She went for the pistol as the monster closed in. She brought the weapon up and fired a blast into the ground where AV once stood.
Hurtling through the air, he landed on top of her. The breath was knocked out of her, and the pistol clattered over the road. AV wrapped his claws around her neck and squeezed. “Goodbye, Pretty!”
Crack!
AV’s wolfish head jerked forward.
Smoke locked his rifle under AV’s neck and pulled back with both arms. AV released his grip on Sidney.
Gasping for breath, she crawled away.
“Get the gun!” Smoke yelled.
The werewolf bucked and slung like a bull.
Smoke held on to the rifle and rode the werewolf like a cowboy.
Sidney searched for the pistol. A glimmer of metal rested underneath her tire. Snatching it up, she rolled to a knee and took aim. AV now had Smoke in a headlock.
“One shove,” AV said, concealed behind Smoke’s body, “and I break him. Walk away, and I’ll let him live. I’ll let both of you live.”
She didn’t have a clear shot. Little more than half of his head was exposed.
“Take the shot,” Smoke sputtered. “You’ve got to take the shot and forget about me.”
“Touching,” AV said, applying more pressure to Smoke’s head.
The large man’s face turned purple. She heard bones popping and cracking.
Her eyes found Smoke’s.
His lips spit out two words. “Center mass.”
“Time’s up, Pretty,” AV said. He howled at the moon. “And I don’t think you can hit me anyway.”
In a burst of motion, Smoke shifted his leg behind the werewolf and flipped him over.
Sidney fired.
Blam!
Both men lay on the road, and only one of them started moving.
Smoke peeled the werewolf’s arms off him. Hair, claws, and wolf face retracted. In seconds, Adam Vaughn was back, wearing only shorts made from spandex. He had a bullet hole in his heart. While examining the body, Sidney noted a strange brand on his back shoulder: a rising black sun that seemed to be bleeding.
“Good shot,” Smoke said, groaning. “Can I have my gun back now?”
She started to hand it to him and stopped. “I have a question first.”
“All right.”
“How did you get your hands free, inside AV’s office?”
“Diamond dust on my fingernails.” He flashed his hands. Where there wasn’t blood, they twinkled a little.
“Did you learn that in the SEALs?”
“No, it’s from a Punisher comic book.”
“Is that from the prison archives, Smoke?”
He smiled. “Finally.”
Epilogue
The night became even longer. Fire trucks arrived. Local law enforcement and the FBI followed. No one listened, and Smoke was back in handcuffs. Sidney spent an hour arguing her case, only to have Ted arrive in his brown trench coat and clear things up in five minutes.
“A werewolf?”
“Don’t judge me, Ted.” She yawned. She didn’t really care if he believed it or not. At the moment she was happy to be alive.
“I know, but that corpse looks like a man.” He watched the emergency crew bag AV up. “Next time take a picture. Maybe a video. And we wanted him alive.”
“I tried. We both tried, sort of.” She touched her lip and winced. “At least I don’t have prom tomorrow.”
“What?” Ted shook his head.
“Nothing. So what happens to him?” she said, looking at Smoke. He was sitting in the back of a police cruiser, all stitched up.
“Back to prison, I guess.” Ted patted the hood of her car. “Man, I can’t believe you outbid me by a dollar. A dollar! The Hellcat sure is pretty.”
Sidney wasn’t paying much attention. Her thoughts were on Smoke, AV, deaders, the Black Slate... Many things. But mostly Smoke.
“Go home,” Ted said, rubbing her shoulder. “Come in when you feel like it tomorrow.”
A wrecker hauled the SUV off and the ambulance pulled out with AV’s body.
“I’d rather head back to that hospital.”
“Sid, there’s a dozen agents over there already. Damned if we didn’t find more missing children.” He scratched his head. “What you did was a good thing. Another good thing. Take comfort in that. As for your friend, I’ll do what I can.”
An FBI agent shut the cruiser door on Smoke, got inside the car, and sped away. Her friend had vanished. Her chin dipped and she sighed. Then the rain came down.
