Species II

by Yvonne Navarro

  —then died.

  “Oh, God,” Laura choked. She whirled away from the carnage, then found a measure of control and hurried to squat next to the man on the floor. “He’s gone,” she said resignedly.

  Press shakingly holstered his gun and he wasn’t ashamed to find that his hand was shaking. It had happened so damned fast. No sirens cut through the serene Maryland night. There hadn’t even been seconds enough for Sampas’s husband to get his call through to the emergency line. And now here they were, standing in the candlelit bloodbath of what should have been a loving reunion.

  Jesus.

  “We’re lucky to be alive,” Laura said suddenly. He looked at her sharply. “Even at full strength we don’t believe the hydrochlorine will be effective in stopping a mature alien. The only reason I can speculate that it worked now is because this is an—” She seemed to gag on the word. “An infant.”

  What could he say to that cheerful news? “I’ll call a clean-up crew,” he said hoarsely. He offered Laura his hand as she took it and pulled herself to her feet. “They’ll get over here right away.” He waited until she would meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said gently.

  “But we have to get to the others.”

  “The only thing better than the smell of fine brandy,” Dennis Gamble said as he inhaled deeply over his snifter, “is the scent of your perfume.”

  Jemila Asante smiled and raised one finely arched eyebrow, in a pointed look. “As if you could actually smell it over the stench of that thing in your hand.”

  Dennis chuckled and hit the DOWN button on the limousine’s window; in another second, his cigar was sailing away in the darkness. “Guess I can take a hint.” He offered her one of the snifters and her expression softened, her long fingers resting against his as she took the crystal from him. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, “I am a wounded man and it’s finally time for healthy healing.” He lifted his glass and drained it, letting the brandy send a trail of warmth down his throat.

  “Careful you don’t drink too much, Mr. Astronaut,” Jemila said coyly. A manicured fingernail trailed down one leg of his slacks, leaving a line of fire that completely overwhelmed anything the brandy could do. “I guarantee you’ll want to remember tonight.”

  Dennis smiled, desire making him woozy. Or was it the brandy? God, he hoped not. He slipped one arm across Jemila’s exquisitely coffee-colored shoulder. “When I say this man has waited a long time, I mean it was a long time. But the drought is almost over—”

  Without urging, Jemila brought her face to his and kissed him deeply.

  “—and not a moment too soon.” Her mouth opened beneath his as he pulled her closer, then realized that the car had pulled to a stop. Home at last.

  They parted reluctantly as the driver came around and opened the door for them, both men watching appreciatively as Jemila unfolded herself from the back door like a dark, exotic flower spreading its petals. While she waited, Dennis retrieved her purse and the nearly empty bottle of brandy, then tucked a fifty-dollar bill discreetly into the driver’s hand.

  “Thanks, chief. I can take her the rest of the way.”

  The driver grinned and tipped his hat, as Dennis led Jemila toward the house. Nothing fancy there, just an inconspicuous little place in the ’burbs. He’d leave the grandstanding and show to Patrick and Senator Ross. His thinking ran more to the unobtrusive, like Anne and her husband Harry but it was home, and he knew all its nooks and crannies.

  By the time Dennis unlocked the front door, he and Jemila were pawing each other like a couple of horny teenagers crashed into the umbrella stand, on their way to ectasy. Dennis didn’t care. “Oh, yeah,” he groaned. “Alone at last!”

  Whatever Jemila said in return was unintelligible as her hands began yanking off his jacket. Dennis didn’t know if the wait had been worth it—eleven months had been a pretty fucking long time—but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun on a date. They stumbled up the stairs towards the bedroom, panting and moaning, leaving a trail of clothes in their wake—her shoes and his, the hated bow tie and cumberbund from tonight’s tuxedo, more pieces that he couldn’t identify along a staircase lit only by the night-light in the upper hallway.

  “Wait,” Jemila gasped as they reeled into the bedroom. “Just a minute.”

