“I like mother Jennifer,” I said finally. “She made me feel like a little child, but I like her.”
“She makes everyone feel like a little child, love,” said Marie. “And she liked you.”
“She tell you that?”
“Nope, she told Liam that if he opposed you taking me as a mate she would personally see to it that the rest of his life would be completely awful.”
“She can challenge the alpha like that?” asked John.
“It’s … complicated,” said Marie. “The alpha rules the pack. Nobody challenges that without challenging Liam directly, and that always ends in bloodshed. But the mother is … special. For one thing all the females are loyal to her.”
“So she’s like, the alpha female?” said Eva.
Cam broke into raucous laughter. Marie simply smiled and shook her head.
“What? What did I say?” asked Eva.
“Alpha female?” she said. “That’s very funny. To werewolves, I mean.”
“Why is it funny?”
“It’s a contradiction in terms,” Marie explained. “The alpha can’t be female. Alpha means ‘dominant male’ and the very idea of an alpha female is … hilarious.”
Eva looked hurt and Marie’s expression softened.
“Look, Liam’s trying to bring the pack up to date but females will never be able to be alpha. Any jerkoff male would be able to take them out and take over the pack. Of course, they wouldn’t last long after they did it, but they could do it anyway.”
“Sounds sexist,” said Eva.
“Not really. It's just nature. Besides, just because the alpha's always a male doesn't mean the females have no power. When I was a cub our alpha was a brave, strong, dear male, but really as thick as a whale omelet. We all loved him so we pretended we didn't know his mate was actually running the pack. And, trust me, females can be a lot more vicious than males.”
“So,” said John, “we need to find out what the protocol is for this pack. And hope there's not females in charge.”
“Yeah,” said Marie, nodding. “The airport and the center of the city will be neutral territory, so we can wait till we get there to contact the pack. But if we can’t move around to go shopping it’ll be a problem.”
“We are in Rome,” said Eva. “I’m sure that if we can get some measurements we can locate appropriate costumes for everyone.”
“I think I’m okay,” said John. “If all you want is for me to be the driver, a simple suit will do it.”
“Same for me,” said Anna.
Bolt nodded and shrugged.
Cam looked thoughtful for a second.
“We’re really talking about body armor and a pair of black trousers, right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Then I’m ready.”
“Okay, so really it’s just Marie and I then.”
Eva nodded.
“Okay, so we’ll give you our sizes if you really think you can get something here, or we can wait and go shopping in Paris.”
“Or,” said Anna, “we can see what we can get in Rome and go shopping in Paris when we get there.”
“What was that about not melting the credit card?” I said. “Okay, if we can load up here, fine, if not, everyone can go on a shopping spree in Paris. I get the impression that Marie and I will be busy working things out with this werewolf pack, so you’ll need to shop without us anyway.”
“Okay boss, sounds like a plan,” said Anna.
I gave her a significant look.
“What?”
“Try to restrain your creativity when it comes to my outfit,” I said.
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you could mean, boss,” she said with exaggerated innocence.
“I mean that, if I find myself going to this club in a fishnet vest and a pair of arse-less leather chaps, you are going to be in trouble.”
“Oh, but if you do find a pair of arse-less leather chaps in his size,” said Marie, “go ahead and buy them. I think I’d like to see that.”
“Yes,” I said without enthusiasm. “That’ll go down just fine on patrol, me with my great hairy arse hanging out.”
“Oh, you have a cute behind, Jack,” said Marie, laughing.
“I’ve always thought so,” said John, perfectly straight-faced.
“Like two boiled eggs in a hanky,” said Anna.
I rolled my eyes.
“Well, at least you’ve stopped talking about my dick,” I said sourly.
Eva looked up and laughed softly.
“It’s never a dull moment with this group, is it?” she said. “Is this some sort of private joke?”
“In a very real sense, yes it is,” said Bolt. “Rumor around the Ministry is that Jack’s a very lucky man.”
Eva gave him a blank look.
“He’s supposed to be a bit on the large size, penis-wise,” he explained.
“Oh,” said Eva quietly.
She looked back down at the computer, a faint blush coloring her cheeks and the ghost of a smile touching her lips. Marie directed a dark look towards her as Anna shot a similar expression at Bolt.
And just like that the feeling of camaraderie in the room died.
CHAPTER
19
The AirFrance Airbus broke through the low cloud cover and descended towards Charles de Gaulle Airport. It wouldn’t be long before dark and it was gloomy enough that Anna was safe. Now I was worried about Eva. Marie definitely had the look of a woman about to commit justifiable ex-girlfriendicide. The fact that Eva was sitting three rows in front of us and I had Marie’s hand firmly gripped in mine seemed to be helping.
The first-class cabin—as if Sir Winstanleigh would travel any other way—was luxurious and spacious. We’d actually booked the entire cabin and spread out. Again, the shadowy weapons dealer would demand nothing less.
“You okay love?” I said, leaning close and whispering.
“Yeah, just jealous that’s all.”
“Of what?”
