by Hondo Jinx
“All right, for you, I’ll double the score. Twenty thousand.” He had come in knowing she would refuse the ten grand and understanding that he would need, no matter how much it hurt, to double his initial offer. And yes, this was going to hurt, because it was his money on the line, not the Order’s.
Remi shook her head.
Jamaal was tempted to take a quick peek inside that pretty head to expedite things. He couldn’t read her thoughts like a Bender. Instead, he could scan the truth of her situation, gauge her circumstances and motivations, and cut to the chase. But he had promised Remi years ago, when they’d first started working together, that he would never do that, so he wouldn’t.
But he needed to get her on board. Now.
Central would be here in the morning. His first clue had been a strong sense of foreboding during his visit to the parking lot crime scene, where he managed to do a little damage control, convincing Officer Barclay and the other policemen that Junior and his hitmen had actually been rival parties and had blown each other away in a climactic finish to what had started earlier that day in the driveway of Nina Mack’s house.
Trouble was, by the time Jamaal had arrived at Publix, the fuggles had already IDed Junior and taken his corpse off to be examined, so that was a major fucking oops on his part.
Jamaal would’ve made it to the scene sooner, might even have made it in time to clean up all psi elements and remove Junior’s remains, but when the call arrived, he had been deep in the Latticework, which was burning like a forest fire. Everyone had latched onto the notion that a new power mage had emerged right here in Key West.
A power mage. After all these years. Like a T-Rex showing up on Duval Street.
He couldn’t believe it.
Only he did believe it, of course. And not just because the whole Latticework was pretty much in agreement. No, Jamaal could feel the truth in his bones, which vibrated like tuning forks in the wake of this disturbance.
But he couldn’t feel the power mage. Couldn’t determine anything about him or her, save for the power mage’s emergence and the fact that yes, whoever it was had opened his or her second strand right here in Key West this very day.
The same day, it just so happened, that the streets of this peaceful town ran with blood for the first time in its long, happy history. And the same day that the Mack girl had fled a driveway full of dead folks, openly used psionics to scare her fuggle stepmom, and then dropped off the fucking radar.
Jamaal thought he’d been finished with power mages forever. Shit, the Culling had happened twenty-three years ago. What a dark night that had been. The darkest night of Jamaal’s life, hands down, without a doubt.
At that point, he’d been the leader of a Psi-SWAT team in Chicago, and his job had been following orders, not questioning them. So that’s what he had done that dark, dark night. God have mercy on his soul.
When the dust had settled, he and his colleagues had circled their psychological wagons around the notion that executing the power mages had been necessary. They had done it to save everyone else. Not just the psi community but the whole world, fuggles and all.
Over the years, he had come to doubt those notions, but he had also learned to live with the past. More or less.
Now this. A new power mage. And in his town, no less.
He doubted the power mage was still here. He figured they’d moved on after wasting Dutchman and company. After all, the highway was right there.
But they had started here. And that meant Central was coming. And by Central, he meant none other than Pater Janusian’s right-hand woman, Danica “The Dragon” McCleod, Central’s most feared pyrokinetic.
Meanwhile, Jamaal had covered up the first incident outside the Mack girl’s place, figuring it was one and done, no harm no foul, and not wanting to waste time on paperwork when he needed to be chasing what at that point was just starting to unfold on the Latticework.
Now Jamaal had nine dead fuggles to explain, along with two dead psi mages, the son of the local psi mob capo and the boy’s Carnal buddy. Not to mention whatever became of the anonymous tip he’d received from a crying woman claiming the psi mob had also wasted her uncle, a psionic street performer who had disappeared the previous night.
Jamaal sensed truth in the distraught woman’s call, but Dutchman’s Seeker, an ex-con named Bostic, was capable enough that Jamaal could detect no traces of what had happened to the so-called Cat Wizard. On top of this colossal fuck-stravaganza was the Mack girl’s reckless-ass stunt at the community center. Hell, he wouldn’t even know where to begin trying to clean up that mess.
