Bite Back Box Set 2

by Mark Henwick

  “He’s guilty! We both know it.”

  “So? I don’t know how they let you operate in Denver, but here we have something called the rule of law. And by that, you’re the one with the problems.”

  We stopped.

  We were both right, and it got us nowhere.

  I slumped back. It was clear the police weren’t going to help. Just the opposite, in fact.

  “You want to know how it looks to every other person in this building?” he said. “You want to know what Forsythe’s bitch of a fucking lawyer is saying right this minute out there?”

  I didn’t want to know, but I had to. He was going to tell me anyway.

  “You’re part of some kind of cult that kidnaps kids. You con your way into her hotel by posing as a journalist. You manage to persuade her to run away. You lure her down into South Central, which you conveniently make a police-free zone by instigating a potential riot and under cover of that, you abduct her. Then you have the balls to come out and blame her mother and her employer.”

  His voice calmed down. He’d gotten it off his chest. Most of it.

  “But you don’t believe that,” I said.

  His lips narrowed, but there was something else in his look now.

  “No. Shit, I believe everything you’ve said about the girl, but I’m compromised.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I had to do what I could. I went to bat for you. Now we’re liable to be screwed for conducting an unsanctioned, unauthorized operation against prominent citizens. One of them, just for your information, plays golf with the mayor, and the other, for Christ’s sake, is a judge.”

  As Elizabetta had said, Reed was a good man.

  “But surely, it doesn’t matter if it was a personal investigation you started? It’s a legitimate case.”

  “Not unless we have proof, which we don’t. And as for personal, Farrell, the stuff that the FBI hasn’t covered up is where you were at school, and who was there with you.”

  He didn’t say any more. Didn’t ask questions that were fair for him to ask, in his position.

  A good man.

  We’d said as much as we could to each other.

  “Am I under arrest?” I asked.

  “No. Not yet.”

  I got up.

  “You’re going to have to leave it to us now, Farrell, or show your federal credentials.”

  I nodded.

  “I mean it,” he said. “That bitch of a lawyer, Spiegler, she will skin you alive and suspend all police activity on this inquiry if you give her so much as a suspicion of acting outside official sanction.”

  “I hear you.”

  But there were methods of operation that were outside the understanding of the courts.

  If it was that or leave Tamanny in Forsythe’s hands, there was no contest.

  Skylur—well, I’d have to handle that.

  With Reed behind me, I walked down the corridor and emerged in the bull pen.

  “Shit,” muttered Reed at the sight of a group arguing in the middle of the floor. There was no way around them.

  From the conversation, I gathered the stone-faced man facing me was the Major Crimes captain. He was being berated by a woman with her back to me. She had short black hair, lawyer’s files and a slim gray business suit that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a fashion show. I gathered this was Forsythe’s lawyer, Spiegler, and she was trying to rip the Captain a new one.

  He wasn’t backing down.

  “I repeat, we’ve done nothing that’s not standard procedure in these cases,” he said. His eyes flicked to register Reed and me. From his expression, he was looking forward to passing the grief on.

  And Forsythe. Standing there, hands in pockets, radiating aggrieved innocence.

  My steps faltered.

  I hadn’t seen him since that night. His hair was still carelessly floppy, the pose still elegant, the clothes so fashionable, but now I could see behind the façade. The hairspray, the posing practice in the mirror, the expensive tailor.

  And the eyes. How could my seventeen-year-old self not have seen behind the eyes?

  The shock of it all had me stumbling, coming to a halt.

  I hated that he could have that effect on me. My guts were churning. My vision narrowed down. Wolf focused. Wolf smells. Wolf sounds.

  Can’t lose it here. Can’t.

  I didn’t dare move. If I moved, I would change, and I’d tear his throat out.

  Close up! Close up! They’re yelling and the camera’s cold eye is staring right at me and Tanner’s grunting and shouting and thrusting.

  I felt the wolf starting to rise.

