With the last remnants of adrenaline and a wave of desperation, and with the realization that he was outmatched racing through his veins, Zachariah managed to rip his wrist free of her grasp and kick her away from him. Then he sprinted down the hall, hitting the stairwell door and flinging it open; it struck the wall with a bang, and he plunged down the stairs, not looking back to see if he was being followed, his heart hammering in his chest.
It was only when he reached the ground floor and burst out into the darkened street that he realized the woman hadn’t followed him.
Chapter Seven
Riley already disliked the idea of working with Scott Hunter, and it had only been twenty-four hours since she’d met him. Regardless of who she’d been assigned to work with, though, she would have protested the latest move from the Agency’s higher-ups. Ever since the incident in Paris with Kevin Anderson’s assassination, Riley had flitted from project to project, assignment to assignment, always alone. And she’d come to like it that way. Hell, she preferred it; working alone had come to mean one less person to have to be aware of, one less back to watch—something that had run the risk of splitting her attention at a crucial moment.
And now along came Scott Hunter, thinking he was going to be in charge because he’d been an agent longer than she had. She was still angry over the way he’d insisted on following her the night before, like she was someone who couldn’t be trusted. And though she could hardly blame him for following her—she’d have done the same thing if the circumstances had been reversed—it still made her angry. It wasn’t any of his business what she’d been doing out of the hotel.
She slouched in the passenger seat of his rental car with her arms folded across her chest and a scowl on her face as she glared through the windshield. It had been his idea to stop for an early lunch on their way to scout out 1982 S Street. Riley wasn’t going to quibble over that, though. She was hungry, and besides, the Agency was paying. And after the life she’d lived prior to joining the Agency, Riley never missed the opportunity to obtain free food.
The man in question stood inside the fast food restaurant they’d stopped at, leaning against the counter as he talked to the girl behind it. Judging by his body language and the grin on his face, he was flirting with the poor thing. Riley wrinkled her nose. She wasn’t sure how old Scott was—if she had to guess, she’d put him in his mid-thirties—but the counter girl looked younger than Riley, barely out of high school. To her disgust, Riley felt a dart of something that felt suspiciously like jealousy jab her in the stomach, and she put her hand across her midriff, rubbing as if she had a stomachache. Where the hell had that come from? She looked out the windshield again in time to see the girl turn around, grab a couple of paper bags from the counter behind her, and pass them to Scott before circling the sales counter and hugging him. Scott returned the embrace with equal enthusiasm, prompting another scowl to cross Riley’s face.
“Well, that’s not weird or anything,” she muttered. She slumped in her seat and watched as Scott left the restaurant, bags and drinks in hand, his mood lighter than it had been when he’d gone inside. He slid into the driver’s seat, passing her the bags and setting the drinks in the cup holders before starting the engine. Riley tore into one of the bags and pulled free the two chicken sandwiches she’d asked for. She tucked one into Linus and folded back the wax-paper wrapper on the other, taking a bite before speaking. “So, you score yourself a hot date or something?” she asked around her mouthful of bread and dead bird.
Scott, in the process of backing the car out of its parking space, slammed his foot on the brake. He twisted in his seat to glare at her. “What?” he snarled, his voice low and heavy with irritation. “What did you say?”
“You were flirting with the cashier in there,” Riley said, nodding her head toward the building. She was unfazed by Scott’s anger; she’d faced worse more times than she cared to count. “She’s rather young for you, though, don’t you think? Unless you’re one of those men who likes to strut around with a woman young enough to be his daughter on his arm.”
Scott rolled his eyes and loosened his grip on the steering wheel. He resumed backing up again, not looking at her as he said, “It’s nothing like that. So just lay off, okay?”
Riley couldn’t help herself. As she tore into the paper bag in search of her fries, she asked, “So what is it like, then?”