Which all taken together meant he had a very, very big problem.
The Dragon would be here in the morning. And then Jamaal Whittaker, eight damn months from retirement, would likely get shit-canned. Hell, the fire-breathing bitch might even book him an appointment at the Chop Shop and drain his juice before cutting him loose like an old horse put out to pasture. He wouldn’t even know how to live without juice now.
His only chance was to catch the Mack girl and her partner before Danica the Dragon arrived.
Because that’s what the Order really cared about. Not Junior or Marco or the Cat Wizard. Not even the Mack girl’s antics at the community center. Not really.
They were coming for the power mage.
And if Central allowed the power mage to slip through their fingers, they would need a scapegoat. And the fact that Jamaal had covered up the Mack girl’s involvement would make it easy for them to save face by crucifying him.
Which all led him here to Badass Bail Bonds and the gorgeous wrecking machine, Remington “Remi” Dupree.
Because Jamaal really was old, all those stupid grandpa jokes aside. He was tired, and his back hurt, and he’d burned 95% of his juice. He didn’t need to go rushing blindly after these fugitives. He needed to rest, needed to be at max juice in the morning, so he could have a shot at somehow surviving his meeting with the Dragon.
Everything depended on Remi now. She was his only hope.
At least he was pinning his hopes on a legit badass. Remi had never failed him. Granted, he had never sent her after a power mage before. She hadn’t even been born the night of the Culling. But he had sent her after some rough characters, and she had always gotten the collar. Sure, Remi had a rep for some highly questionable tactics, but he filed those rumors away under “N” for “None of My Fucking Business.”
Besides, who could blame the girl? Remi had been raised on the road, the daughter of Braxton and Talia Dupree, the king and queen of the Scars, a Carnal biker gang who rejected the ways of other Carnals, broke ties with their order, and now lived as Chaotics and outlaws, a superhuman barbarian horde on wheels.
Remi still rode the Harley and dressed the part, from her leather pants to her tats to her trademark sneer, but she didn’t wear the colors. After the Arizona Massacre, she split off and went solo, choosing to hunt bad guys for a living rather than live as royalty at the heart of her parents’ thundering kingdom.
Why?
Jamaal couldn’t help but wonder—he was nothing if not curious—but he and Remi had struck their no-Seeker-peeking agreement the first time they had met, so he had no idea. Maybe someday he would just flat out ask her.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he only needed one thing from Remi. He needed her to run down the Mack girl and her partner, so that Jamaal could hand them over to the Dragon with the hope that Central would overlook his transgression in return.
Not that the Dragon would forgive him if she learned of that transgression. For a woman full of fire, Danica McCleod was one icy bitch. Jamaal’s only hope was that if he handed over the power mage, Central wouldn’t bother to investigate the precipitating events.
“You really need them,” Remi said, one corner of her mouth lifting in a grin as the knife whirled from hand to hand. “What are you, in hot water with the boss?”
Jamaal made a face. “I’m senior officer. I don’t have a boss
.”
“Everybody has a boss.”
“Oh yeah? Who’s your boss?”
“I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about everybody else.” Remi tilted her head, studying his face. She flipped the spinning knife through the air and caught it with her other hand, pointing the tip in his direction. “And I’m not talking local. I’m talking Central. You fucked this up somehow, and now you need me to drag Nina and her buddy in, or you’re going to be in a world of trouble.”
Jamaal looked at her for a second, considering his options. Barter, cajole, lie…
Time was running out.
“One hundred and seven thousand dollars,” he said, and inside, some part of him curled up in a fetal position and wept. “Bring them back to me by first light, and I will give you every penny I’ve got, one hundred and seven thousand dollars.”
Remi snapped the knife shut, slid it into the hip pocket of her black leather pants, and shook her head.