***
The next day, stiff as a board, Sidney headed into the office. Five hours later, she turned in her statement of events to Ted. It was fifteen pages long.
“Geez, Sid.” He put on his glasses. “It’s just a report, not a bestseller.”
She scanned the trophies, pictures, and colorful memorabilia on his wall. “What’s the matter? Are you worried it might cut into football?”
“No. Well, yes.” He huffed a breath and looked up at her. “Sid, I’m sorry, and I want you to know that I’m glad you’re all right. But deaders? What is a deader?” His desk phone rang. He picked it up. “Ted.” His face darkened and he hung up. “Dammit.” He picked up her report and grabbed his dress coat. “Got to go.”
He was gone, leaving her all alone. She slipped out of his office, grabbed her bag, took the elevator, and went to her car. The old Interceptor. At least it’s not raining. The rattle in the dash was even worse than before. She turned up the radio and headed for Mildred Bates hospital. Driving up the entrance, the first thing she saw was a great yellow crane with a wrecking ball. She pulled into the parking lot, parked, and got out, gaping.
The entire hospital was rubble. A dump truck loaded with debris rode by. The company name and logo, she instantly recognized.
Drake.
Her phone buzzed. A picture of her sister, Allison, and niece, Megan, popped up. The text below it read: Watch your step.
I Smell Smoke: Book 2
The Supernatural Bounty Hunter Files
CHAPTER 1
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Sidney rolled over in her bed and grabbed her phone. The clock read 4:32 am, Tuesday morning. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, punched in her security code, and read the text.
It was from Cyrus Tweel, her new supervisor.
The text read:
Come immediately.
“Aw, crap.”
She shuffled toward the bathroom. Inside, she turned on the shower then brushed her teeth until the mirror steamed up. She flung her garments into a hamper, and then, stooped under the showerhead, she let the hot water run down her neck.
Enjoy the little things in life.
The last two months had been lousy. Cyrus Tweel, her ex-boyfriend, had replaced Jack Dydeck as her supervisor. Every time she thought about Jack, she envisioned him sitting there with his head torn off. The funeral for him had been horrible. His wife, Jean, was a waterfall of tears. She could still see one of Jack’s boys pounding on the closed coffin saying, “I want to see my daddy. I want to see my daddy.” The moment shook her. It shook everybody, it seemed, but no one talked about it.
She lathered up her hair with shampoo and groaned. “Ugh.” She rinsed the soap from her eyes. “Great job.”
Her old supervisor, Ted Howard, had been elusive since their clash with Adam Vaughn. It was shortly thereafter that Cyrus was named as Jack’s replacement, which infuriated her. Cyrus was a solid agent, but he was a suck-up. That was one of the many reasons she had stopped dating him.
She stepped out and began drying off, her thoughts still on the Black Slate. No one spoke about it. She tried to pry at Ted for information, but he gave nothing away. She worked out her frustrations at the gym, hammering away at heavy bags late in the evening. When that didn’t work, she always ended up doing midnight searches about the Drake, werewolves, and deaders, trying to fit these things together. Ted had called her out for using FBI resources and tried
to put an end to the searches. The trail had gone cold, but she had to keep digging.
She blow-dried her hair, which she’d had cut to a shorter length. She could still feel one of the deader’s clammy hands pulling at her locks. It was a nightmare that had awoken her more than once, coated in sweat. Toweling dry, she headed into the cold air of the bedroom that rose goosebumps on her arms, grabbed some clothes, and put them on. Seconds later, she was geared up and inside the kitchen. She flipped on the switch to her coffee brewer and got a warning light.
“Great.”
Sidney routinely loaded up the pot the night before and had it set on a timer. Last night wasn’t her night however. She’d slogged in the door extra late before pecking at the computer a few hours and crashing on the bed. She refilled the coffee pot, loaded the grounds, and set it to brew. The aroma brought a thin smile to her lips.
Cyrus can wait.
