License to Kill

by R. J. Blain

  My fear of being so high up came second to the smoldering anger that Jake had become involved with the same people trying to kill me for interfering with their plans, using my ma to get the job done.

  One certainty rose over all the rest: assuming I didn’t kick the bucket, I needed therapy.

  “Smell anything?” I whispered.

  “Faint traces of Fenerec and a lot of stinky humans—there’s definitely been a few Fenerec here, but the scent is faint.”

  “They must be deeper inside the building.”

  “Holed up or held hostage somewhere.”

  “Assuming they’re alive,” I muttered. They likely were; if the FBI believed they were dead, they would have assaulted the building already. I wondered why HRT hadn’t already begun an assault. Their entire job involved rescuing people from hostage situations.

  “You may not be a Fenerec, but I’m willing to bet you’d know if your mate died. He’s alive. We’re tough to kill.”

  “You’re sure there’s only three FBI agents in the building?”

  Amelia tapped her earpiece. “I’ve been listening in on their channels; there’s no evidence of any agents other than them in the building. If it isn’t your mate or his parents, kill them.”

  “How are they getting their intel?”

  “Text messages; at least one of their phones is still operational. I think they’ve been keeping all but one device off. Some of their communications are in code, so I’m making guesses.”

  “Jake keeps a Glock or a Beretta on him and a spare magazine. Takes too long to reload, so he likes dumping the entire magazine instead. If he’s expecting trouble, he’ll have enough ammo for three or four magazines stashed away, too. His mother’s Glock is fully automatic with thirty-three rounds, and I don’t know if she keeps a second magazine with her. I have no idea what his father would be carrying, but it’s probably a Glock. They have Berettas, but they’re FBI to the core and like their Glocks.”

  I missed my Glock.

  “Probability of them opening fire if we get close?”

  “I’d say probably close to a hundred percent. Jake’s HRT trained.”

  “That’s good. He’ll be able to identify FBI movements inside the building, then.”

  “Maybe our appearance will astonish them so much they won’t shoot at us.”

  Amelia chuckled. “Don’t count on it. Let’s clear the building and go rescue your mate. Watch our backs, and if you have to choose between you or me taking a round, I’m more likely to get back up in a few hours.”

  “I’ve been shot enough for both of us lately, so let’s make this a clean run.”

  I spotted a pair of guards on the floor below, and I nudged Amelia with my elbow, nodding in their direction. The woman lifted her gun and took aim, and I followed her lead.

  Both men wore vests over t-shirts, and they watched the factory floor, their rifles pointed at the ground. They spoke to each other, too soft for me to make out what they were saying. “I don’t think they’re from the FBI.”

  Amelia nodded. “Take the one on the right. Think you can get a headshot?”

  “I can.”

  “Let’s try to fire at the same time so it sounds like only one round, one shooter. After the count of three,” she ordered.

  I leaned against the wall, switched to semi-automatic mode, braced the rifle against my shoulder, and aimed, sighting in on my target’s forehead. “Ready.”

  At her count, I fired, and our marks dropped to the floor. The concussive blast of gunfire echoed through the building.

  Hell broke loose, leaving no room for anything other than move, fire, move, and make myself as small of a target as possible while following Amelia through the building. I balked at the grated steps leading down to the next level, but like she had every other time I’d encountered a staircase or height I couldn’t handle without flinching, Amelia grabbed hold of me and yanked me down after her without skipping a beat.

  At the rate I was going, I’d end up jumping down them to keep her from pulling me along like a living doll.

  I handled the killing while Amelia drew gunfire, and I had no idea how she avoided being hit with the number of rounds fired at us. The first bullet to hit me grazed my left arm. The second hit a little deeper but went clean through, and I snarled a curse.

  My entire body throbbed, but the pain reminded me of one important fact: I still lived. I glared at the wound a few inches above my elbow. It would hurt, it would bleed, but it would heal quickly enough, assuming I didn’t die from blood loss first.

  “I thought I told you not to get shot,” Amelia hissed.

  Someone came around the corner, and after confirming it wasn’t an Agent Thomas, I aimed, fired, and dumped the magazine before reloading the gun. “Less talking, more finding the FBI agents.”

  “They’ve heard the gunfire outside, and they’re about a minute from launching an offensive.”

  “I’d say that’s great, except it’s not.” I clacked my teeth together and nodded in the direction of the man I’d just killed. “Let’s try that way.”

  Amelia nodded, and we hurried across the factory floor to the corpse. Pulling out her knife, she tore away a strip of his shirt and bound it around my arm. “Better than nothing.”

  “We better hurry before HRT storms the castle.”

  With a lot of luck and some fast talking—and raised hands—maybe we’d even survive when they came barreling in to rescue three of their own. Then again, probably not.

  The FBI didn’t take kindly to rogues of any sort, and that’s how I’d classify until they learned the truth, that I had been as much of a victim as Pops.

  I wasn’t going to place any bets in my favor.

  “The FBI’s entering the building,” Amelia warned me.

  “Bail?”

  “Negative; they’ve got snipers in position on the roof of the neighboring buildings. They’re on orders to shoot anyone armed.”

