Flames of Hope

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Flames of Hope Page 24

by Cassandra L Shaw


  Cars started pulling up out front. Xylvar turned to Jaz. “That’ll be the backup I called. Hurry outside, make it look like they came for coffee or something.”

  “Coffee time—got it.”

  “Leaving now. I’ll call the medics in a minute.” Xylvar headed for the door

  Carsen tried to stand, then fell back onto the bed. “I’m shot up, and there’s a dead man on the floor who’s past fresh. What the hell am I supposed to tell the medics?”

  “Flash them your ID and halo, tell them it’s FBPI business, and after that the dead guy’s your problem. And next time, be careful who you knock out. You’re lucky I didn’t blast your brains out, leave you beside our dead friend.”

  30

  Chapter Thirty

  The medivan had long since come and gone. With Carsen none the wiser, Xylvar and Jaz watched the goings-on from mere feet away. On the up-side they were safe, and the backup had left, feeling it best to leave Carsen deal with the dead, the medics, and the CJD.

  After the medics arrived, the Criminal Justice guys did a sweep, and someone from the FBPI was currently next door, so Jaz stayed well hidden.

  Nobody so far had bothered to knock and ask the neighbors any questions. An omission that made Xylvar’s scalp tighten.

  Xylvar spun his chair away from the window where he’d been observing the happenings and came to Jaz’s side. Still holding the cold compress to the back of her head, she scowled at the bright screen on the link he put in front of her.

  “Too bright. I see Carsen again, it’s my turn to blast the bastard. One in each testicle. The lump on my head’s bigger than two nuts anyway.”

  He went to reach out and touch her face, gripped his chair’s arm instead. What he wanted and what she deserved lived planets apart. He did not want her to think he’d fallen for her. Of course, mating musk usually indicated a bond beyond physical, but it wasn’t unheard of for it to be triggered just from excitement.

  And he hadn’t fallen for her anew. His feelings merely shifted from the old Jaz to the new. Sometimes souls just recognized each other, and his recognized hers as his. The link might not be a twin flames bond like Kaid and Bliss, but , the way Xylvar felt about Jaz equaled Kaid and Bliss’s rare multi-life bond. His flame just no longer held hope. “Pain meds not helping?”

  “Rubbish the medics gave me is useless. Don’t care what the scans said, my skull is splintered into a million pieces.” She cradled a cup of soother tea, took a sip, and closed her eyes for a few seconds.

  The foul green-brown liquid smelled like grass clippings a dog peed on, but if it helped her feel better, he’d drink it too. “The last person has left, but they’ve taped off the duplex next door.”

  “Excellent, a bit of tape will keep out the riffraff. Seems odd they haven’t wanted to talk to us.”

  “Our future-nutless guy might have tried to keep it all under wraps.” Or someone knew who currently resided next door.

  “Hard with a dead, decaying body and a living one full of fresh blaster holes. I’m wondering if Carsen is also a double agent? And who do Vanessa and James recruit for?”

  “We’ll do some digging later. Right now, we have a hit. Scarface has made his final stop before returning home. I checked the address, and it’s a storage unit on the north side of town.”

  “A storage unit to hide gold and silver? Huh, those places get broken into all the time.” She rubbed her hands together. “I suggest we break in, leave a little tracker.”

  Xylvar started to tap a finger the arm of his chair. “Not safe. The facility could be part of the operation. They’re not going to trust any-old-one with their bounty. Place will be under full vid view twenty-four/seven. We wait to see if one of the vehicles we have carrying a tracking device goes there and leaves. Someone who might be collecting rather than dropping off.”

  Jaz leaned over, put her hand over his. “Why do you do that?”

  The warmth of her hand engulfed more than his hand. He pulled free, dropping his hand into his lap. “Tap my finger?”

  She nodded.

  “Most of the time I don’t even know I’m doing it. Picked it up in the hospital. It helped me pass the never-ending seconds while I was in a back brace staring at a ceiling or wall. I’d tap and count the seconds, convert the seconds into minutes, minutes to hours, and now I tap…”

  “And think. And sometimes when you’re reading someone’s thoughts. My guess is the person who does the pickup will be whoever wants the credit for it with the Pures. I bet Father Morgan. Hope the bastard leads us right to a key Pure movement member.”

