Bengal's Heart

by Leigh, Lora

  Muttered sounds came from beneath the tape as Cash struggled desperately. It was pathetic really. He had once been fit and hard, muscular and rather handsome. He was now just a paunchy, overweight, balding old man. With a fishing line around his neck.

  He had been bait once before. He had drawn them to the Coyote Breed that had supposedly escaped and needed help over the mountain.

  “You came to us. You swore he was a victim, you argued for his freedom and his safety. And you were our friend, we believed in you.”

  Standing straight and tall, Death stared down at Winslow with a heavy, broken soul.

  “We believed in you.”

  There was no more time to waste. Gripping him beneath the shoulders, it was no hardship to lift him and scoot him the small distance to the edge of the river, to the boulders several feet away.

  He struggled, but that was okay. The struggle was preferable. That meant there was still some life left in him. When he went under the water, he would suffer. He would know pain, for a few moments at least.

  “The water is very cold. Cold enough that hypothermia will come fairly quickly. Which is really too bad. I was hoping to make you suffer just a while longer. I was hoping to taste your blood, but this is the wrong time for that, isn’t it?”

  Blood would have been nice. Ripping his throat out would have been so much better than simply watching him drown. But his death needed to leave a message. Bait. There were many who would know what this meant. Many who would see the significance, but none who would know the answer.

  “Loyalty,” Death whispered. “It’s repaid. Just as death is avenged. You killed us all.”

  He was struggling, fighting. It wouldn’t do any good. There was only one place on the bank that he could reach safety, and she had that covered. He was going to die, and she was going to watch him die.

  “You and Watts.” The hiss was filled with hatred, with the brutal need for blood. “You and Watts planned it. You executed it.”

  A strong, hard kick to his back sent him tumbling into the water. The splash wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the sounds of screams when their throats came out, but it was better than watching him breathe. It was better than knowing he lived so much as a moment longer.

  Gripping the line looped around Winslow’s neck, it was an easy matter to keep him in the deep pool of water chosen for his deathbed.

  Wickedly sharp canines flashed in the night as a smile pulled at chilled, chapped lips. He was struggling, fighting the line, searching for a toehold, a way to draw in air, and there was no way to do so.

  Tugging at the line, Death hummed a little melody and stared into the cloud-laden skies. It would snow by morning. The Breeds would find an icy corpse, and no trace of the murderer. That was the best way to kill. Without a trace. No DNA. No evidence, just the body to show the passing of life.

  As Winslow’s struggles ceased and his body became a deadweight against the line, Death knelt on a boulder and stared into the murky water at the body below.

  “Roses are red. Violets are blue. I remember, mate, and how I miss you.”

  There were tears in the voice that whispered the words. Tears and grief. Had it truly been more than two decades since life had turned so dark and bleak? It hurt as though it had happened yesterday. An hour ago. It hurt until the agony was like an open, festering wound that refused to heal.

  “I miss both of you.”

  Death wiped at a face without tears. They had stopped falling so long ago.

  Moving slowly, the fishing line was attached to a sturdy limb of a nearby tree, and on its end a photo was attached.

  Let them make of this what they would.

  Turning to stare into the well-lit window of the room Cassa Hawkins had taken, bleak eyes narrowed and rage built again.

  She had mated that Bengal. Damn her. She had mated a Breed. That made it harder. It shouldn’t have. Death hadn’t thought it would. But it did. There was regret, but so little remorse.

  A mate would have to be sacrificed. But so many had already been sacrificed, did another really matter? The end result was what mattered. The end result, and the death of those who had destroyed so much.

  “Good-bye, Cash Winslow,” Death whispered with a feeling of relief. “Seven down. Four to go. And one to die again.”

  ◆ CHAPTER 18 ◆

  Because Watts was part of the Dozen, Cassa. He was part of it, and he’s the one the killer wants.

  Dog’s statement ran through Cassa’s mind through most of the night. Pacing the floor at the inn, she fought to understand why a rogue Breed would think she should pay for what Douglas had done so long ago.

