Broken Ice (Immortal Operative Book 1)

by J. R. Rain

  “You shouldn’t leave your midsection so defenseless.”

  Bang!

  I jump, as does the guy in front of me.

  The unmistakable thud of a body hitting the pavement comes from behind me. I glance at Jake, who’s got one arm extended over the top of the dumpster with his Glock. He shot the other one in the head. Well, that’ll keep him down for a bit.

  Mullet takes a swing at me. I duck, narrowly avoiding his blade. He’s fast enough on the recovery to deflect my wakizashi going for his face, but again fails to protect his middle. I ram my knee into his gut hard enough that he flies off his feet into a wall, then slides down to sit on the alley.

  Jake vaults the dumpster rim and lands beside me.

  Three additional night walkers scramble out the back door of Nachtengeln: two more guys and a woman with cherry red hair. She points at us.

  “Shit,” I whisper. I don’t trust my ability to keep Jake alive in a four-on-one fight.

  Since it’s already right in front of me, I snag Jake’s Glock from his grip as fast as I can move. Dexterity is my biggest advantage over ‘lesser’ vampires and humans, and in a moment like this, I need every scrap of it. To my perception, Jake becomes a motionless statue while the night walkers go from sprinting to rushing at me slightly slower than a normal human jog. All three expect me to aim for their heads, and duck. I nail them each in the leg, causing the girl and the smaller guy to lurch over and crash to the ground, tumbling. The other guy staggers into the wall. I fire again, putting one bullet through both his knees.

  “Bitch!” he screams, while falling.

  I grab Jake’s hand and take off with him down the alley away from the club. He’s fast for a human, but that isn’t going to keep him safe from Dominion vamps. Taking out their legs buys us about ten minutes before they can run him down without contest again. As we near the end of the alley, I toss the Glock back to him. He catches it and stuffs it into the back of his jeans in one smooth motion.

  Upon reaching the road, I dart straight out into traffic and jump in front of a brown sedan. It’s a couple with two children. Grr. I step around it to the next car… old woman. Dammit. Sometimes having a conscience is a real pain in the ass. Of course, the little old lady honks at me.

  I dash around her. The next car, a green Volvo, has a guy my age—meaning younger twenties—with an angular face and curly black hair. That works. He leans out the window, shouting at me to get out of the way.

  “Get in the back seat,” I say, walking up to him.

  He blinks, steps out of the car, opens the rear door, and gets in.

  I hop in behind the wheel. Jake takes the passenger seat.

  “I have no issue with grabbing a car, but kidnapping?” asks Jake.

  “We’re not stealing the car. We’re borrowing it. And we’re not kidnapping this guy. We’re doing him a favor.”

  “What?” asks the guy.

  Jake glances back at him, nodding. “Yeah, I’m wondering how this is a favor, too.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Ben.”

  “Well, Ben, it’s simple.” I proceed to violate traffic laws for the second time in as many days. Though, it’s not necessary to drive too rough to get away from four vampires on foot. “Once we’re clear from those idiots, this guy gets his car back without having to spend days wondering if he’ll ever see it again. We’re sparing him that anxiety.”

  “Oh. That makes sense.” Jake nods.

  “No it doesn’t.” Ben grabs my shoulder. “You’re stealing my car. And why the hell am I in the back seat?”

  I make eye contact via the rearview mirror. “No, you’re letting us borrow it.”

  He lets go of me. “Yeah. You’re borrowing it.”

  Jake whistles. “That is seriously creepy. Handy, but creepy. So, umm… now what? Airport?”

  “No… Dominion knows about those tickets. If we try to get on that plane, they’ll be all over us. Need to come up with something else.”

  “If you guys need a place to lay low for a while, I know a spot,” says Ben.

  I glance over at Jake.

  He shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”

  “Okay.” I nod. “Lead the way, Ben.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Plan B

  I wake to the rhythmic bumping of a headboard against the wall of the adjacent room mixed with a woman’s somewhat muffled moans.

