Bite Back Box Set 2

by Mark Henwick

  “The invitation of the Athanate.”

  The corner of his lip twitched. “More fundamentally.”

  My jaw flapped a bit before I saw what he was getting at. “A political structure?”

  “Exactly. For all Were. The Confederation have a structure, whether you approve or not. These new coalitions are developing it. We have an opportunity, a very short opportunity, to get all Were swept up into one or the other and then get both sides into a debating chamber. That seems the only way to prevent a war. We have to take them all.”

  “It’s a good argument. But the Confederation might not accept me anyway.”

  “If you walked into the territory of the Confederation today, yes, they might kill you out of hand, whether or not they want you to continue to perform the ritual for those of them that are failing to change. But they’re not stupid. Once they hear we’ve signed others into the Assembly, they’ll be demanding your presence and complaining you didn’t go there first.”

  That sounded possible and almost reassuring, if it wasn’t your hide at stake.

  Skylur did have a strategy, and a valid objective. It was a grand scheme, getting the Were into the decision process, and something that needed to be done. It was the speed he wanted it done at that was worrying. And…

  “I’m not even sure I can perform the ritual,” I said. “It seemed to work last time, but I wasn’t in control of anything. And I’m still…” I stumbled on how to describe it: faltering eukori, no Tara, no Hana, unresolved in my therapy, “…damaged.”

  Skylur didn’t reply.

  “And I imagine these southern coalitions won’t want to be part of the same institution as the Confederation,” I argued. “Every pack that isn’t in the Confederation hates and mistrusts them.”

  “Excellent,” Skylur said. “Two or more opposing parties. The minimal basis of the political process. It’s up to you to make Felix and the other coalitions understand.”

  And it would provide an advantage to him, allowing him to manipulate them through their differences. Of course he’d thought it through. All part of his plan.

  Tarez tapped his wristwatch.

  “You’ll have to take more specific instructions from House Tarez and House Bazhir,” Skylur said. “I must hurry to conclude here so I can take the opportunity of the lockdown to contact Houses individually and privately.”

  He sighed. “As the proponent of Emergence, I’m afraid this sort of politicking will be my role for the foreseeable future.” Something passed behind his eyes—regret? guilt?—and then his attention went to Naryn. “Your commission, House Bazhir.”

  He nodded to Naryn, who broke the seal of his roll, pulled it out and read from it.

  “Under the aegis of the authority invested in you as Master of House Altau, you hereby appoint me Master of House Bazhir, a House fully within the loyalty and domain of Altau, and to which House, Altau’s sub-Houses, associates and allies will answer. I am required to immediately establish the domain of House Bazhir in Colorado, fixing my mantle at the existing Altau possession of Haven and covering the city of Denver…”

  Chapter 22

  He got to the end and I managed to mutter: “So witnessed,” along with Tarez.

  I let Bian shepherd me out, against the flow of Skylur’s assistants, all of them carrying comms equipment and notepads.

  Damn. Not only was Naryn confirmed as the resident senior Athanate in my hometown, but Skylur had reinforced his rank. Naryn was effectively in command of Altau while Skylur concentrated on the politics. Not that he hadn’t been as Diakon, but even the thin argument that I outranked him had been swept aside.

  He didn’t waste a second. We were barely clear of the doors when he started.

  “House Farrell, your kin’s efforts to hold off the FBI are on the point of failing. You handed Agent Ingram too much information about us when you involved the FBI in closing down the Ops 4 operations, and he’s not a stupid man. He knows or suspects a great deal more about us. You have to—”

  Bian and Tarez started to protest at Naryn’s portrayal of events, but I cut across both of them. If Naryn thought he was going to walk all over me, he was wrong.

  “Without Jen holding him off while I was being treated, he’d have run out of patience a month ago, when you were so busy setting up this Athanate convention that you couldn’t do anything about it. We’ve bought time. I don’t regard that as failure. And I didn’t have any other option than to get the FBI involved. You certainly weren’t going to help me when I needed it.”

