“Shit,” Ashton whispered, almost inaudibly. It was only a matter of time before one of the men had the genius idea to look up. He motioned to Zachariah to get his attention then signaled for them to keep moving, slowly, toward their original destination. Zachariah scowled again and nodded, and they started creeping along the rafter again, moving slowly so as not to dislodge any of the cobwebs or dust that lingered there.
To Ashton’s surprise, he and Zachariah made it to their destination. He signaled for Zachariah to stop before either of them crossed into view of anyone that might be on the other side of the wall. He motioned for Zachariah to stay where he was then crawled forward and peered over the wall.
The area on the other side of the freestanding wall appeared to be some sort of office space, though it was overly large for an office and surprisingly sparse. A conference table with eight black leather chairs surrounding it sat far off to the right; to the left side of the room was nothing but a massive open space. There was no desk, so calling it an office might have been a misnomer, but it was the closest description Ashton’s aching mind could come up with.
What disturbed him the most about the room, though, were the obvious bloodstains on the concrete floor on the left side of the room. It made him worry over exactly whose blood it had been.
But there was no time for that right now, though; because it was neither his nor Zachariah’s, it ultimately didn’t matter. What mattered more were the two good things he could see in the room: the apparent exit door on the wall opposite the one he lurked over, and the familiar torn duffel bag that rested on one end of the conference table.
“Holy shit,” Ashton breathed at the sight. He couldn’t believe Nathan Chambers had allowed weapons that could kill werewolves into the same warehouse as his prisoners. Was the man that confident in his abilities and his control over his prisoners? If he was, then he was going to be seriously surprised.
Ashton crept back toward Zachariah, who waited behind him. Before he spoke, he cast a glance at the floor below. The four men had yet to figure out that they needed to look up. Everything was, so far, going in his and Zachariah’s favor.
“Our weapons are down there,” Ashton whispered. Zachariah looked just as surprised as he’d felt over that revelation. “Also, there’s an exit door. At least, I think it’s an exit.”
“Let’s get down there, then,” Zachariah replied, his eyes lighting up at the prospect of getting out of there.
“Not both of us, not yet,” Ashton said. “We need to separate, at least temporarily, just in case. I’ll go down first, make sure the coast is actually clear, and secure the bag of weapons before you come down.”
“I don’t like it,” Zachariah admitted, “but I’ll trust your judgment.”
Ashton nodded. “Just watch my back, yeah?”
“Only if you’re careful,” Zachariah retorted. “Don’t get dead.”
Twenty
Zachariah felt like his insides were quivering with nervousness, and he could practically feel bile rising in his throat as he watched Ashton creep away and prepare to drop down to the floor. He wondered how in the world Ashton was going to make the twenty-foot drop from the rafters to the floor without killing himself.
His question was answered as Ashton reached a point on the rafter directly above the free-standing wall. He paused there for a long moment, studying the more manageable ten-foot distance, then swung himself off the rafter. He hung there for a long moment, breathing deeply, and Zachariah could only imagine how badly that must have hurt after the time they’d spent dangling from chains.
Then he let go.
Zachariah’s heart leaped into his throat as Ashton fell, and for a split second, he was sure the man was going to miss. But then he stuck the landing, his feet touching down gracefully and almost silently on the narrow top of the wall in a crouch. He balanced there for a moment, studying the floor below, waiting to see if any of the men in the building had heard him. Then he rose and started walking along the wall with more skill and effortlessness than Zachariah could ever hope to achieve, skirting to the portion that overlooked the conference table. He swung himself down, and Zachariah lost sight of him.
The next time Zachariah saw him, Ashton was walking along the conference table with a slight limp, like maybe he’d landed oddly or rolled his ankle when he’d dropped down from the wall. He was heading toward the duffel bag at the end of the table and had almost reached it when there was the soft, almost inaudible sound of a click.
Zachariah looked around wildly, trying to find the source of the noise. But when he finally located it, it was too late for him to do anything about it.
