My fingers hovered over the button. Activating it would be a betrayal. It meant turning on my team and possibly getting someone killed. Who should I protect: my guys or Rainer’s guys?
“Let’s get the team,” Sarakas said.
My hand dropped without triggering the device.
We collected our bullet vouchers, suited up in full gear, and I performed the busy work of double and triple checking all my straps, mags, and weapons. Flak vest sat like a familiar, futile weight on my chest. It stopped mutt teeth, sure, but all my limbs were exposed and therefore received most of the damage. A helmet and visor would try to protect my head from monster canines who liked attacking throats and faces.
The idea of running with a big team was not comforting. It should have been. Instead, I found myself wondering which of us would be dying today. Who wouldn’t make it home? Whose meat would we be scraping off the floor?
Rashad crumpled his soda can like a frat boy and tossed it over his shoulder. It pinged off the wall and landed in the trash. He belched, wet and loud. My palms itched with the urge to slap his face. The compulsion reminded me of my mother and then I wanted to crawl into bed.
Not much of a professional mercenary. What the hell was I anymore? Slabs of rehabilitated meat covering old wreckage.
Admittedly, watching Vincent commit suicide and feeling the splash of his blood on my face had kicked me deep and rattled something loose. If I failed to pull myself together, I was going to get someone killed.
I cracked my knuckles, trying to get my head in the game.
Rashad tossed me a soda. I caught the cold can, and its weeping condensation splashed on my cheek. Cool like rain. He smelled like the underside of a fruit bin, sweet, ripe, starting to turn. I didn’t want him to die. Didn’t want it to be my fault. Didn’t want the goddamn soda, either.
I let the carbonation settle a bit before popping the tab. The syrup hit my stomach hard, sugar fizzled through my bloodstream. The sweet stink of Rashad’s living, organic body accompanied the syrupy citrus flavor. I’d be goddamned if I watched him die today.
Time to grow some balls, Durant.
St. Pierre, as cute as ever, chattered with Rosco. Sherlan, a wannabe preacher, prayed with Keats. Fowlkes arrived with his large automatic weapon and token twitch. He, Rashad, Sherlan, St. Pierre, Jones, and I had run with Vincent on the day he died. One was missing.
“Where’s Jones?” I said.
“Q-ward,” Fowlkes said. Quarantine meant Jones had been mutt-injured. I didn’t inquire about the prognosis. Their all boasted a red X under their names, a Do-Not-Resuscitate order. Fuckin’ fatalists.
Sarakas came to stand beside me, bigger than I remembered. I wanted to say that I had missed him, but I choked. It wouldn’t have come out right anyway.
Rancid smoke crept up behind me, crunching my spine like a hammer. Mullen, the bane of my existence. I glanced up to see him staring at me, and then I couldn’t risk looking away. Couldn’t show fear or agitation. He lit a fresh cigarette, and inhaled it hard and fast. His face stretched like a serpent’s as it unhinged its jaw.
I wondered if he knew about the disembodied boobs. I wondered if the idea made him hard in his happy place.
“Got skin work done,” he said. I didn’t answer. Sarakas watched us from a pace away, poised like he might come and defend my honor if Mullen stepped out of bounds.
Mullen’s matching gear proclaimed he was going with us. The sociopath mercenary had taken a special interest in me, and by special, I meant he scared the shit out of me.
I hated him. I’d kill him if I got the chance.
He caught my gaze, saw something there, and blinked quickly. A cold smile boiled over his lips. He inhaled, and the tobacco withered down to his unflinching fingers.
Locked and loaded, the combined team scurried into three vans and started out. My vest cinched tight but the gear felt light. Quick on my feet, my body proved more dexterous and reliable than it had in years, and I intended to make good on its promise.
No one dies on my watch, not today.
Chapter 13
Red Sector amazed me. Its push for personal liberty was so blatant, insistent, and habitual that Big Fed stopped trying to remove its cancer of human freedom and resigned to isolate it. Enforcement rarely entered Red and never breeched the neighborhood for anything minor.
And yet there we were, about to raid a hostel over one mildly sympathetic statement. The world was going to hell in a tamale cart.
