“Or he’s just tired of being desperate. Maybe he has nothing to lose. If it’s medical debt, maybe his wife or child died,” I speculated. Why did we humanize someone who could easily kill us? “Giving him a story won’t change anything, not when he’ll start shooting if the cops attempt to negotiate. It won’t change what’ll happen if someone gets shot.”
“Negotiation is all about finding that story and using it to appeal to their better nature.”
“If he has one,” I muttered.
“That’s always a concern. Then it’s the negotiator’s job to save as many lives as possible.”
“Please tell me you aren’t a negotiator.”
“I’m the ‘go in with guns blazing’ woman. I’m also the one they like to send in because I’m a pretty girl. No one wants to shoot a pretty girl. In this case, I’d be the one they’d send in with the cash, expecting me to get an inside look.”
“Martial arts?”
“I attend the school of whatever works.” Her tone turned amused. “This is the calmest batch of hostages I’ve ever seen. Do they put sedatives in the water here or something?”
“Not from around here?”
“I’m from Tucson.”
“Just be happy there isn’t a Texas gunslinger in the crowd.”
She grimaced. “Trust me, I am. Good way to get shot. I don’t have a problem with smart, armed civilians, but too often, the good guy with a gun looks exactly the same as a bad guy with a gun. Wiser to keep the guns hidden.”
“Armed?”
“I wish. I’m good enough to take the shot. Unfortunately, I’m on vacation outside of my jurisdiction. I left my other wallet at home.”
I understood. “Not much we can do other than wait, then.”
“Right. Got a name, kid?”
“Dustin. You?”
“Holly.” She nodded down the line to a young man near the end. “That’s my boyfriend, Barry. He’s the negotiator, and he’s also my partner.”
“Oh, great. The force is just going to love this. Two off-duty cops are hostages?”
“Four. A pair who came with us is here, too.”
“How wonderful. None of you are armed?”
“We weren’t expecting a bank robbery today, sorry. We were expecting to go to the casino, catch a few shows, and eat dinner.”
“I’m thinking about liberating something from Dad’s liquor cabinet while pretending I’m over the age of twenty-one tonight.”
At least a hangover would distract me from reality. Then again, I’d be lucky to steal a single shot, knowing how overprotective Dad would get—assuming I survived.
Again.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“Appreciated. Assuming you did try something, what would you do?”
“Disarm and restrain him. With a gun that powerful, we’d have to get the perfect chance. I’m not counting on it. They’ll likely go for a sniper shot if he doesn’t decide to start talking.” Holly sighed. “What’s your story, Dustin?”
“I was depositing a check so I could pay for school books.”
“Ah. College?”
“Apparently.” I pointed at my sling. “I’m slated to redo a semester thanks to this. I withdrew this week. At least I got first crack at course selection for next semester.”
“Tough luck. What are you taking?”
“Criminal law,” I murmured. “I’ve been informed I’ll take a minor in Forensic Sciences if I know what’s good for me.” I grimaced a little at the annoyance in my tone. “I’m going along with it since it’s useful for trying cases in court.”
“Lawyer?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Tough job. Expensive degree, too.”
One advantage of contracting a serious case of witchcraft was full payment of my tuition; the Inquisition needed witches in all parts of government, especially where Fenerec served. They, my parents included, wanted me on the force.
I wanted to serve in court, and I wasn’t ready to yield to their wishes quite yet.
Tacking on a Forensic Sciences minor made them think they had the upper hand while I used their money to pay for my education. Dad probably understood it’d take a lot more than money to change my mind.
Holly nodded towards Mr. Fishnet Stockings. “And if you were asked to defend him in a court of law?”
“That’s the wrong question,” I countered.
“Oh?”
“Everyone knows he’s guilty. I wouldn’t be defending his innocence. I would be working to ensure the punishment fit the crime. We live in a society where thieves can face years in prison, sometimes over something worth less than a thousand dollars. We live in a society where killers walk free after a year. On the defense, my job isn’t just to prove guilt or innocence, but to ensure my client has the best chance possible of a life after prison. That’s hard work.”
“That’s one way to look at it. Why become a lawyer?”
“You cops do the heavy lifting. Us lawyer types just want to finish the job—and get paid better while we do it.”
“You’ve got a smart mouth on you.”
“You should hear me when I’m pissed.”
“You’re not?”
“No point in being pissed right now. I’ll wait to get pissed later when I can do something about it.”
“Like what?”
“I figure I’ll take it out on a punching bag or on Dad. He likes when I’m stupid enough to hit the mat with him.”
“With that arm?”
“I’ve got feet.”
“What sort of marital arts?”
“I like calling mine the school of self-preservation. I practice to avoid a beat down from Dad.”
“Belt?”
“Black and blue.”
Holly laughed.
Four hours went by without anyone getting shot, mostly thanks to the bank manager opening the safe and appeasing him with bags of cash. Mr. Fishnet Stockings paced like a caged animal, clutching his rifle like a lifeline. The murmur of conversation among the other hostages worried me. Someone among us was likely plotting something reckless, insane, and sure to get us all killed.