“What?” Jamaal said. “That’s a lot of money. And I’m not bluffing, Remi. It’s all I’ve got.”
“Not enough for a power mage,” Remi said. “Were you even going to mention that to me, or were you going to let me go in blind?”
“Of course, I was going to mention it. Look, Remi, I really need your help here. Please. You can have my boat, too, okay? The money and the boat. If you just—”
“I don’t want your fucking boat,” Remi said. “You know what I want.”
Then he understood. And the part of him that had curled up to weep now set to screaming.
“You know I can’t do that,” he said, filled with desperation.
Remi shrugged and crossed her muscular, heavily tattooed arms. “Oh well, then. Good luck catching your power mage, Grandpa.”
“You realize what you’re asking me to do, right?” he said. “I mean, she killed what… seven FPI agents? She’s locked up so deep underground, her closest neighbor is Satan himself.”
“They shot first,” Remi said, her eyes flashing with anger, and suddenly, he knew there would be no budging her, no bargaining. She had dug in and wouldn’t budge. “If you really wanted to do it, you could.”
He exhaled heavily, mind racing over the obstacles he would need to overcome. The vicious fuggles that made up the Federal Paranormal Investigations bureau didn’t know their assholes from their elbows most of the time, but they were as serious as Medieval Crusaders, and once they hobbled someone, it was over. They were third-rate hunters but first-rate jailers.
Talk about going from the frying pan into the fire. More like going from the frying pan into the fucking volcano.
But if Remi didn’t help him, he would be finished anyway.
Outside, Krupski’s maddeningly cheerful whistling approached, the eager rookie signaling his happy return from the pizza shop.
“Shit,” Jamaal said. “All right. You get these people for me by morning, I will rescue your sister from the FPI.”
3
“Don’t you worry, darlin,” Brawley said, holding the door and stepping from the gun shop. “We’ll get you some pie. But first, I got some unspeakable designs on you two lovely ladies.”
After fooling around, they would sleep, restore their juice, hunt down a telepath to shield Nina’s mind from her father, and head on up the road to Miami, where Brawley intended to bond with a nice Carnal girl and open his third strand.
With a little luck, they would discover Nightshade Lane somewhere along the way. Brawley had no idea where Nightshade Lane was or what might be waiting for him there, but Hazel and Sage had both latched onto its significance.
“Get me pie, and I’ll love you forever,” Nina said.
“You’ll love me forever either way,” Brawley said. He stood flattened against the door, his arms full of ammo, happy with the state of things.
“Love is great and all,” Nina said, “but if I don’t get pie soon, I’m going to go into serious withdrawal.”
Then a black van turned into the parking lot, and cold dread washed over Brawley, as if the headlights that swept over him weren’t beams of illumination but buckets of ice water.
“Danger is imminent,” Sage said, dragging Nina back into the gun shop.
“Oh shit,” Nina said. “It’s the FPI.”
Brawley stood his ground but set down the bags and swiveled halfway around in case somebody started shooting. Over his shoulder, he said, “Sage, you take care of our friend, make sure he stays safe. Nina, load the Glock.”
He hoped to hell it didn’t come to shooting, but as Grandma Hayes used to say, wish in one hand, shit in the other, and see which fills up first.
“We should go out the back,” Nina said, her voice frightened, but he could hear her unboxing the Glock as directed and could hear Sage’s voice further back, talking softly to the guy behind the counter. Brawley wouldn’t have some innocent bystander getting caught in the crossfire. And especially not a PBR fan, he thought, half a grin coming onto his face.
Which was crazy, because the van was sliding to a stop outside. But Brawley had always been a reckless soul, and if he wanted to control this situation, he couldn’t let it get in his head. You go thinking too much and try to game life, you end up getting caught in your own trap every time. That’s just the way of the world.