  The air stinks of sweat, cheap rug cleaner, and an unfamiliar chemical twang I assume to be some form of illicit narcotic. Wary of bedbugs getting into my things, I stuffed everything except my Beretta in my backpack and hung it on a hook in the bathroom. Bites will heal, but carrying a stowaway back with me would be far more irritating. Getting rid of them is expensive and time consuming, and the mere thought of introducing a bedbug to my home makes my skin crawl.

  Jake’s still asleep—despite the activities in the next room. Though we shared a bed naked, nothing but sleep happened. It’s a little after two in the morning, and this dive hotel is louder now than when we arrived. I slip out from under the thin blanket and check myself for bites… surprisingly finding none. Hmm. Perhaps I am the only practicing hematophage in the room. Either that or the bites have healed already. Maybe the little bastards could tell what I am and avoided me out of respect for a fellow bloodsucker. I lift the sheets to check Jake out. He’s bite-free as well. Hmm. Impressive. It seems Germany’s dive hotels still have some standards. And wow... Jake is kinda impressive too.

  Down girl.

  After a quick shower—and yes, there are used drug needles in the wastebasket—I get dressed and proceed to pace around the room listening to the ambient sounds, everything from late night television to fighting, to screwing. Though, the people in the next room finished while I was in the shower.

  A while of pacing and thinking later, I decide to head for the US Embassy since we’re already in Berlin. The Dominion shouldn’t be able to interfere with a Marine helicopter to Ramstein AFB and a military flight out of the country.

  Jake comes to around five.

  “Morning,” he rasps, smacking his lips due to dry mouth.

  “It is.”

  He yawns, stretches, and wanders into the bathroom scratching himself. Oh, that’s romantic.

  I take a seat on a wooden chair by the small table and collect my cell phone charger. A mindless crystal-matching game on my cell phone occupies me until Jake emerges from the bathroom with a towel around his waist, sits on the edge of the bed, and like meditates for a few seconds before dragging his backpack over and opening it. I briefly admire the muscles in his back and shoulders, more appealing than little glowing gems on a tiny screen. He reaches into his bag, rummaging for clothes, but pulls out a small object that he ends up staring at. Curious, I get up and wander over. He’s holding a small photo of a fortyish couple, both blonde, with three children… a fairly typical family portrait. The boy in the middle looks like Jake at around ten, between a girl slightly younger and another boy somewhat older than him. Digital manipulation is obvious to my eyes.

  “Cover family?” I ask.

  Jake lets out a long, slow sigh, then speaks with a pronounced German accent. “That’s my sister Sofia and brother Deiter. She wanted so badly to be a pilot or astronaut, but had to get glasses when she turned fourteen. She went into biochem instead. Deiter’s nowhere near as motivated. He still runs a delivery truck and works at a hash bar on the weekends.”

  I stand there not quite sure what to think while Jake—as Andreas Klein—talks about his fake parents as though they’re living happily somewhere out in the countryside near Dresden, eagerly awaiting the family to gather again for the Christmas holidays.

  “You probably think I’m starting to sound crazy, don’t you?” He chuckles at the photo, tracing his thumb over it. “Maybe I am. It’s not normal to be so emotionally invested in people who never existed.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Who’s to say?”

  “Yeah.” He stuffs
the photo in the bag again and pulls out a pair of boxer-briefs. “Never knew my birth parents. Already told you the foster ones weren’t much for emotion. That’s why I got into intelligence work. No relatives, nothing to hold over me. In this line of work, the best kind of family to have is an imaginary one.”

  I put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Guess you don’t have that problem, huh?” Jake pulls the boxers up as much as he can without standing.

  My daughter’s face appears in my thoughts. Her living with Julian is a byproduct of my job, sure, but I don’t want to keep her at arm’s length. I had her for the first, like twenty-two years before I decided to involve myself with the CIA. At some point, when she’s old enough to be home alone, I’ll probably have her move back in with me… assuming she wants to. We don’t really have the same worries as humans regarding family. If humans from a foreign government decided to kidnap Chloe to get to me, they’d be in for a surprise. Even at her size, she’s roughly as strong as an average adult human. And there’s the other obvious thing: real life isn’t like a spy movie. One agent isn’t anywhere near significant enough for a government to kidnap their kid/spouse/sibling and manipulate them. It’s much more efficient and effective to simply kill the agent that’s causing an issue.