Scott’s jaw tightened, and he focused on the road as he pulled out of the parking lot and into the street. “She’s my niece,” he said. “My older brother’s daughter. I haven’t seen her in a while. She graduates high school this year, and I’d like to see her reach it. So if you tell anybody about me seeing her here, I won’t hesitate to gut you like a fish, you got it?”
Riley nodded and made a zipping motion with her fingers against her lips. Most agents didn’t have families—Riley counted herself among the majority in that case—but the few who did went out of their ways to not only protect their relatives but to keep their locations secret, in case someone went after them using their children, siblings, spouses, nieces, nephews, or parents. Far be it for Riley to get careless and put the girl in the fast food restaurant in danger.
“Not a problem,” she said. Scott stopped at a red light and input the address into the car’s GPS. “I’ll keep my mouth shut. Besides, I like my guts in their proper location.”
Scott chuckled and pulled forward. For several minutes, the only sounds in the car were the crinkle of food wrappers and the automated voice from the GPS as it gave Scott driving instructions. When the silence was broken, it was Scott’s doing. And he had, blessedly, changed the subject.
“So what are your thoughts on Brandon’s new assignment for us?” he asked. “You never did tell me what you thought when I asked last night.”
“I think he’s full of horse shit,” Riley answered, wadding up the wrapper from her first sandwich and fishing the other back out of her bag. “I’m not clear what he wants us to do, past getting the box out of the Smithsonian. I mean, vampires? Seriously? I hope he meant that metaphorically, because I did not spend the past six months going through an entire battery of psychological tests—multiple times—for nothing.”
“I don’t think he did mean it metaphorically,” Scott admitted. “Did you see the look in his eyes? He was deadly serious. He thinks there are vampires out there and that you saw one.”
“And he wasn’t the only one, either,” Riley said. “How about Zachariah? He was just as serious as Brandon. Hell, he thinks there’s more than that out there.”
Scott huffed. “I can’t take this new assignment seriously, not with the little they’ve given us to go on. But I guess we’ll find out more information soon enough.”
“Your destination is on your right,” the GPS’s electronic voice quipped.
Scott and Riley looked to the right simultaneously, observing the building before them. They’d entered Buzzard Point, DC, an area of the city with a military presence on nearly every square block, home of the United States Coast Guard’s official headquarters. Where an empty lot had been on the online map, warehouse-like buildings lined S Street like soldiers. The building alongside them fit in with the rest on its block. It was a brick and sheet metal affair, three stories tall, as nondescript as a building could get. A placard beside the building’s front entrance indicated that it was 1982 S Street SW.
“So this is the place,” Riley commented. She studied the warehouse’s front façade and added, “Circle the block. I want to get a better look so we can plan.”
“Plan for what, exactly?” Scott asked. Riley was pleased to see him obey her order without debating it with her. “I thought you didn’t go in much for planning.”
“Well, you don’t get very far in this business if you aren’t at least naturally suspicious of everyone who crosses your path and take the time to account for the absolute worst possibilities,” Riley said. She wadded the second sandwich’s wrapper into a ball and tossed it into the backseat.
“And I’ve become the queen at worst case scenario games.”
Scott made the right turn at the end of the block. “So, from your perspective, what’s the worst case scenario here?”
Riley craned her neck, trying to get a view of the building’s side. “Ambush,” she decided. “Definitely an ambush.”
“Think we will be?” Scott made another right turn, and the back of the building came into view. Several vehicles were parked against the back of the building, including a sleek black motorcycle and a nondescript black cargo van. Riley wondered who owned the bike; it was a gorgeous piece of work that she’d have loved to get her hands on.
“Well, that’s the whole point of worst case scenario,” Riley said. She made mental note of the emergency exit door halfway down the building’s back wall. “If we are ambushed, we at least won’t be surprised by it.”
“But these guys work for the same people we do,” Scott said. “What makes you think they’d try an ambush?”
“Dude, did you see that guy who told us to come here?” she asked. “He has ‘suspicious’ written all over him.”