Thinking is slow. When life comes at you fast, you don’t have time to think. You’re either ready or you’re not. And it’s best not to try and muscle things. Just get out in front of whatever’s coming at you, focus on keeping your balance, and trust your body to do the rest. You believe in yourself, you’ll stay on top. And Brawley believed in himself.
The van had government plates. On its roof a silver paddle spun atop a short antenna.
“Ohshitpissfuckfuckfuck,” Nina said, and he felt her tugging at his arm. “They detected our psi energy. Come on, Brawley. Let’s go out the back.”
He shook his head. If he ran now, the folks in the van would seize the RV and call for backup.
One way or another, he had to handle this. Now.
The van doors opened, and two men emerged. They were of a type, thirtyish with short haircuts and square faces and that stocky fireplug build so many cops seem to have. Both men wore khakis and golf shirts. The passenger wore a dark windbreaker.
“Federal agents,” the driver said, announcing it in a friendly tone, giving the second word a lilt that made half a question of the phrase, like somebody offering free samples to passing customers.
The passenger didn’t say shit. He studied Brawley with a wild look in his eyes. One hand dropped slowly, pulling back his windbreaker to reveal a holstered automatic.
“What can I do for you?” Brawley said.
The driver stayed on the other side of the van, putting distance between his partner and him, giving them different angles on the situation. A smart move. Training, no doubt. A thing Brawley respected.
That smiling son of bitch could be hiding anything behind the van door. Anything. Though Brawley had a pretty good idea what it would be. After all, nothing beat a shotgun at close range.
“We were hoping to ask you some questions,” the driver chirped happily, fiddling with whatever he had behind that obscuring door.
“How about we just go our separate ways instead,” Brawley said, his danger sense hammering like a war drum in his head now. “Live and let live.”
His eyes shifted to the passenger, saw the man adjust his stance, noticed the tension in the man’s shoulders and the determined set of his jaw, and knew the guy was going to go for it.
Brawley’s mind cooled with precision as his adrenaline spiked, slowing the moment. Even as the man’s hand closed around his pistol, Brawley drew the XDS.
“Freeze!” the driver shouted, but his command was still echoing off the storefront when his partner raised his weapon and fired. There was a flash and a pop, and the bullet ricocheted off the bricks near Brawley’s head, powdering his face with grit and making him squint.
At the same moment, B
rawley shot from the hip, squeezing off three rounds so fast it sounded like one long gunshot. The first round went wide, kicking up dirt between the man and the van, but the second punched him right in the belt line, and the third shot took him high in the chest before he even had time to drop.
Brawley started to bring the .45 around but yanked back when he saw the driver’s shotgun leveled over the hood of the van.
The shotgun gave a loud cough, and lead shot rattled over the storefront, chipping bricks and cracking the plate glass. Brawley heard the rack of the pump, and the shotgun boomed again. A section of the store window came smashing down.
Brawley popped out and fired half-blind, but the driver was hunkered down behind the van, and Brawley’s shot merely sparked across the hood. The scattergun roared again, and Brawley barely managed to haul himself back into the alcove before a blast of lead shot blew through space where he’d been standing.
Then a figure came sliding out of the store between his legs. Nina appeared on the ground before him, lying on her side with both arms stretched out in front of her, fire blooming from her fists as the Glock crack-crack-cracked.
One of the van’s tires hissed, exhaling its air. The driver cried out, and the shotgun boomed again.
With Nina entering the fight, Brawley was out of time and almost out of ammo. He had four rounds left in the XDS.
You couldn’t call a timeout in a firefight, and his extra mags were in the RV, just the other side of that shotgun.
Leaving them was dumber than hell, and he vowed to forevermore carry extra magazines, even on the short walk from his bed to the pisser.
But promises didn’t mean shit now, not unless he got himself out of this hairy-ass jackpot.
He poked his pistol around the corner and fired, then sprinted into the open, firing again.
His shots missed their target, racing out into the darkness, but they forced the driver to pull back behind the van like a turtle retreating into its shell.