Without access to my painkillers, my arm throbbed. I’d end up battling a worsened infection, as I’d already missed one dose of my antibiotics and would miss the next one, too. To make matters worse, I hadn’t taken the little white pill the Inquisition prescribed to keep my budding witchcraft in check. I’d already manifested a few times at home during the worst parts of my fever, and I recognized trouble brewing.
I could hear the water in the pipes overhead, as well as a faint drip of something leaking in the wall behind me. So much sweat on skin nearby made me shudder. Some part of me, the same part responsible for my awareness of sharks, recognized the fear pumping through those around me.
According to the other witches, I wasn’t supposed to be sensing anything at all yet, but I did. Without the Inquisition’s little white pill, my head hurt from the constant barrage of noise only I could hear. Worse, other things slipped through, things I didn’t want to know about.
While Holly seemed calm on the outside, her rage boiled inside her, and she fought herself along with the urge to put an end to the hostage situation with her own hands—no, her own claws.
I sat beside a Fenerec, and if something didn’t change soon, she would lose control. If she did, the Inquisition would be forced to act. Mr. Fishnet Stockings remained a threat, but the woman beside me could kill us all if she lost control over her wolf.
Before the little white pills, I had sensed my father’s wolf, too, although he and my father existed as more than two beings trapped in one body. They didn’t fight each other, not the way Holly struggled with her wolf.
Great. Just great. A bank robbery was one thing, but what the hell could I do to keep a lid on an infuriated werewolf? Fenerec from other packs often visited Vegas, but Dad made a point of being very careful about which bitches I met.
He had
one rule: no sleeping with Fenerec bitches until I was twenty-one. I found the rule ridiculous, but Dad often took things to the extreme. Some rules were meant to be broken, and if he thought I’d say no when a pretty girl was saying yes, he was crazy.
At least I had the whole condom thing figured out. I had plans, and they didn’t include a wife or kids yet. One day they would, but I had dreams to catch first. Then again, my plans hadn’t included developing my mother’s witchcraft, either.
I reined in my thoughts and reevaluated my priorities. First, I needed to survive the bank robbery, then I’d become a lawyer, and then I’d find a nice girl and have all the kids she wanted. If I could find a way, I’d toss ‘become a Fenerec’ into the lineup, too, but that one would take work.
The Inquisition really didn’t want witches to become werewolves. Finding a way without getting executed for it would be a challenge for another day.
I turned my attention to Holly. How could I cool—or focus—her temper without setting her off or drawing Mr. Fishnet Stockings’s ire? A Fenerec stood a good chance of surviving a rifle round. I didn’t. I also lacked a general immunity to the brute strength Fenerec possessed when they called on their wolves.
“What do you think?” I whispered, giving a subtle nod to the clock.
“I think the cops out there are going to get a lot of people killed,” she growled through clenched teeth.
If I emerged with as much as a single scratch, Dad would need to be sedated. Mom would try to burn the whole place down. Nothing would protect Holly if either one of them thought she held any responsibility for the situation.
I really didn’t need more problems to worry about. I had enough without worrying about if my father would kill a Fenerec for sitting next to me during a bank heist. Of all the things to obsess over, couldn’t I have picked something a bit more relevant?
Figuring out how to stop Mr. Fishnet Stockings without getting shot would be a good start.
“Don’t underestimate the Vegas cops. They’re good guys. They’re good guys being really careful right now.”
“Why do you think that?”
“It has something to do with my mother being married to the Chief of Police. They get a little oversensitive about those sorts of things. Mr. Fishnet Stockings over there likely has them flustered over how someone so stupid could be so dangerous, but hey, that’s not my fault. Wrong place, wrong time.”
Playing the cop kid card doused Holly’s rage, and a different emotion took over. It took me a few moments to recognize the sensation as a blend of surprise and growing worry. Then, something clicked, and her Fenerec instincts took over, her need to protect rising to the surface.
I could deal with overprotective. As long as I stayed safe, she’d hover. Being classified as a puppy by the bitch annoyed me, but I’d use it to my advantage. Then again, to her, I seemed that young. When it came to Fenerec, age meant little.
Holly stared at me, and her face paled.
“What?”
“Your father…”
“Yep. They’re avoiding all risks thanks to me. Sorry about that.”
Her gaze dropped to my arm. “What happened?”
“Found out what getting shot felt like first hand. Dad wasn’t very happy about that.”
“What happened to the shooter?”
“Sharks ate them.”
“What?”
I grinned. “Is it really that hard to believe?”
“Yes.”
“I was leaving class when the idiot brigade, Bent Nose, Tweedledee, and Tweedledum, grabbed me. They decided to take me out to sea, chum the water, and feed me to sharks. They shot me before they tossed me overboard. Alas, I’m too stringy for sharks, so they ate the idiot brigade instead of me. True story.”
“The idiot brigade?”
“You want to know about that?”
“Seems like the safest option.”
I chuckled. “They got eaten by sharks while attempting to get revenge on my father. I thought the name suited them.”
“That’s different.”