  “Be interesting to discover their identity.”

  Jasmine handed the link back to him, leaned back on the couch. “We’re going to need a different vehicle. Ours, bland as it is, turns up at too many places. And we’ll need another fly to replace the one Carsen crushed.”

  “Let’s grab my old piece of shit van, flick on some fake plates. I’ve already contacted someone about a new fly. Owes me a favor. We only need the fly, and I’ll code it to the our remote.”

  Xylvar’s link buzzed, he glanced at Jaz as he answered. “Kaid. What’s up?”

  “Finally, our listening devices in the Loose Moose might have paid off.”

  “Figured they’d been removed by now.” Or the Katoom crew simply took care of what they heard or found. Jaz and Xylvar had done their part in that particular part of the game.

  “We’ve scored a few follow-ups, but nothing panned out. Most of the bugs remained, so we could keep monitoring. We have a male meeting someone who calls himself the Drainer at a café near your old neighborhood.”

  The Drainer—again. Same person as before or was there more than one Drainer? “Any visuals?”

  “Not possible without filming everyone who left after we heard about the meeting. Place was packed. Fridays are their half-price night.”

  “You sure they’re meeting in my old neighborhood?” He had to ask. He’d never lived anywhere but Rixden since he moved to Bozeman, on the hunt for a way to finally kill Devlin Dempster, so there was no old neighborhood.

  “Rixden.”

  Xylvar scowled. “Yeah, go on.”

  “I’ll send the meet to you. Happening in about thirty minutes, and you’re the closest by far.”

  “We’ll be there.”

  He hung up and stared at the name of the café where he often bought cheap but decent meals. He read out the address to Jasmine. “You’re going to have to go in, since they know me there. I’m going to wire you up and, in case this gets hairy, I think you better go in disguise.”

  “Disguise? I only have CeeCee.”

  “CeeCee will have to do. Storm might just be too recognizable in that area. Hopefully it won’t be anyone who’d recognize your redheaded persona.”

  She picked up one of her knives. “Guess I’ll go armed.”

  “Bloodthirsty. Love it.” And he did—so very much.

  #

  Jasmine arrived at the café, her bright red wig styled differently from CeeCee’s usual. The new style covered more of her face. She had little time to apply the thick layer of enhancers and stains CeeCee needed. She dressed casual street, in jeans and a loose black shirt with wide, batwing sleeves and a hood. The shirt, new to the fashion market, and not something she’d ever normally wear, she classed as great for movement and weapon concealment. She’d be wearing it again. Sometimes fashion trends, ugly or not, were convenient.

  Hood up, she scoped the layout of the extra high-backed privacy booths. Good for her to huddle into a gloomy corner, but not so great to keep track of people coming and going. Three booths in a row were empty. She slid into the middle one, pressing herself against the back wall. Next to her head, a small candle-shaped light cast a glow on the dark granite tabletop, for either bug attraction or ambience. Not fancying either with her meal, or wishing to be easily seen and recognized, she switched it off.

  She kept the hood up, sides pulled forward to cover most of her hair.
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  A waitress hurried over, a warm smile on her face as she handed Jasmine a menu. Jasmine ordered a grilled sandwich, a plate of steak fries, and a fizzy huckleberry water.

  When the café door opened on a soft ding, she lifted her arm as if adjusting her hair, the wide batwing sleeve covering most of her face as a man walked by. She couldn’t see his face, but he slid into the booth behind her. If he was her mark, she’d at least be able to hear him. Especially with her Eli to help.

  Her drink arrived just as another man walked in. She played with her hair once more, dropping her arm once the man slid into the booth behind her, on the opposite seat.

  The two men exchanged a polite yet strained greeting, and both ordered black coffee. Though they might not be the people she needed to listen to, she got the feeling they wouldn’t be drinking their coffee.

