Act of Brotherhood: Paranormal Security and Intelligence (PSI-Ops) an Immortal Ops World Novel

by Mandy M. Roth

  Nothing more than a glorified warrior and weapons collector.

  You could take the Viking out of history, but you couldn’t take the history out of the Viking.

  Viking.

  The term always made him laugh, as it wasn’t one his people referred to themselves by. It was a name given to them by outsiders. By people who didn’t understand his kind, his culture, his past. So much of what people today thought they knew of the Vikings was simply speculation on their part. He felt no need to confirm or deny.

  Though he did find it funny that they were so sure chairs and tables weren’t commonplace when he was young. Of course they had chairs and tables.

  Dumbasses.

  Garth’s gaze slid from the case with the sword to several bullet holes in the wall next to it. They were from the same type of weapon that had injured the PSI operative. Had Auberi been the vampire who had been shot, Garth would have rejoiced. Hell, he’d have been a tad gentler when cuffing the dirtbag. As it stood, the injured vampire was a man Garth kind of liked.

  More to the point, he didn’t hate the man.

  He wasn’t going to skip into the rising sun, holding hands with the guy or anything (for more than one reason), but he didn’t want to see him turned into a pile of ash. The injury would more than likely heal over by morning light.

  All in all, considering how outgunned Garth and his men had been upon their arrival, PSI had fared well in the mission.

  The same could not be said for the other side. While the dirtbag had been escorted from the premises in cuffs that were made for a supernatural male, the majority of the dirtbag’s bodyguards had been taken out in body bags. That meant the streets had thirty or so fewer highly trained baddies running around.

  For the best.

  The crime family had been causing a stir and pulling too much attention in the direction of supernaturals. Their antics and blatant disregard for human life had gained notice from the human media, making headlines with the rising number of dead bodies and disappearances in the area.

  That was a strict no-no.

  Sure, killing humans was frowned upon, but having the media attached to it all was considered worse in the eyes of the people in charge of PSI and like-minded organizations.

  Most humans weren’t privy to the truth about what was out there. That they weren’t alone in the world. That they weren’t at the top of the food chain. Alerting them to as much would go nowhere fast. There would be mass pandemonium. Garth knew. He’d seen it enough times over the centuries.

  Throughout history, more than one attempt had been made to bring humans into the supernatural fold. Each try had ended poorly. Humans feared what they did not understand. And while that was fine, what they did with that fear wasn’t. Some took it to a dark place. A place that left them the bigger monsters in the scenario.

  Not that supernaturals were innocent or anything. As a wolf-shifter, he knew firsthand what his kind was capable of doing. Some were pure evil. Others didn’t want to hurt anyone, but their inner demons won out.

  Garth’s personal demon wasn’t a demon at all, it was an animal. He and the wolf seemed to have a basic understanding of one another, and that was fine by him. He’d known a large number of men who’d suffered from control issues with their beasts, but Garth rarely did. He had always welcomed the onset of his wolf.

  Garth went through his first full change when he was only eleven. That had been early for his pack. Most didn’t go through the conversion until they were in their teens. He and his brother had been larger than normal eleven-year-old boys. The introduction of their shifter sides had come at a much-needed time in their lives. A time when the world around them was kill or be killed. With the presentation of the wolf came a sense of security. The wolf was something the boys could use to stand up for themselves in a pack that had the mentality of survival of the fittest.

  There had been no room for the weak.

  As shifters, his pack was even deadlier than the average human from that time period. They were lethal and proud of that fact. Warring between packs and villages was commonplace back then. And when his people perfected the art of traveling greater distances by way of longboats, the world became theirs to conquer.

  Theirs to take.

  And take they did.

  He wasn’t proud of the way his people had behaved and the reputation they’d earned. He’d done what he could to minimize the atrocities committed, but he was one man. There had been only so much he could do. Even that had cost him greatly.

  His family had a lot in common with current organized crime families. They too had broken many laws and took what they wanted by force. They held little regard for the rules of society and did as they pleased.

