by Amy Faye
"I mean, I guess. A little. What's your point?"
"My point is, dearest Nick, how do you win the game?"
"You kill the enemy king. Easy. I mean, depending on who you're playing against, but it's not hard to explain."
They were riding in the back of a taxi back into town, now. She hoped none of this sounded too crazy. If it did, then she'd have to think of some reason that they obviously didn't mean what they obviously did mean.
"No, no. You're thinking about it too linear, again. You're so fucking cryptic until it comes to fighting and then it's 'of course you just blow his brains out!' Think cryptic."
"You… uh… fuck, dude. I don't know. I don't play chess. I hunt, and I track, and I occasionally run around the woods. I'm not a fucking chess master."
"You capture the King, you don't kill him. You put him in a box that hurts so bad he'll do anything you say, but you don't kill him."
"So what's your point?"
She laid her head back against the headrest. "So if we kill him, there's just another one waiting to take his place, right?"
"Yeah, sure."
"So we hurt him, but we don't kill him. Hurt him so bad he'll beg us to let him be."
"So, what? Torture? I don't think it'll work, babe. I'm not sure how dope fiends are, but I don't think you're ready for the level of torture that you'd need to get some information out of a guy like that."
"Someone tortured Jeff Wilde."
"Someone did. And you know what I bet they got out of him?"
"What?"
"Maybe as much as a name. That shit must have hurt, and it must have hurt bad. But Jeff was a tough cookie. If he cracked, it was only at the end, and it was only just."
"Well, to be fair," she conceded, "you may be right about that. Or maybe not. Time will tell, maybe. But the thing is, I wasn't talking about torture."
"No?"
"Not in the least bit. You torture a guy, and at the end of it, you might have an answer to some question you've got. Might be the truth, might not be. But you can't even guarantee he'll break. In the end, he's just waiting for you to stop, and you have to hope he wants you to stop more than he wants to keep his secret. You have to hope he trusts you to stop when he gives it up, too, for that matter."
"Okay, now who's being cryptic?"
Brianna made a pointed expression towards the taxi driver, who made no sign of having noticed the conversation, or having noticed her look. "And, never mind the fact that I'm trying to teach you something here."
"Yeah. How to play chess. I get it. I'm not planning on picking up the game any time soon, so why don't you make this real simple for me? Pretend I'm stupid."
"Who has to pretend?"
"I didn't hear you calling me stupid when you were screaming for more two days ago."
"I didn't say your cock was stupid," Brianna quipped. "I'd never say that."
Unlike everything else, that got a reaction from the cabbie. He put his eyes back on the road again in an instant, but not before Brianna noticed him looking in the rear-view at them.
"Now just shut up a minute. I've got to make some calls and get some things ready."
"What, you know people in Green Bay or something?"
Brianna raised an eyebrow. "I've got some old Army buddies who owe me a favor. 'Course, showing up with a big old brute like you? Who knows. Maybe they'll decide to be extra friendly. Or maybe they'll decide that they don't pay back favors after all. Especially if you keep talking about that cock of yours."
"Oh, you mean those kinds of friends?"
"No, I don't. I mean upstanding officers who might have thought about what a pretty young Lieutenant they had working under them once or twice. Upstanding officers who very were very quickly reminded how short a man's career could be if the wrong talk got out.
Twenty-Three
Brianna clicked her jaw and took a deep breath. There was a big gap between talking about the right moves to make and actually making them. The big difference was approximately difference between conspiracy to commit kidnapping, and kidnapping charges. Which wasn't as much as you'd think, really, since the conspiracy charges can be nearly as bad.
The thought didn't make her feel any better.
"So what is it these guys did exactly?"
"Remember how I explained it all as a 'sort-of gang' thing?"
"Yeah. Pissed me off. Didn't explain anything. Still don't really follow how this whole 'werewolf society' thing works."
"You know how countries work?"
"You mean with territory and politics and negotiations?"
"Works like that, more or less, except that the territories are a little smaller, they change more often, and the fights over territory are… well, they're not bloodier at all, to be honest. Normal folks can be pretty bloodthirsty, when they want to be."
"So, what? He stole some territory?"
"No," Nick answered. His jaw tightened and Brianna thought that he looked angry. He had looked varying degrees of angry since they'd settled in outside the big damn house on the best side of the rich neighborhood.
"What, then?"
"Remember how I said that my, uh. Pack went our separate ways?"
"I remember something like that, yeah."
"Well, I wasn't very specific about that front."
"No, you weren't. I'm noticing a trend with that."
"Yeah, well, it's not something that I enjoy talking about."
"So these white eyes guys have a name. You guys have a cool pack name? Razor Dogs or something?"
He looked at her like she was just showing how stupid she was, but Brianna couldn't help the goofy grin that was plastered on her face. "No, then?"
"We had a name, but seriously–razor dogs? Was that, like. The best you could do, or just spitballing?"
"Hey, I'd like to see you come up with something on the spot."
"I could do better than 'Razor Dogs,' tell you that much."
"So what was it?"
"I don't want to talk about it right now."
"Is it because it's not as cool as Razor Dogs?"