  “So we ditch the weapons in a pile, sit, and look pretty and hope no one else finds us.” That would buy us a few minutes—maybe. “If I’m not on a kill-on-sight order.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “The whole rogue agent thing does tend to put a cramp on one’s life expectancy.”

  “I already told you they had changed your status to missing and at high risk or presumed dead. Your pa’s body and your blood at the scene of the crime, along with other evidence you were a probable victim helps with that. Sure, you had a fight with your husband, but they’re not stupid, not when there’s plenty of evidence your ma killed your pa and probably tried to kill you, too. You left enough blood at the scene you would be dead if you were a little more human and a little less fox. Then we pulled that other ruse. You’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll believe that when they don’t shoot me on sight.” I limped to the nearest group of boxes and went to work removing my weapons, piling them up. While tempted to keep my loaner Glock, it joined my pile. It took a little help from Amelia to hop onto the box and sit. “Just don’t give them an excuse to shoot us.”

  “Were you aware you’re covered in blood?”

  “That happens when you’ve been shot.”

  “On your face.”

  “That must look so charming.”

  Amelia chuckled and stripped off her weapons and set them with mine before sitting beside me. “The Bride of Chucky got a few new toys. Cards?”

  The FBI would be talking about the bust for a long time to come if they found us while playing cards. “What game?”

  “Go Fish?”

  “I haven’t played that in years.”

  Amelia pulled out a pack of battered cards from her pocket and dealt, and we settled in to play, talking in normal tones so when the FBI found us, they wouldn’t believe we were attempting to hide.

  “We’ve been spotted,” Amelia reported. “They have no idea what to make of, and I quote, ‘two female tangoes covered in blood with enough weaponry to stock the army.’”
<
br />   “You do seem to have gotten some spatter on you, too.”

  If anything, Amelia appeared like she’d just gotten off shift at the local slaughterhouse. “That one guy got a little too close for my comfort.”

  “Got any queens?”

  Amelia snorted and tossed me a pair of cards. “You really don’t care there’s a bunch of men with rifles staring at you, do you?”

  “I’m tired, my arm hurts, my leg’s throbbing, and I want a bath. Frankly, if they shoot me, they’d be doing me a favor at this point.”

  “No such luck. They’re going the arrest route, since we haven’t been caught in the act of actually doing anything and we aren’t actually armed. Isn’t that nice?”

  “Sounds great. Jail’s bound to be safer than this.”

  “Especially when you’re a badass little chick who can kick in the face of anyone who tries anything stupid.”

  I tossed my hand of cards down, since there was no point in playing when we’d be in handcuffs soon enough. “Want to make bets on how long it’ll take them to run our IDs?”

  “I bet they’ll make us rot until tomorrow morning just to be dicks.”

  “They’ll run our prints within a few hours, but they probably won’t get the results in for a day or two. If I’m lucky, they might even bother to patch my arm up before tossing us in holding. We’ll probably get to share a cell, but they won’t let us keep the cards.”

  “You? Lucky?”

  I snorted, and when I heard the thud of footfalls approaching, I lifted my hands, wincing at the pulling of old and new gunshot wounds alike. Amelia tossed her cards, followed my lead, and shook her head.

  It didn’t take very long for them to arrest us and shove us in the back of a cruiser waiting outside of the building.

  Seven

  In time, I’d break.

  We weren’t the only ones the FBI took alive in the takedown, and in what I viewed as an utter breach of protocol, they kept Amelia and I together in an interrogation room, still handcuffed while we waited. There were likely people watching through the one-way mirror or via monitors linked to the room’s surveillance, and had I not been so familiar with how interrogations should have worked, I might have found their effort to get information out of us amusing.

  “They’re hoping we’ll collaborate on a cover story and give them information without them having to do any work to get it. The whole purpose of these rooms is to make those being questioned uncomfortable and throw them off their game. It’s a nice big game of psychological warfare.” I would have waved at the mirror had I not been cuffed. I’d been on the interrogator end of things enough times to understand we wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry.

  “Sounds like a good time. Let’s play. You are the investigator. What would you ask me?”

  I laughed. “What? We should just do their jobs for them?”

  “I’m bored.”

  “They’re trying to figure out where two women fit into the equation. They haven’t figured out what we were doing there, if we’re a part of the outfit responsible for holding three FBI agents hostage, and they’re probably having difficulties with facial recognition—or they’ve figured out our identities and have no idea what to make of it. I’m sure they’ll get around to questioning us eventually—or running our prints. They’d figure it out a lot faster if they just ran the prints. Or, you know, ask us for our names.”

  “You’re cranky.”

  “I have a bunch of old holes through me and two new ones. Of course I’m cranky. I’d even take an aspirin at this point; it’d be better than nothing.”

  “Or we’re just not important to them.”

  Of the options, that one made the most sense, as it implied a lot about my general standings. Rogue agents were dealt with, but vengeful agents took their time bringing about the final fall. In my case, I had no idea how things would proceed.

  Shit had hit the fan within a few hours of me walking out the door, and if Amelia’s intel was right, any rogue flags on my file would be removed due to kidnapping and attempted murder charges leveled at my ma.

