by Laura Taylor
Baron nodded. “We’ll be in touch if anything goes wrong,” he promised. “Now, can we sort out the bill?”
Jamal went to the computer and added up some figures. Watching over his shoulder, it looked like a long list, surgery, a dozen different medications, the after hours call out, IV fluids… “One thousand, five hundred pounds,” he said when he was finished.
Baron pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket, and counted off two thousand. He handed it to Jamal, who counted it, and raised an eyebrow. “Consider it a bonus for a job well done,” he said simply.
Jamal just shrugged, and pocketed the cash.
“Just one more issue before we go,” Baron said, hoping he wasn’t pushing too hard. They’d asked a lot of this man already, but he’d stepped up to every challenge without protest, and seemed to display a genuine concern for Skip’s welfare. “There’s a chance we’ll need this sort of service again in the future. Our work is necessarily covert, and that limits our access to normal veterinary services and supplies. So I was wondering if you’d be interested in helping us out again? Just in case we’re not able to use our regular vet for any reason. It would involve a fair bit of inconvenience,” he went on, when Jamal went to reply. “Late night calls, home visits in out of the way places. But you have the sort of skills we could make good use of, and we’d make it more than worth your while.”
Jamal thought about that. “I expect that, if this became a long term thing, there would be some sort of contract for me to sign. Confidentiality clauses and all that?”
“Something of that nature, yes,” Baron confirmed, though he hadn’t actually considered the idea until Jamal mentioned it. Once back at the Den, he would get Simon to run a more thorough background check on the man, have Silas tail him for a few days, check out a few of his more regular acquaintances. And, of course, tap his phone and his internet connection, to see if he started running any foolish searches on Britain’s covert military operations. The results of all those investigations would say far more about his trustworthiness than a simple signature on a piece of paper.
“I’ll have to think about it,” Jamal said finally. “Helping out our nation’s military is a worthy cause, but if it comes at significant personal risk, it’s not a decision I can make overnight. And certainly not when I’m as sleep deprived as I am.”
“Of course,” Baron agreed genially. “It’s unlikely to happen very often, in any event. I’ll contact you again in a couple of weeks, and see what you think by then. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to check on our patient.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Baron was exhausted by the time he pulled the van up outside the manor. As soon as Skip was awake, they’d bundled her back into the vehicle – partly due to the desire to get her home and comfortable, and partly due to the ongoing fear that the longer they stayed at the vet clinic, the greater chance there was that something could go wrong.
Halfway home, Skip had shifted back into human form, dazed and disoriented from the drugs still working their way out of her system, but calming down quickly when Heron put her arms around her and held her still, muttering soothing words into her ear… but then Skip had started giggling, a side effect of the drugs, no doubt, and had spent the better part of ten minutes repeatedly explaining that nothing at all was funny, and then breaking down into giggles again.
It was coming up to five o’clock in the morning, and no one in the van had got any sleep. But there was still plenty to do before any of them could go to bed, so Baron climbed wearily out of the driver’s seat and opened the back door.
“Can you walk, or do you want me to carry you?” Silas asked Skip, and she peered up at him blearily.
“I can walk,” she said confidently, then unexpectedly shifted, and promptly collapsed on the floor of the van. Silas swore as he darted forward to catch her, then lifted her gently, being careful not to tear any of her stitches.
Inside the foyer, Simon was waiting for them – a surprise to Baron, as he’d assumed that everyone else would be sleeping. He waved Baron over, casting a concerned eye over Skip as Silas carried her up the stairs, then spoke in a low voice, so as not to be overheard. “Sorry for the shitty timing,” he apologised, “but we have a problem.”
“What problem?”
“Tank decided to have a go at Miller.” He outlined the events in the cage room, concluding with his offer to take over guard duty, and Tank’s firm refusal.
Baron felt his jaw drop as Simon detailed the fight. “What the fuck did he think he was doing?” he asked, when he’d finished.