  Naryn and I glared at each other.

  I couldn’t fight him. Apart from the obvious issue that he was my superior in Altau, Naryn was an old Athanate, with all the physical benefits that accumulated. I’d seen him stare down an entire squad of Correia’s security on his own. I wouldn’t stand a chance.

  But we weren’t going to fight. He just wanted to maneuver me into performing to his agenda. And Skylur had given me tasks I intended to deliver on, impossible as they seemed. I’d fix the situation with Agent Ingram, but not with Naryn prodding and directing things.

  “House Bazhir, House Farrell,” Tarez said. “We need to move quickly forward. This antagonism is not productive, my friends.”

  If there was one Athanate here who could stand up to Naryn, it was Tarez. Not only was he older, he’d worked with Skylur longer. If circumstances had been slightly different, I knew Tarez would have been running Altau instead of Naryn, and Naryn knew it too.

  Tarez went on, motioning with his hand to keep me quiet for the moment. “Naryn, what is the heart of this conflict? Tell me.”

  “I’ve been given a vital role and Farrell has a part in that, disproportionate with her experience and ability,” he replied formally. “There’s history here, and I have to start anew as we need to continue. I can’t allow her to disobey instructions. I can’t have her damage my authority in front of the rest of Altau, as she did House Trang’s.”

  “I see,” Tarez said. “Amber, from your side, why do you have this ongoing problem with Naryn?”

  I wasn’t going to talk through Tarez, much as I appreciated his offer—I spoke directly to Naryn.

  “Last time we argued, you accused me of making tactical decisions in strategic situations. That’s the same problem I have with you. You’re a great Diakon. I have no issue with your tactical ability, no complaint about you in your role as Diakon, but I don’t believe you’re the right person to make strategic decisions for Altau.” Naryn’s eyes narrowed, but Tarez put a hand on his arm to urge him to hear me out. “Yes, we have history. Your decisions would have left Diana in Amaral’s control. You’d never have tried the associations with the Were that I proposed—associations that are now Altau policy and which are my primary task as syndesmon. No, instead of deals with Were, you frigging ordered me to try and force Larimer into the Confederation. Felix would have gone berserk. If I hadn’t disobeyed, we’d be screwed now. Diana would be dead. Skylur would have lost his position. The Denver Were would be in open conflict with Altau and the Confederation.”

  Maybe I needed to revise that assessment that Naryn and I weren’t going to fight. Bian was at my shoulder, leaning in to give her support.

  Tarez kept a grip like iron on Naryn’s arm. He gave us a minute and when he spoke, his words stung. “Do we all feel better now?”

  I stepped back and looked away, embarrassed. Naryn brought out the worst in me. I couldn’t seem to behave rationally when he was around. It wasn’t any excuse that it was a two-way street.

  If only Tarez were heading up Altau. But then I’d probably have to move to LA. At that thought, my Were, already snarling at the conflict with Naryn, made her displeasure known: I could feel my face flow toward wolf and back. Not a lot. Just enough to warn everyone.

  Not what I needed.

  Tarez was watching me carefully. “Are you all right?”

  When I nodded, he continued: “Time is of the essence for all of us, and you, Amber, are the bottleneck.
So what do you suggest? What can you do and in what order?”

  Naryn started to protest, but Tarez overrode him. “Allow us a few more moments, old friend.”

  I took a couple of deep breaths and looked down into the tangled heart of what I’d been told to do.

  “As syndesmon, I have to be accountable to both sides, to truly represent both sides—otherwise it all fails,” I said. “I have to look ahead and anticipate problems, deal with them so they’re no longer problems when they arrive.” That last was just spouting one of Top’s mantras, but saying it helped me focus, helped me calm down and think.

  “I need to be in three or four different places. Here—”

  Elizabetta burst through the doors and ran over.

  “We’ve got another problem. The local Were have attacked Alex’s patrol.”

  Chapter 23

  My first worry was eased when Elizabetta got Alex on the secure commset.