  He had been part of the Deadly Dozen. She pulled up the old, faded picture on her laptop and concentrated on the faces of the twelve men in poor focus. One face in particular had always caused her to pause, though she had never been certain why.

  Now she knew why.

  Douglas.

  She squinted her eyes and stared closely at the face. It could easily be Douglas when he was younger. The same blunt, squarish features. The same narrow, almost cruel lips. He was much younger. At least ten to fifteen years younger than he had been when Cassa was married to him. He’d been several years older than her.

  The murders during the Valentine’s night massacre had taken place eleven years before the revelation of the Breeds. About twenty-two years, Cassa surmised. Valentine’s night, no more than a few weeks from now, would be the twenty-second anniversary of that massacre.

  “God, Douglas, what did you do?” she whispered as she closed out the picture before logging into the Bureau of Breed Affairs History section.

  There were no stories on that night, nothing to shed any light on what had happened. The truth of that event would have to come from a local source. And she needed something more than the sheriff had given them.

  Danna Lacey had been a part of the Breed freedom movement in Glen Ferris. She had been part of the group that had fought beside the Breeds and attempted to provide some measure of security to those who escaped there.

  She hadn’t been a part of the leadership though. She would have been too young. No, whoever had led those Breeds with Patrick Wallace would have to be much older now. Such as Walt.

  In this little town there were so many secrets where the Breeds were concerned. The citizens that had been a part of the movement had kept close vigilance on the Breeds, and the Breeds themselves had made certain they stayed hid in those days.

  Even now, they stayed in the background.

  Tapping her finger against the laptop for a second, Cassa pondered the best way to get the information she needed.

  She would love to track Dog down for more questioning, but she had a feeling that wasn’t going to happen. Cabal was keeping a close eye on her, and meeting with another Breed would be just about impossible to accomplish.

  Maybe.

  She pulled her sat phone from the pocket of her jeans, flipped it open and keyed in a number.

  “Mordecai.” The Coyote Breed presently affiliated with the Feline Breed compound, Sanctuary, answered on the first ring.

  “I’m calling in a favor,” she stated.

  Silence filled the line. She could almost feel the intractable Breed mulling over possibilities and wondering which favor she would call.

  “You have a surplus,” he finally sighed. “Will it get me killed?”

  She almost grinned at that. She couldn’t imagine Mordecai contemplating death, let alone worrying if it would affect him.

  “I guess anything is possible,” she mused. “You backing out?”

  He grunted at that. “Life’s too long sometimes anyway. Who do you want me to kill?”

  “No one this week,” she promised.

  Actually, she had never wanted him to kill anyone, he just always seemed so enthusiastic to do so.

  “Too bad,” he muttered. “Go ahead.”

  “I’m in Glen Ferris investigating the Valentine’s night massacre that occurred around
twenty-two years ago. A dozen or so Breeds were murdered, along with mates. Do you know anything about that?”

  Sometimes Breeds knew things. Information was carried between them, held close to their chests, but there if the right question was asked at the right time.

  “Bits and pieces,” he answered. “Nothing that could help you, I’d imagine. A dozen or so as you said, some were mated, there was a rumor that there were unborn children murdered.”

  “Dog is here. He knows something.”

  Mordecai cursed. “Stay the fuck away from Dog, Cassa. He’s bad news.”

  “Which side is he on?”

  “His own side,” Mordecai grunted. “That’s where Dog has always been and where he will always be. If he’s in Glen Ferris fuckin’ in Cabal’s and Jonas’s business, then clear out.”

  “I need to talk to him, Mordecai.”

  And Mordecai owed her. She was the one who had tracked down the location of several Breeds that were taken from the labs where he was held, just before the rescues. She had found his natural brother and told no one but Mordecai of his location.

  There were other favors the Coyote owed her for. Information she had given him when needed. Papers she had provided him that were illegal. A few small exchanges among friends.