  Her sandwich and fries arrived. She salted, blew on, and bit into one, enjoying the crisp crunch, the soft middle. Another man walked in, he stood outside the booth in front of her, gazing around the room as if looking for someone. Holy hell and all its bullshit.

  Heart beating a tattoo hard and fast in her chest, she kept her head down, as if her fries were mesmerizing. She scratched at the side of her head, hiding behind her top, edging her hood farther forward.

  She had to get out of here. She felt rather than saw the man glance at her, pause, and take another look before he slipped into the booth in front of her.

  Jasmine swallowed the overly chewed fry, nearly choked.

  Rich.

  Her neck burned like fire ants lived under her wig. Her boss, who should be in New York, and who no longer worked cases, was here in this little café in the middle of lower-middle-class suburbia in Bozeman. He’d gone full desk three years ago, but maybe, maybe, with the Crea and Eli disappearing, three of his own agents, he’d reactivated to the field. Shit, either way she needed to stay incognito in the café. He didn’t know she was undercover for Katoom clan. Whether Rich was in Bozeman on official business or not, she was meant to be on sabbatical, not working for someone else.

  She rubbed the back of her neck. But why had he come to this café, of all the cafés in town?

  The men behind her started to chat, but she paid little attention. Her hearing, her adrenaline, her Eli beast, all amped to their highest, were focused on Rich. His appearance for some reason sent all her predator-near signals soaring.

  “There’s a new pickup?” What? She scowled, tuned her hearing to behind her. If she wasn’t Eli, hadn’t pushed her hearing to its full capacity, she might have missed the man’s taut, whispered words.

  “Two gold. Don’t stuff up this time.” A rustle of paper. Two hearts beating, one faster than the other. Nervy sweat came off one of them, and she bet it was from the first man who spoke.

  Jasmine’s head cranked back. These were the guys she’d came to listen to, and yet why the fuck was Rich here? The fire ants trekked down her back. Something was wrong, and if she knew anything, she knew if it looked like shit, and smelled like shit, you probably didn’t need to taste it to know you stepped in shit.

  “No one reported they had young. I don’t touch young.”

  “What? A conscience, even for the freaks? What’s it matter? They die now, or die later. The new world comes, they’re all dead.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t touch no young.” His whisper was rushed, almost begging. Frightened of the man he spoke to, and not liking the task he’d been given.

  “No young, wimp. Two males sharing a cabin in the woods.”

  “Good.” A moment passed. “Hey, this map shows the cabin is on clan reserve.”

  He must have read the address or looked at the map or whatever was written on the paper.

  “So?”

  “So, I don’t want two hundred frigging beasts tearing me and my men apart.”

  “Won’t happen. They’re on a side of the reserve, halfway to the back

  , and well away from most of cabins. These two are loners, live well away from the main enclave.”

  “Freaking suicide. This’ll cost more. In fact, you’ll need to triple it so I can bring in more men.”

  A Crea reserve. Which one? Say which one.

  “Our fee will remain the same. I can help arrange more men.”

  “That fee is for non-suicidal missions. We’re talking clan land—full of Creas. My fee will be triple. And how will I know there’s no patrol on that part of the reserve?”

  “Just ask that Crea you normally use for grunt. It’s his clan.”

  “This is his fucking clan. I’m not telling him about this pickup. Could be family.” The sweat smell intensified. The man was scum, but not stupid scum.

  “He’s a mercenary, and a traitor to his clan and his species. My guess he won’t give a toss. If he becomes a liability, then he’ll end up in a cell, part of our gold recruitment.”

  “I’ll let you tell him that.”

  Someone slid out of the booth. She pulled her hood farther forward, pretended to be reading her link. “Leaving now.” She whispered, hoping Xylvar would hear. He sat in a loading zone illegally, two doors up, ready to vid a few images of the man and, hopefully, his vehicle.

  She wanted to alert Xylvar to Rich’s appearance, but was too scared to send a message. Rich had contacts, and some of the best hackers in the world. Though she was using her Eli clan-supplied link, who knew what links were watched and listened to?

  Wasn’t worth the risk.