  “We’re all okay at the moment,” he said. “No real injuries.”

  Everyone who was available had piled into a van, with Tom driving. Naryn had had to leave; he was needed in Denver immediately. Tarez had hurriedly gotten him to agree to email us a list of his requirements and timeframes. I agreed to reply with my schedule and reasoning. All very businesslike.

  It hurt Naryn’s authority for Tarez to have to broker a deal, and yet he’d accepted it. That put more pressure on me. Oddly enough, more pressure than if he’d been standing toe to toe and yelling at me.

  Maybe he knows that. Maybe that’s why he agreed.

  More pressure wasn’t what I needed, especially now, especially not with the LA Were.

  I’d have problems with the Pasadena pack after injuring their hit squad. The fact that I was justified and restrained in my response to their attack on my House—that might keep it from going to all-out war, but it was not a good start.

  Tarez needed me to answer any complaints and stop any aggression from the LA packs, and then turn it around and negotiate a deal between House Tarez and them. But as soon as we’d fought the Pasadena Were, we’d set off a chain reaction. They’d know I was the hybrid and I was claiming territory in LA. Even relatively small as Club Vasana was, it was territory, and by the sound of it, it lay inside the Redondo pack’s area. Saying I was claiming it for an Athanate House wouldn’t work in the long term. As far as the Were were concerned, I would be claiming it for Pack Deauville.

  Pasadena and Redondo might overcome their differences temporarily to get rid of the intruder.

  They might even combine with all the other packs.

  That might be what was happening right now.

  So, I had to stop this fight and get an agreement in place with all the LA packs. And if I didn’t get it immediately, Alex and I would need to back off right out of LA.

  Altau security would be left without Were assistance just as Basilikos seemed to be increasing their efforts.

  And I couldn’t work on getting Forsythe to face justice if I couldn’t even set foot in LA.

  Shit.

  Tom swung the van out of the studio gates and floored it, heading for the freeway.

  “They aren’t organized or trained,” Alex said, still talking to me on Elizabetta’s commset. “We pinned them down easily, but—”

  “They’re on their cells right now and you’re going to be surrounded,” I said.

  “That’s about it.”

  He gave me details of how they’d managed to turn the tables and trap the attacking Were in the tangle of rail yards and container parks between Commerce and Vernon, just south of downtown.

  Listening to him, I felt a wave of relief. Alex simply got it. With their better training and weaponry, he and the Altau patrol could have killed the Were that had attacked them. Alex didn’t know Tarez was asking me to recruit the LA Were as associates, but he understood in his wolf gut that we, as Pack Deauville, needed to keep the lid on this. Letting Altau kill Were wouldn’t do that.

  But they couldn’t just sit there and be overwhelmed when the LA packs’ reinforcements arrived, or some passing member of the public called in SWAT teams.

  Not knowing about the lockdown, Alex had been hoping for additional Athanate forces to persuade the Were they couldn’t defend themselves and then we could carefully calm everything down into a discussion. That wasn’t going to happen, but at least the call from Tarez had ensured the Altau patrol would be following Alex’s and my instructions to the letter.

  This van represented everyone who was available to help: Bian, Tom, Elizabetta, two other guards from the house in Hollywood Hills, and me.

  “Alex, any thoughts on how to capture them without risk to either side?”

  “No. They’re inside an old warehouse, but we have no idea where. I’ve only got nine people. It’s too risky to fight our way in.”

  The pack’s reinforcements would be on their way. I didn’t know how quickly they would come. I assumed the packs didn’t have a specialist team on standby waiting for a call. If that assumption stood, they’d need to meet somewhere, get vehicles, weapons, equipment and a briefing, and then make their way across the city.

  It was reasonable to assume we had a lead on them, maybe an hour.

  Cut your assessment in half, and still expect to be caught short.

  That had been instructor Ben-Haim, a man for whom a half-empty glass represented unbridled optimism.