  And they’d been ruthless.

  His brother Grid danced on the edge of darkness to this day.

  Though when Garth had read through the reports concerning the crime family in question, he’d found himself appalled at the level of brutality they perpetuated. He’d been raised by what many would term savages. If Garth thought someone was brutal, that was saying something.

  The dirtbag in the van was something, all right.

  Dirtbag was too nice a term for the guy.

  If Garth’s guess was right, the dirtbag was maybe around a hundred or so. Give or take a decade. Just a baby in the world of supernaturals. Garth had undershirts older than the guy.

  That being said, the man had amassed quite the collection of rare weapons in his short hundred or so years. He had an entire wing of his massive home devoted to his collection of weapons throughout the ages.

  If museums were more like this, Garth would actually attend exhibits. As it stood, they very rarely offered anything he found interesting. Not even when they featured items and artifacts from the time period he was born in. The Viking Age of Scandinavia.

  So what if they’d recovered another Viking grave or more cups and pots they assumed were from his time? He didn’t need broken relics or to be reminded of those he had cared for and lost.

  What he did need was a sword like the one mounted on the wall before him.

  “Look at her,” he said to one of his teammates, his tone hushed, examining the weapon closer. As he did, Garth realized he’d seen the beauty before. It had been one that had come up on the black market for auction. He’d attempted to buy it, but it had gone missing right before the auction had finished. The rat bastard dirtbag had stooped even lower than black market bidding. He’d had the thing stolen. Was there no honor among thieves? “Cheater.”

  His second-in-command, an opinionated wolf-shifter who hailed from Scotland of old, Gram Campbell, moved up alongside him and put a hand on Garth’s shoulder. Gram was tall, but just missed being as tall as Garth, who was well over six and a half feet when in boots, as he was now. “You all right there? Looks as if yer caught between wanting to punch something or rub yerself in a dirty manner against the weapons here. If so, we can leave the room. I do nae think I’d be able to shake the image of you yanking on yer cock to the sight of a sword, so I do nae want to witness anything of the sort.”

  “Asshole,” stated Garth evenly.

  “Aye.” Gram grinned. The man’s Scottish brogue was thick.

  Not that Garth could judge. He’d been in America for centuries and still carried a very heavy Scandinavian accent when he spoke. It only intensified when he was worked up in any way. Some of his fellow operatives had a few good laughs over it all. In recent years, Hollywood had taken an interest in Viking culture and Norse mythology. That meant more people were being exposed to it all—or something close to it, anyway. That also meant there was additional fodder for his fellow operatives.

  That was all right. He had his fair share of nicknames for them too. Besides, he’d never really tried to rid himself of his accent because he just didn’t care enough to bother. Plus, he surrounded himself with men from around the world. They were a cultural melting pot. He was far from the only person in PSI with an accent when he spoke Englis
h. And like the majority of immortals he knew, English was just one of the many languages he spoke. So what if he did so with a heavy tongue?

  Garth motioned to the sword in the case, still admiring her. Not to the point he wanted to jerk off, but damn close. “She was to be mine, but this douchebag stole her. Look at her now. Lonely without me. I can tell. Aren’t you, beauty?”

  “Och, you do realize you refer to weapons as women? I know you call them girl names too,” said Gram, his arm around Garth’s shoulder. “That is worrisome, old friend. You do nae ever call a woman ‘beauty.’ You save the pet names for yer weapons. Verra concerning.”

  He continued to stare at the sword, unconcerned with how his thoughts on the object came off to others. “I’m taking her before we leave. I want her.”

  “We really need to get you laid. Then you could…I do nae know…refer to a woman as a woman. Or, you know, actually find one you like enough to give a pet name. Would go far in the gettin’ you laid bit. I’ve heard women talk of you. They say yer handsome. I do nae see it. You’re freakishly tall. You’ve blond hair and yer a Viking. Nae a Scot. A lot going against you there, brother. And let’s be honest. Yer nae as good-lookin’ as me. Not many are. Plus, yer hang-ups with weapons make most of the lasses think yer a homicidal maniac. Does nae do guid things in the getting-a-second-date department.”

