by J. K. Beck
At the far end of the room, Dragos's advocate puppet stood expressionless against the wall, calmly tapping something into a PDA. Doyle took a step closer, his fists itching to bloody up Montegue's all-too-pretty face, but was held back by a firm hand closing on his shoulder.
He turned and snarled at his partner. "What?"
"Chill," Tucker said. "Push it under."
"Chill? Whose side are you on? That animal's gonna be out walking the streets, breathing my air. And this asshole's standing over there playing the calm cool counselor, when we all know some serious shit's gone down." He tried to take another step toward Montegue and once again felt Tucker's hand hold him back.
This time, however, Montegue looked up, his face impassive. "Are you talking to me?"
"Don't play games with me, you useless worm. This ain't right and you know it."
"An accused is entitled to an on-site review of the evidence against him with his advocate of choice," Montegue said, spouting a load of legalese crap. "Three hours, fair and square."
"My ass," Doyle retorted. "That ain't a guarantee. Dangerous suspect, risk of flight. All those things have to be taken into account."
"As the judge surely did."
"You pulled strings, cut corners." He jerked his shoulder out from under Tucker's hand and shot his partner a warning look. The hand didn't return, and Doyle took a step forward. "What have you got on Judge Acquila? What threat did you make?" Something dark and dangerous flashed across Montegue's pretty face. "I would suggest, Agent Doyle, that you keep your accusations to yourself. Since I'm aware of the 75
enmity you feel for my client, I'm willing to ignore that outburst. But if you once again even hint that I have crossed any ethical lines in representing my client, I assure you that I will make your life miserable."
"Hint? I'll do more than hint, you filthy bloodsucker." A comfortable rage flooded him, and he lunged forward at the same time Montegue did, the two men coming nose to nose before Tucker grabbed Doyle by the shoulder and yanked him forcibly back. Doyle whirled, hissing, and saw Tucker leap back, hands up in defense, fear flickering in those human brown eyes.
Doyle sagged. "Goddammit." He fired another sneer Montegue's way. "You didn't even give the prosecution a chance to argue."
"Nor was I required to do so. I wonder, in fact, how you came to be here."
"I keep my ears open," Doyle said. "Especially where defendants like Dragos are concerned."
"I'm gratified to know our civil servants are looking out for the public's best interest," Montegue said silkily.
"Underhanded game playing," Doyle muttered. "But you've forgotten who you're dealing with, and it'll be on your head when the bastard skips out on you. How much credibility do you think you'll have in court after that?"
"My client will be returning to custody in three hours. Or are you suggesting that you are aware of a way to disable the mobile detention devices? If so, I suggest you inform Security Section. The failure to disclose such information is, I believe, a Class A violation of the Covenant."
"Fuck you."
Before the advocate had a chance to respond to Doyle's brilliant comeback, the light above the metal door switched from red to green, and it swung open, the hydraulic mechanism hissing. A beefy daemon with a thick, armorlike skin stepped out, followed by Dragos, now clad in the black jeans, T-shirt, and duster he'd worn when Doyle and the RAC team had taken him down.
"Uh-uh. No way." He looked Dragos in the eye. "Strip." The corner of Dragos's mouth twitched. "Truly, Ryan, you're not my type."
"I'm serious. Take it off. No way are you walking out of this room without me seeing the countermeasures."
"Are you suggesting Wrait is untrustworthy?" Montegue asked, stepping in beside his scumbag client. Doyle sneered. What he wouldn't give to take both of those sons of bitches down ...
"Bartok alesian rhyngot!"
Doyle rounded on the daemon, got right in his face. "Damn straight I don't trust you. And the next time you've got something to say to me, you say it in English. You understand me, daemon?"
"He doesn't speak English," Dragos said. "Just transferred from Division 18 in Paris."
"Yeah? Then how'd he know what I was saying?"
Dragos shot him a bored look. "Subtlety's not your strong suit, Ryan. It never has been. But if you want to ensure you are understood, speak French. Or Daemonic," he added with a thin smile.