“Raniesha was there when it started. She’d know what set him off.”
“Follow me,” Baron ordered, marching swiftly down the hidden stairs into the basement. “Tank!” he bellowed, even before he’d got to the door of the cage room. “What the fuck has been going on?” He barged through the door and pulled up short when he saw the black eye on Tank’s face, and the thick bruises around Miller’s throat. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
“He had it coming,” was the first thing Tank said, and, feeling a surge of rage at his 2IC’s stupidity, Baron stepped forward and punched him in the face before he’d even thought about it. And then was instantly ashamed of his own display of temper. “I turn my back for five fucking minutes, and you let a Noturatii operative out of his cage? Not to mention the fact that we do not torture our prisoners! What the fuck were you thinking?”
Tank eyed Miller and scowled. “He was asking for it.”
Baron gaped at Tank, speechless for a moment, then shook his head. “Get in the cage.”
Tank looked suitably surprised at that. “What?”
“In the cage!” Baron repeated. “Until further notice, you’re relieved of duty.”
Tank scowled at him, but marched across the room, into the cage on the far wall.
“Not that one,” Baron instructed. “This one.” He pointed to the one next to Miller’s. “Think of it as poetic justice,” he went on, as Tank looked both baffled and disgusted by the order. “You want to be a fucking idiot about security, then fine. You can keep him company for a while. And learn to control your temper while you’re at it. And give Simon your gun.”
A low growl filled the room, but Tank obediently withdrew the gun from its holster, handed it over to Simon, then went to the other cage and shut himself in.
“And don’t you say a fucking word,” Baron snarled at Miller, who was sitting quietly on his bed, watching the entire drama. “I’ve been awake for nearly forty-eight hours, and I’m not dealing with either of you until I’ve had enough sleep for me to be able to think straight. Simon, you’re on guard duty. Call Alistair and get him down here to help you. Raniesha, you come with me. I want to know exactly what happened down here, and then you’re due for a rest.”
Raniesha nodded silently and left the room, heading up the stairs to wait for him in the sitting room.
Baron was totally exhausted, but he couldn’t resist stepping over to Tank’s cage, more disappointed than angry at his failure. “You’re supposed to have my back,” he said. “It’s a pretty dismal indication of the state of this Den if I can’t trust you to keep a simple fucking door locked for a couple of hours, or if wolves that rank seven places below you have to come down here and try to put things in order.”
“I’m sorry,” Tank tried to say, but Baron wouldn’t hear it.
“Save it,” he snapped… but then suddenly, the door burst open again and Caroline and Silas marched through, a medical kit in Silas’s hand. Fuck. More dramas, when all he really needed was a solid six or seven hours sleep.
Caroline saw Tank standing in the cage, and did a double take, looking from him, to Baron, and back again. And then she saw the bruises on both his and Miller’s faces, and reached the obvious conclusion, rolling her eyes at them both. “Fucking teenagers,” she bit out. “Well, never mind. We have a bigger crisis to deal with. Tank, Skip needs a blood transfusion, and since Dee’s away, you’re it.”
>
“How did the surgery go?” Tank asked, already rolling up his sleeve and taking a seat on the bed, as Caroline unlocked the door and Silas began setting up the medical kit.
“Successful, for the most part, but she’s still got a serious risk of infection, and her blood pressure’s low.”
“Why can’t any of the rest of you give blood?” Miller asked, causing Baron to snarl at him, but Caroline didn’t seem to mind the question.
“Wrong blood type,” she said simply, wrapping an elastic cuff around Tank’s arm and swabbing the needle site with alcohol.
“I’m O-negative,” Miller announced. “You can use that in just about anyone. If you need any extra, I’d be happy to help out.”