“Is Riley Walker judging a person by his appearance?” Scott asked as he stopped the car at the end of the block. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to not do that?”
“My mama was a crack whore who didn’t teach me much of anything before she got murdered in a drug deal gone wrong,” Riley said. “And I’d thank you to not bring her up again. Now, what do you suggest we do about Scarface and his proposition for us to go in this place?”
“Did you just call him Scarface?”
Riley clapped her hands. “Focus, man, focus. He couldn’t be bothered to give us his name, and I take everything Zachariah Lawrence said with a grain of salt. So until he actually gives us a name himself, I’m going to make one up for him. He has scars on his face, so Scarface it is.” She frowned at the building before opening her door and starting to slide out of the car, grabbing Linus and shrugging it onto her shoulder on the way out. “We’ve got to know what it looks like inside. I’m going in.”
Scott grabbed her arm to stop her. “Are you at least armed?” he asked, keeping his voice low through his irritation.
“What do you take me for, an amateur?” Riley asked. She arched an eyebrow and braced her hands on her hips as he got out and circled the car to confront her. “I’ll have you know I have three guns and spare ammunition for them on my person at all times. And that doesn’t even include my knives.”
Scott put his hands up, as if warding her off. “Okay, okay, I got it,” he said with exasperation. “I was just making sure.”
Riley saw his eyes skim over her body, trying to figure out where she kept her weapons, but that wouldn’t be something she’d willingly divulge. “Let’s go then. I’ll take the lead.”
“Why you?” Scott demanded.
Riley’s smirk faded into a scowl. “What’s that supposed to mean, ‘why me?’” she asked, offended at the implication in his words, the suggestion that she couldn’t handle being in the lead. “Why not me? I’m just as well-trained and capable as you are!” She glared at him and folded her arms over her chest. “I’ve been doing this for eight and a half years! I think I have a lock on handling being in the lead on an infiltration!”
“But neither of you, clearly, is very good at observing your surroundings, which I find disturbing for two government-trained agents who are supposed to be the best in their fields,” a smooth, familiar voice said from behind them.
Both Riley and Scott turned to see Scarface standing before them with a hard, angry look on his face.
~*~
Scott froze as his eyes took in the sight of the man who’d snuck up on him and Riley without their notice, and his face heated with embarrassment at being caught unawares. But Riley Walker had that effect on him; around her, his attention span narrowed to her and whatever argument they were having, to the exclusion of all else. He’d known her for twenty-four hours, and she was ruining his life and the training he’d worked hard at during his time with the Agency and frustrating him to the point where it was almost impossible for him to focus on anything resembling an investigation into her.
“Well?” the scarred man demanded, his one good eye glaring at them. “You’re…” He glanced at his watch. “Quite a few hours early. What are you doing here? I said nine p.m. tonight.”
“Casing the place,” Riley clarified. “I hardly think you’d expect us to waltz on in through the doors without having some idea of what we’re walking into.”
“Especially when we were asked to do so by a man who couldn’t be bothered to give us his name,” Scott added.
The man reappraised them, looking them over from head to toe before nodding, his expression unchanged. “There may be hope for you two yet,” he commented. “Since you’re both already here, you might as well come inside, though I have absolutely nothing prepared for your arrival.”
With that, the man began to walk toward the warehouse’s front door, not bothering to check to see if Scott and Riley followed. Scott hesitated, letting Riley take the lead, and he rested his hand on the butt of the holstered sidearm underneath his shirt, ready to pull it free at a second’s notice if the strange man made the slightest threatening twitch toward them.
“You still haven’t told us your name, you know,” Riley pointed out as she hurried to catch up with the man.
The man didn’t look at them as he paused at the door and jabbed buttons on a recessed keypad beside it. “Ashton Miller,” he replied. The door buzzed, and the man wrenched it open. “After you.”