Normally, she’d get a move on, but Cyrus was never satisfied, late or on time. He was much worse than Dydeck: emails, texts—his micro-management methods were overkill.
Maybe I should try another agency.
Five minutes later, she had the coffee in her travel cup and was headed out the door. Nearby, the Interceptor sat covered in a thin layer of frost. She shivered inside the cab, grinding the ignition until the engine fired up. Waiting for it to defrost, she sipped on her coffee. Waiting’s good.
She texted Cyrus back.
On my way.
He replied:
You should have been here 10 minutes ago!
I can’t believe I dated that guy! She put the car in reverse, backed up, slammed it into drive, and sped out of the quiet parking lot onto the highway. She turned on the radio and started singing along with a corny tune. “I think it’s gonna be a great day.”
CHAPTER 2
“It’s about time, Agent Shaw,” Cyrus said with a sneer as he checked his watch. The sly man in round spectacles wore a dark blue suit and FBI logo’d tie. His beady eyes were calculating and penetrating. “What did you do, take the bus?”
“Traffic was really bad,” she said. They were inside an apartment building that the FBI had been conducting surveillance from, overlooking a small abandoned strip mall. A chain link fence surrounded the facility, including the parking lot. Cameras and other equipment were set up in front of the window. The computers monitored the activities on the streets.
“At five in the morning? Don’t feed me that load of crap.”
“Just tell me why I’m here,” Sidney said, rolling her eyes, “and try to tone down being such a dick.”
An agent sitting at a desk snickered.
Cyrus glowered at him, and the guy’s neck reddened. Then he turned back to Sidney. “Watch yourself, troop.”
“Don’t call me that,” she said, walking away. “Ever again.” She thought about Dydeck. He was a good man, and even though they had avenged him, everything still felt unfinished. “So, a move is about to be made.”
“We got a transaction alert from our insider,” an agent said. He was a well-knit black man in a blue FBI jacket. His name was Harvey. “The deal should go down this morning.” He pointed toward the kitchenette. “Coffee?”
“Sure,” she said, taking a Styrofoam cup from the stack.
The case they were on had been going for months, but she’d only been assigned to it a few weeks ago. More drugs. More problems. The cartel’s smuggling operations became more sophisticated and refined with each passing day. They were impossible to keep up with. For every player the FBI took down, three more stepped up in his place. No guilt. No shame.
“So,” Cyrus said, keeping his voice low and cornering her near the coffee, “you look kind of tired. Were you up all night chasing zombies? Or were they chasing you?”
“Back off, Cyrus.”
“I need to make sure you aren’t distracted from the mission. Are you?”
She glowered down at him. “The only thing distracting me is you.”
He touched her arm, leering at her. “That’s my job, Sid.”
She pushed past him and stood in front of the monitors, clenching her jaw.
Harv glanced up at her and shrugged. There had been some leaks about what happened with the Adam Vaughn case, and word had spread that Sidney had reported an encounter with a zombie. She had no doubt that Cyrus has seen her report and had something to do with that. He’d been hounding her ever since. She’d hounded Ted about the leak, but he said he had nothing to do with it, so she did her best to ignore it.
“We have some movement,” Harv said, adjusting his headset. “White box truck. Two in the cab.”
Sydney watched the monitors. The driver hopped out of the truck and unlocked the gate. Back into the truck he went. The truck wheeled around the building and backed into the loading dock of a small abandoned department store. Cameras had been set up at adjacent buildings overlooking a long-gone strip mall.
“I don’t want to miss anything,” Cyrus said. “Call in a drone.”
“Yes, sir,” Harv said, typing into his computer. “I’m on it.”
Cyrus put a headset on and tossed another set to Sidney. “Gear up,” he said.
While she slipped the device on her head, another vehicle pulled inside the fence, a black Corvette.
“That’s our man, McCall,” Cyrus said. “Must be nice going undercover and flashing all that money. Poor bastard.”
“I told you I’d do it,” Harv said.
“Maybe next time.”