“Did you see the look on her face?” she hissed. “She was thinking about you, Jack, she was reminiscing about your penis. How dare she? That’s my penis, only I’m allowed to reminisce about that!”
“You don’t have to,” I pointed out. “You’re the one getting it, love.”
“I know, it just makes me growl is all.”
I used the tip of one finger to turn her face towards me and kissed her. She responded, pushing against me, her lips parting as my tongue went exploring. I slid my hand up over her stomach and cupped her breast. She was wearing a fairly conservative suit and skirt, with a white silk blouse. She wasn’t wearing a bra, a fact that was all too apparent when her nipple hardened against my palm. She gave a little groan of arousal and I leaned into her, pushing her back against her seat, possessively massaging her breast. Throughout the flight I had been doing the same thing, kissing and groping her right there in the cabin. At one point I had undone a few buttons and spent an enjoyable five minutes with my hand inside her blouse.
One of the flight attendants had been giving me disapproving looks for the entire short flight, but my adoptive persona wouldn’t worry about that. To him women were toys to be played with.
“I think that one’s jealous,” whispered Marie, her lips still against mine.
“Who?”
“That flight attendant with the face like a wet weekend. I think she’s jealous that you’re pawing me like you own me.”
I smiled, flicking the pad of my thumb back and forth across her nipple.
“Think so?”
“Yeah, what woman wouldn’t want you treating her like a whore in public?”
I laughed softly and kissed her again before sitting back.
“Just the act, my love. It’s just the act.”
“Bull. You’re loving this.”
“Granted. I do enjoy my work.”
She giggled and fanned her face with the in-flight magazine.
“You got me all h
ot and bothered,” she said in a vapid voice.
“I can tell,” I said, eyeing the clearly visible dents she was making in her blouse.
The pilot announced that we were less than three minutes from landing as the plane gently lost altitude. I took Marie’s hand and squeezed it again.
Anyone who started asking around about the flight we’d come in on would be told the story of the lecherous man, his outrageously large tips and his indecently wandering fingers.
The flight came in for a very smooth landing and we began to taxi towards the gate. The pilot came on the intercom and thanked us for flying AirFrance, reminded us to stay seated until told otherwise, and to be sure to take everything with us when we left.
Of course, as the first-class passengers we were disembarked first, spared the indignity of collecting our own luggage, and shown to a pair of stretch limousines.
I could really get used to this.
Marie, her modesty once again restored under her buttoned-up jacket, walked beside me. She had adopted a self-confident strut, her hips swinging, her shoulders back and her head held high. She was the perfect trophy for a wealthy if somewhat shady man to parade.
The limousines were luxurious. In accordance with our roles Cam and Bolt joined us in the second limo; John, Anna, Eva and Jeurgen took the first. They would arrive a few minutes before us and sweep into the hotel with the kind of arrogance only available to those who work for the terminally rich. By the time we arrived things would be perfect or heads would roll.
Cam looked terrifying. Some bodyguards strive to be invisible, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. These tend towards business suits, sunglasses and light, easily concealed weaponry. Others prefer deterrence, standing out and being obvious. These tend towards the realms of bullet heads, cropped hair, and muscles like a sack of melons.
Cam would have made the latter group run away and hide. He was probably intimidating people living in nearby countries. A form-fitting suit of Kevlar armor protected his broad torso and he was wearing a pair of loose black combat trousers and military-style boots. Hanging from his webbing belt was a large mace canister, an extendable baton, a stun-gun, and two pairs of handcuffs. He looked, in short, like the kind of person who could pick up the entire limo and run with it.
Bolt, though, had somehow managed to look even more evil. His long, curly hair was pulled back into a ponytail and his immaculate suit, shirt and tie were all deep black, and black sunglasses hid his dark eyes. In one hand he had a slim briefcase that shouted ‘concealed weapons’ in a voice as subtle as a house brick to the back of the head. He’d also adopted a wary glare, reminiscent of an ever-watchful hawk as his head moved ceaselessly around.
Ask about the man who rode this limo today and you’d hear about his terrifying companions, two men you wouldn’t want to meet in a crowded supermarket at midday, let alone in a dark alley.
I was just making impressions all over the city.
CHAPTER
20
Our limo moved through the streets like a galleon under sail, all quiet dignity and discreetly obvious wealth. We arrived at the hotel to see John standing by the curb.
Once the limo had coasted to a stop he opened the door. Cam stepped out first, moving towards the rear of the car, glaring around. There were few people outside the hotel and all of them stopped to stare at the huge werewolf. Almost in unison they started to back away.
Bolt got out next. He took a long, slow look around and then turned back towards the limo and nodded.
I stepped out, turning to offer my hand to Marie. She took it and stepped out into the dim afternoon light with a dazzling smile. She slipped her arm through mine and kissed me on the cheek.
John pushed the door shut and the five of us walked towards the doors of the hotel. Anna was waiting there, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of sunglasses. Standing beside her was a small man in a very expensive suit. The few remaining hairs on top of his head were teased across his bald spot in a way that spoke eloquently of a man fighting a desperate—and unsuccessful—rearguard action against the ravages of time.