  It wouldn’t take much to straighten that mess out.

  I doubted the gaping holes in my heart would ever heal, but I went with the flow and shrugged. In time, I’d break.

  I’d just break a little later.

  “They probably have more important things to worry about.” I stretched my legs out, grimacing at the pull of the older gunshot wounds. “If they caught any of the actual mercenaries alive, they’ll be having a field day with them. Between several high-profile kidnappings, attempted murder of an FBI agent abroad, and the attempted acquisition of government security intel, I’m not surprised we’ve been reprioritized to last place.”

  “We’re just the nice crazy chicks with guns that helpfully thinned the mercenary population so they could rescue their agents.”

  “Lucky us, right?”

  The door to the interrogation room opened, and a cop let himself in. “Ladies.”

  I narrowed my eyes and looked him over. “Georgia State Police?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I see you know your uniforms.” The man dropped a thin manila envelope onto the steel table and opened it. “Do you know these men?”

  With my hands cuffed behind my back, I couldn’t point, but I recognized a lot of the faces. “From top left. I killed that one with a headshot between the eyes. Next one was a chest hit and a second round to the throat. Don’t know the next one.”

  “I killed that one; throat shot.”

  Amelia and I took turns describing how we’d killed men in the warehouse, and after ten photographs, neither one of us recognized anyone else.

  “Do you know their names?”

  We shook our heads.

  The cop stared at us, stared at the pictures, and stayed silent long enough a laugh threatened to bubble out of my chest. Laughing in the face of disaster always got me into trouble. I’d laughed before I’d kicked Jake’s father, too. That hadn’t worked out well for me. Little did.

  Clearing his throat and straightening, the cop asked, “So, you went into a building armed, opened fire, and killed ten men without knowing anything about them?”

  “We knew they were holding three FBI agents hostage—or had cornered them. Something like that,” I offered.

  “And how did you gain access to that information?”

  “Well, one of the FBI agents is my husband.” Was ‘was’ a better term?

  The cop blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Last time I checked, I was married to one of the agents who had been trapped in the building. It might be a ‘was’ married—we had a rather spectacular fight, which resulted in me walking out the door. Apparently, I was only good enough for him under certain circumstances.”

  The bitterness in my voice startled me into silence.

  “You’re leaving out important information, Kit.” Amelia sighed and shook her head.

  “Let me see if I understand this. You’re saying you are married to one of the individuals who was trapped in the building, so you assaulted the place and killed ten men in the process.”

  “We played Go Fish while waiting to be arrested,” Amelia added.

  “So you entered the building, killed ten people, and then waited to be arrested.”

  Amelia smiled and nodded. “I don’t suppose you have a first aid kit, do you? She was shot, and it’d probably be a good idea to treat the injuries. I mean, her bleeding to death would probably solve some problems for you, but at the same time, I kinda like her, so I’d rather not have to deal with the details of her funeral.”

  “Thanks, Amelia. It’s nice to know you care.” I sighed and restrained my urge to huff.

  All huffing did was make me torture myself thinking about Jake even more than I already did.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “How badly were you shot, ma’am?”

  “One graze, one through, same arm.” I shrugged. “The other ones are older, and they’re fi
ne, so don’t worry about it.”

  “I’ll call for an EMT. If you two aren’t going to cause any trouble, I’ll remove the handcuffs.”

  “If we were going to cause trouble, we already would have,” Amelia pointed out. “We had how many weapons when we were arrested? Did we resist? No.”

  The cop frowned, but he pulled out his keys and removed our handcuffs, taking them with him when he left the room. He paused in the doorway. “It won’t be long, ladies.”

  I braced for the worst and offered my bandaged arm to Amelia. “May as well check it now.”

  It took her several minutes to pick at the knot and untie the bandage. The fabric pulled at the gunshot wound, and Amelia scraped the dried blood from the fabric with a nail to help prevent the hole from reopening. The measure had been enough to stop most of the bleeding, although my arm had swelled.

  It hurt like hell, but after the past few weeks, I tolerated the throbbing pain better than I thought possible.

  “If anyone’s watching, they’re probably having a field day,” I muttered, wrinkling my nose at the bright red against the darker splotches of caked blood. “That’s going to hurt like a bitch cleaning it.”

  “It’ll be like you had your arm waxed. Don’t be a baby about it. Pulled hairs don’t hurt that much.”

  “You should tell them to give me some Demerol.” While I wouldn’t remember a thing, the resulting rampage would be a fair payback for leaving us handcuffed for so long.

  “That would make the questioning session interesting.”

  “They still haven’t asked for our names.”

  “I noticed. At least that one called us ladies. That was nice of him. And he’s calling an EMT for you. Aren’t you excited? You might get to go to the hospital.”

  “They’re going to take one look at me, start counting gunshot wounds, and lock me away as a test subject trying to figure out how I’m still alive.”

  “I’m just that good at field treatment. A transfusion after the first round of gunshot wounds probably would have made things a bit easier on you, but you survived. You’re not nearly interesting enough to be locked away as a test subject.”