  The other man behind her remained seated, ordering a burger. Rich still sat in his booth alone.

  Perhaps he’d just come to Bozeman to see his operatives, or find Ramine, and dropped in for something to eat. Rich was one of the good guys. He’d recruited her, taught her most of what she knew. Told her to take this extended break so she could get over losing her operations partner in a Mule takedown, and from being blasted and almost killed herself. Yeah, good guy. Her predatory senses were confused, that was all.

  Couldn’t a man eat? Except, well Rich, liked the good life. Almost as if his name matched his taste in clothes, cars—food.

  Jasmine finished eating, though she didn’t remember the taste. Then, needing to kill more time, she used a fake husky voice to order a peach cobbler and ice cream. By the time she got to leave she’d be ready to explode, but it wasn’t a café where people seemed to linger after their meals.

  Her cobbler arrived as the man’s burger did. Another man walked in. Tall and cadaver-lean, with thick glasses. Holy crap, crap, crap. She slid down in her seat, wanting to slide under the table and pretend she wasn’t there, or to start throwing knives into people for answers. Thank gods they were both human and wouldn’t be able to scent her out.

  “Eustice.” Rich’s baritone layered the word with so much condescension, Jasmine wondered if it was Father Morgan’s real name. Something she’d be checking into if she got out of the café alive. She slid a throwing star from under her top, put it into an easy to access pocket.

  “Father Morgan.”

  “Yeah, right. You’re no more a man of the cloth than I’m a mouse.”

  “You don’t believe in the creation of our world?” Father Morgan used his best sermon voice. The one he liked to berate his congregation with when he talked of superiority, worthiness, and sin.

  “Why am I here?”

  “I hear the FBPI is sniffing around Bozeman and the surrounding lands. We find this inconvenient.”

  “Eli and Crea are going missing. Of course FBPI is sniffing around, dimwit. That’s the fucking job of the FBPI.”

  “Then I need names, where to find them.”

  “Yeah, and I need to see the gold. Putting it all on the line here. No gold, no names. Besides, any get too close I’ll redirect.”

  The ants started to run all over her body, feasting as they went. She stamped mentally on her silver.

  Someone shifted. “You should watch yourself.” Father Morgan’s voice dropped at least an octave.

  “Or what? I can have
you in a cage before you can say ‘our Father.’”

  “Send me the names and where your agents are. I need to know their whereabouts at all times. Don’t double cross me.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “Many are Eli and Crea, what do they matter to you?”

  “I’m here for the money, not for the cause. Remember that.”

  Father Morgan appeared at the end of the seat. He adjusted his shirt collar, brushed his hands over his arms and the front of his jacket like he’d fallen in dirt, then strode outside. Maybe being a murderous douche made him feel dirty? Or not getting his own way.

  “Cocksucker.” Rich muttered and, without a backward glance, left the café.

  Head spinning with the implications of Rich trying to become his name by selling himself and his FBPI title out, Jasmine waited for the man still stubbornly sitting in the booth behind her to bloody leave. Five more minutes passed, and she’d eaten and drunk everything she ordered. The waitress arrived and put her bill on the table.

  Jasmine, not wanting any connections back to even her fake Storm name, dug out credits and put them on top of the bill. The man behind her at last slid out of the booth. She froze.

  Scarface of the van, aka, Jasper. The same man involved in Ramine’s kidnapping. Connected to Father Morgan, and yet he wasn’t with him tonight. Did he like to bait his hook with two worms? If they followed Scarface, they might end up with two leads to the Pures, or just find a simple case of pure greed.

  She hurried to the ladies’ and wasted several minutes before leaving. At the front door she hesitated, looking cautiously up and down the road before exiting and fast-tracking for Xylvar’s old van.

  She jumped into the passenger seat and blew out a breath she hadn’t noticed she held. “We’re going back to the unit, grabbing anything we need, and we’re getting out.”

  He eased his van onto the road, the motor made a clunking sound, then stalled. Xylvar hit the ignition, and it shuddered back to life, drove twenty feet then stopped again.

  Good thing they weren’t being chased. “What’s wrong with it?”

 

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