Cold Spectrum

by Craig Schaefer

  What he’d left was scorched steel and the stench of burned pork. The secure truck sat on a dead-end drive at the river’s edge, an icy wind rippling off the water and pushing wispy clouds of black smoke over our faces like funeral veils. Broiled inside and out, the vehicle was only identifiable by what remained of its license plate. The arresting agents, still in the front seat, would only be identifiable by their dental records.

  Bile rose up in my throat as I stared at the twisted, agonized corpses. This was what their treason had really bought them. I was sure they thought they were in for a hell of a payday—until Mikki arrived.

  “Damn.” Jessie threw a punch at the blackened metal, tortured steel buckling under her fist. “So he cons them into delivering him here, Mikki and the rest of his crew show up, they kill the only witnesses—”

  “This was all preplanned,” I said. “April is right. No chance they thought this up on the fly, with no way of communicating while he was in cuffs. Crohn had a worst-case-scenario contingency set up, and this was it. A couple of his men leaving him behind and taking the plane was part of it.”

  “Where would they be going without him?” Jessie asked.

  “I’m more concerned with where he’s going. Okay. Let’s put ourselves in his shoes. His brilliant plan to use RedEye against us just backfired. He’s been arrested, dishonored, humiliated in the press, and he’s looking at prison time.”

  “Can’t salvage his old life,” Jessie said. “Who he was, his job, his control over the Bureau—that’s all over now.”

  “So he needs a brand-new life.”

  “Prospero,” Jessie said.

  “You think he’ll help?” I asked. “Crohn just lost control of Vigilant Lock. His program—his bosses’ program—has been hijacked from inside, and there’s nothing they can do to get it back. The fake weapon just became a real one. They’ve gotta know we’re coming for them next. I can’t imagine the former director is a popular guy right about now.”

  “Any port in a storm. Can he afford not to ask for help?”

  Good question. We knew exactly where to find the answer. Aselia drove us out to Vinegar Hill.

  No motorcycles prowled the Belgian-block streets. No sound in the gloomy twilight but the hum of the power plant. Inside the walk-up to Prospero’s office, we found one of the cambion bikers. His head was at the foot of the staircase. His arms and legs, twisted and torn from his body, haphazardly strewn across the steps. Wide arcs of crimson, still sticky wet, decorated the narrow walls as if someone had used the man’s severed limbs as paintbrushes.

  Not someone. Crohn. He’d been here, and he hadn’t been looking for help. I breathed through my mouth, fighting past the overpowering stench of copper and rotten meat. We stepped over the scattered limbs. Past the ruined door on the second-floor landing, tatters of shattered wood clinging to a single twisted hinge, fresh horror awaited us.

  If I’d had any doubts that an infernal hound could be killed, Crohn laid them to rest.

  Jessie hovered in the doorway. She tugged her glasses down, her eyes glinting as her nose wrinkled in disgust. “What . . . is that?”

  A glistening, gelatinous goop the color of melted flesh covered the desk and drenched the thin carpet. It splashed the bookshelves, dripping down in ropy strands to land on the floor with wet, squelching spatters. A few bits and pieces still held their shape: a finger on the desk, still twitching, its nail black and rotting. A handful of yellowed teeth, scattered across the sodden floor. And from the edge of a knocked-over chair, a human face dangled like a discarded Halloween mask. Prospero’s face.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I dug out my glasses. Black, with chunky Buddy Holly frames and clear glass lenses. They’d been a weapon once, a bugged Trojan horse given to us by a mole, but we’d turned them into an asset. Two clicks of the pen in my pocket, activating the concealed Bluetooth link, and the pinhole camera in the glasses’ frame began transmitting back to the team.

  “Holy—” Kevin breathed over my earpiece. “Is that a face?”

  “It’s Prospero. What’s left of him after Crohn paid a visit.” I turned my head slowly, taking in every inch of the grotesque aftermath. “Record this footage and save it for the files. I also want a sample of the . . . remains . . . for later study.”