"Strip," Doyle said, ignoring both the taunt and the daemon who was still 76
glowering at him. "Right now, or I'm calling Bosch."
"You have no authority to--" Montegue began, stopping short when Dragos held up a hand.
"Let the little boy throw his temper tantrum. I have nothing to hide." He shrugged out of the duster and handed it to Montegue, then thrust out his arms to Doyle. A band of polished silver-gray metal had been cuffed tightly around each wrist. Doyle grabbed Dragos's arm roughly and twisted, looking at the band from all sides. A muscle flickered in Dragos's cheek, but the bastard didn't protest, and, satisfied, Doyle dropped his arm. He eyed Tucker. "They're solid. No seams. No visible breach points." The hematite bracelets, Doyle knew, prevented Dragos from shifting into animal form or sentient mist. He still had strength and speed, albeit lessened, but wherever he was going, he was getting there on two humanoid feet.
Tucker crossed his arms over his chest, eyed Dragos up and down. "Guy like this wouldn't cut off his own hands to get free of the bands, either. How would he jerk off if he did?"
Doyle barked out a laugh. "True enough, but that ain't a real risk. Any attempts to alter the body in order to remove the bands, and the stake is activated. So let's see it," he added, turning his attention from Tucker to Dragos. "Show me the stake." Pure hate burned in Dragos's eyes, and it gave Doyle a nice warm feeling of satisfaction to know that he was getting under the murderous bastard's skin. Dragos's eyes cut toward the pretty-boy advocate, who shrugged. "The agent wants to pretend he's got a big dick, I'm not going to stand here and prove to him how shriveled and tiny it is. Just show him, Luke, and let's get the fuck out of here."
Dragos set his jaw, then reached up to the neck of his T-shirt. Doyle expected him to yank it over his head, but instead, Dragos clenched his fists and pulled, ripping the shirt down the center to just over his heart. He peeled back the raw edges of black cotton to reveal a thick metal band strapped tight around his chest. Over his heart, a circularshaped portion of the metal protruded slightly from the skin. Underneath the protrusion, Doyle knew, was a piece of wood, cut so that it would, upon being triggered, expand and lock into the shape of a stake. A stake that would instantaneously be thrust into the wearer's heart.
Doyle took a step closer, wanting to see the actual mechanism that had the power to end Lucius Dragos, then stopped as he heard the low growl in Dragos's throat.
"It's set," Montegue said firmly. "He tries anything, he goes outside of the jurisdictional area, he in any way blows the terms of the deal, and the stake deploys. And I don't care if you're satisfied or not at this point. We're leaving." He looked at the daemon then spoke smoothly in French.
Wrait grunted. "Trois heures. Oui."
And then, as if Doyle and Tucker weren't even standing there, Montegue and Dragos stepped out the door, and Dragos began the short walk toward freedom. Doyle waited until the door shut behind them, then he turned to Tucker. "Let's go. And the gods help that bastard if he tries anything. Because I will hammer that stake myself."
77
Chapter 12
The Slaughtered Goat in Van Nuys was the kind of pub you went to if you didn't care about food poisoning, knife wounds, gunshots, or just general bad service. In other words, the perfect place to kill, quickly, thoroughly, and without too much fuss.
Luke watched the door from the driver's seat of Nick's BMW. The information that Nick had received from Tiberius indicated that Gunnolf's man in L.A., a vile little were-cat named Feris Tinsley, kept an office in the back section, which he habitually visited ever
y evening at twelve-fifteen. Before that, Tinsley spent an hour or two in the main section of the pub, drinking bourbon, eating corned beef sandwiches, and copping a feel off a waitress named Alinda.
Since Alinda was neither appreciative of such affection nor fond of shape-shifters, the elfin female had been more than happy to provide information and assistance when a gorgeous man like Nick had come around asking questions.
Not only had she told Nick that Hasik was due to meet with Tinsley that evening, but she'd agreed to enter the access code on the back door to allow Luke to slip into the back of the pub through the alley. In exchange, Nick would arrange new employment in a new city.
