He hadn’t been able to help himself. When Ahm’s men—wolves—had gotten Scott into that chair and tied down, his anger with the man had rushed to the surface, and he’d given into his urge to beat the hell out of Scott.
Now, though, he ascended to the ground floor of the abandoned house he and Ahm had taken over in the Lower Ninth Ward, stepping over the trash the werewolves had strewn about the kitchen and moving to the living room. Ahm sat in an old recliner that had been left behind by a previous tenant; one of the werewolves had covered it with a clean white sheet, and she sat with her legs slung over one of the arms, her long limbs showcased in their red skirt and black heels. She swung one foot idly, examining her black claws for flaws.
“You didn’t kill him, did you?” she asked, scratching at one nail with another.
“No, unfortunately, I didn’t,” Brandon said. He glanced at the four men sitting in metal folding chairs clustered around a card table, playing poker, a pile of crumpled bills in the center of the table. “Though it was so very tempting.” He grabbed an empty chair and moved it closer to Ahm—though not too close—before dropping down into it.
“You can’t kill him,” Ahm said.
“They’ll come after him, you realize,” he warned her. “If there’s anything you need to know about them, it’s that they’re ridiculously loyal to each other. They won’t rest until they track him down and take him back.”
“If that’s the case, I’m surprised you didn’t beat him to death,” Ahm said, “though I was fully expecting you would. You sounded like you were going to.”
“I have more restraint than you give me credit for.”
She let out a soft sound that might have been a snort. “We’ll see about that,” she commented. She swung her legs off the arm of the chair one by one, and Brandon made a point to keep his eyes carefully averted; that was one question he did not need to have answered. “It won’t matter,” she added once she’d situated herself on the recliner.
He blinked, confused. “What won’t matter?”
“If they come and take him away,” Ahm said. “It won’t matter. We already have him where we need him.”
“Which is where?” he asked.
Ahm gave him a look that said, loud and clear, Are you always this stupid, or is your blood sugar just low? “On our side,” she said. “Nominally so, anyway, but that’s something that can easily be worked on.”
Brandon had no idea what she was talking about; he assumed it was something that had happened when she and her wolves had captured Scott—something he had, unfortunately, not been present for. “Speaking of,” he started, “how in the hell did Riley even get away? She was the main target on the list, I thought.”
“She went for a swim,” Ahm said, her voice laden with disgust. “And my wolves don’t like water.” She fluttered a hand in a careless gesture. “It doesn’t matter anyway. The current in that river is too strong for even a man your size and strength to combat. She like was dragged down river and drowned.”
Brandon felt a pang of something in his chest. He glanced back at the basement door, just barely visible in the kitchen. The thought of a dead Riley made him want to go back downstairs and take it out on Scott. He cleared his throat and turned his attention back to Ahm. “So what now?”
She bobbed her head toward the basement door. “Go check on him. I’ll be down to speak with him myself shortly.”
Brandon rubbed his palms on the thighs of his pants, doing his best to not flinch when he pressed down too hard on the still-healing stab wound Riley had decorated his thigh with, and shoved himself to his feet. “Give me ten minutes.”
Eleven
Zachariah sat forward in his seat, peering through the windshield of his father’s SUV from the backseat, where he’d been relegated as soon as he, Ashton, and Riley had left Marie’s store to meet Jax. Riley pulled into a tiny gravel parking lot, and the sight of the building ahead of them surprised him.
“This is where he wanted us to meet him?” he asked.
“This is the address,” she said. “See, there’s the number on a sign over the door.”
Ashton shifted in the passenger seat for a better look. “But it’s a church.”
“Neutral ground?” she suggested.
“Maybe so,” Zachariah said. “Nobody in his right mind would start a fight in a church.” He did his best not to think about the last fight he’d been involved in inside a church. Fallen angels possessing his lover didn’t count as being in their right minds. “So what are his conditions for the meeting?”
“Unarmed,” Riley said. “And with open minds.”
