. It had to be Carl Bailey’s men, and considering the speed with which Taylor had given in, he might be someone worth keeping around.
He spun around and saw four thugs heading his way. Two dumb human guards with no clue, along with a vampire and a werewolf. He smiled.
“We can go at it, boys, but I think you hear the sirens. Now, here’s the thing. This young pup of Bailey’s doesn’t give the police any respect. He took a swing at me. He’s going to spend a night in jail, and then the little bastard will be arraigned and dumped back out on the streets. I think we should leave it at that.”
“You know we have to report this incident to Mr. Bailey, Kirby,” the vampire said, assuming the lead.
“I’m counting on it,” Saxon said.
“You okay, Jimmy?” the werewolf asked. “We look after our own, so if you want help, just say the word.”
Jimmy managed a nod. “Damn straight I want help. You need to bail me out. Fast!”
“You bet, Taylor. And don’t worry none—Mr. Bailey looks after his own kind.”
The four thugs turned and left seconds before two patrol cars, sirens screaming, drove into the alley.
“Take him in. Assaulting an officer,” Saxon said, shoving Taylor toward the officers emerging from the second car. Then he bent to speak to Keeghan McMurtree, the driver of the first.
McMurtree was a leprechaun. A tall one. Despite his race’s reputed ability with money, he wasn’t lucky at gambling. He was a damn good cop, though, driven by his disgust at all the killing he’d seen back in the old country—among humans and Otherworld races alike.
“Anything going on I should know about?” Saxon asked.
McMurtree nodded. “Just a warning. Captain is in a state, anxious as all hell. That business yesterday with the dead guy getting eaten, you know.”
“I know,” Saxon said. “I’ve got a few things to follow up that might put him in a better mood.”
McMurtree nodded. “Take care, buddy.”
“Will do. Thanks,” Saxon said.
McMurtree drove away, and Saxon stood there for a long moment, considering the state of his investigation.
So...it wasn’t the stripper and it wasn’t the tough new wolf in town—who wasn’t so tough, anyway. And he’d never thought it was a shifter in wolf’s clothing, much less some human nutcase. Given everything he knew about the man and everything he’d learned today from Calleigh and Taylor, there was only one person—one werewolf—it could be.
Carl Bailey.
But that bastard was too clever by half. No way was he doing his own dirty work. Nope, Carl was definitely not working alone.
Saxon glanced at his watch. It was time to head out to ranch country.
He would keep his meeting with Calleigh brief, just long enough to tell her that he had what looked like a decent lead, and if she stayed home and played it safe, he had a chance of finding her sister.
But when he got to the address she had given him, Calleigh wasn’t there.
He knocked, and the door was opened by an awkward young man with a baby face and the look of a dreamer in his eyes.
It had to be Dirk, human owner of the house.
“You the cop?” Dirk asked anxiously. When Saxon nodded, the other man rushed on. “Calleigh’s been telling me about you. She said you sounded as if you really care. You have to help. I don’t know what to do. Like now. I don’t get it.”
“What don’t you get?” Saxon demanded. He grasped the younger man’s shoulde
r, steadying him, looking into his eyes, demanding silently that he get a grip.
“I don’t know what happened. She was here, right here. I was just out back, feeding the horses, and I heard her say someone was coming. I thought she was talking about you, but when I came back in she—”
“Dirk, where’s Calleigh?” Saxon interrupted.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you! She’s gone, and I don’t know where!”
Chapter 5
Gone? Calleigh was gone? Saxon could barely wrap his mind around it. Was this revenge because he’d arrested Jimmy Taylor? Or had Calleigh’s amateur investigation made her too noticeable—and too dangerous—in the eyes of Carl Bailey?
And did any of that matter in light of the possibility that she might have fought back against her kidnappers and gotten hurt, or been dragged away half dead?
“How long ago?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Did you hear a car? Were the horses acting up?”