A fresh start for an elf who'd come to the wrong town and fallen in with the wrong people. Luke considered it a fair trade.
As for the job for which he'd come--killing Ural Hasik--he considered that a fair deal, too.
Luke paged through the electronic file on his PDA, the images of beheaded vampires burning his eyes and boiling his blood. Ural Hasik had used no stake, but had instead left his victims degraded in death, spread out over the ground to molder and rot. The daemon within growled and tensed, tightening and twisting, alive with fury. Alive within Luke.
"Soon," Luke said. Soon the daemon would have satisfaction. He checked the clock on the dashboard, put the car into gear, and eased around the block and into the dark alley. He left the car near the street and walked the short distance to the pub's rear entrance.
He saw her immediately. A wisp of a girl standing by the back door, holding a sack of garbage. She wore tight red leggings and a transparent shirt, her small breasts pressing against the gauzy material. Fear tightened her features as she looked up at him. A small pink tongue darted out, and she tossed the sack into a nearby trash bin, then turned back to the door and keyed in the access code.
She opened it, slipped inside, and Luke caught the door before it slammed shut. Smooth as silk.
He waited a moment, giving her time to move from the back section to the front of the pub. Then he pulled open the door and slid inside, easily finding the door to Tinsley's office. Normally, he would have already changed into mist, foregoing 78
altogether the risk of being seen by witnesses or by the target as he materialized silently behind him, knife in hand. There weren't many percipient daemons walking the earth, but one of the most prominent was determined to see Lucius staked, and he was not inclined to give Ryan Doyle more ammunition.
Now, though, with the detention device, transformation wasn't an option. Not only that, he needed to make the bastard talk. Capture. Interrogate. Kill. Which meant his voice would register in Hasik's mind, even if he were able to take the pup from behind. He'd have to remove the body and hide it someplace where it wouldn't be found until the window for Doyle to look into the werewolf's mind had passed. That would shave off time from his furlough, but he had no other option.
Within, the daemon stirred and Luke's skin tingled in anticipation as he moved quietly toward the open doorway. He paused outside the door, his back to the wall, then eased slowly around until he could peer inside.
Hasik sat at a desk, his hulking form dwarfing even the huge stainless-steel monstrosity. "Don't like the bitch," he said, as Luke searched the room for Feris Tinsley. He found the black cat perched on a bookcase opposite Hasik. The cat leaped, transforming midjump into Gunnolf's L.A. minion. The mangy were-cat's crimes against the vamp community were at least as wicked as Hasik's, and Luke eased back against the wall, his mind humming, the daemon roaring with anticipation.
"You just spent a half hour laying out the score for her, and I didn't see her flinch once. She's in," Tinsley said.
"She ain't one of us."
"Gunnolf trusts her."
"Gunnolf's fucking her," Hasik said. "Wouldn't mind that myself, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna trust the bitch. She's got Gunnolf whipped. She shouldn't be involved. Not with this. We're already getting closer to the humans than I want. Now we're adding her kind to the mix? It's too dangerous."
"You're second-guessing Gunnolf? Do you have a fucking death wish?"
"I came up with the plan," Hasik growled.
"And a damn good one. Stage a few vampire attacks. Bloody human deaths. The kind that make the news. Make it look like Tiberius can't control his people." At the door, Luke squeezed his hands into tight fists, fighting back an eruption of fury.
"Got to hand it to you, Hasik, it just might work. But you listen to me. Gunnolf knows what he's doing. She may be a fucking bitch vampire, but she's also a powerful ally, and you damn well know it. Caris is as tied in to the vamps as you can get. Hell, she used to bang Tiberius."
Caris.
Immediately, Luke pictured the chestnut-haired female with cat's eyes and a tiger's temperament. He tilted his head back, finding the fresh scent of a female vampire. Sharp and woody, like a forest after a rain. She'd been here, in this room, and not so very long ago. Once he had thought her an ally. A good match for his leader and mentor. But then she'd rallied the charge against Tasha, arguing for termination rather than salvation. Now her defection from the vampiric community and alignment with the Therians was proof that she had only grown more despicable with time.