“I don’t like this,” Ashton commented. “I just don’t. I feel like we’re walking into an execution.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” she said, but Zachariah interrupted her before she could go further.
“He has a point, Riley. We shouldn’t go in there unarmed. At the very least, he shouldn’t.” He nodded his head in Ashton’s direction. “Ash is at a comparative disadvantage from us.”
“Yeah, let’s point out my disabilities, why don’t we?” Ashton muttered, sounding bitter.
Zachariah squeezed his shoulder apologetically. “I’m just being practical,” he said. “You’ve been out of the field for so long…” He trailed off, not wanting to go further. He didn’t have to. They’d learned their lesson in Tuscaloosa.
“Fine,” Ashton said. “I’ll stash a twenty-two somewhere on me. Happy?”
“Very.”
Riley made the first move getting out of the car, stripping off the weapons he and Ashton had given her as she went and stuffing them into the storage console between the front seats. Zachariah followed her lead, pulling his weapons from his belt and from the ankle holster under his jeans. His weapons, minus the pistol from the ankle holster, went under the driver’s seat. He passed the pistol to Ashton.
“Hide this on you somewhere,” he said. “Stick it down your pants or something.”
“And if he searches there?” Ashton inquired.
“Then I’ll break his fucking hand.”
“So overprotective,” Ashton commented, a smile on his face. He twisted in his seat to look Zachariah in the face, and Zachariah took the opportunity to press a slow, soft kiss to his mouth.
“Just in case,” he whispered.
Ashton’s smile softened, and he brushed his fingers along Zachariah’s jaw before pushing his hips off the seat and unfastening his jeans. He slipped the pistol underneath them and buttoned his pants before sliding out of the vehicle. Riley watched from the sidewalk outside, an eyebrow raised.
“You guys done making out?” she asked. “If not, it’d probably be a good idea to at least put it on hold until after the meeting with Jax.”
Zachariah joined her at the front of the SUV, giving her a mock salute, then looked at the church. “This just has ‘bad idea’ written all over it,” he commented, tucking his hands into his pockets and studying the building.
Ashton appeared at his right elbow, his scarred face tired and drawn. He walked with a limp, and Zachariah wasn’t sure if it was because of his bad leg or if it was a result of the pistol jammed down his pants. It was a good enough cover as any, he supposed. If he couldn’t tell the difference, as intimately familiar as he was with Ashton, then nobody else would be able to, either.
“We don’t have much choice,” Riley pointed out. “We need more hands.”
“I don’t see why we couldn’t have called Damon, then,” Zachariah muttered as the three of them began walking toward the church. “He was pretty handy in Tuscaloosa, all things considered.”
“I keep trying,” Ashton spoke up. “He’s not answering his phone.”
“Wonderful,” Riley muttered. “If he’s gone and gotten himself dead, I’m going to kill him.”
Zachariah bit back a bitter laugh. “Not if I get there first.”
When they reached the bottom of the stone steps leading to the church’s main doors, Zachari
ah politely nudged Riley aside to take the lead, ignoring the ugly look she gave him. He didn’t care if she was pissed at him; he wasn’t about to let his sister waltz in ahead of him and potentially into the line of fire.
Since when have I gotten so overprotective? he wondered for the second time that evening. She’s only been my sister for, like, three weeks.
He shook the thought aside and pulled the church’s door open, stepping into the church’s darkened interior. It was obviously after hours—if churches had after hours—and the sanctuary was mostly dark, though a few dim lights had been left on along the walls. The altar was draped in a white cloth, a cross affixed to the front of it, and a much, much larger cross was on the wall behind it. Three rows of pews lined the room, and sitting dead center in the first pew in the middle row was a man with longish blond hair; he was leaning forward with his elbows resting on his thighs, staring at the altar directly in front of him.
That must be Jax, Zachariah thought.