We probably made an impressive group, bearing down on the unfortunate man.
“Sir John,” said the Manager warmly. “So good to see you again.”
The manager had never set eyes on me before in his life, but wild horses couldn’t have dragged that admission out of him.
“Good to be back,” I said smoothly. “Is my usual suite available?”
“But of course, Sir John. Your staff are simply making some final arrangements.”
“Arrangements?”
“Yes, my apologies, there was a slight mix-up,” he stammered. “It has all been fixed now and your suite will be ready momentarily.”
Yes, there had been a mix-up. We hadn’t actually booked a room. John had called the Ministry, who had obligingly hacked into the hotel’s computers and planted a canceled reservation. It would have been just as easy for the Ministry to plant a confirmed reservation, but this way we made another impression.
Anna would have marched into the lobby of the hotel to confirm ‘Sir John’s’ reservation and, finding it canceled would have started to raise merry hell. Of course the management regrets the mistake, she would have been told. Of course the management would be happy to accommodate such a valued guest. Anna would have, with perfect timing, casually mentioned that Sir John is a close friend of the hotel’s owners and suddenly all sorts of doors would start flying open.
Sir John, of course, had never met the owners, but I knew them. Most were former members of le Légion étrangère, one of the few that weren’t French was sometimes known as Pagan. I owned a five percent share in the hotel. It was a nice little source of income, not to mention a carefully maintained safe house, useful whenever the Ministry sent people over the channel. The ownership was deeply buried beneath dummy corporations and front companies.
The manager, who had just been browbeaten into freeing up one entire floor of the hotel, had never met me.
All of this might seem like a lot of trouble to book a room in a hotel I was actually part-owner of, but if there’s one thing we’ve learned through dealing with the vampires is this: they are very well connected.
The moment Anna contacted the Sang du les Dieux and informed them that Sir John Winstanleigh would be gracing their establishment tomorrow evening information would start flying. Questions would be asked, money would flow, and answers would appear. Stories would circulate about the rich man with the expensive tastes who flew in from Rome, groping his girlfriend the entire way, traveling with some very serious personal protection, who marched into a very expensive hotel and commandeered an entire floor. Background checks would confirm identities, records would reveal details, and rumors would raise eyebrows.
Take Jeurgen, for example. A check on his false identity would reveal some tenuous, though suggestive, links to a group of mercenaries who were wanted men in twenty-seven countries.
The Ministry has an entire office dedicated to fabricating and maintaining these false identities and fake histories—actually it was a holdover from the cold war. But, like all lies, we’d found that they work best when subtly spiced with the truth.
In fact, that group of mercenaries that Jeurgen allegedly belonged to actually did have at least one Swiss national in their number.
There never really was an arms dealer by the name of John Winstanleigh. There was, however, an arms dealer by the name of Trevor Beckham. Beckham had been killed ten years ago, but not before a Ministry of Defence undercover operative had fooled him long enough to be introduced to a few of his more shady chums. In fact, Beckham had been killed because he discovered that ‘John Winstanleigh’ was a fake.
Using his contacts acquired through Beckham, the Ministry agent had managed to penetrate an organization that was supplying arms and ammunition to various terrorist and paramilitary groups. Over the years Winstanleigh had popped up in various places, usually on the outskirts of some war or
other, always selling stuff, always collecting information for the MoD. He had started referring to himself as ‘Sir John’ around the time he was acting as a go-between for a very lucrative deal that would have netted over ₤15billion for one side and some spiffy technology off of the Yank’s newest aircraft projects for the other. Sir John, of course, would have walked away with his broker’s fee—actually, he did walk away with that fee, and the Forces’ Benevolent Funds received a massive donation that year—but, unfortunately for all concerned, a joint operation between Interpol and the CIA just ‘happened’ to receive an anonymous tip about the deal. Sir John slipped the net; his reputation enhanced by his miraculous escape and subsequent appearance on several countries’ most wanted lists, and went into hiding.
Since then he would pop up here and there around the globe, always best described as ‘ish’—six footish, longish or shortish brownish hair, blueish or greenish eyes—and stories were starting to circulate that he had plastic surgery every six months to avoid the contracts on his head.
It was all crap, of course. It was just different people playing the role. As long as you looked close enough, you could do it. The briefing sessions were pure torture, though. The agent couldn’t risk a memory gap so playing Sir John was preceded by months of rote learning and coaching.
John had actually been playing the role of Sir John on the mission that had ended with Anna being turned.
The manager of the hotel was still oiling our way inside, keeping up some inane chatter about the wonderful sights that could be seen in the French capitol city. I ignored him.
I continued to ignore him as he personally and attentively led us to the floor we’d taken over. He was beaming, quite probably at the prospect of getting a magnificent gratuity for his efforts. Well, I’d let Anna deal with that. Time to plant another story.
CHAPTER
21
As soon as we were in the main suite I led Marie over to the bedroom and firmly shut the doors behind us.
Crusader (MPRD Book 2) Page 10