  “Yeah… no attachments, right?” I sigh wistfully, not wanting to talk about Chloe. I don’t distrust Jake, but his brain’s an open book to the Dominion. “Makes our life easier.”

  Jake stands and snugs his boxers up. “Now you probably think I’m pathetic.”

  “Not pathetic. Just a bit lonely.”

  “Heh.” He pulls his jeans on. “You look ready to go somewhere.”

  I nod. “Figure we wait for dawn to make things a little more difficult on them, then head to the embassy.”

  “Cool. That works.” He puts on a long-sleeved pullover. “So that sun thing is true?”

  “To a point. We wound up calling them night walkers because they’re more sensitive to sunlight than we are. It doesn’t kill them, or even really cause harm. They just find it highly unpleasant. Hurts their eyes, and they’re prone to sunburn. None of that flash-poofing into ash piles stuff. That’s all movie magic.”

  He laughs. “Where did they come up with that?”

  “I don’t know. Probably the same place Godzilla came from.”

  A sudden, strong feeling of anxiety comes out of nowhere. I spin to face the door, reaching for the Beretta under my left arm, but hesitate, listening and watching. No one barges in, but the psychic alarm doesn’t relent.

  “We need to go, now. Something bad is on its way.”

  He hurries into his sneakers, throws his backpack over one shoulder, then taps his temple with one finger. “That’s damn handy, you know.”

  “I know.”

  I advance to the door like I’m about to enter a warzone full of unknown hostiles. If I had a hand mirror, I’d use it to peer outside, but I don’t. I risk a check via the peephole in the door. The parking lot is empty of people. One drunk guy stumbles along the sidewalk between the lot and the street. Looking at him doesn’t trigger any additional sense of worry, so I disregard him as an actual drunk and not an actor. He meanders out of view on the right, but returns seconds later, swaying side to side on his way into the parking lot toward an orange Volkswagen. When he reaches the car, he pulls keys out—drops them—and proceeds to attempt to open the door with an empty hand.

  Opportunity has knocked.

  “Now!” I whisper-shout. “Go!”

  Jake yanks the door open and I sprint toward the car. The drunk guy continues fumbling at the door in slow motion, unaware that he’s dropped the keys. I crash into him and shove, hurling him to the ground. A loud bang comes from high right. In the corner of my eye, Jake staggers down to one knee, not quite halfway between the door and the car.

  I crouch, grabbing the keys with my left hand while yanking the Beretta from its holster. The shot came from a window across the street, the third story of an austere factory or warehouse. Only the barrel of a PSG-1 sniper rifle sticks out into view, but I’m sure it’s the same bitch from the park where I first made contact with Jake. Firing blind, I squeeze off a shot every quarter second—which feels more like one every two seconds to me—while unlocking the car. The rifle jerks back into the building amid a shower of glass shards.

  Jake stumbles over to the Volkswagen, collapses against the passenger door, and croaks, “You should probably drive.”

  “Get in!” I stash the empty Beretta back under my arm, jump in, and start the engine.

  As soon as Jake flops into the seat, I smoke the tires and nearly run over the vomiting drunk guy on the way out of the lot, over the grass/sidewalk to the road. The driver side door window explodes inward; a streak of copper zips past my face and burrows into the dashboard. I yank the wheel to the left an instant before another bullet comes through the roof and detonates the headrest of my seat. Shouting curses like a sailor, I crank the wheel to line the car up with the road and mash the pedal. The car sorta accelerates. Damn four-cylinder…

  A third boom follows, but I have no idea where the bullet went.

  I turn right at the first opportunity, putting buildings between us and the shooter, and continue weaving around traffic, using the oncoming lane whenever necessary. Jake slouches against the passenger side door, clutching his chest and wheezing.

  “How bad is it?”

  He grunts. “I have some Band-Aids in my bag.”