Our inconspicuous vans were conspicuous in a sector where the motif was loud, vibrant, and trashy. A few beer cans pelted our windshield as we drove by. I pictured Rainer at his computers, alerted by his network of cameras and spies, watching us as we invaded his neighborhood. What would he do? When he learned I rode in one of the vans, what would he think?
We parked downwind of a three story old house. It had slivers of windows, a jungle of ivy, and mismatched siding. Quilts blocked the windows like curtains. A campfire pit sat on the front lawn. A forest of laundry lines held ragged clothing. Stacks of mismatched bicycle carcasses and several attempted renovations sat on a makeshift workbench. Shopping carts from all over the city. Wildflowers, weeds, enormous basil bushes. Streetlights shone in multicolored waves of blue, red, and yellow. Patchouli accompanied the fading campfire smoke.
We approached sleeping bags encircling a burnt out rubbish fire. Bodies were tucked inside, easy as pie. We advanced from the east, circumnavigating the house while Team J fell upon the sleeping bags. Scarcely a chirp.
Sarakas and Keats in front of me, Mullen behind me. Basil leaves crunched under my feet as we moved low along the outside. Hostel door sat open, hundreds of names etched into its faded red paint.
Five guys congregated in the kitchen, loading up on pancakes and passing cans of Mexican soda. Long hair and dreds and tattoos on their faces and necks. Slouching and chuckling and teasing one of the kids about someone named Linda. Didn’t notice us yet, stacked outside the open door, brushing against the climbing ivy. Sarakas gave the pull-and-go signal. He and Keats advanced together, buttonhooked in opposite directions. We peeled off, left-right-left.
“FBHS,” Keats announced. “Everyone on the floor! Down, down, down!”
Soda cans flew as the startled young men threw their hands in the air, went white, and made stupid faces. No one had sensed us coming. One thought about running, a slow afterthought that came too late. I planted my knee in his neck and pushed him face-first into the table.
Not a wolf in the room, I could tell right away. Faces, postures, and breathing were all wrong. We secured them quickly, zipping their limbs into flexicuffs, bundling pedestrians like livestock.
Commotion from the next room. Keats, Rashad, and Sherlan advanced while Sarakas and I wrangled the last body. The boy smelled of dragon’s blood incense and pot.
Someone screamed. A girl.
Tension in my thighs. We advanced quickly. It flew at me and I ducked. The airborne lamp crashed by my head, ceramic shards dancing off my helmet. Beer bottles clattered on the floor, clinking like wind chimes.
Four bodies, one down, three upright, one female. Pink and yellow hair. She might have been sixteen, but who can tell these days? Face lifted and caught the meager light. Shiny cheekbones revealed her disease. Mutt. I lifted my weapon. My heart paced forward, picking up speed, gathering weight of gravity. She grew more excited.
“Stop,” I said. For god’s sake, control yourself.
A lanky kid crashed through the door and bull-rushed Sherlan, taking him down in a confusing bundle of limbs. Rashad immediately stepped in and pistol-whipped the boy with the butt of his rifle, dropping him like a sack of stones.
She snarled, and everyone looked. A gunshot flared. Silver slammed across her back, tearing through her shirt and streaking blood along her shoulder blades. Before another bullet could be fired, the door burst open. I swung my weapon around but not fast enough. A bare-chested man with a yellow beanie and jeans tackled me. Le
an. Dense. Packed like a stone.
Mutt number two.
We flew. My helmet cracked the wall, brain sloshed inside my skull. No breath, ribs twanged by anvil impact. We fell together, and somehow all his density landed on my foot with a snap of pain. Color bled and I couldn’t think. Weapon stuck between us. A scream, not mine, but the girl’s. The man’s breath fogged my visor and I couldn’t see.
Pulse like machine gun cadence.
I fumbled at my hip, touched the sidearm, freed it, and found his flesh with its nose. Bullet by bullet, I pushed him off me. Silver felled him. I panted, hot and agitated and completely disoriented. Pushed the visor off my face. Cold air, pot, and potpourri. The young man at my feet shook and quaked, but the bullets had found his heart. He was on his way out. Mutt magic gave him the strength to roll over, crawl four paces, and try to stand.