Judging by the tone of his voice, it wasn’t a request. Scott hesitated again and looked to Riley for her cue. She was looking back at him, her face drawn into a deep frown, and she shook her head. Ashton stared at them with a level of impatience Scott rarely saw on another person’s face; he looked ready to step forward and slap them both. Scott motioned to the open door. “You want to go first, or should I?” he asked Riley.
Ashton grimaced and snarled, “Oh, for the love of Christ.” He shoved past them both and stepped inside without further comment. Riley and Scott exchanged a look, and Scott followed the man inside. Riley walked in after him, her tennis shoes squeaking against the floor. And then Scott got his first look at the interior of the warehouse, and it was enough to render him speechless.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but the narrow, all-white hallway wasn’t it. Everything was blindingly white. The only feature that had color was the security guard at the white desk at the end of the white hallway. Ashton stopped in front of the desk and pulled a card from his pocket, holding it up for the guard’s inspection. The man examined the plastic card and nodded.
“Who are those two?” the guard asked, jerking his chin toward Scott and Riley.
“The new recruits I told you about,” Ashton replied.
“They’re early.”
“I noticed.” Ashton tucked the card back into his breast pocket and snapped his fingers to get Scott and Riley’s attention. “Your guns,” he said.
“So I take it this is the part of the program where we get strip-searched and have to relinquish all weapons,” Scott commented. He freed his Walther P226 from its holster and set it on the table, reaching for his backup weapon. Ashton picked it up, ejected the magazine, and handed it to the security guard.
“No, this is the point where you get properly armed as field agents for The Unnaturals,” Ashton said. He took a fresh magazine from the guard and jammed it into the pistol’s grip. He chambered a round and handed the Walther back to Scott. Then he took Riley’s Sig Sauer from her, repeating the exchange of magazines with her primary weapon.
Scott studied his gun for a moment before releasing the magazine and looking inside it. He raised his eyebrows in surprise at what was inside. “Are these bullets…silver?”
“Silver-plated,” Ashton corrected. “Solid silver is too expensive, and they were too soft to be effective. Plated gets the job done ad
equately enough.”
“Wait, silver?” Riley snatched Scott’s magazine from his hand. “What the hell do you need silver bullets for?”
Ashton took the magazine from Riley and handed it back to Scott. “Follow me, and I’ll show you.” He waved a badge in front of a sensor, and the wall behind the security desk slid open. He snapped his fingers again. “This way, please.”
Scott took a breath, sent up a prayer that he and Riley did the right thing by showing up, and followed Ashton and Riley into the warehouse proper. The room was cavernous, a monstrous room that engulfed the entire warehouse, laid out so everything could be seen from the end of the entrance hall where Scott stood. Agents and scientists moved among the workstations to his left, and to his right stood a caged armory. Near the center of the warehouse stood a small box, like a room without a house to be in. Steel beams reinforced the walls, and a six-foot long Plexiglas window was set in one wall, backed up by steel bars. Ashton began to walk toward this free-standing room, limping with every other step, and Scott and Riley moved to follow.
“What do you know about killing vampires?” Ashton asked as he led them through the warehouse.
“Is this a trick question?” Riley replied.
“Just humor me.”
Scott sighed and rolled his eyes. “Stake through the heart. Or so mythology says.”
“Decapitation, but I think that would kill anything,” Riley offered. “And I think something about garlic and holy water and crosses.”
“Holy water and crosses don’t kill vampires,” Ashton said. “They just repel them. Garlic makes them ill, but not for long, and you can’t keep a determined vampire from attacking you by wearing it or hanging it in the windows or some other such tripe.
“There’s only a few ways to kill a vampire,” Ashton continued. “Five, to be exact. Sunlight, fire, a stake in the heart, silver bullets, and, of course, beheading.”
“Of course,” Riley said, as if conceding a grand point being made.
The Unnaturals (The Unnaturals Series Book 1) Page 10