  No. No.

  Spiegler turned.

  Shock on shock.

  A smirk on her face, she slapped an envelope against my chest and I caught it instinctively.

  Injunction…legal suit…defamation…harassment… Words flowed past me.

  My wolf twisted in confusion. She wanted to come out. She wanted to kill. She didn’t understand. I didn’t understand.

  No. No.

  Movement. Forsythe’s group had gone. I was being guided through the doors. More people. My House.

  Outside.

  Alex was murmuring soothing encouragement in one ear as Julie spoke in the other.

  The Belles would be tailing Forsythe and Spiegler. At least two bikers per target, working in rotation, another team on standby. Julie had briefed the Were on how to run a tail using teams and handovers.

  The Heights would take the surveillance on the judge as soon as he was identified.

  “Veringen,” I said numbly. “His name is Veringen.” I spelled it out.

  Keith turned aside to make a call to the Heights.

  Every other Were not on surveillance was scouring the city for a clue to where Tamanny was.

  “Just a matter of time, Boss.”

  There was a silence. We’d reached the car.

  “Boss?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Good ops. We’ll do all that,” I said.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No.”

  “What’s up?” Alex slipped an arm around me.

  “That woman…” My whole life seemed upside down suddenly.

  “Which? The mother or that bitch lawyer?” Julie asked.

  “The lawyer, hey. So she got under your skin.” Alex gave me a squeeze. “You’re okay now.”

  They laughed, but it trailed away into silence.

  “That woman,” I said again. My mouth didn’t want to cooperate, as if by not saying it, it wouldn’t be true. It couldn’t be true.

  “Spiegler?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s not her real name. That’s Fay,” I said, blinking. “That’s Fay Daniels.”

  Chapter 53

  The conversation on the drive back to Hollywood Hills was heated, but I took little part.

  Elizabetta was arguing that Fay was a victim of Stockholm Syndrome. Yelena thought she’d been evil all along. Alex hadn’t come with us.

  I couldn’t focus. Diana had warned me that I would need lots of sleep during my recovery period—that fighting it and staying awake would have a bad effect. She was right; I felt like I had a concussion. I tried to get back into it, and failed. And despite every argument my tired mind could muster, my House sent me to bed when we arrived back at the house.

  “Alex is out there. I can help.” I said.

  “Yes, honey.” Jen didn’t bother to argue with me. She wrapped her arms around me and pulled my face against her neck.

  Her scent was soothing, like sunlit ivy tangling around a building until everything becomes still. I breathed slow, deep; the scent was a wonderful blend of her own fragrance, that made me think of jasmine and sea salt, and my marque.

  My fangs made a halfhearted attempt to appear, and she chuckled.

  I felt her lips press against my forehead and I slipped backwards into sleep.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  It’s not a teepee
this time. It’s a chateau. A freaking French chateau.

  The rooms are magnificent. Wooden floors. Crimson carpets. Gold drapes. Crystal chandeliers. Oil paintings. Empty.

  Speaks-to-Wolves is here, I know it, but I can’t see her.

  Where’s my great-grandmother? Why are people hiding from me?

  A door on the other side of the room is just closing.

  I follow, running into the next room. It’s exactly the same as the last room.

  Speaks-to-Wolves is standing at a window, and someone has just left the room by another door on the far side.

  Who’s hiding from me?

  I run to the next room, the same room. And someone leaves by another door.

  Speaks-to-Wolves is there, but she’s wearing the face of Cassie, my school friend, who’s a psychiatrist in New York now.

  “Your Joan of Arc complex is getting out of control,” Cassie says. “Just because you’re driven to save the world doesn’t mean you have to do it every day. You need to trust that authority figures aren’t always working against you.” She begins to fade like mist. “Though it might seem that way.”

  The next room. The door closing. I know who’s running away from me. Don’t I?

  This time Speaks-to-Wolves wears Chatima’s face. Chatima, the shaman Adept who gave me the necklace with messages woven into the beads.