  “What?” Dennis’s voice was a croak and he tried to hang on to her. “I’ve been waiting—”

  “Silly man,” she giggled and pushed him backward until he fell on the bed. “Just let me use the bathroom.”

  Oh, jeez—of course. Women always seemed to want to do that, didn’t they? She scampered away and he grinned and used the time to yank off the last of his clothes, the trousers of the expensive tuxedo sailing off into a darkened corner. He set up a ghost of light from the dimmer switch connected to the stained-glass lamp on the dresser, then . . . what else? Music—that’d be the ticket right now. On one wall was a small bookcase with a stereo cassette player. Dennis rummaged around in his tapes until he found something he thought would be good—D’Angelo, dark and moody, sexy. He popped it into the player and hit the button just as Jemila threw open the bathroom door. When he turned, she was standing there, naked and waiting, and for a single, amazing moment, Dennis thought she was some dark Egyptian goddess.

  “Are you ready?” she purred.

  He couldn’t even answer as she glided across the room into his arms. Twisting, turning, her hands were everywhere on him and Dennis thought he would explode from the heat. Somehow they were on the bed, in the inferno that had become his bedroom. Finally, Jemila was under him, those endlessly long silken thighs, open and welcoming him, so sweet, soft and warm, and—

  Then her body went stiff beneath his.

  Dennis froze and pulled his lips from hers. “What’s wrong, baby?”

  Jemila’s expression should have been sensual and full of passion; instead, it was a cross between amazement and fright as she looked at something over his shoulder as she tried to form words that wouldn’t come out. Dennis twisted around, at the same time the overhead light was snapped on and found himself gaping at four black-uniformed men.

  “What the fuck—who are you?” he demanded. Reflex made him jerk the side of the bedspread over himself and Jemila.

  The first of the men who barged into his bedroom held up an identification badge. “Federal agents,” he said flatly. “Dennis Gamble, I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us.”

  “Who put you up to this—Patrick Ross?” Dennis snapped. “If this is his idea of a joke, it’s not funny. Now get the hell out of my house!”

  “This isn’t a hoax, Mr. Gamble,” said the same man. He jerked his head at his three comrades and Dennis watched with a sort of detached horror as they unshouldered their weapons—the standard federal-issue M-16s—and leveled them at him. Cowering behind his back, Dennis felt the whimpering Jemila’s taut breasts hitch against his skin.

  “Aw, Jesus,” Dennis said. “What’s going on here—what did I do?”

  None of the men answered; instead, their leader strode to Dennis’s dresser and began opening drawers; in a few short moments he held out a pair of jeans and a shirt. “You’ll need to put these on,” he said simply.

  Dennis started to stand, then glared at them. “At least turn your backs.”

  All four men continued to stare at him with black eyes. Finally, the first one gave a small shake of his head. “I’m sorry, sir. We can’t do that.”

  Dennis started to say something, but fell silent. Defeated, Dennis stepped out of the folds of the bedspread and yanked it quickly back over Jemila—he’d be damned if these bastards were going to get a free look at her. He dressed without a word, telling himself that these men were only following orders but unable to stop himself from sending them murderous glances. When he was ready, he turned back to Jemila still huddled on the bed. “I’ll be back in no time,” he promised. “Get this straightened out and we’ll start over, fix everything up just right.” Another furious glan
ce at the agents still waiting patiently. “And next time, we’ll find somewhere private.”

  She gave him a brave smile but he could see tear tracks on her cheeks. “Okay,” she said, and what a woman, she even managed to keep her voice steady. “We’ll try it again.”

  “You just curl up and relax,” Dennis told her. “Hell, fix yourself some popcorn and watch a movie downstairs.” He grinned. “Or better yet, draw up a nice hot bath and wait for me there.” That earned him another trembling smile.

  Dennis tenderly touched her cheek, then spun around and faced the federal agents. “Let’s get this over with.” He started to step past them and they did a vague quick-shuffle that somehow planted him in their middle as they left the bedroom and descended the stairs. The bastards were making him feel like some kind of criminal.