Sherlan grabbed the girl, hoisted, and pushed her against the wall. She head-butted him, cracking his helmet. He shot her twice in the chest. She fell with a short shriek. Hit the floor. Contaminated blood dripped between Sherlan’s eyes. He yanked off his cracked helmet. “Dirty bitch.”
The man at my feet shouted, loud, heart-torn. Guttural. A beast rolled through him as he reached for the disappearing girl. Mullen shot him in the head. The boy’s hat jarred loose and his brain spilled. He fell flat, dead.
Bright orange hair ruffled from under the hat. Fluorescent orange, point of fact. My heart stopped. My brain didn’t want to admit it. I stuck my boot under his shoulder and turned him over. The mandarin hair clung to the shadow growing along his jaw. He must have been so proud of those whiskers. So young and irrevocably broken.
Hunter. Erik’s wolf.
My fingers went numb. My weapon slipped down onto the sling.
A sound filled my head, almost like the ocean. I smelled salt, flowers, and graves. Vomit charged up my throat. I reached for my knees, but then my vision rolled and there was nothing to catch me.
Chapter 14
“Told you she wasn’t ready.” Sarakas sounded angry. I couldn’t breathe.
“She’s always ready,” said Mullen. The snake.
“Bullshit. I’ve never seen this happen before.”
Thankfully, I passed out again.
Woke tucked in a hospital bed with IVs in my arm. Sarakas sat bedside wearing his gear. Bags under his eyes. Christ, I would kill him if I kept this up.
“I feel much better,” I slurred, sedated by something.
“Shut the fuck up.” He crossed his arms and stared.
“I thought your mother told you not to curse in front of ladies.”
“You’re no lady.”
“Fair enough. Wanna hand me that bedpan?”
He did. I puked. He passed a cup of water so I could rinse and spit.
“Guess how many broken ribs,” he said. “Go ahead, guess.”
“Two?”
“Three and a half.”
“How does one have half a break?”
“Shut up. You’re pissing blood, too. Kidneys suffered trauma from the impact. Your foot has a series of fractures. You’re a mess. They put Gorgonblood in you again, Kaid. Your body nearly cracked into pieces because you were overdosing on the healing cocktail, and as soon as you get back on the job, you’re jumping into the fray and guzzling up more of the damned stuff.”
“Take the volume down a notch, please,” I said.
“When were you going to mention a psycho left body parts with your name written on them?”
“Didn’t seem relevant,” I moped. Sheepish.
“Oh. Relevant. Huh. Have you lost your goddamn mind?”
“I get it, it sucks. Today really sucked, but you’re mad at yourself, too. Mad because you let me go on the raid.”
“Take time off,” he commanded.
“Freakin’ hell, Sarakas! Stop saying that! Whenever something comes up, you prescribe vacation days. What am I supposed to do with myself?”
“Recover, that’s what. You accompanied your team on a raid today, and you couldn’t hold yourself up. Flat out fainted.”
“After all the killing—”
Hunter. Dead. Brains on the floor.
I heaved and choked and puked. Andreas was right there with the pan like a pro. My ribs flared with bursts of white hot agony. Pain shot through my lungs until I felt like I was breathing through a sieve. Unfit for duty, absolutely.
“Yeah, maybe a few days,” I said.
“Try weeks of bed rest.”
I might have argued, but I puked instead. Broken ribs felt like a fat elastic band barbed with spikes constantly constricting my lungs. I was in no shape to do much of anything.
“It’s entirely possible everyone in this city hates you,” Sarakas said.
“At least five percent of people who know me like me.”
“Maybe three percent, max. You are a walking freakin’ target, woman. From now on, you’re wearing your vest every single day. Do you understand?”
“That’s excessive.”
“Promise me, or you aren’t getting out of here. I’ll have you locked in q-ward and leave you quarantined until you listen to reason.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Benefits of being team lead.”
“Asshole. The power shot right to your head.”
“Promise!”