Sighing, I shifted to ease the discomfort where my phone pressed against my ankle. “Dad’s going to lock me in a padded room after this. I’m going to start calling him my jailer.”
“Most kids would start thinking about making a run for it.”
“You’re joking, right? You have to be joking. He’d love every minute he spent hunting me down.”
Holly grinned. “Looks like we’re going to have to save ourselves then and find out. It’ll be fun.”
There was only one explanation for her suggestion: insanity. Why did I always have to find the crazy ones? Why were they so much fun? Who the hell made a crazy Fenerec a cop in the first place?
Then again, I had nothing to lose. “What are you thinking, sweet cheeks?”
“Sweet cheeks?”
Ignoring the complaint in her tone, I watched Mr. Fishnet Stockings, my attention on his rifle and the sprinkler nozzle overhead. “Hey, Holly?”
“What?”
“How wet does one of those guns have to get before it stops working?”
Holly frowned. “Water in the barrel could make it malfunction, but it’s unlikely. Water won’t stop the gun from firing, but it might fail in a spectacular fashion. Rain won’t stop a gun like that. Takes a lot to break one. Maybe something jammed in the barrel could cause a misfire.”
Narrowing my eyes, I considered my options. I hadn’t tried using any witchcraft on purpose. My experiences boiled down to frighteningly close relationships with sharks, thus being banned from getting within two blocks of Mandalay Bay, and two incidents of making it rain in the kitchen. The Inquisition’s little white pills had put an end to my incidents, but they angered my mother and worried my father.
“How spectacular are you talking about?”
“Boom.”
Maybe I wasn’t a Fenerec, but I’d always believed there was at least a little bit of wolf in me, and he reared his bloodthirsty head. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
“Won’t hear me argue with that.” Holly glanced at the clock. “Ten minutes to show time. I hope your father has a plan, else it’s going to be a blood bath in here.”
I had ten minutes to figure out how to make with the witchcraft without getting caught or we’d find out if Dad did have a plan. I had my doubts. If Dad had a plan, he would’ve already executed it.
We were fucked.
I stared at the sprinklers overhead and decided if I survived, I’d do more than just study Forensic Sciences. I’d learn how to improvise with the best of them and use my magic with so much finesse no one would realize I’d meddled, not even a nosy Inquisitor. If knowledge was power, I’d best everyone I could, and to hell with anyone who tried to stop me.
Assuming I survived, I’d find a way to blame my parental jailers for my current situation, too. Keeping them on their toes would provide a certain amount of entertainment while I learned how to be a proper witch.
What I needed to know was how the sprinkler system worked. I could sense water flowing in the pipes overhead, but I had no way to reach it. Water alone wouldn’t do me any good, either. It needed to get into the gun. Once inside, it needed to jam the barrel or otherwise bust the firing mechanism.
Steam cleaning the weapon wouldn’t do me any good, but ice might, if I could figure out how to make the water do what I wanted. If I could disable the gun, dealing with the man would be a lot easier—and safer.
I really didn’t want to get shot again. It hurt. It hurt a lot. Of course, my ongoing battle with fever and infection wasn’t helping matters. I really wanted my painkillers, and a moron with a gun and fishnet stockings stood between me and relief.
If the gun died a terrible death, the man would get his day in court. I wouldn’t mind helping him along with a fist to his face, if an opportunity presented itself—or I made one.
How the hell did the sprinklers work? Mr. Fishnet Stockings stood right beneath one. If all the water
in the pipes spilled out, maybe he’d drop his guard—assuming he didn’t open fire when startled, which wasn’t a good assumption to make.
I’d have to wait for him to point the gun where no one would be hurt if he fired. After that, I’d hope for the best—if I could make the sprinkler do what I wanted.
I had made it rain in the kitchen twice. I could talk to sharks. How hard could it be? All I wanted was for the water to go where it was designed to go, but in a way the engineers hadn’t intended.
Dad could yell at me all he wanted later; I couldn’t let some fishnet-wearing dipshit win—or kill someone.
I needed to have another talk with Dad about his life choices. Why couldn’t I have a father with a sane job less likely to rub off on me so damned much? Accountants didn’t tend to think about all the protect-the-public issues cops worried about and ultimately taught their children. Secretaries didn’t, either.
Oh well. If I flooded the bank, I’d blame it on the sprinkler system. Of the problems I could have, it was a minor one at worst unless the Inquisition charged me with reckless witchcraft. Funerals—mine—ranked a lot higher on my general list of problems.
Damn it. I was screwed either way, no matter how I looked at it. Trusting in a desperate lunatic to do what he said amounted to suicide. Acting could get myself—or worse, someone else—killed. I sighed and glared at the sprinkler.
Break, damn you. Break.
Every drop of water in the pipes converged on the sprinkler nozzle and erupted with a heart-stopping bang.
The bursting pipe reminded me of gunfire at close range, deafening in its intensity. Through the ringing in my ears, I was aware of water whooshing to the floor and onto me, icy against my hot skin. The concussive blast of gunfire, a single shot, froze me in place. The memory of bullets thumping into my arm and tearing through me woke every ache and pain born from sitting still for so long.
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