“You can keep your fucking mouth shut,” Tank snarled at him, as Silas inserted the needle into his arm, and Baron opened his mouth to tell Miller that that wasn’t the way it worked in shifters… but then suddenly thought better of his quick dismissal. The fact was, shifters were only able to donate blood to others of their own bloodline. Skip was of the line of Harkans, and transfusing her with blood from someone like Caroline, descended from the line of Ranor, would likely kill her. But if what Skip had said was true, and she’d somehow accidentally converted Miller out in the forest, then he would be of her bloodline. And that made him a perfect candidate for a much needed extra donor.
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Baron said cautiously, catching Caroline’s eye. She seemed to pick up on his line of thought quickly, and glanced at Silas. As far as they knew, Miller was still unaware that he was a shifter, and while they would have to break the news to him sooner or later, Baron didn’t fancy doing it while Skip’s health was still in jeopardy, and while Miller himself was likely still riled up over his fight with Tank.
“Let’s do it,” Caroline said, checking that Tank was all set up. She grabbed a second kit from the medical bag and went to Miller’s cage door. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that if you do anything stupid, this nice gentleman will kindly splatter your brains all over the wall,” she said, nodding to where Simon was hovering in the background.
Miller gave her a wry smile. “I think I’ve got a handle on the situation.”
Miller watched as the man with the scar removed the needle from his arm, then packed up the equipment and headed out of the cage. He hadn’t picked up on his name yet, but he’d paid careful attention to the conversation in the room, and had learned a few of the others. Aside from Tank there were Simon and Alistair, his two new guards, Baron, the leader, Caroline, the warrior woman, and one of the women upstairs was apparently called Heron, though he couldn’t yet put a face to the name.
He’d been surprised by Baron’s decision to lock Tank in a cage. Apparently he’d been right in his recent assessment of the morals of these people. They fought the war with the Noturatii fiercely and without hesitation, but they also seemed to have strict standards about how to treat their prisoners, and he was relieved to find that torture was strictly off the table.
Tank was quiet now, sitting on his bed as everyone else took the blood and filed out of the room, leaving them alone with their guards. Miller wasn’t expecting much in the way of conversation, and contemplated trying to get a little sleep before the dramas of the new day started up. His body was feeling strange again, his arms itching, unable to get his legs quite comfortable, and he wondered if he was coming down with something as a result of his night in the wilderness.
But just as he was about to lie down, Tank unexpectedly spoke. “Why do you care so much about Skip?” he asked, in a tone that suggested he was working hard to stay polite, and Miller floundered for an answer for a moment, not quite able to understand his own fierce protective instincts.
“She’s the complete opposite of everything the Noturatii says shifters are supposed to be. From the moment I joined them, I was told you were all ruthless, violent, merciless and destructive. She’s… young. Innocent. Brave. Nothing like the brutal warriors I was taught to expect.”
“She’s not a defenceless child,” Tank snapped, and Miller had to laugh at that.
“No, she’s not. She stole my gun, threatened to shoot me, and somehow, against my better judgement, managed to talk me into coming here. She’s quite the force to be reckoned with.”
“Well, I appreciate you giving blood to help her out,” Tank said with a grudging respect. Then, lest Miller start getting too comfortable with his new neighbour, he added, “Especially since it was your fault she got shot in the first place. But get any ideas about trying to make friends with her out of your head. She doesn’t owe you anything.”
Miller rolled his eyes at the obvious ‘older brother’ routine. “Okay, Romeo, I get it. You’ve got the hots for her,” he said, unable to resist the urge to needle the guy a little. “But I hardly think she’s suddenly going to start seeing me as boyfriend material, so how about you just settle down.”
“I do not have the hots for her!” Tank snapped, turning on him with a fierce glare. “And if you even suggest such a thing again, I’ll gut you, you worthless maggot.”
Given the circumstances, Miller found that a little funny. “I’d like to see you try, with these steel bars in the way.”