“Count me in too,” said another voice in the headset.
“And me,” said another. It was a woman. They were all part of the team on the streets.
“All right, let’s maintain radio discipline,” Cyrus added, crossing his arms over his chest and looming over Harv’s shoulder. “This is McCall’s third time inside. Something has to go down at some point.”
Agent McCall pulled the Corvette around back and alongside the truck. He stepped out with his briefcase in hand and gave a quick nod.
Cyrus clapped his hands. “This is it!”
Sidney’s spine tingled. They’d been waiting for the signal for over a month and now it came. I wish I was down there. Agent McCall was good, but everyone needed back-up. High caliber traffickers were trigger happy. Agent McCall slipped out of sight, either into the building or into the truck.
The room fell quiet for a moment, then Cyrus broke the silence.
“Everyone breathe easy. This might take a while. Lacy and Carl, do either of you have an angle on McCall?”
“No.”
“Ditto.”
“Just remember,” Cyrus continued, “once they start rolling out, McCall will send another signal, so no one get jumpy until I say go. They’re probably checking for a wire now.”
The operation wasn’t the biggest, but it was important. The traffickers dealt in arms, munitions, and drugs. The men McCall dealt with weren’t high up the chain either, but their bosses were, and that was who the FBI wanted. Get names. Get voices, and have it all recorded by a small device built into the handle of a briefcase.
“How’s our signal?”
“Solid,” Harv said, leaning forward, “let’s hope it’s recording.”
“Hope’s for sissies,” Cyrus said, smiling over at Sidney.
Such a tool.
Five minutes turned into ten and then fifteen. Cyrus started to pace, saying from time to time, “Be patient everybody. The last few months are down to the final minutes.”
Sidney’s palms were sweating. This is taking too long. She checked her watch. 5:38 am.
“We’ve got movement,” said one of the outside agents.
The box truck was pulling out of the dock.
“Any eyes on McCall?”
“Negative.”
The box truck sped up the ramp. A spark of light on the monitors was mirrored by sharp pops of gunfire. McCall was holding his side, staggering up the ramp and blasting away in the dark.
Cyrus cried out, “Stop that tr
uck! Execute!”
CHAPTER 3
Sidney bolted for the door.
“Hold it, Agent Shaw,” Cyrus said, grabbing her by the arm.
She twisted out of his grasp. “Are you insane?”
“No, I’m in charge. Now stay in here!”
With an inner growl, Sidney returned to her spot behind the monitors.
Three FBI SUVs sped through the gates, and two more blocked the entrance. The box truck weaved through the parking lot in chase until one of the SUVs slammed into the driver’s side. In seconds, agents in body armor and holding M-16 rifles had the truck surrounded. The drivers exited the box truck with their hands up. Instantly, the agents took them to the ground.
“Now that’s a clean takedown,” Cyrus said with a nod. “And I’m not even breathing heavy. Well done everyone. Someone get to McCall, pronto.”
Sidney’s nails dug into her palms. It was hard to watch something like this from afar and not get involved. On the screen, she watched FBI agents rushing to McCall’s side. Inside her headset she heard one say, “It’s bad, but he’s breathing.”
“All right, get him stabilized. An ambulance is on its way.” Cyrus slapped Harv on the shoulder. He had a worried look in his eye. “Good work. We’ll go check it out. Come on, Agent Shaw.”
Finally. She followed him out the door and down the stairs. By the look of things, Cyrus had taken control and bottled up what could have otherwise been a very ugly situation. Of course, that all depended on whether McCall survived or not. Clearly something had gone wrong. Let’s see how he handles it.
Rushing out of the stairwell and across the street, they cut between the cars blocking the gate.
“Ambulance coming,” Cyrus said, slapping one of the hoods. “Move these things!”
Jogging across the parking lot, they came on the scene. Two men lay on the ground, hands cuffed behind their backs. Each wore nice street clothes. One was tattooed and bald. The other was taller, long-haired, and lanky. Each had an edge about him.
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