Night's Black Agents (Paxton Locke Book 2)

by Daniel Humphreys

  Helen smiled. If Walter didn’t recognize her, the spell had worked even better than she’d hoped. “As much money as I’ve spent in your back room over the years, I’d think that you’d have the good grace for a welcome, Mr. Braun.”

  His frown deepened. After a moment of study, his eyes went wide. “Helen?”

  It had to be the voice, she decided. The blending of her and Chloe’s facial features had made her look more like her own daughter than herself, but her voice hadn’t changed all that much. It wasn’t a big deal, in the end, but interesting to note nonetheless. “Surprised to see me, Walter?”

  “I, well, I saw that you’d broken out of prison, but I never expected you to…” His stammering fell silent as he reconsidered the crew spread out behind her and did the mental arithmetic. She couldn’t read his thoughts, but Walter Braun had a terrible poker face. The minute when the ‘oh shit’ ran through his mind was plain to see.

  Helen stepped forward and lifted his chin with a finger, forcing him to make eye contact. “Now, I know it’s been a while, dear Walter, but surely you’ve hung onto that last item you were to acquire for me. You haven’t sold it to another buyer, in the meantime?”

  He composed himself somewhat, and murmured, “You know me, Helen. I’d never double-dip on a sale. I’ve got your tracking spell in the back. Let me go get it, so you can be on your way.”

  “See, there’s one other problem, Walter. After I entered prison, Division M rolled up most of my caches. Almost everything I had socked away for a rainy day, up and vanished. How is that, do you think?”

  Walter licked his lips. “I don’t know, Helen.”

  “Now, some of them were hiding in plain sight. Storage units in my name, that sort of thing. I expected that they’d check those out. But I had others, and very few people knew about them or what they contained.” She gripped his jaw, preventing him from turning away. “You’re on that short list, Walter. So when I pull up and spot two men in an unmarked car, that screams cop to me.” She smiled. “Start talking, or the boys will start breaking things. Once they run out of antiques they’ll start on your arms and legs.”

  The shopkeeper winced. “Please,” he whined. “I’ll talk. Just don’t…” She squeezed harder, cutting him off. “Okay,” he said. “Yes. A few weeks after you got arrested, I came home and found a couple of Division M people in my house.”

  “You gave me up.”

  “It wasn’t you, Helen. I gave everyone up. Ever since they’ve been up in my business like white on rice. The low-level buyers, the people buying shield charms, shit like that, they give them a free pass. But anyone who’s into major league, big time magic, they put a tail on them until they can build a case. If it’s bad enough, they don’t even bother—they rendition their ass. Rumor has it there’s some sort of black site prison out there for arcane types. It’s supposed to make Gitmo look like summer camp.” Walter must not have liked what he saw on her face. He spewed words at her as fast as he could compose them. “You’ve got to understand, shit went downhill fast. This hard-charger took over the West Coast office after you went away. You’ve heard the rumors about the deals the Division has made, same as I have. Well, I’m here to tell you, one of these agents they sent to break into my house, the guy wasn’t human.” He shuddered. “I’d rather turn narc than see any of those three ever again. Especially that sleepy-eyed freak.”

  Helen cocked her head to the side, curious. “Is that who’s outside now?”

  “I don’t know. They rotate people so often, I can’t keep them straight. I try to ignore them.”

  “Names.”

  “What?”

  “The ones who came to your house.”

  “Eliot was the monster. Some southern hick, Valentine. And their boss, Newquist. But he’s not around here anymore, I heard one of the agents talking about him being promoted.”

  “I don’t care about that,” she said in a mild tone. “I need to know who to torture to get my things back, Walter.” She narrowed her eyes. “Speaking of which—where’s the spell you acquired for me? Did you give that up to the Feds, too?”

  “No, no. They didn’t find that hiding spot. Here, I’ll go get it…”

  “No,” Helen interjected. “Roxanne, there’s a safe in the back. Take two of the boys and push it to the side. Then…”

  The bells over the door tinkled.

  Paxton

  Phoenix, Arizona—Wednesday evening

  We made it to Kent’s house right before sunset.