The door that Ashton had presumed to be an exit burst open, and three men that were much, much larger than either him or Ashton entered the room, pistols raised and aimed at Ashton. Ashton froze, only steps away from his goal, and watched as the three men fanned out across the room, their weapons trained on him. Then Nathan Chambers walked into the room, standing behind the three bulky men, a smug look of triumph on his face.
Zachariah had to refrain from smacking himself in the chest to get his heart beating properly again.
“Well, what do we have here?” Chambers said. “When I got the call from my men telling me that my prisoners had escaped—again, I might add—I just had to come down here and see for myself. I figured I’d be confronted with Mr. Lawrence doing something stupid again, but no, I find you this time.” He cocked his head to the side, studying Ashton, then asked, “Where is Mr. Lawrence?”
“He got out,” Ashton replied. “I stayed back to get our bag.”
It was such a reasonable response that Chambers didn’t seem willing to question it. Maybe it was because Ashton was the more experienced between the two of them that he believed him.
“Bad move on your part, Mr. Miller,” Chambers said. He stepped closer, and the three guards stepped forward with him, maintaining the same distance, like a mobile human shield. “You should have left the weapons and gotten out of here with Mr. Lawrence.” He paused and studied him more closely, his eyes narrowing. “I find you very…curious, Mr. Miller. And people who spark my curiosity are few and far between.”
Ashton didn’t respond to the comment. He looked like he badly wanted to snatch something out of the duffel bag and go on the attack; Zachariah could even see his fingers twitching at the idea.
“Your work with the Agency has, by what I’ve gathered, been rather exemplary,” Chambers continued. “What I find curious, though, is your lack of a history. Mr. Lawrence has a rather thorough one. Gymnastics starting at age four, Little League baseball at eight, a couple of years of JV football, fell in with the wrong crowd in high school and developed an addiction to painkillers he stole from his daddy’s medicine cabinet, but somehow he still graduated third in his class of over one thousand. And then, he graduated from college, where he took an accelerated curriculum that had him graduating in three years, all while indulging in his newfound addiction to Adderall, with a Bachelor of Science in History and was scooped up by the Agency a month later.”
Zachariah felt like he was going to be sick as he listened to Chambers rattle off such a succinct summary of his life, one that was just detailed enough that it suggested the man knew far more about him than what he’d said out loud.
“You, on the other hand…” Chambers continued. “There’s nothing. Why can’t I find anything on you, Mr. Miller?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ashton said.
“You’re like a ghost, Mr. Miller,” Chambers elaborated. “You don’t show up on anyone’s radar until about, oh, ten years ago? Nineteen years old and there you are, recruited into the Agency out of nowhere and rising up out of nothing to become what you are today. Literally nothing. Because by everything I’ve been able to find, you don’t have a past. You don’t exist, Mr. Miller. No birth certificate, no school transcripts, no report cards, no doctor’s checkups, no college applications, no flu shots or prescriptions
, no Little League teams, nothing. How did you manage to keep off the radar so easily and so thoroughly, even before you were old enough to realize you needed to stay off the radar? That’s a question I would dearly like an answer to.”
As Chambers rambled through his monologue about Ashton’s lack of existence prior to the age of nineteen, Zachariah decided it was time for him to move. He started creeping along the rafters, backtracking a few steps to go to one of the junctures that led to the left, then easing across to the next row of rafters. He kept doing this, making his way toward the office ahead of him, trying to come at it from a direction that would bring him in behind Chambers and his men. He didn’t know if Ashton could see him or not, but one way or another, he was going to have to do something. He couldn’t just sit in the rafters like a coward while the other man got killed; if he was going to die, then he’d go down fighting, just like he’d been willing to do in that dank cellar the last time he was in Bolivia.
Chambers was still talking as Zachariah made his way to a spot directly across from Ashton, but he tuned him out in favor of concentrating on the precise placements of his feet. He wouldn’t be any good to anybody if he slipped and fell.