  “This is no way to treat a national hero,” he told them icily as they guided him to a black van parked outside. No mistaking this for a government vehicle, right down to the transmission antennae sprouting like metal weeds all over the roof. “Come on, fellas,” Dennis entreated when they opened the back door and gestured at him to climb in. “What’s this all about? I know you boys can talk—somebody speak to me.”

  Nothing, and damn but he was getting angrier by the minute. Finding another two agents waiting in the third seat didn’t help matters—for God’s sake, had they sent enough men to do their dirty work? Or did they think he was that dangerous?

  “You know,” he railed, “I’m a personal friend of Senator Judson Ross. You ever watch the X-Files? By the time I’m through, I’ll have all of you investigating radioactive sewage on Russian sea tankers!”

  But nothing Dennis Gamble said could stop the van from speeding off into the Washington, D.C. night.

  “Can’t you go any faster?” Laura demanded as she broke the connection on her cell phone.

  “Not in this bucket.” As if to prove his words, the tires slipped and sent the sedan sideways when he took a turn too fast and he had to fight to bring the Chevrolet back under control. “Piece of crap!”

  Laura didn’t comment on his driving. Instead, she said, “Burgess left a message that he’s got Dennis Gamble in custody and he’s undergoing tests.”

  “That’s two out of three. We’re getting there.”

  Laura twisted on the seat and glanced out the rear window, making sure the backup cars were still there. After what she’d seen at the Sampas house, she wasn’t looking forward to the next encounter, and she definitely wanted to even the odds a little. “How much farther?”

  “Two blocks up from Georgetown Commons. We’re almost on it.”

  Homes and small buildings blurred past the window as Press focused on navigating the streets. This late at night, the sidewalks were mostly deserted and traffic was almost nonexistent. Along the sidewalks, lights from a thousand windows were nothing more than wavery bright lines crossing Laura’s vision. She cleared her throat. “Let’s hope he’s not with his fiancée.”

  Press spun the wheel, making her grab for a handhold. “Reality check, babe. Where else would he be after eleven months of forced abstinence? I just hope we’re in time.”

  “How much far—”

  “You already asked me that,” Press said grimly. “And we’re here.”

  They threw open the car doors nearly simultaneously and were already headed up the walkway to Patrick Ross’s townhouse by the time the other vehicles screeched to a halt behind them. The tri-level townhouse towered above them, the windows dark, no sound filtering through the door.

  Laura grimaced. “Oh, this doesn’t look good, Press.”

  Press hammered on the door. “Open up!” he shouted. He tried the handle for good measure, but of course it was locked. “Federal agents—open the door now!”

  He waited a few seconds, then stepped to the side and motioned to one of the other agents with a jerk of his head. The townhouse door was made of steel and two men stepped forward and set themselves in position in front of it, one on either side of a handheld battering ram. They steadied themselves against the coming motion, then gave the ram the set-up swings—

  One—

  Two—

  WHAM!

  A single blow at the lock area was all it took to send the door slamming into the darkened interior of the foyer. Press stepped over it and inside, slapping at a light switch to the right of the doorjamb. “Patrick Ross?” he yelled. “Are you here?”

  No answer. Laura followed as he sprinted up the stairs, intent on finding the master bedroom. God, Laura thought as she saw Press tug his Glock 9mm free of its holster, let us be in time. Please let’s not go through this twice in one night.

  The townhouse had only two bedrooms, and one was a small room at the top of the stairs that they quickly realized Ross used as a home office. The master bedroom was at the end of the hallway, and the door there was closed.

  This time Press didn’t bother to knock. He shattered it with one kick and dove inside. Without hesitating, Laura went in after him.

  “Oh, my God,” she said in dismay. She threw a hand out to support herself against the side of a beautiful golden-pine armoire.

  They both stared around the room, gazes probing the corners on the far side of the neatly made bed with its luxurious Southwestern coverlet, touching behind the matching chair, and finally tracking along the dresser and framed photographs arranged next to old college football trophies and sports memorabilia. Everything was neat and clean and in its place.

  And utterly empty.

  “Christ,” Press whispered. “Where the hell is he?”