  I’d been there before, but not since I decided to forgo hotel rooms. Even with the familiarity, we had to consult the mapping app on Cassie’s cell phone a few times. Thankfully there were more than enough cul-de-sacs in Kent’s subdivision to turn the RV around as needed.

  Kent and his wife, Barb, had settled down a bit north of the city’s core. A few years before they moved in, the entire area had been empty desert, but out west towns tend to spread out rather than up. In terms of sheer area, Phoenix was almost twice the size of New York City, but it had only a fifth of the population.

  Despite that, our drive in turned a bit nerve-wracking the further south—and closer to the city—we came. It had only been three or four years since I’d last visited, but the traffic seemed to have swelled exponentially in that time. Developments had sprouted up off of exits that I vaguely remembered as having been empty or the sites for lone, overpriced gas stations.

  Once I found my bearings, and with them, Kent’s street, I pulled into the graveled motor home parking spot to the right of his garage. He’d been waiting for us on his front porch. With his feet up on the decorative Spanish-style block wall and a Corona in one hand, he took an exaggerated look at his watch and gave me a thumbs-up.

  I shared a grin with Cassie. When we emerged at the front of the RV, Kent was waiting with his arms wide. He clasped me in a hug tight enough to make me wince from the pressure on my still-aching ribs. Noticing my reaction, he eased up a bit. “You look like hell, kid. You never call, you never write…” He winked at Cassie. “At least you brought your secretary along.”

  The big disadvantage to using Kent’s house as my address of record was that my replacement driver’s license, bank cards, and cell phone got shipped halfway across the country after I lost them in Wisconsin. We’d bought a prepaid junker to keep from running Cassie’s data plan into the ground, but I’d still kept most of my communication short, sweet, and via text message. Kent had a day job, and even though I was coming to help out, he didn’t have the spare time to babysit every stray thought that ran through my head.

  Kent slapped me on the shoulder and shook his head. “Well, don’t stand there. Grab the bags. C’mon, Cassie, I’ll give you the dime tour.” Rolling my eyes, I winked at her and retreated to the RV to grab our things. The Sikoras had a pair of guest bedrooms their kids and grandkids used for holiday accommodations. The rooms were on the same side of the hall with a Jack and Jill bathroom between. I put Cassie’s stuff in one bedroom and my own in the other without putting too much thought about it, then spent the next few moments agonizing over the knowing look she’d given me the other day.

  Maybe I was lying to myself, but I didn’t know how I felt about…things. Our fathers had been friends when we were in high school, but Cassie and I had never run with the same crowd. When dad, Mr. Hatcher, and I caught Brewer games in the summer, Cassie was usually with her friends, or at some camp or another. We were cordial outside of school, but we were never what you would call friends.

  I suppose surviving an extreme situation together did a lot for your appreciation for a person. Teenage me had found Cassie attractive. Knowing that she was a calm bad-ass in a tight spot upped the ante to an unfamiliar and uncomfortable level.

  One of the things I’d realized early on after I gained the push was that it made taking advantage of people easy, even seductive. It was simple enough to keep from using it during day-to-day interactions. Unsure how my willpower would be in romantic situations,
I’d never let myself get close enough to a woman that I might lose control. With the push, they’d be completely willing, but I knew that I’d still know what I’d done, if it came to that.

  Living such a monastic lifestyle sucked, to put it simply. It’d been over a decade since I’d been on so much as a date, and I’d grown so used to keeping my carnal desires tamped down that I was now torn on what to do.

  So I gritted my teeth, splashed some water on my face, and went out into the main room of the house. The sliding door leading to the backyard admitted the appealing aroma of grilled burgers. I focused on the smell and tried not to think about other things as I joined the rest of the crew.

  Kent and his wife, though of the same age, couldn’t have been any more different in appearance. He was short and broad, with a bushy beard of white hair that didn’t distract from the fact that he was cue-ball bald.

  Jean Sikora was an inch or two taller than her husband. She had a slim and graceful build and perfect, perpetually-coiffed hair in a style that made her look a decade younger. I’d once said to Kent that she’d have been perfectly cast as a ballet instructor in one of those Oscar-bait movies I never seemed to catch.