  “Incarnate demons are walking tanks,” Kevin said, “and hounds are supposed to be the most dangerous of them all. So that means . . .”

  Jessie finished the thought for him. “It means Ben Crohn isn’t screwing around. He’s been eating his demon Wheaties. Speaking of.”

  She gestured to the bookshelves. The false front hung open, and so did the safe door, ripped from its hinges and tossed to the corner of the room. The reinforced-steel compartment sat empty, not even a speck of dust left behind.

  “The contracts,” I said. “He knew how badly he screwed up, and he knew there was a chance Prospero might just burn them and cut his losses. So he went on the offensive.”

  Jessie stood beside me. “Makes sense. If someone had a bundle of papers that could kill me from the other side of the world, getting those back would be priority one. The one weapon he’s afraid of, and now it’s in his hands. If I was Crohn, I’d be looking for a fresh hiding place.”

  “But then what? He’s a wanted man. The law’s going to hunt him, we’re going to hunt him. Then there’s the eastern courts: if he wasn’t on their hit list already, murdering Prospero just made him infernal enemy number one.”

  “What about the other courts,” Jessie said, “the ones Vigilant Lock was created to mess with? You think he’d try running to them?”

  Any port in a storm. Still, it didn’t feel right. They had no reason to open their arms to the man who’d spent years working against them, not unless he had something to offer. Something valuable enough to make amends for his crimes. And I didn’t get the impression that these were forgiving people.

  “I know a way we can find out,” I told her.

  Jessie stared at me over the rims of her glasses. She caught my meaning.

  “Portland,” she said.

  “Do we have any other leads?”

  “You know this is gonna be insanely dangerous, right?” Jessie asked. “I mean, even by our usual standards.”

  “It’s not only about the intel.” I took off my glasses and killed the audio feed. This discussion was just for Jessie and me. “As of today, Vigilant Lock is out from under hell’s thumb. As of today, we’re the outfit we were supposed to be, the outfit they conned us all into thinking we were signing up for.”

  “Independence Day,” Jessie said. “And the eastern courts aren’t gonna take that gracefully. They’re gonna come at us with everything they’ve got. We have to be ready for it.”

  “Now we’re making our own rules. The old playbook, such as it was, is out the window. Where we go from here, the alliances we make, the enemies we target . . . it’s all up to us. And there aren’t any small choices. Every move we make has life-and-death consequences.”

  Jessie nodded. She stared across the office, her gaze distant.

  “It was easy, being a weapon. Letting Linder and his bosses call the shots, make the big decisions.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “Linder works for us now. What’s left of Panic Cell is an enemy force, what’s left of Beach Cell is embedded in deep cover, and as far as I know, the new Redbird Cell hasn’t even been on their first mission yet. Jessie . . . you aren’t just heading up this team anymore. This is a field promotion. You are the leader of Vigilant Lock.”

  “No,” she said, meeting my gaze. She put her hand, soft but firm, over mine. “We are. And we’ll get the job done.” She took a deep breath. “Make the call.”

  Fontaine picked up on the third ring. His syrupy drawl filled my ear.

  “Ma chérie. Saw you on the five o’clock news. Points for style, but aren’t you supposed to be a covert operative?”

  “Getting my fifteen minutes of fame over with,” I told
him. “I need something. A professional introduction.”

  “My, you’ve just piqued my curiosity. You and I don’t run in the same social circles, after all. Who were you looking to trade handshakes with?”

  “Caitlin,” I said. “I want to meet her.”

  I heard his slow hiss of breath on the other end of the line. His voice, slow and sly and curling around my brain like a rattlesnake’s tail.

  “Are you . . . sure about that, darlin’? It’s important that I know: Are you asking of your own free will? Are you ready to accept the consequences of your request, whatever may befall?”

  “She’s been waiting for this call, Fontaine. And while I don’t expect you to admit it, I think you have, too. Two words: Cold Spectrum. We know the truth. So does she. But we’ve got something she doesn’t.”

  “That being?” he asked.

  “Proof. Call her. I want a meeting. Face-to-face.”