  “I do just fine getting women,” returned Garth with a grunt. Though, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d had sex. He’d been too busy to stop and notice that it had been a while.

  He shrugged, knowing he’d fix that issue at a later date. For now, he’d make a mental list of all the weapons he was confiscating from the dirtbag’s collection. Many were displayed in custom-made cases, backlit for effect. The sight of them made him feel almost giddy.

  Maybe Gram was on to something.

  Maybe there was something wrong with him.

  Probably, but who the hell cares.

  He snorted. “This place is great. Aside from the bloodstains all over the entrance and halls from our grand arrival.”

  Gram waved a hand about in the air. With the movement came the buzz of magik. Since Gram possessed both the ability to shift into a wolf and wield magik, Garth wasn’t surprised. The Scotsman liked to show off as much as possible. “Aye. It was grand all right—and gruesome. Just think. If the bloodstains do nae come out, you can put in a lowball offer on the place. Get it for cheap.”

  Rubbing his scruffy jawline, Garth mulled over what Gram had said. He had several homes as it was, located all around the world. His primary home was near PSI Division B Headquarters. “Hmm, I like his setup for displaying things, but I’m not into the whole gaudy decor he has going.”

  Gram blinked several times in a row at him, as if he couldn’t believe the man was serious.

  “What?”

  “I was joking about you buying it,” returned Gram.

  Garth scratched his chin and shrugged. “Oh. I considered buying it for half a second there—bloodstains and all.”

  “When was the last time you talked to a head doctor at PSI?” questioned Gram, his expression one that said he was joking this time.

  “Last month. She said I was fine.” Garth simply stared at his friend.

  “Then we really need to get a new head doctor,” said Gram. His blue gaze moved in the direction of the historic samurai sword that had captured Garth’s attention to start with. “All right, I’ll give you that one. That is cool as shite.”

  Garth touched the glass of the case softly, still amazed the sword was within his grasp once more. He’d thought it lost forever when it had gone missing. “I have one similar to this. They were made by the same man. It’s why I bid on her when she came up for auction years ago. I wanted the sisters together. With me.”

  “This would be a legal auction?” asked Gram, his voice saying he already knew the answer.

  Garth grumbled lightly. “Not so much. I’m a firm believer that rules were made to be bent to suit my needs.”

  “You know, with as thick as yer Swedish accent is, I caught like a tenth of what you said…and I’m Scottish. No one ever understands all of what we say.”

  Garth flipped off his friend and returned to touching the glass case around the sword.

  “The way yer touching that case says I was right the first time. We really need to get you laid.” Gram gave a half snort. “I can bend a few rules in that department for you if it tickles yer fancy. Name yer kink and I’ll find a lass willin’ to make it happen.”

  The fact the man had connections with women in low places shouldn’t have shocked Garth in the least. Gram wasn’t exactly a choirboy. Yet, somehow, his friend managed to surprise him. “Right now, I’m more concerned about you heading out into the world on your own. I’m not sure the world is ready for you to be unsupervised,” said Garth, in reference to the fact that Gram was slotted to leave Team Eight within the month.

  Gram was taking a position within the Shadow Agents’ side of PSI. That meant he’d go from being part of a team of men to a solo operative.

  Garth would have taken offense to the man’s decision to go, but he knew it was time for Gram to expand his wings and try new things. The Scotsman tended to get restless if kept confined in one place too long. And he’d been Garth’s second-in-command for centuries.

  He’d also been Garth’s best friend for just as long.

  The Shadow Agents Division would be a good move for Gram, and it would advance his career. But, it would mean Garth was losing his right-hand man. Thankfully, he had the perfect replacement in mind. He just had to convince the bullheaded Russian werebear to accept it.

  As soon as the thought entered his head, the man in question entered the room as if he’d sensed Garth thinking of him.

  Rurik Romanov approached from the outer hall, his weapon over his shoulder and an annoyed look upon his face. No surprise there. The Russian was always pissed about something. It was actually funnier than it sounded.