  The thought had brought a twinkle to his eyes, and with a grin, he’d said, “Beauty and the beast.”

  Jean said something in a low voice, and Cassie laughed along with her. I hadn’t heard the joke, but I smiled at their joy, nonetheless. This was a happy place; always had been, and I felt the weight of the last week lift off my shoulders, despite our heady reason for coming here.

  Kent led us in grace, and we tucked in. Despite our tardiness, the meal was divine. I found myself apologizing to Jean for making them wait, but she waved a hand at me.

  “Oh, nonsense. I had a late lunch and the old man rolled in a bit before you two. Don’t let him fool you. He’s been burning the candle at both ends, trying to wrap this thing up.” She peered at me over the tops of her reading glasses and added, “I’m going to tidy up the kitchen a bit. You three take all the time you need, but no shop talk once you’re in the house.”

  “I’ll help,” Cassie offered, but Jean shook her head.

  “From what I understand, you’re a member of this team as well, dear. I’ll be fine puttering around in the kitchen on my own.” She fixed Kent with a serious look. “But don’t take too long. You’ve not been getting enough sleep as it is.”

  “Yes, dear,” Kent replied. I resisted the urge to crack a smile. He may have been the physical brute of the relationship, but when it came to making sure that he took care of himself, Mrs. Sikora ruled the roost.

  He produced a battered pipe and tapped a measure of tobacco into it. “First things first. We going to talk about your get out of jail free card?”

  My smile felt awkward enough that I knew it was a weak attempt. “I know it wasn’t you this time, so I’m not sure what there is to talk about.”

  He grunted, amused, then said, “Your paranoia may be rubbin’ off on me, but your mystery guardian angel gives me the heebie-jeebies, son.” Kent lit his pipe with a wooden match and took a few thoughtful puffs. As recently as five years ago, he’d quit smoking entirely.

  This is worse than he’s said, I reasoned, and I felt immediately guilty at my delay. If I’d left when he first called, maybe we would have had things nailed by now. Maybe—I forced myself to cut off that line of thinking. If I’d forgotten about Bobby Gennaro and my old house, Cassie would be dead and Mother would have the grimoire. One way or another, sometimes things happened for a reason, and amazing results can come from the worst situations. I thought about a brilliant light shining down from an otherwise-black midnight sky and shivered despite the warmth of the desert air. “How bad is it?”

  He wrinkled his forehead, considering the change of subject. “Twelve, so far.”

  Cassie whispered a curse.

  I resisted the urge to let my jaw drop. “That many? Shouldn’t there be more of a hubbub in the press?”

  “One of several reasons why I reached out to you. Don’t get me wrong, holding things back from the press is a tried and true method of weeding out the nonsense from the nuggets of truth when it comes to tip lines, confessions, that sort of thing.” He trailed off and glanced around. Jean was visible, so he wasn’t worried about her overhearing. I gave Cassie a look and received a raised eyebrow in response. If Kent noticed, he didn’t let on. Satisfied that the growing night around of us was bereft of spying eyes and ears, he took a puff off his pipe and continued. “The first few bodies, I could understand. We were only able to identify half of them definitively, but they all had criminal records for vagrancy, trespassing, that sort of thing.”

  “Homeless,” I guessed.

  “Exactly. One interesting thing, though. Other than being dead, they all looked pretty good. Clean shaven, hair trimmed. No way of telling if they were still on the sauce or not, because…” Kent gave Cassie a wary look.

  “I’m not some wilting flower, Mr. Sikora,” she said tartly. “I can handle it.”

  “Call me Kent, girlie. And that ain’t it. I’ve been doing this for a long time, so safe to say I’ve seen some shit. And this still has me shaking.” He paused, waiting for her response. She crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair. He gave me a look, and I grinned. “Kids,” he grumbled. “Fine. The autopsies and toxicology have been limited because the victims didn’t have much to test. They were opened up below the ribcage and, well, cleaned out. Lungs, intestines, liver, the whole shebang. Just a big hollow place where their insides used to be.”