Zachariah paused just above the wall, looking down, trying to measure the distances like Ashton had done, even as his heart sank a bit. There was no way he could be as quiet as Ashton had been when he’d dropped down from the rafters. Brandon Hall had worked with Zachariah for weeks on end trying to get him to move more quietly than he already did, and he’d never been successful in helping him achieve absolute silence. He was only going to get one shot at this, and he sent up a prayer that Ashton was alert enough to take the opportunity his arrival would present to grab some weapons from the duffel bag and do some damage.
It never crossed Zachariah’s mind that, by serving as Ashton’s distraction, he might be setting himself up for his own death.
When he felt moderately prepared to get down from the rafters, Zachariah took a few deep breaths and then moved, quickly and without thought. He swung from the rafter similar to how Ashton had and then dropped, landing on the top of the wall with less noise than he’d expected. He barely hesitated, twisting around to fall from the wall itself, plummeting down the ten feet to the floor. When his feet made impact, he let his body go limp, bending his knees to soften the impact. Then he used his momentum to roll forward into a tumble, coming up on one knee and swinging a fast punch.
The punch impacted with Chambers’ right kidney, and he stumbled forward, his back arching away from the blow as he let out an indignant, pained yell. The shout was enough to alert the man’s three guards that there was something amiss, and all of them turned toward the newest potential threat, their pistols swinging around to level right at Zachariah’s head.
“Oh hell,” Zachariah murmured, right before shots rang out, echoing across the room. He reflexively rolled to the side, but none of the shots made impact. At least, not with him. Instead, two of Chambers’ guards jerked as bullets impacted with their backs, and they collapsed to the floor, howling with pain. Underneath their shrieks, Zachariah could smell the distinct odor of burning flesh. He discarded the scent for now—he didn’t have time to worry about it—and rolled to his feet, fists up, ready to fight.
Chambers was already coming at him, his fingers curved and tipped with wicked-looking black claws. His teeth were long and pointed, crowding his mostly still-human mouth, and he was baring those teeth at Zachariah as he rushed him. Zachariah stumbled backward, trying to get a little more distance between them as he figured out what his options were. He had no weapons and no idea how to fight this man.
Another shot rang out, and Chambers stumbled as it impacted with his back, but it didn’t seem to slow him down. If anything, he seemed angered by the bullet that had struck him, even though, like with the other two men, Zachariah could smell the sizzle of flesh as the silver coating on the bullets ate into the muscle. Chambers rammed his hands against Zachariah’s chest, the tips of his claws scraping his skin, and slammed him into the wall. His breath rushed out of his lungs at the force of the impact, and the wall shook.
Zachariah started to lift his arms, intending to push his attacker away, try to gain some distance between them, but he froze. The man in front of him—if he could call him a man—was salivating, snarling, and breathing musty, dog-like breath in his face. Zachariah fought back a gag and groaned in pain as the tips of Chambers’ claws dug into his chest.
More bullets flew, rapid fire, in his and Chambers’ direction. A couple of them impacted with the wall nearby, but most embedded into Chambers’ flesh. Chambers howled, much like his guards had done, but the sound was far more animalistic. Then something struck him in the back with incredible force. He let go, and Zachariah sagged against the wall, taking only a second to catch his breath before racing around Chambers.
Ashton stood in front of the conference table, a pistol in a one-handed grip and aimed right at Chambers. In his left hand, he held a bloodied, silver-edged machete. Zachariah scrambled to his side, panting, feeling blood oozing from the scratches on his chest.
“You okay, Zach?” Ashton asked, his aim at Chambers unwavering, despite the single step he took backwards.
“Just fuckin’ peachy,” Zachariah replied. He stuck his hand in the duffel bag, fishing out a pistol of his own. “Let’s just kill this bastard and get the hell out of here.”