  12

  Even in the summer, nights in the Blue Ridge Mountains could be chilly.

  But the fire would take care of that.

  Patrick fed another log to the fire, watching as the flames licked along its side. He didn’t need the heat, but his fiancée’s body temperature tended to be on the cool side. Most of his clothes were already off, so he certainly wasn’t in any danger of overheating.

  At least not yet.

  Patrick turned from the fire and reluctantly went back to the bed where Melissa waited, snuggled beneath a heavy flannel blanket. He climbed under the covers and wished he could find the words to tell her how beautiful she looked, so much so that it made his heart ache. Her eyes looked like transparent amber in the soft light, her hair shone with orange-gold highlights reflected from the blaze across the room, skin as smooth and pink as an unblemished peach, and those lips . . . dusted with the slightest hint of gloss, begging to be kissed. There was no doubt a part of him wanted her very badly.

  And that was the part Patrick most feared.

  “Melissa,” he began, but she reached up and pressed a finger over his mouth.

  “Shhhh,” she said gently. “It feels like I’ve been waiting forever to get you alone. All the interviews and the autographs, the screaming girls. All that . . . hoopla, finally gone. And as for tonight . . .” Melissa smiled. “Tonight, Patrick Ross, you’re all mine.”

  He tried to say something, but she leaned forward and kissed him warmly. His lips parted of their own will. He felt and tasted her tongue—sweet, like peppermint candy—brush the inside of his mouth. For a long moment, he lost himself in her flavor and the sensation of her kiss, then fear flared in his gut and made him pull away, rougher than he intended as his fingers dug into her upper arms.

  Melissa sat up, bewildered. “Patrick, what’s the matter?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” He couldn’t, wouldn’t, look her in the eye. “I think we should, you know, hold off.”

  “Tonight? For heaven’s sake, why?”

  Fidgeting on the bed like a nervous schoolboy, Patrick said the only thing he could think of—the truth. Surely Melissa, of all the people in the world, would listen to him. “Because I just don’t feel that well.”

  She ran a hand experimentally over his forehead, as though checking a child for a fever, then leaned forward and trailed her lips across the line of his jaw. “There, the
re.” Her voice turned low and silky. “Then let Missy make you all better.” Before he could stop her, she wriggled out of his grasp and ducked beneath the sheets.

  “Melissa, don’t—”

  His protest died in mid-syllable as her mouth closed around that most sensitive part of his body and desire blasted through him. He made one last attempt to push her away—

  —then Patrick had no choice but to just surrender to everything he felt inside him.

  It took only a quarter of an hour, and he never even heard Melissa’s screams.

  “I demand an explanation,” Dennis Gamble said furiously. “You don’t just break into a man’s house in the middle of the night, drag him off to Monroe Air Force Base without saying why, keep him there for hours. And why the hell are there five, five guards with loaded rifles aimed at me? I’m not armed and I haven’t done anything to anyone.” He sent a scathing glance toward a couple of the guards who’d been among the raiding party at his home. “Just ask these jamokes!”

  “Please calm down, Mr. Gamble.” The words came from a white-coated female biologist and were spoken with the air of someone suffering through an unwanted ordeal. Shit, this woman had no idea what an ordeal was. He felt a sting as she withdrew what was hopefully the last of the syringes of blood they’d been taking from his arm. Fucking vampires, that’s what they were. “We’ll have the results in just a few minutes,” she continued as she passed a stinging pad of alcohol over the puncture in his arm. “You’ve waited this long, what’s a few more minutes? Hold your finger here.”

  “A few minutes?” Dennis choked out. His finger dug savagely into the pad on the crook of his elbow. “I have been here for nearly four fucking hours. No one will tell me anything, my night is ruined, and my girlfriend is probably going to break up with me because of this. Damn it, I want to know why I’m being tested. The NSEG doctor said I was fine!”

  From across the room, the stiff military man whom the others had referred to as Colonel Burgess gazed at him placidly. “Just sit tight, son. We’ll explain everything later.”