  He fell silent for a moment, calculating. “And what does good old Fontaine get out of this deal?”

  “One hell of a scoop. Guess where I’m standing right now?”

  “In your boudoir,” he mused wistfully, “wearing a French silk negligee and a smile.”

  I arched an eyebrow at the phone.

  “I’m more into flannel pajamas, but no. I’m in Prospero’s office in New York.”

  “And you’re jawing on the phone while you should be slipping out the back door?” Fontaine asked. “Reckless, darlin’. He’s not much of a gentleman.”

  “He’s not much of anything.” I snapped a photo of the goo- and gore-streaked room and sent it over. “He’s dead.”

  I heard the hitch in Fontaine’s breath. “You tellin’ me true? Who else knows about this?”

  “Nobody but his killer. Now, if I understand how the courts work, a human killing a hound—that’s the sort of thing they call out the Chainmen for, right? Like you.”

  “Like me,” he said. “With a bounty worth ten times his weight in gold. A human just layin’ hands on a hound is a mortal insult—unforgivable. Killing one . . . well, over five hundred years on the job, and I’ve gotta say that’s damn near unprecedented.”

  “Then it’s a good thing that our favorite bounty hunter just got a head start on the competition. Ben Crohn did it, and we’re going after him. If we get him before you do, you’re welcome to take full credit for the kill.”

  “Far be it from me to tell you your business, but you might want to leave this job to the heavy hitters. A man capable of taking down a hound—”

  “Hasn’t seen what me and my partner are capable of,” I said. “So. Does that buy us an introduction to Caitlin?”

  “You just rubbed my back so nicely, it’d be an absolute pleasure to rub yours. I need to make a few phone calls. I’ll get back to you in about an hour.”

  An hour gave us time to rally the troops. We picked up April and Kevin, swapping out Aselia’s stolen SUV for a Bureau-issued one. Down in the motor pool, Jessie stood and stared.

  “What?” I asked her.

  “They gave us a recent model, no dents or scrapes, bumpers intact, windshields unbroken . . . it’s been washed.” Jessie held the keys high, dangling from a stamped paper tag. “This is a new era.”

  We drove north, heading for the airfield. Linder got back to us before Fontaine did. I put him on speaker, and we heard the steady thrum of a helicopter’s rotors in the background.

  “I’m herding cats,” he told us. “You might imagine, Vigilant’s senior directors are a bit—to put it charitably—anxious about today’s events. I’ve been reaching out to them and explaining the way of the world.”

  “And the verdict is?” Jessie asked.

  “Seven people, besides myself, are charged with overseeing the program. These are the government officials who secure our funding, cover our paper trails, arrange access to the information we need, and so on. Most of them were as firmly in the dark as you were, and now that they know Crohn manipulated them, they’re all too happy to come to the side of the angels.”

  “Most,” I echoed.

  “Two or three are going to need special handling. At least one I can swing with financial incentives. Another is on the fence. The third is, unfortunately, a true believer in the infernal cause. I’m on my way to pay him a private visit right now. I’m giving him his severance papers.”

  We didn’t have to ask if that was a euphemism.

  “There’s something else,” he said, and I caught a hesitant edge in his voice. “I expect it’s part of Crohn’s exit strategy. In the last hour, Vigilant’s private servers were targets of multiple cyberattacks. I’ve taken our entire network off-line until we get this mess sorted—pulled the physical plugs, literally—but it looks like he may have copied large chunks of our database.”

  I leaned over the phone. “What kind of information did he pull?”

  “A little of everything. Hostile Entity records, financial transfers, operative dossiers—”

  “On us? Linder, specifically what did he get? How much data was Vigilant keeping on us?”

  “Only what was considered necessary, to pair up operatives with the missions they’re most qualified for. Basic skill assessments and field reports.”

  “Naturally,” April said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She was thinking the same thing I was: Until now, Vigilant Lock’s agents were disposable, meant to be discarded when convenient—and terminated when we weren’t. Any intelligence they kept on us—intel in Crohn’s hands, now—was for the purpose of making us easier to kill.