  Cassie grimaced, and I was right there with her. The burgers in my stomach might have made a run for it, had I not seen something all too similar to weigh Kent’s words by.

  “Melanie, one of my mom’s witch groupies. She took her family to my house and butchered them in the living room. Some sort of ritual. But I’m guessing you figured something similar since you called me.”

  Kent toasted me with his pipe. “Nailed it, son. That’s not the worst of it, though. The homeless population, for obvious reasons, don’t generally like to talk to the police. But a few of the beat cops, they’ve got good reputations . They leaned on that, and that got us a timeline. Our second victim was missed, and the last time anyone saw him was two weeks before we found the body.”

  Kent had called me a week ago. His voice had been casual, but had I missed some undercurrent on the line? “What happened?”

  “Home invasion last week. Mother and father executed. Their five-year old twins were missing, boys.” He paged through one of the folders and pulled out a glossy photograph. Two identical brothers, one with a gap-toothed grin, wrestled on a beige carpet. “Evan and Ethan; the latter is the one with the missing tooth. Normally, we wouldn’t have made the leap, but they had a security camera over their front door. The crew drove a black van matching the description of the vehicle at least two of the first series of the victims were seen getting into.”

  “That’s a thin lead.” The statement sounded like a protest in my ears because I knew, deep down, that it wasn’t, at all.

  “Yup.”

  I met Kent’s eyes. “We’ve got a week.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Agent Beckwith

  San Francisco, California—Wednesday evening

  “Thirty minutes?” Beckwith repeated, aghast. “That’s the best you can do? Where’s the damn helicopter, Argosy?”

  “Down for maintenance. You’re sure it was Locke?” The tinkle of glass and flatware in the background—along with the supervisory agent’s annoyed tone—told Beckwith all he needed to know. His reputation was crap, and the man was out to dinner. He was lucky Argosy had even answered the phone.

  He glanced sideways at Reed. The younger agent had the M-4 assault rifle from the trunk between his knees, barrel up. “Hundred percent certainty.”

  “Fine. We’re scrambling the tac team now. Hold tight, we’ll be there as soon as we can. Don’t try and take them alone, Beckwith. She’s bad news, and he
r crew can’t be much better.”

  The other agent hung up and Beckwith barely resisted the urge to pitch his cell phone out the window. “They ain’t going to spend thirty minutes in there,” he muttered under his breath. “They’re going to get what they came for and then they’ll be in the wind.” He could imagine the jokes already, even if the surveillance cameras got a good enough picture of Locke and her crew. And either way, their snitch was probably walking the thin line between life and death.

  “What do you want to do?” Reed said. His voice was quiet, but Beckwith could tell that the other man was ready to follow his lead. He stared at the storefront, wishing he could see what was going on inside.

  Screw the snitch. “Argosy was right about one thing, that crew is bound to be bad news. We hold tight here. If it comes down to it, do you think you can put enough bullets in the engine block to stop that van?”

  “I can’t guarantee it with this poodle shooter. I can go for the tires, maybe. Worst case scenario, we use the car. Not like it’s going to mess up the paint, right?”

  The shabby appearance of the Division M vehicles was a running joke. The budget was so tight that they cut corners wherever they could. Most of the ragtag fleet consisted of hand-me-downs or auctioned off vehicles from other, more financially robust agencies. That look was a calculated one, though. The headquarters tech teams worked their magic—technological, not actual, so far as Beckwith knew—and got each vehicle in perfect working order. The Crown Vic the two men checked out of the motor pool before heading over had patches of rust and faded paint, but the engine purred like a kitten and had much more horsepower than stock. If they needed to turn it into a guided missile, it would do the job.

  “Okay,” Beckwith began. Movement on the street drew his attention, and he cursed as a man in a black overcoat slipped in the door to the antique store. His conscience didn’t ping much leaving Walter Braun to his fate—the guy was literal human garbage—but no way was he cold enough to leave a civilian to the ill graces of a coven of witches. He glanced at Reed. The younger man had seen it as well, and he gave a half-hearted shrug.