“Um, yeah.” Dirk stared at him blankly. “Yeah, sure, the horses were going crazy.”
Saxon turned and hurried back toward his car. Dirk ran after him. “Hey, what do you want me to do? Should I call more cops?”
Saxon swung around. “Don’t do anything or call anyone. Get back in the house and stay there.”
Saxon waited long enough to make sure Dirk did as instructed, then got in his car and drove away. He didn’t go far, though: just down the road. Then he parked, got out and headed back toward Dirk’s place, making sure to stay out of sight as he carefully approached the house.
He heard one whinny from out back, but that was it. Horses had a tendency to like Elven.
They were fearful around werewolves.
And Dirk had been dating an Elven, so he knew about the other races, which meant not only that he could have known what the horses’ behavior meant, but that he had known it. So he’d neglected to offer the key piece of information: the horses had been acting up....
Saxon slipped close to the rear of the house, where French doors leading out to the back had been left slightly ajar.
He moved in closer, listening. He could hear Dirk talking to someone on the phone.
“Yes, I know for sure he headed out. He left five minutes ago, at least. If Jimmy told him what he was supposed to, he’ll be heading straight out to the lair—alone. He even told me not to call any other cops.”
Dirk never heard Saxon enter, never heard him move. All he felt was the cold steel of Saxon’s semiautomatic as he pressed the muzzle next to his ear.
“Ask him about your reward,” Saxon whispered.
He was afraid that Dirk was going to fall down, his terror was so great.
“Man up and ask, or you’ll be eating bullets for your last supper,” Saxon warned.
“Hey, um, when do I get what you promised?” Dirk managed. His voice wasn’t entirely steady, but it would pass muster.
Saxon heard the angry words coming from the other end. “You’ll get your payment soon enough. You gave us the one girl, we’ll give you the other.”
Saxon heard the click as the other man hung up. He frowned just as Dirk finally collapsed, falling down as if he were a marionette whose strings had been cut.
Tears sprang into the younger man’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just that...I had to give him Calleigh. He swore that Angela was still alive and that he’d give her back if...if I gave him Calleigh.”
Saxon felt his fury draining away; this kid was a mess. He wasn’t a criminal—he was simply cowardly. No, not even cowardly. He was just pathetically in love and utterly useless.
He dragged Dirk back to his feet. “Listen up. I’m going to go get both of them back. You’re an idiot if you thought your girlfriend would be returned. Bailey considers them a threat, but he’s a man with an eye for a pretty woman, and that means he’s going to use them both up and spit them out when he’s tired of them. They’ll end up as more bones in the desert if I can’t save them. I can’t take you with me—you’ll just be someone else I need to protect—but if you pick up a phone and call anyone, you’ll be signing their death warrants and your own. Do you understand.”
Dirk nodded, sobbing. “You have to understand...I love her!”
This mess of a human being was in love with an Elven, and apparently she loved him back. Sad. Truly sad.
“Who were you talking to?” Saxon asked.
Dirk was sniveling. Saxon had to nudge him to get an answer.
“Monty. Monty Reilly.”
“Reilly is in on this?” Saxon demanded.
“He, um, he says that Bailey is going to rule Las Vegas and all of the desert. That there’s no point trying to stop him. He said Angela and I could get out before...before the killing started if I just gave him Calleigh.”
Dirk was full-on sobbing again when Saxon bent down beside him. “I need a horse. I don’t want to take my car, because they’ll be waiting for me.”
“The mare...Mistress Mellora...she’s like a speed demon, and she’s used to the desert. She’s a Thoroughbred-Arab cross,” Dirk managed.
Saxon didn’t wait to hear more. Time was of the essence.
He slipped out back and quickly found a bridle and a stall with a placard that read Mistress Mellora. In less than a minute he was on his way.
* * *
The desert could be unforgiving, but Saxon had come to know it well, because it was such an organic part of the place he had bizarrely chosen as home. And as he rode the fleet-footed mare across the rough terrain, he thought about how to use it to his advantage.