  “Once Crohn’s been put down and Vigilant is back on its feet,” Jessie said, “I’ll be expecting full access to that database. Full access.”

  “Understood,” Linder said. “I’m going airborne. I’ll be in touch as the situation develops.”

  Jessie leaned over the armrest and hung up the phone.

  Aselia clutched the wheel, staring dead ahead. “We got rid of Crohn, kicked his bosses to the curb, and Vigilant is still screwing us.”

  “Short term,” Jessie said. “Let’s just keep our eyes on the target. Plenty of time for cleaning house later.”

  Fontaine rang in. I snatched up the phone. I didn’t put it on speaker.

  “Against my better judgment,” he said, “the bargain is struck. Caitlin wants to meet you, too. Her home turf, if you’d be so kind. Las Vegas. Call me when you land—I’ll give you the specifics.”

  “Her turf? Seems a little lopsided, Fontaine. She’s not exactly trying to make us feel assured of our safety, is she?”

  Fontaine chuckled. “No, darlin’, it’s a sign of respect for your intelligence.”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “Because you know perfectly well that no matter where you meet, the only way you’re walking out alive is with her permission. She’s not gonna insult you by pretending otherwise.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Access to a private plane beat flying coach, but the six-seater Cessna wasn’t built for cross-country hauls. We had to land and refuel twice, putting in at tiny airfields in the middle of nowhere, and I checked in with Linder each time while Aselia ran her maintenance checks.

  I called my mom. Three rings, a hang-up, then calling back thirty seconds later. That was our signal, letting her know it was really me and that I wasn’t under any duress.

  “It’s not safe yet,” I told her. “Safer than it was, but stay hidden just a little while longer. We’ve got a loose end to wrap up.”

  “I saw you on the news. At the press conference.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Your father would have been proud.”

  Memories welled up, and I shoved them back down, down into the padlocked box of my heart. No time for emotions, not on a mission. Besides, thinking about Dad made me think about the crawling, itching gnaw in my veins, getting worse by the hour, and the incubus gigolo I had on speed dial. Dad was a man of the law, down to his bones. He didn’t have a lot of regard for junkies.

  I
needed to work past this. We were about to go toe-to-toe with a man capable of ripping an infernal hound to shreds. No chance we’d survive without my magic, and the addiction Nadine left in my system was like a wall rising up around it. Romeo’s kiss, back in Atlantic City, had smashed the wall down. Now it was coming back, brick by iron brick.

  If I could find a way to top off, just get a little hit to see me through until the crisis was over . . . I squeezed my eyes shut. No. I’d find another way.

  We flew through the night. I slept when I could. It was air sleep, that fuzzy, floating place that mimicked the real thing, tossing me back to the waking world with every shudder of the Cessna’s wings.

  The sun rose over the sleeping city as we landed at North Vegas Airport. Linder had called ahead and arranged a car, an unmarked sedan from the local FBI office. An agent was on standby to hand over the keys along with a message from the Vegas Bureau chief, SAC Brannon.

  “She hopes you have a wonderful visit to our city,” he recited, “and also please don’t destroy anything while you’re here.”

  Jessie took the keys and tossed them over to me.

  “That’s not up to us,” she told him.

  After he left, she rallied the team. The sedan’s tinted window caught the reflection of the rising sun, turning the glass to shimmering amber. It gleamed in the corner of my eye.

  “Me and Harmony are going in alone,” Jessie said. “Based on what we’ve seen so far, this Caitlin has an interest in keeping us alive. We’re kinda gambling on that still being the case.”

  “You’re betting the whole damn house,” Aselia said.

  April pushed her bifocals up on her nose. “I think it’s a reasonable risk.”

  “Reasonable?” Aselia stared at her. “You’ve seen what these things are capable of, right? You don’t sit down to chat with an incarnate demon, especially not a damn hound.”

  “They just did, back in New York,” Kevin offered.

  “They had to jump out a window in New York,” she shot back. “And before that, Prospero had no idea who they really were. Caitlin knows. She’s got their number, and she knows they’re coming.”