Tank opened his mouth to reply… but then seemed to think better of it, and Miller hoped that Baron’s earlier warning to him had sunk in. After a moment, Tank got up and went into the small ensuite bathroom that had been built into the back of each of the cages. Miller heard water running, and then Tank returned a moment later, a cup of water in his hand. He took a slow sip, then wandered over to the bars that separated their cages. “You seem to be feeling mighty comfortable, snuggled up in your safe little cage,” he growled. “But don’t forget – Baron’s going to be down later, and after your stunt in Scotland, I doubt he’s going to be taking it easy on you.”
Miller got up and came to stand in front of him.
“Hey!” Simon said sharply. “I don’t want to have to break anything up again, so how about you keep your distance from those bars, yeah?”
“Don’t worry,” Miller said, making sure there was at least a foot of space between him and the bars. “We’re just having a friendly chat.” He turned back to Tank. “Your boss seemed rather displeased when he found out you’d been giving me a hard time, so I’m thinking your threats sound a little hollow, right at the moment.”
Without warning, Tank tossed the cup of water at Miller, landing a direct hit as the water smacked him in the face and drenched his clothes.
Miller calmly wiped his face. “Really?” he asked sardonically. “That’s the best you’ve got?”
“Oh, I’m sure I could come up with a few other fluids to throw at you,” Tank drawled, looking faintly amused. “But oh, wait… now I remember. Less than half an hour ago, I had you pinned up against a wall, fighting for your next breath.”
“Really?” Miller asked provocatively. “You’re sure there was nothing else you wanted to do to me while you had me pinned up against a wall?”
Without warning, Tank flung his arm through the bars and grabbed Miller by the shirt… or that was the intention, at least. His thick arm got stuck at the elbow, and he only managed to get a hold of his shirt by the tips of his fingers. Miller retaliated quickly, sending a fist towards his face, but Tank twisted, the blow just grazing his cheek instead. He grabbed Miller’s arm, but his elbow was still stuck in the bars, and he had to fight for a moment to free himself, time which Miller used to twist free and try for that punch again, but he couldn’t get a good angle, and only managed to slap him lightly on the cheek.
Tank tried to grab him by the hair, but Miller saw the hand coming, and ducked out of the way, so that Tank only managed to pat him lightly on the head.
The sound of stifled laughter got their attention, and they both pulled back. “What?” Tank demanded of Alistair, who gave up trying to smother his amusement and laughed out loud.
“Times like this I wish I could record this shit and put
it on Facebook. Oh, don’t let me interrupt,” he said cheerfully, as they both glared at him. “Please, continue trying to bitch-slap each other like a couple of girls.”
Miller snorted. “Given the way some of your women fight, that’s hardly an insult.”
Tank made a derisive noise. “Yeah, yeah, just go ahead and jump on the political correctness bandwagon.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Miller replied blithely. “You can’t tell me you’ve never had your arse handed to you by one of your women warriors?”
“At least we have women warriors,” Tank bit back. “I’ve never seen a single woman be employed as a soldier by the Noturatii.”
“I’ll mention that to my superiors when I get back,” Miller said sassily. “‘The shape shifters have some suggestions for how to improve our combat techniques’.”
With a growl, Tank lunged for him through the bars again.
When Kwan and Aaron brought breakfast down, an hour or so later, it was to be met with a most peculiar sight. Simon and Alistair were both sitting on chairs, staring at the cages like they were watching a movie, a look on both their faces like they couldn’t decide whether the show was a serious documentary, or the very best of satires.
Tank and Miller were each slouching on the ends of their beds, Miller’s trouser leg rolled up, while Tank was peering at an ugly scar that ran from his ankle to his knee. “You were lucky,” he was saying. “A land mine could well have blown your leg right off.”
“You’ve got that right,” Miller replied. “So anyway, the army discharged me, and I spent the next year in and out of hospital. Four operations to put everything right. I was cleared to go back to work, but couldn’t figure out what I wanted to do… and then this guy shows up, talking about national security and covert intelligence work, and the next thing you know, I’m staring at a shape shifter strapped to a table, and my entire world’s been flipped inside out.”