“Fine, yes! I promise! Keee-rist.”
“When you get back on duty, if you get back, you’ll ride with someone constantly. Not a footstep without a partner by your side, got it?”
“What do you mean if I come back? Let’s not take this too seriously.”
“Hacked breasts are pretty serious, Kaid.”
“Yeah.” I clutched my blanket. “That was screwed up.”
His pale face, jawline speckled with shadow, appeared absolutely distraught. If I kept pushing him, he’d crack. Or retire me.
“Maybe I need the time,” I said.
Besides, when Erik found out I killed one of his crew, he was likely to hunt me down and rip my heart out. Literally. I had killed one of the thirteen, his quaint council of wolves trying to organize like the Knights of the Round Table.
Hunter was a sweet kid. Sensible. Good taste in beer.
I had my hands on him, and I had not recognized him. He had simply been a threat, a mutt, and I responded automatically. Had he known it was me? When he had his hands on me, snarling in my face, crushing me against the wall—had he smelled who I was? Had he expected me to do something different?
I would never know.
And Erik wouldn’t care. Every mutt in his kennel knew where I lived. They would kill me and probably Davey, too, if I didn’t do something.
And I had no idea what to do.
The hospital confined me for the agonizingly boring duration of four days, during which time I had nothing to do but harass nurses, sleep like a log, and eat like a picky infant, after which point they crammed a cane into my hand and practically shoved me out the door.
Chapter 15
“Kaid, there's a man sitting on your porch.”
I jerked into full alert mode, a quiver of worry tearing my gut. Sarakas had driven me home from the hospital, and I’d fallen asleep on the way. I squinted across the dark yard, saw the shape and posture of the man, and recognized it, but it confused me. Like seeing a complete stranger and mistaking them for a loved one. It couldn't be him. But it was. I’d know that truck anywhere.
The big pickup had been red once, before tactical camouflage became a necessity on the farm. Heavy rails protected the side panels and an extra grill guard protected its heart. An empty machine gun mount sat on its roof. Errant bullet holes punctured the passenger’s door. The vehicle belonged in deep country, far from civilized society.
I had the unmistakable urge to run, a childish, impulsive need to flee.
“Who is it?” Sarakas said.
Well, what do you know? “My father.”
“Your father,” he repeated dumbly. “Kaid, isn't your father
dead? I always thought he was dead. You never talk about him. Your dad is alive? In case it isn’t already clear, you and I are going to have a serious talk.”
Owen Durant stood when he saw us, and I hunkered down in the seat like I could disappear. I needed a game plan, a battle strategy. Or a new identity in a different state.
“Are we going to go talk to him?” Sarakas said.
“Think he'll still be here if we circle the block?”
“C'mon, Durant.” When I reached for the morphine bottle, the derivation left his face, replaced with concern. “Are you in pain?”
“I'm anticipating some.”
“Get out of the goddamn truck,” he said, snatching the pills.
“Don't get pushy, asshole.” I hadn’t seen my father in years. I couldn't imagine why he'd be sitting on my porch. Then it hit me; he must be dying. I tried to understand what that would mean. Surely something monumental, something exquisitely important. I should feel devastated or at least angry, but I was tired and wary. I wanted to know what the trouble was so I could go to sleep.
“Shit.” I clutched the cane and limped out of the truck, hopping to avoid putting weight on a fractured foot. I applied my weight to the cane, an embarrassing device. Unfortunately, I needed the damn thing. Badly. The great part about wearing a Kevlar vest all the time was that it actually supported my battered ribs. My body felt like a sack of bludgeoned potatoes, but that wasn't the only reason I lagged. It was like my heart threw all my innards into the dirt to make room for a giant mysterious ache.
Dad was a man's man from the depth of his soul to the scuffs on his boots. He held two fast-food cups: one for coffee, one for tobacco spit (the latter looked horribly like the former). When mom was alive, he chewed only after they fought. After a row, he wanted “to bite the shit out of something.”
Cancer. It had to be cancer. We gazed at each other. I tried to see something in his face that I could understand, but suddenly I was six years old again and my parents were omnipotent mysteries.
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