Chambers snarled and lunged forward, slamming into Ashton with enough force to send the man sprawling backward on the conference table. Ashton’s weapons tumbled to the floor, and he kicked out, struggling to get loose as Chambers’ greater weight bore down on him. Zachariah scrambled out of the way, raising his own pistol and firing a shot in Chambers’ direction. Chambers whipped around, dragging Ashton with him, and turned to face Zachariah, using Ashton as a shield. His teeth were mostly back to normal, though they still looked a little too sharp. Before Ashton could react, before he and Zachariah could do anything that would get the older man away from the werewolf, Chambers hooked his right hand over Ashton’s right shoulder and embedded his claws into Ashton’s chest, hooking them underneath his collarbone. Ashton let out a growling cry of pain, and blood spilled down his chest.
“You planning on doing something stupid with that gun, Mr. Lawrence?” Chambers asked. “Put it down.”
“Or what?” Zachariah said.
Chambers dug his claws into Ashton’s body more deeply, pulling more blood out of him, and Ashton grunted in pain, his knees sagging a little. “I don’t think I need to elaborate,” he said. “Put the gun down now.”
“Don’t do it, Zach,” Ashton said, his voice strained, but anything more he might have added was cut off when Chambers tightened his grip on his shoulder even further.
“Oh, please, decide to listen to your friend here and don’t do it,” Chambers said. “I’d love to have his entrails for a new belt.”
Zachariah glared, narrowing his eyes as he tightened his grip on his pistol. “What do you even want with us?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you just leave us alone? You had exactly what you wanted. We gave it to you in D.C.”
“Yes, I had what I wanted,” Chambers acknowledged. “I had what I wanted until you two plotted to kill me. That’s generally where most people draw the line.”
“We can’t possibly be the first people to ever try to kill you,” Zachariah said.
“But you’re the first people who’ve tried to kill me and then had the nerve to infiltrate my business and try to bring it down!” Chambers spat. “My instincts were to kill you the minute I recognized you, but I thought there was a chance you might have value. And boy, did you. When you spilled every bit of your guts to me, I learned exactly how much value you had. Secret government agencies? Highly trained coverts? It’s like an interrogator’s wet dream.” He jerked his arm, jostling Ashton from side to side, and his claws cut deeper into his skin. Ashton grunted. “And now, not only did you return after escaping, you brought me another one t
hat might have even more value than you.”
Zachariah felt the impulse to growl under his breath. He managed to refrain, instead adjusting his aim, trying to get a better bead on Chambers’ head. “I don’t care what sort of value you think either one of us has,” he said. “Because what I see isn’t a high-value target. I just see a dead man standing. And I’m not putting down my gun.”
“I’ll give you one last chance,” Chambers said, and his grip tightened enough to make Ashton gasp. Zachariah could see Chambers’ hand flex as he cut his claws even deeper into Ashton’s shoulder. “Do you know what happens when a werewolf bites a person?” he asked. Then, without answering his own question or waiting for Zachariah’s response, he added, “Put the gun down, or your friend becomes mine.”
Ashton was breathing heavily, staring at Zachariah with wide, pained blue eyes, and Zachariah felt like he was trying to tell him something without speaking, but he wasn’t getting it. He wavered, wondering if he was trying to tell Zachariah to put the gun down like Chambers had ordered him to do, but then his mouth moved, forming three words very carefully, so there was no mistaking what he as saying: “Don’t do it.”
Zachariah drew in a deep breath and leveled the pistol at Chambers head. He ducked his head behind Ashton’s, and Zachariah scowled and searched for another body part, something he could shoot that wouldn’t give Chambers the opportunity to kill Ashton. He only had one option, and he knew he had to take it.
“You know what, Chambers?” he said. “You are so full of shit.” Then he quickly adjusted his aim and squeezed the trigger.
The bullet blasted from Zachariah’s pistol and rocketed toward Ashton and Chambers. It impacted with Ashton’s right shoulder, just beside Chambers’ clawed hand, jerking Ashton back and to the right. The move jarred him loose enough from Chambers’ grip that he shifted. Chambers managed to keep his claws embedded in the man’s shoulder, though, so Zachariah didn’t hesitate. He fired three more times in rapid succession.
Nightfall Page 21