A slow burn rose within him, and he had to tamp down hard on the daemon, now 79
screaming for release. He wished that she were there, in that room. Because right then he'd happily add her to the butcher's bill, and return to Tiberius with news of not only his enemy's death, but a traitor's as well.
Since she'd already left, it was time to take what he could get. It was, he thought, time to kill.
He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the key to Nick's car. He tossed it to the far corner of Tinsley's office, where it landed on the concrete floor with a sharp ping. As he'd hoped, both Hasik and Tinsley turned in that direction, away from him. When they did, Luke drew in a sharp breath, snipped the last thread of his control, and let the daemon rage. Then Lucius Dragos burst over the threshold, his knife out and flying. It arced hilt over blade to land deep in Tinsley's back, and the were-cat fell face forward onto the ground as Luke tackled the burly werewolf. He landed on Hasik's back, an arm tight around the beast's neck. It snarled and snapped and tried to turn to see its attacker, but to no avail, and even as it twisted, Lucius tightened his grip, the daemon within juiced for the kill, satisfaction running high when he shifted, twisted, and heard the sharp pop of Ural Hasik's neck.
He jumped back, letting the body sink to the ground, careful to stay out of the beast's line of sight until he was certain the last light of life had faded from the creature. One moment, then another, then safety. No need to move the bodies now. He'd managed a clean kill after all.
He moved swiftly to Tinsley's body, caught the scent of remaining life, and cursed as he saw the limbs twitching and heard the beast's labored breathing. Careful once again to stay out of the beast's line of sight, Lucius pulled his knife free, then grabbed a chunk of the were-cat's hair. He pulled the head up off the floor and reached around to draw his knife hard across Tinsley's neck. Blood gushed, and Lucius let the head fall back in its own puddle of blood.
Done.
He gathered up Nick's key, took one last look at the bodies, and then Lucius Dragos slid out the door and disappeared back into the night.
"Holy shit," Nick said, after Luke told him about the plot and about Caris's involvement. They were holed up in one of the tombs that Luke had connected to his Beverly Hills mansion via a series of underground tunnels. The tombs that celebrities had built for their egos served Luke's purposes well, and in the mid-1930s, he'd purchased a plot and built his own crypt, which he'd then connected to a half-dozen similar structures scattered over the manicured cemetery lawn.
"Caris," Nick said. "I never would have believed. Tiberius's going to be on the warpath."
"He will," Luke agreed. "But Hasik and Tinsley are out of the picture, and unless they've already set their troops out onto the city, their plan is trashed.
So you tell Tiberius I want a practical token of appreciation."
"That I will. This is one time I think he'll be happy to pull strings." Luke nodded, almost tasting the freedom.
"I have good news for you, too," Nick said. "Tasha called." 80
Luke's head jerked up. "She called you?"
"She called you, " Nick corrected. "I had your calls forwarded to my cell while yours is stored at Division. She's fine. She's in New York still. Says she wants to come home."
"Thank the gods." The relief that swept through Luke almost drove him to his knees. "And Serge?"
At that, Nick's expression grew hard. "She doesn't know where he is."
"God dammit." He drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm.
"It's worse, Luke," Nick said. "The things she said ... Would he touch her? Would Serge break your trust?"
Bile rose in Luke's throat as he thought of his friend's hands on Tasha's innocent flesh. If Serge was not already dead, he may well die by Luke's stake when they next met. He drew in a breath, forcing himself to be calm. "Ryback hasn't been to the apartment yet? Tell him that he's to bring Tasha back now. No side trips, no hesitation. I want her back yesterday, Nick. Are we clear?"
"Crystal. I'll tell him." Nick nodded toward the entrance to the tunnel that would lead them back to Luke's mansion, their supposed destination during the furlough. "Let's get back to Division and get you out of that contraption before Doyle bursts in here and spoils our party."
"You saw him, too?" Luke asked.
"Hard to miss that baby-shit-yellow car. I'm sure he's got officers at all your exit points."