  He, like the rest of the team, was dressed head to toe in black ops wear. Though, Rurik had added a Russian flag patch to his bulletproof vest. The flag was one from the days of the U.S.S.R., or as Rurik would say, the glory days. The man also still viewed America as he had during the Cold War. Living here full-time wasn’t exactly awesome in the man’s eyes.

  Garth waited for a smart-ass remark about hating the mission to fall from Rurik’s lips. Usually, he lived for every second he could complain. Not now though. The man was oddly quiet. The look on his face was grim.

  Garth eyed him. “What is it?”

  “There are taxidermied bears in the den and pictures of the owner on hunting expeditions, standing before dead bears and other big game, gloating. He kills our animal world brothers and sisters for sport. For show.”

  Gram cast Garth a worried look. Both knew the Russian’s temper. Combine his temper with the fact he was an actual bear-shifter, and they had the makings of a problem.

  A big one.

  “Captain was thinking of buying it. He dinnae mind dead bad guy bits all over the place. Wonder if the stuffed next of kin sways him any?” Gram flashed a wide smile.

  Rurik’s gaze whipped to Garth. “This house looks as if it belongs in Vegas. It’s so…so…overdone like Americans always do. And the owner is into stuffing animals. He himself is a shifter! He should show some respect for nature. He should—”

  Gram sighed and patted Garth’s shoulder. “I got this one, Viking. Least I can do, seein’ as how I’m leaving you to your own devices soon enough.”

  Before Garth could comment, Gram had stepped to Rurik. “The bag of dicks is out in the van in cuffs. Want me to take you out so you can knock him around a bit? Maybe bite him in the arse or tear his head off? I’m guid with either scenario so long as you do nae kill him in any van we have to ride back in. Captain may be fine with pieces of flesh lying about, but I do nae want to have to sit in dead guy bits all the way back to the plane. That shite starts to smell. Besides, the
arsehole is a cat-shifter. None of us want to have to smell that for longer than need be.”

  Rurik cracked his version of a smile, which was downright terrifying. He looked like a deranged serial killer who just gotten handed a new set of knives on his birthday. He launched into Russian, announcing the plan to be a very solid one.

  Groaning, Garth shook his head. “How was that helping, Campbell?”

  Gram laughed. “Och, I said I had it. I dinnae say I’d help with it.”

  “I thought it was implied,” stated Garth.

  “You thought wrong, Captain.”

  As captain of Team Eight, Garth was ultimately responsible for whatever his men got up to. Letting Rurik anywhere near a bad guy who made killing bears a sport would certainly lead to nothing but trouble. The Russian’s temper was notorious. There would be no hesitation on his part before he killed the guy they had in the van. A man they needed to use in order to weed out even bigger baddies. That couldn’t happen if Rurik tore him into itty-bitty bits.

  Something Garth had seen Rurik do more than once when provoked.

  The Russian had once pureed a bad guy. There was nothing else the act could have been called. It was legendary around the office. The cleanup team had been less than impressed, not that Garth could blame them. The act did earn Rurik the not-so-coveted award of Asshole of the Week, as well as a new blender, compliments of the men at Division B.

  Seemed like a fitting gift.

  Operative Johannes “Hans” Bach joined them in the room. He took his special ops wear to the next level, adding a half-turtleneck to the mix and fashionable boots. Everything on the man was more than likely designer. He liked the finer things in life. Expensive cars, houses, clothes, and women.

  Not that Garth could find much fault in the man’s taste in the opposite sex. He’d seen a few of the ladies Hans surrounded himself with. Legs that went on forever, long blonde hair, and well-rounded breasts. Garth was fairly certain the women charged a lot of money per hour. He never saw the same woman twice with the German.

  Hans, like the rest of the men on Team Eight, wasn’t into the idea of commitment. They were in the primes of their immortally long lives. None of them had mates to tether them down. They had no one to answer to and no rules when it came to how they spent their free time.