He’d never actually met the man before; that hadn’t stopped him from hearing the odd rumor or two over the years. Jax had been a field agent who dealt in intelligence gathering, a good old-fashioned spy, and he’d worked primarily overseas with the occasional jaunt stateside. He’d been labeled a rogue sometime back—Zachariah couldn’t recall exactly when—and the only reason he even remembered that it’d happened was because of the ensuing controversy that surrounded his placement on the rogues’ list. Of course, no one knew the details, but Damon had, by all accounts, fought tooth and nail to have Jax taken off the list because he was reportedly not supposed to be on it to begin with, but before he could make it happen, Jax had been reported killed in action.
Clearly, reports of his demise had been greatly exaggerated.
Jax didn’t move as they entered the church; he continued facing forward, his head bowed slightly as if he were praying. Zachariah hesitated, not wanting to interrupt if he was, indeed, in prayer, but Jax lifted his head. “Glad you made it,” he commented, and Zachariah wondered how he could tell it was them without turning to look. “Though I was beginning to get worried. You’re late.”
“Traffic,” Riley said in a deadpan tone. “Why did we need to meet you here, of all places?”
“You have a problem with churches?” Jax asked.
“No, I just think it’s disrespectful to meet in one like this.”
Jax stood, smoothed his shirt, and turned to them. “I thought it was appropriate,” he said. “Since you are, after all, doing the Lord’s work.”
Zachariah’s back stiffened, and he squared his shoulders. “What in the world are you talking about?” he asked, ready to go on the defensive. He really wished he hadn’t stripped off all his weapons and left them behind in the SUV.
“Don’t play stupid,” Jax admonished. He didn’t move from his spot, didn’t make any threatening gestures, but Zachariah still felt a compulsion to reach for a weapon that wasn’t there. “I know all about you and Riley and what you are. The Witnesses, God’s own chosen to stop the apocalypse, or so the story goes.” He smirked. “Don’t look so surprised. I wasn’t in intelligence for nothing, and there’s a reason I’m involved in the Network.” The way he said the word suggested capital, like the way agents said “the Agency” or Zachariah’s employees said “The Unnaturals.”
“What’s the Network?” Riley asked.
“Just consider it a special version of the Agency, made up of runaways and rogues and rejects,” Jax said. “And I’m essentially the deputy director of the merry band.” When none of them said anything, he continued. “I’m offering you my services. I hear you’ve been having a werewolf problem.”
“If we are having that sort of problem, what business is it of yours?” Zachariah asked.
Jax took a few steps toward them then paused and tilted his head back slightly, like he was sniffing the air. He drew in a deep breath then said, “One of you came here armed.” He walked closer, and Zachariah fought to not step protectively in front of Ashton. He didn’t dare look at him for fear of drawing attention to him. His attempts were futile, though; Jax went straight to Ashton, brushing Riley and Zachariah aside like they were nothing but annoying flies buzzing in his face. He looked Ashton up and down. “You’re wearing a pistol,” he commented.
“What makes you think that?” Zachariah asked.
“I can smell the gun oil on him,” Jax replied. His eyes met Ashton’s as he said that. Ashton recoiled and backpedaled, his eye widening as he collided with a pew, an expression of near panic on his face.
“Werewolf,” he choked out. “He’s a fucking werewolf.”
Scott woke up to the sound of a soft, steady drip-drip, almost a plop, really. His head was fuzzy, and it was a struggle to get his eyes to open, not to mention stay open. Giving up on his attempts to open them, he instead looked inward, examining his body one area at a time, trying to figure out why he hurt so badly.
He knew where he was; that wasn’t in question. He was still zip-tied to the metal folding chair he’d been put into on his arrival, his wrists raw and aching from straining against his restraints. Hell, his entire body felt raw and achy. More than achy: in sheer agony.
Brandon had done a real number on him. The man appeared to have a love affair with brass knuckles and had a punch that rivaled some of the worst of which Scott had been on the receiving end. Brandon wasn’t a big guy, so Scott had been surprised by how hard he could hit. He was pretty sure a couple of his teeth were loose, and if his jaw wasn’t cracked, he’d be shocked. His bottom lip was busted, and one of his eyes was swollen nearly shut. The steady dripping was coming from his mouth, where his busted lip was plopping blood onto his jeans. He tried to take a deep breath and aborted the attempt; it hurt too much to breathe, which meant he probably had broken ribs.