  So half an hour lead. Maybe less. No time to divert for extra equipment. No time to scout the layout of the buildings.

  It was all amateur hour.

  I rubbed my hands down my jeans, silently urging the nighttime LA traffic to magically evaporate so Tom could go faster.

  The LA pack were amateurs, too. Amateurs should be easier to capture.

  On the other hand, amateurs are unpredictable, and these were Were. Which made them more unpredictable.

  Not productive line of thought.

  Instead, I went through what Alex’s patrol had with them. They had two anonymous vans like ours, and a discard truck—a barely drivable scrap vehicle still with the distinctive yellow signage of the Bureau of Street Services. Amazing how useful it was to be able to close a road when you needed to.

  What else? They had gadgets to suppress cellphone signals, but not enough to cloak the whole scene.

  And they had a limited supply of ammunition, tailored to the covert nature of their mission. Silencers fitted on their FN90 guns. A few flash bombs and smoke grenades. Kevlar vests hidden under bulky Carhartt work jackets. Infrared optics. Oh, and sunglasses—this was LA, after all, even after dark.

  Great.

  “Okay, team,” I said over the commset, “this is what we’re gonna do.”

  Chapter 24

  The patrol’s discard truck no doubt had a long and distinguished career in LA’s ceaseless war on the potholes in its five-hundred-square-mile domain. That was all forgotten as I swore at it. It had one last job to do, and it had decided it also had one last trick to pull.

  I couldn’t get it into reverse, and the clock was ticking.

  Alex’s team was almost in place.

  Tom’s voice on the comm: “Team North, green.”

  Elizabetta: “Team East, green.”

  Dammit. Dammit.

  Another crunch as I pulled at the gearshift. I needed to be rolling. Now.

  Alex: “Team South, green.” In place. The main team, including Bian.

  Silence on the comm. Everyone waiting for me.

  In desperation I stomped again on the clutch, grabbed the gearshift in both hands and rammed it into every forward gear, one after the other. Each time it engaged, I eased off the clutch a fraction, trying to stir up the gears so whatever was catching moved just enough.

  Then I hauled it back into reverse with all my weight.

  With a sickening grind, the gear caught and the truck lurched backwards.

  There was no time left for finesse.

  I slammed the pedal down and yelled over the comm: “Rolling
!”

  Five.

  Backward visibility was bad. It was great good luck that no one had parked along this street as I tore down it, the engine screaming protest and the truck weaving drunkenly from side to side, bucking over the potholes. The hazards were flashing and the backup warning screeching.

  It was a bit late to discover the truck’s steering differential was shot as well.

  Four.

  A screech as I swerved and a bang as I clipped a streetlight and lost a side mirror.

  Three.

  I yanked on the string leading into the back and hoped the grenade arming pins all came out cleanly. There was no way of telling.

  Two.

  I had to swerve again to line it up.

  Don’t hit Tom!

  One.

  Fingers crossed.

  Zero.

  The back of the truck slammed into the north wall of the warehouse. The wall burst inwards. The back of the truck crumpled. The flash bombs and smoke grenades went off.

  Alarms screamed.

  Tom and his team ripped the sealing boards off the windows and emptied their guns on full automatic up into the ceiling. No silencers.

  Elizabetta smashed windows in neighboring buildings.

  The whole street was drowned in a cacophony of alarms, lit by flashing lights.

  The Were inside had been in a safe, comfortable refuge where all they’d needed to do was hold out until reinforcements arrived. Suddenly, they were under a full-scale assault. The wall was breached. Bombs had gone off, and there was smoke pouring out of this truck that had appeared right in their safe area. Someone was firing at them. Added to that, they were probably half blind and deaf from the flash bombs.

  And they were amateurs. They did what sensible amateurs would do: they bugged out.

  All but one.

  I heaved my way through the rubble, obscured by the billowing clouds from the smoke grenades.

  Someone inside fired.

  They were shooting at the truck, as if that was going to achieve something. A ricochet went over my head, making that evil wheep sound.