  “Bad news,” Mordecai muttered. “You are in the mood to get me killed this week.”

  “You can arrange it,” she told him. “Contact him. He knows I’m here; he tried to talk to me once, but Cabal interrupted us.”

  “And he’ll keep interrupting.”

  “Not if Dog has my sat phone number. Not if someone gives it to him. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  She had two of the pills left that she hadn’t given to Jonas. Just in case she needed them. She would use them if she had to. If Cabal forced her into it.

  “Hell,” Mordecai cursed. “Contacting him directly isn’t exactly easy, sweetheart.”

  “I have confidence in you.” Cassa moved back to the window and gazed across the river.

  She almost smiled at the sight of the small fire on the opposite bank. A fisherman, no doubt, though it was damned cold to be fishing.

  She frowned as the blaze flickered in shades of red and gold. It was close to the falls, where the water ran swifter, faster. An odd place, and an odd night, to be fishing the treacherous waters.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Mordecai finally sighed. “If he’s going to call, you’ll hear from him soon though. Dog’s not predictable. And you be damned careful.”

  “As always, my friend,” she assured him. “When dealing with Breeds, one learns to be real damned careful.”

  She almost laughed at his little grunt of acknowledgment. Flipping the phone closed, she slid it back into her jeans pocket and continued to watch the blaze in the distance for long seconds, as she tried to pinpoint why it bothered her.

  She was drawn out of her reverie by the muted alarm on her laptop. The email alarm was set for one email address specifically.

  That of a killer.

  the killing himself, Jonas had attempted to intercept the email he had known she would receive. It hadn’t worked. The email had been delivered, and the program attached to it didn’t allow for remote corruption or deletion.

  The rogue wanted her to know about this. He wanted her involved in this. She was a pawn in a very dangerous game, and he was growing sick of it.

  “She’s been informed,” Jonas said quietly as Cabal glanced over at the director. “Confirmation just arrived. The email has been read, pictures downloaded. The remote tracker we have on her laptop is working at least.”

  “Traced?” Cabal asked, though he knew better.

  Jonas shook his head. There was no mockery, no sarcasm this time. This was the second email they’d tried to trace through Cassa’s connection, to no avail.

  The director’s expression was somber, brooding and filled with icy fury. Jonas was at his most dangerous in this mood.

  “No trace,” he bit out in clipped tones. “The program we installed isn’t going through. The email itself is embedded with a program that doesn’t allow for it. Dane hasn’t been able to crack it yet.”

  Dane Vanderale, Jonas’s nemesis and half brother, as well as the heir to the powerful African Vanderale empire, was a natural born Breed and a thorn in all their sides. But he was the best they had at cracking codes and tracing information.

  “He’ll crack it.” Cabal shrugged.

  Cabal turned his gaze back to the bank then and the body Rule and Lawe had pulled from the water. The fishing line around the victim’s neck had cut into the skin, leaving a slender wound. Tape covered his mouth. Pale eyes bulged in horror; pale features were creased into lines of pain, suffering.

  Someone, something, had made this man suffer.

  “Cash Winslow,” Rule stated as he crouched next to the body before staring up at Jonas. “We’ve been watching him. Ex-CIA. He worked for Brandenmore as a security specialist.”

  Jonas moved closer to the river-soaked body and hitched up the legs of his slacks so he could get down on his haunches and look at the features revealed by the slender illumination of Lawe’s flashlight.

  “He was working on a special assignment from what we were able to find out,” Jonas mused quietly. “We were trying to track him, trying to figure out what the hell Brandenmore was up to, when he flipped off our radar last week.”

  Cabal’s brows lifted. It was rare that anyone flipped off Jonas’s radar.

  “No rumors as to the assignment?” Cabal asked.

  Jonas stared back at him. “He was searching for someone, that’s all we knew. Someone Brandenmore was certain could help him with this case we have against him and Engalls.”