  I chose my path. Death and pain.

  “Even a great river may mix with many others. Your choice is not all choices,” Chatima says. “Others choose, too.”

  She turns to smoke.

  Faster. The next room.

  And here, she wears Diana’s face. Diana recovered. Face young. Hair cut short, but black as a midnight raven.

  She cured me, but it’s only complete if I take the last step and move on.

  Redeem myself. Save Fay as a symbol for all the girls I didn’t save.

  But Fay isn’t there to be saved. She’s in it with Forsythe.

  “Is she? Anyway, that doesn’t mean you can’t redeem yourself,” Diana says.

  It’s not all about me. I feel shame when that keeps slipping from my mind. I have to do whatever is necessary to stop Forsythe first. Then I can think about my own needs, about redeeming myself.

  If I can be redeemed.

  If not Fay? I repressed my memories of what happened to her, and yet my guilt at what I didn’t do made me what I am today. I am all things I’ve ever done.

  What if there’s something else I’m repressing?

  No. No. No.

  Another…

  “Amber,” Diana says. “Concentrate. First things first.”

  I’m turning to smoke.

  “Amber.”

  “Amber.”

  Jen was shaking me gently.

  “Bad dreams?” she said quietly.

  “Uugh,” I managed. I rubbed my face. I’d been asleep five hours. That looked like four hours more than Jen. “What’s happening?”

  “Daniels—I mean Spiegler—is driving somewhere. She’s not heading into town. I thought you’d want—”

  “You’re right.” I kissed her and stretched, trying to shake the phantoms from my head.

  Concentrate.

  I looked like I’d slept in my clothes. Well, because I had. What I needed was a bath and a brush and maybe an hour of massage and pampering down at whatever spa Jen could recommend in the city.

  I ran fingers through my hair. Close enough.

  Chapter 54

  The command team was sitting at the dining table. Yelena, Julie and Keith. Laptops and cellphones. Maps of LA marked up with Forsythe’s home and his TV production company’s premises scattered through the northwest of the county. Fay Daniels’ home—Spiegler’s home. A second map showed the scatter of werewolf teams and the areas where they’d passed through without getting any scent.

  Not the same as being sure she wasn’t being held in the area. The packs couldn’t exactly break down doors and search houses.

  “Alex is still out hunting with the teams,” Jen said. “Elizabetta’s back at the conference center.”

  My team wasn’t what the scale of the task needed. I needed a full Ops 4-10 command post and live tactical comms with every team on the ground. Enough teams of werewolves to swamp the city. Data flow on every asset that Forsythe might have.

  And an angel standing over my shoulder.

  “It looks as if Spiegler is heading for Forsythe’s house.” Julie looked up from the map and moved a marker.

  “Who’s tracking her?”

  “Five teams from Long Beach,” Julie said. “Daylight rules. One behind, two flanking and two in reserve. Three motorcycles, two cars. The chaser swaps out with one of the reserves every mile or so. Motorcycles with passengers to handle the comms.”

  I nodded. An Ops 4-10 sort of setup, even if the teams weren’t trained and cellphones weren’t the right equipment. Spiegler might be alert, but she’d have to be well trained to spot a tail like the one Julie was running. Trained and lucky.

  “Who’s on Forsythe?”

  “Billie and Vig are still there, on their Harleys, with a couple of other Belles to handle the comms when needed. Plus three teams: two cars from Redondo; a van from Pasadena. The car teams just swapped out with fresh ones.”

  I grunted. “Harleys kinda stick out.”

  “No problem. Turns out the house at the end of the road belongs to some band that Billie knows. She and Vig have been out of sight the whole time.”

  A break. About time we had one.

  “Any trouble between packs?”

  Julie shook her head.

  Yelena was staring at the map, her eyes hard.

  “Spiegler’s alone. She’s clearly operating of her own free will. No one’s forcing her,” Yelena said.