"Sure," he said, and spit out the window of the rental car. "I mean, to be fair, nothing is, is it?"
"Nope," Brianna agreed. "So when do we move?"
"We move when I've got a good feeling about this."
"I've got a bad feeling, does that count?"
"Not really," he said, frowning. "But I've got a bad feeling as well. Not that I had a better feeling before we started this damn plan."
"Well, then tell me more. You said you weren't specific. Mind being more specific now?"
"Black Heart," he said.
"What?"
"Look, clan names aren't that complicated."
"I mean, there's still time. Razor Dogs is probably available."
"I'm happy with Black Heart."
"Okay, well… does that mean I'm some kind of member of your Black Heart club?"
"No," he answered. "Because you're going to back out as soon as we get this taken care of. I just need a few hours to meet a few guys, and I'm going to do it as soon as the opportunity presents itself."
"But I would be."
"You would be if there was any Black Heart to be a member of."
"What's that mean?"
"The others–they're, uh. Not around any more."
"I gathered that."
"No, I mean…" He let out a breath. "They're dead. Old White Eye got to 'em."
"Oh. I guess that would piss you off."
"You don't know the half of it."
"I know how I'd feel if my unit got massacred, back in the Army. I can only imagine how it must've been."
"Yeah, well. My brother was in charge, and he got aggressive."
"You want to talk about it?"
"No. Let's move. It's not a good feeling, but I think we can make it if we move quickly. And I'm feeling like I owe White Eyes a surprise."
She nodded and racked the slide on her pistol, rubbing her legs in the hopes that
she'd pump a little more blood into them. Then Nick started moving. He was fast–impossibly fast. Yet, as she strained hard to try to keep up, she found herself catching him. Passing him. Her body ached with the exertion but she could move fast.
She slowed enough to let him catch up. She wasn't going to be any good by herself. They hit the doors running, and Brianna dropped to a knee and pulled out the folded-up pack of lock picking tools.
"You cops sure come prepared," he growled. "Is this standard training?"
"Not exactly," she said, her head somewhere else. Inside a tumbler, feeling for the subtle feeling of the pins inside separating as she fished. "But I do what I can."
A minute later the wrench turned and she turned the handle along with it. Nick took the lead, then. The place was huge, and as far as she knew, neither of them had been inside. But he moved as if he knew the layout by heart. Moved as if he knew right where he was going.
He stopped outside a heavy pair of wooden doors, painted white with gold leaf. How terribly gaudy, she thought, frowning. Rich folks just couldn't get enough of themselves, could they?
"Open it," she said, so quiet she could barely hear herself. He nodded, lined up at the door and waited for her to prepare the pistol. With her other hand she began a count. Five fingers. Four. Three. Two.
She put the hand back on the butt of her gun and waited. One second later, Nick twisted the handle and put his shoulder into it and they busted in together.
On the other side of the door was a woman sitting on her bed in silken pajamas who seemed as surprised to see them as anything. As if she didn't even understand what had happened.
"Who are you? How did you get in here?"
Brianna looked up at Nick for guidance, but he stared at the woman and made no move to do much of anything. Then after a moment he spoke softly. "That's her."
"Mrs. Grant?"
"What's going on here?"
"Mrs. Grant, I'm a member of the Grand Rapids Police Department, and I'm here to take you into custody. We believe there may be a threat to your life."
It was a lie, but the woman believed it. As she stood up, even Brianna herself was impressed. She was gorgeous. Supermodel gorgeous, even at her age. She couldn't have been less than forty-five, but she had high, sharp cheekbones and a pout that would have melted a man's heart.
"Oh, dear. Can I get dressed?"
Brianna's lips pinched together. "Of course, ma'am. Officer, will you wait in the hall?"
She turned to Nick and hoped he'd get the idea.
Thankfully, it seemed, he figured out what was going on without losing a beat. They were in, and if things didn't turn bad, then everything was taken care of.
Now she just had to hope that didn't happen, which would have been a first.
Twenty-Four
Brianna watched the woman undress disinterestedly. Well, she ought to have been disinterested, anyways. But as she dropped the silky top onto the mattress Brianna found herself almost distracted. Those proportions shouldn't have even been possible, never mind all put together on a single woman. It couldn't have been natural. Then again that seemed to be getting around lately.
"Ma'am, do you know where your husband is?"
"That big officer with you. You two are close?"
"I don't see how that's relevant, ma'am. We're just here to protect you."
"Protect me from whom?" The woman dug in her dresser and pulled free a sweater. Good. Cover those things up, Brianna thought. Another little voice in the back of her mind wouldn't have minded if she didn't, though, either.
"You might have heard, on the television, about a man who was–uh… torn limb from limb, I suppose, is the only way to describe it."
"Oh, I heard. Awful. He couldn't seriously have been, right?"
"Oh, he was." Brianna nodded. The wife seemed honestly aghast.
"Good God. What's the world coming to? Should I call my husband, before I go, or…"
"We're in a bit of a hurry, ma'am. We've got very reliable news that things could turn bad, and in a real hurry." Brianna cleared her throat. "We've got a phone at the station, though, so you'll be able to call at that point."