He was alone in the basement, and he had no idea where Brandon had gone. Not that he cared. So long as Brandon was nowhere near him, he was, if not pleased, at least temporarily content. Instead, he focused on the restraints binding him to the chair, hoping they’d loosened up during the beating he’d received, at least enough for him to slip his hands out of them. He strained against them, putting all the strength he had left in his arms into pulling against them in the hopes they’d break, but it was no use. He wrenched against them again then stopped as he heard a door somewhere above him open and close. Three pairs of heavy footsteps crossed the floor above, then the basement door opened, spilling muted light from upstairs into the basement.
Oh, son of a bitch, not again, he thought with a grimace. It wasn’t like he couldn’t handle whatever his captors threw at him; Henry had trained him thoroughly in such matters. But who wanted to voluntarily get the shit beaten out of them again? He hung his head, closed his eyes, and went limp, breathing slowly and shallowly.
“Put it over there,” Brandon barked, and a moment later, there was an odd, hollow metallic clang against the concrete floor. Several muffled, heavier thuds followed the noise. Then Brandon approached and smacked him on the side of the head. “Wake up.”
Scott jolted in his seat, feigning like he’d been unconscious until Brandon had struck him. He opened his good eye and tilted his head up slowly, looking at Brandon with as much hatred as he could muster. “Back for more?” he asked. He tasted blood in his mouth and resisted the urge to spit it out. For now.
Brandon leaned down, grasping him by the shoulders and pushing them back until he was sitting ramrod straight. The bones in his broken right arm ground against each other, and he gritted his teeth, trying to not let the pain show. “Where’s Riley?” he demanded.
“I didn’t tell you the last ten times you asked me,” he replied. He tried to shift in the chair, and his broken ribs spiked with pain. “What makes you think I’ll tell you on number eleven?”
Brandon struck him across the face, and his head snapped to the side. “Oh, you’ll tell me,” he said. “You might not tell me when I ask the twelfth or fifteenth or even twentieth time. But even
tually, you’ll break. They all break.” He let go of Scott’s shoulders and grasped the chair, twisting it around so he faced the wall that had previously been to his right. “Drag him over there,” he ordered, and the two men who’d entered with him grabbed the chair and pulled it backward. “Tilt him back,” he said.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Scott said. “You realize that Henry trained me, right? And that I was in the Navy SEALs? And that their favorite methods of enhanced interrogation training involve waterboarding?”
“This isn’t for interrogation’s sake,” Brandon replied. “This is just for the sheer pleasure of it.” Before Scott could reply, he slapped a sodden rag on his face, and the sound of a jug of water being uncapped met his ears seconds before water cascaded onto the rag.
Scott had known what to expect, but that didn’t stop the immediate, instinctual reaction to fight against his restraints again, to try to escape from the water and the wet rag that were choking off his access to air. He squeezed his hands into fists, squirming in his chair; his chest burned from lack of air while Brandon dumped what felt like an entire gallon of water onto his face. Long moments passed—an eternity, really—before the water stopped, and he panted, sucking the wet cloth in through his partially open mouth, trying to breathe through the rag and slumping in his chair.
It was only when he went nearly limp that Brandon snatched the rag off his face. He took in a loud, choking gasp of air, coughing up water he hadn’t realized he’d swallowed. He opened his eyes and saw Brandon lurking over him, a satisfied smile on his face. “See, that’s better, isn’t it?” he said, the sarcasm practically dripping from his voice. “Now, I’m sure you don’t want that to happen again. After all, I don’t know anyone who enjoys being waterboarded. So if you don’t want a second dose of that, as much as it would please me to administer it, you’ll tell me where Riley planned to go.”
“Even if I knew Riley’s plans, why in the hell would I tell you?” Scott asked again.
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