Carl Bailey had no doubt built his lair underground so he could carry out his crimes—and practice whatever depraved behaviors turned him on—undetected. It was also no doubt where he was preparing for the werewolf attack that would end with his takeover of Las Vegas.
But no wolf’s lair would have just one entry, because then it would be too easily turned into a trap. The question was, where would the back door be? And how would it be camouflaged against the desert floor and sparse vegetation?
It would have to be hidden by either a field of scrub brush or a group of cacti.
Finally he found what he was seeking. It was actually hidden by both scrub brush and cacti, and shadowed by a small dune for good measure, but footprints—both human and wolf—in the sand gave away its location.
After dismounting, he stroked the horse and thanked her in a whisper for the ride; then he gave her a slap on the rump that sent her running for home.
He crept low among the cacti until, just as he’d expected, he found a wooden hatch flush with the ground and hidden under the brush.
They might not be expecting him to come in the back way, but even so, he would be an idiot not to expect an armed guard immediately inside.
Silently, he worked the latch, grateful for the darkness that was swiftly falling over the desert. He glanced up before entering. Bad luck. The full moon was rising.
He quickly lifted the door and slid through, stopping at the top of a flight of stairs leading down into the lair. As he’d expected, there were guards on duty: two of Carl’s chowhounds. Luckily they weren’t taking their work seriously. They were standing together, rifles slung over their shoulders, extolling the virtues of the Cuban cigars Bailey had procured for them.
Saxon marveled at the fact that they were so involved in their conversation that they didn’t see the sliver of moonlight that slipped in with him—or him. They didn’t hear him, and they didn’t smell him. Maybe Carl had convinced his crew that brute strength alone made them superior, but these brutes were capable merely of chewing up the unwary.
Whatever the reason for it, their lackadaisical attitude worked for Saxon.
He was able to step right up to the two of them as if intrigued by their conversation and equally enchanted by their Cuban cigars.
“Nice,” he said.
When they looked up, he cracked their skulls together.
They fell without a wh
imper.
He was hindered by the fact that he had no idea where he was going or just how extensive this underground lair was, but he was also determined to succeed.
He moved quietly through the hallway, listening, barely breathing. He heard music—the kind of music that belonged in an epic fantasy film, accompanying a phalanx of armed horsemen as they galloped out to do righteous battle.
He turned a corner, following the music, then paused. He could see a group of about twenty wolves in human form inside a room, the same room where the music was playing.
And among the werewolves gathered there he saw his quarry: old Carl Bailey.
Old he might be, but Carl Bailey was anything but decrepit. He’d been around for centuries. Werewolves weren’t immortal, but they aged very slowly.
Carl looked like a distinguished gentleman of sixty-plus. His hair was silver-gray. His posture was still straight. He had his share of wrinkles, but they sat well on his sharp-boned face, adding character rather than age.
He was gesturing animatedly, speaking over the music—stirring up the passions of a roomful of his fellow werewolves.
“It is time! It is time to rise up and become all that we can be! The rules—the laws we have forced ourselves to obey—they are not for such magnificent creatures as our kind. We are strong. We are predators. The laws of men are not for us. I am your rule. I am your law. And my law says that we are meant to live and conquer as the greatest force on earth!”
His words were met by a roar of approval.
“Show yourselves in your true nature!”
As Carl shouted, the men and women in the room let out a second roar—a roar that became a howl.
Saxon watched as Carl’s followers began to change.
Most of the werewolves that he knew personally—friends, fellow cops—managed the change in as sleek and beautiful a manner as could be imagined.
This was not sleek or beautiful. This was something so low and brutal and ugly that he found himself staring transfixed, despite his repulsion. Clothes were ripped off. Teeth gnashed as they nipped at one another, trying to show dominance. Some changed fully, others were arrested in some blasphemous form, half human and half beast.
The Gatekeeper Page 4