"Oh. Okay, then. I'll just, uh. Leave a note, in case."
She grabbed a pen and a piece of paper; an instant later, Brianna grabbed her wrist, surprised at how quickly she'd crossed such a large room.
"That's not wise, ma'am. What if the killer were to find it and get word of where you were?"
The woman's eyebrows knit together.
"Do you mind if I see your badge? I didn't get a good look before."
Brianna had anticipated that. In fact, she'd anticipated it coming quite a bit sooner. The woman's ability to take it all at face value had surprised the hell out of her. Then again, if she weren't playing a game, she didn't know anything about what was going on, so maybe that was just the way with her.
"Of course." Her wallet came out of her pocket easily. It was a practiced motion, one she'd done a thousand times now. She held it out for Mrs. Grant to read. God, she smelled as good as she looked. It was downright unfair. Some women just had all the luck.
"Okay, well, if I can't leave a note, I guess… well, I'm dressed, so lead the way."
She did, and they went down. Brianna was a little surprised that there were no guards around. Most gang types, they had so many goons skulking around the house that it was like a damn army barracks. But there was no one. Not even dogs, as far as she could tell.
They didn't run this time. Brianna wanted to, especially as she eyed the camera system all around the house. But they weren't doing this so that they would get it done without getting caught. They just needed to get out before someone showed up to stop them.
She took a breath and opened the back door of the rental car. "In here, ma'am."
Professional. That was what she wanted to seem. Professional and controlled and not in any way nervous. The woman slid inside, probably less reluctant than she would have been to slip into the back of a police cruiser, which was the only good part of being forced to use a rental.
Nick slid into the back, as well. The woman didn't seem to mind much, which was good. Brianna slid into the front and turned the key. They had been on the road for less than a minute before Nick swung his arm, hard. He clipped her right on the point of her chin and her neck made an unpleasant pop.
"Is she alright?"
Nick felt for a pulse. Brianna kept her eyes on his hands, and was more relieved than she ought to have been that he didn't feel for anything else.
"She's still got a pulse, but I hit her pretty hard. I'd be surprised if she's out of it any time soon."
"Good enough for me," Brianna said. It wasn't good enough for her. The raw violence in that–it had scared her a little. And what parts of it didn't scare her scared her, too. God, what would a hit like that be like? How would it feel? Jesus, was she some kind of weirdo or what?
She pulled over and let him move into the front. It wasn't rational, but she wanted him there for what came next. She pulled out the phone they'd bought at a grocery store, along with long-distance minutes, it had barely cost them fifty dollars, punched the number in, and by the time Nick's seatbelt was buckled she was hitting the green dial button.
A man's voice on the other end spoke. "How did you get this number?"
Brianna forced herself to stay calm. "I'd worry about other things, Mr. Grant."
"Who is this?"
"I could be a friend," she said simply. Cryptic was the way to go. She'd gotten good practice with what cryptic sounded like, thanks to Nick and his God damned attitude. "If you play your cards right."
"Threats, is it? Cute. Do you have any idea who you're dealing with? How much trouble you're going to be in?"
"I could be in a lot of trouble, if you decided to send your boys after me, Mr. Grant. No doubt about that."
"So what the fuck are you calling me for, you idiotic bitch?"
"Your wife wouldn't like it very much if she got cau
ght in the middle of the trouble you might send my way, though. I think it would probably be smarter–yeah, I think would be smarter to play ball."
"You don't have Rebecca. I'm calling your bluff."
"You're going to regret that, Mr. Grant," she breathed. "But you've still got time to change your mind."
Twenty-Five
The woman in the back didn't stir for a long time. Twenty minutes. They had an hour before she was going to be anywhere near safe, and twenty minutes of it was silence. That time was probably the easiest. Everything after that was just going to be harder. And they had quite a lot of it to go.
She woke up gently at first. Then, as if she were waking up from a dream, Mrs. Grant, former Mrs. Universe Mrs. Grant, who was far, far too attractive for her own good, started shrieking.
"Where are you taking me? What are you doing? Please don't hurt me!"
Brianna looked at her through the rear-view mirror. They ought to have gagged her, but somehow the idea just seemed a little too on the nose. Like they were playing at kidnappers at that point, rather than doing what had to be done.
"Mrs. Grant, I told you. I'm with the police department. You saw my badge, didn't you?"
"Why did your–your man hit me, then?"
Brianna let out a breath. "What do you know about your husband's private affairs?"
"Private? I don't, uh. I don't involve myself in them."
"Has he ever, I don't know, bit you? Perhaps during particularly, shall we say, enthusiastic lovemaking?"
Brianna's eyes flicked off the road long enough to see a baffled expression on the woman's face.
"Bit me? With his teeth, you mean?"
"With his teeth."
"No. What the hell kind of question is that? Do I ask you about your sex life? Jesus. Bit me!"
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I have to ask these questions. Does the phrase 'white eyes' mean anything to you at all?"
"Is that a band or something?"
Brianna knew before she looked away from the road that the woman knew nothing at all. It was all over her, somehow. Like she had an air of cluelessness. Like it was a smell on her, or something. Underneath the hints of flowery bath soap, of course.