  “Doesn’t mean she’s not a victim,” Jen argued. “Not proof of free will.”

  The Stockholm Syndrome argument was still going on.

  I tuned it out and looked at the map.

  Julie listened to a comment on her cell and moved Spiegler’s marker another block closer to Forsythe’s house.

  What was happening?

  It might be nothing. A business meeting. A legal briefing.

  But my gut told me otherwise.

  Despite the bluster of lawsuits and official complaints last night, Forsythe had to be rattled.

  His plan, whatever it was, that had involved Tamanny had gone wrong. Something had happened in that club. There were witnesses to her stumbling in distress from the Fashion District all the way down to South Central. I’d turned up, like the ghost of someone he thought he’d buried. He found out I’d talked to Tamanny. The police had invited him in to discuss the abduction of the star of his latest show.

  He might look unconcerned—hell, he’d be thinking he might weather the storm of publicity and come out on top. But just at the moment, he’d be sweating.

  What was he going to do?

  “Anything on the judge?” I said.

  “Stayed at his house,” Keith said. “No sign of movement.”

  I frowned. “None? Positive? What about ways out the back?”

  Keith shook his head. “It’s a cul de sac, so surveillance is more difficult than Forsythe. I’ve got one team from the Heights on each of the roads leading away from his house. We’re running a continuous mixture of guys pretending to be cyclists, dog walkers, joggers, street maintenance, cable repairs, that sort of thing. They’re a hundred percent sure the judge has stayed put.”

  That didn’t feel right.

  Forsythe might have ice in his veins, if he’d been doing this for years. He’d have processes in place. People he knew he could rely on. However rattled he was feeling, he’d be the kind of guy who thought he could regain control. And he’d have plans if he couldn’t.

  Not the judge. He was a bit player. Someone at the periphery. He’d be feeling more exposed than Forsythe.

  Unless he’d been involved the whole time too. One of the organizers who felt in control
.

  Even with that, something felt off.

  Spiegler was about to arrive at Forsythe’s. I’d have to come back to the judge later.

  Jen brought me coffee and toast, kissed my ear.

  “Victor’s on his way and he’s arranging for a couple of helicopters we can use if we need to get around the city in a hurry,” she said. “And I finally managed to get hold of Matt. He’s working online, finding out more about Forsythe.”

  Sweet relief.

  For both of those. Victor and a helicopter would be an ace in the hole, letting us be somewhere people wouldn’t expect us to be. And Matt—Forsythe might have hidden his criminal activity well, but he had no way of controlling every pathway of information on the net. If it was there, Matt was the person to find it.

  Julie put one of the stakeout team on speaker.

  “Just drove past Foxhole,” he said, overdoing the tactical comms codes. “Fox One and Fox Two now loading suitcases into Fox Two’s car.”

  “How many cases?” Julie said.

  “Two, full-size, hard shell. ’Bout three by two.”

  Julie got him to park a block down and look back.

  “They’re both in the car and heading up the street away from us,” he said a few minutes later.

  Keith alerted the other surveillance teams assigned to Forsythe. The surveillance teams joined forces, moving like an invisible cloud around the car carrying Forsythe and Spiegler.

  Two more minutes and we had them heading West on the Santa Monica Freeway.

  “He’s running?” Jen said.

  I chewed a lip for a moment, then shook my head. Gut call. “Evidence,” I said. “Clearing his house.”

  “That’d make sense,” Keith said. “He’s worried Jefferson will get a search warrant. He can’t buy off every judge in LA. Someone will sign.”

  “Two whole suitcases of evidence?” Jen said.

  “We don’t know what’s in them.”

  “I’m sorry, Boss,” Yelena said. “I have to say this. A body can be made to fit into a suitcase.”

  All eyes on me.

  Silence until Jen, looking ill, raised her eyes from her laptop. “Matt says he can’t find any airline ticket purchases for Forsythe or Spiegler.”