  The attempted murder and illegal research against Breeds. Phillip Brandenmore and his brother-in-law Horace Engalls were coming closer to the day of reckoning and possible Breed Law sanctions for their actions over the past year. How the hell they thought anyone could help them was beyond Cabal.

  “Any idea who?” he asked.

  Jonas shook his head. “All we knew was that he supposedly had information against the Breeds that Brandenmore wanted to use as a bargaining tool. We were trying to find him when our killer sent the message that he’d beaten us to him.”

  Cabal breathed out deeply before wiping his hand wearily over his lower jaw. Hell, this was becoming more of a mystery by the day.

  “He was meeting Brandenmore or Engalls here?” Lawe questioned the director quietly as he motioned to several enforcers to collect the body.

  “Not here he wasn’t.” Jonas straightened before staring around the wooded area with a frown. “There wasn’t a chance of them escaping the men the Bureau has watching them and they know it. They wouldn’t have risked it.”

  “Then who was he meeting?” Cabal asked.

  “Our killer.” Jonas’s voice was cold, hard steel, a clear indication that the rogue they were searching for was beginning to try the director’s patience. “Unfortunately for him, or for us, our rogue chose the wrong mark this time. I had plans for Winslow. I’d have preferred to mete out my own justice rather than clean up after another’s.”

  Cash Winslow had information. Information Jonas was hoping to use against Brandenmore. Information Jonas would have paid for by granting Winslow his own freedom from prosecution once they had him brought in for questioning.

  According to their investigation, over the past several years Cash had been involved in the kidnapping of several Breeds that the pharmaceutical owners had used for their research. According to their sources, it was also possible that Winslow knew the location of an infant that had been taken from a mate’s body just before her death.

  That child was one of the few naturally conceived children that were the hope for the Breeds’ future. A child that would be used for research, nothing more, if it wasn’t found. Finding that child drove Jonas, Cabal knew that, just as it had driven the rest of them for the past year. The thought of a babe, created
naturally by the hand of God rather than the hand of man, suffering the horrors they had suffered, gave them all nightmares.

  “They’ll take care of the babe for the first few years,” Lawe mused soberly. “They’re too delicate after birth. They won’t risk its death.”

  “Yet,” Rule growled. “Winslow knew where the fuckers stashed that child. As far as we know, he’s the only one besides Brandenmore and Engalls who knew.”

  And they sure as hell weren’t talking.

  Cabal turned away from the director as well as the two enforcers that were now a part of his own team to listen to the reports coming over the link.

  “There’s nothing on-site.” He turned back to Jonas. “No sign of anyone. No tracks, no scents, no vehicle tracks.”

  “Fucking ghost,” Jonas cursed.

  “Or so he’d have us think.” Cabal shrugged as his gaze moved back to Winslow’s lifeless body. “Seven down. Four to go and one to die again,” he stated, repeating the message that had come through Jonas’s personal sat phone several hours earlier.

  Jonas stared back at him silently, and understanding the look wasn’t a problem for Cabal.

  “We know the last one,” Jonas stated. “Help me with the other four, Cabal. Tell me you have names by now. Something.”

  “Ivan Vilanov, former Russian intelligence officer, a double agent for the CIA. He was one of Winslow’s assets at one time. I identified him from the picture last night with some help from a few new buddies I found at a bar near Gauley Bridge. He was a regular here more than twenty years ago, during his assignment to the Russian Embassy in D.C. Hunting weekends with Brandenmore and Engalls both here in the States as well as in Europe.”

  Jonas rubbed at the bridge of his nose in disgust. “He’s missing. Son of a bitch. A report came through Homeland Security less than twenty-four hours ago. He slipped away within hours of being picked up for questioning in the case we have against Brandenmore and Engalls.”

  Cabal grimaced at the information. “I have some other names, but I’m running them. Banks’s body hasn’t turned up yet. Walt Jameson thinks he’s still alive. I think its possible. Whoever this Breed is, he would have left the body to be found within twenty-four hours of his death, just as he has the others.”