  I nearly grin at that. Damn, I can’t remember if the US Embassy has hospital facilities or not. Screw it… I whip out my phone, driving with one hand and eye while pulling up a map. Don’t try this at home, kids. I’m a vampire with superhuman reflexes. You’re not. Upon locating the nearest hospital, I set the GPS for it, drop the phone in a cup holder, and speed up even more.

  “Sofia’s birthday is next month,” mumbles Jake. “She’ll be twenty-five.”

  I glance at him. Shit. He’s losing too much blood. No point telling him she’s not real. Fuck. My hands are shaking. Dammit. I shouldn’t be this emotional. Not professional. “You’ll need to pick out a nice gift for her.”

  He manages a weak smile and an even weaker laugh. He closes his eyes.

  “Keep your eyes open, big guy.”

  He emits a humph noise, but doesn’t open them.

  I’m beyond caring if the police start chasing us. A red light ahead has stopped traffic. I start to switch into the oncoming traffic lane, but get a bad feeling. The same instant a garbage truck comes around the corner, I swerve back the other way and go onto the sidewalk. Shit, that would’ve been a head-on. A loud crack comes from the right, where the side mirror had an unfortunate encounter with a pedestrian. I catch a brief glimpse of a guy jumping up and down clutching his hand to his chest. He’ll live.

  “Jake?” I say, taking his hand.

  He mumbles incoherently.

  Grr. I accelerate even more, doing ninety down a residential street while trying to squeeze the will to live into his hand. His pulse is fading. I can’t determine where the bullet hit him—other than the chest—but I keep trying to tell myself it’s not as bad as it looks. Tears start to blur my vision. Shit. I’ve known this guy for a couple days. I shouldn’t be crying.

  Jake mutters, “I’m sorry, Mother,” in German.

  Hang on, dammit. We’re almost there.

  A cacophony of horns goes off as I ride the shoulder past traffic waiting to make a left turn into the hospital parking lot. No sense of alarm goes off in my head, so I blow through the red light and play Frogger again, dodging four lanes of traffic on my way into the hospital lot. That maneuver finally attracts a cop—who I missed crashing into by probably two or three feet. He pulls a U-turn in the middle of the road, blue lights on and that annoying European siren wailing.

  Chirps and squeals come from the tires as I shoot the ambulance approach ramp at three times the posted speed and skid to a halt by the automatic doors.

  “Com
e on, Jake, buddy. We’re here.”

  I glance over at him… and freeze.

  He’s gone. His last breath had to have slipped away somewhere in the hospital parking lot. My brain decides to check out under the weight of unexpected emotion. No! Son of a bitch! I can’t tell if I’m upset at myself for failing to get him out alive or legit heartbroken because I had real feelings for him.

  All I can do is sit there, staring at him.

  My orders were to get him out. Get his information out. They didn’t specify alive. I don’t want to lose him. Fuck. Wait. If he just took his last breath... he’s still got about thirty seconds…

  I ignore the cop screeching to a halt behind us and extend my fangs. The pain of chomping down on my wrist barely registers past the weird desperation raging inside me. After mixing my blood with saliva, I lean over and press my lips to his, forcing the mixture into his mouth.

  “Come on… come on… Don’t be too late.”

  A metal object taps on the passenger side window. I snap my head toward the cop, fangs out, eyes glowing, and snarl.

  “Shit!” screams the guy, jumping back. He goes for his gun, but I hit him in the cerebral cortex with a mental sledgehammer that leaves him standing there derp-faced and staring.

  Relief floods over me when Jake’s lower lip twitches. I next press my cut wrist into his mouth and lock eyes with the cop again. He didn’t see us run a red light. In fact, the man doesn’t remember why he decided to pull into the lot. A few hospital staff emerge from the sliding doors to check on the commotion. I hit the gas, driving away before they can get much of a look inside the car. The cop stands there under the awning at the ambulance entrance, staring off into space while the nurses or orderlies look back and forth between him and us.

  Not like doctors can do anything for Jake now.

  Damn four-cylinder turbo. Another thirty seconds might have made the difference.