Deadly Protector (Federal Paranormal Unit Book 4)

by Milly Taiden

“No, I was here the other night for a minute or two.”

  “Well, you’re here during prime hunting time. Can’t be shy. The house is packed with regulars.” Leaning down, his smile widened as his eyes flashed a brilliant gold and his canines lengthened. “Keep your head up, your eyes open, and holler ‘Jake’ if you need anything at all.”

  Patting his think bicep, Kat smiled, “Thanks for the heads up, Jake. I sure will.”

  Walking away, feeling more confidant with every step, she headed straight for the bar and ordered a margarita on the rocks. Hugging the scratched and sticky wood to keep from being pulled onto the dance floor, she had just picked up her drink when Jane’s voice sounded, “A guy fitting Casanova’s description is approaching the door.”

  “Still no eyes on Sway,” Mitchell added.

  Goose bumps rose all over Kat’s body as a low rumble, or maybe it was a growl, immediately followed the assistant analyst’s report. Her head automatically whipping toward the patio, once again, she found herself falling into the deep blue depths of Hunter’s eyes.

  “Abort.” His deep baritone made her tremble.

  Acting as if she was taking a sip of her drink, Kat hissed, “No.”

  Ignoring yet another growl, she smoothed the skirt of her dress with her free hand and kept to the plan. Weaving through the gyrating bodies, she carefully picked her way to the last private booth on the left, the booth “Craig” had specifically said would be reserved.

  Slowly pulling back the curtain, she slid all the way in, positioning her back as close to the wall as she could. Remembering every word of her training, she replayed what she’d seen, making mental notes of the subtle changes from the first time she’d been in the nightclub.

  Playing up her surprise when Craig’s face appeared through the drape, Kat immediately cataloged the differences between the man scooting into the booth with her and the picture she’d seen on the computer screen. There was no doubt in her mind that he was wearing makeup to change the contour of his cheekbones and nose, and he’d colored his hair.

  “You really do like margaritas.” His voice was too peppy and his smile too bright as he kept going. “You have to be the first honest person I’ve met since trying out this whole online dating thing.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Yeah?” He took a long draw of his beer, his eyes stayed glued to hers the entire time. Setting the bottle on the table then his elbows, he steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and coaxed, “Tell me about the weirdest date you’ve ever been on.”

  “One time,” she batted her eyes and added a nervous giggle. “I reached for the salt and lit the sleeve of my dress on fire.”

  “No way,” he guffawed. “What did the guy do?”

  “Well, that’s the funniest part. Neither one of us realized what was happening until the waiter came running over and threw a wet towel on my arm.”

  “Oh, my God. You had to have been so embarrassed.”

  “Yeah, I was.” She wanted to say no shit, asshole. And, oh, by the way, I’m making up every word of this bullshit but instead, she covered her face with both hands and timidly simpered, “The worst part was that while I was in the bathroom trying to clean up, he left and without paying the bill.”

  Dropping her hands, the second his fingertips touched her wrist, Kat gasped when he deepened his voice and while trying to act suave, clumsily flirted, “I would never do that to someone as beautiful as you.”

  “Oh no, he didn’t,” Donovan snorted into her ear. “There is no way this guy can be…”

  Whatever the analyst was going to say was cut off as the ear-splitting shriek of a completely freaked out woman cut through the roar of the club. “She’s dead! She’s dead! Oh, my God, she’s dead!”

  11

  Shedding his many admirers like a nasty, lingering case of the clap, Cross sprinted through the club straight toward Kat. Catching sight of her long chocolate- brown locks, he snarled into his mic, “Stay where you are. Keep your cover.”

  Zig-zagging through the pile-up of drunk lookie-loos, he was just ready to flash his badge and throw the part he was playing in the shitter when a bouncer, who also happen to be an absolutely huge bear shifter, cleared the way. Recognizing the man as a retired cop he’d worked with years ago, Hunter gave the big man a nod of thanks before stopping in the doorway and taking in the scene.

  Obviously staged, the corpse was sitting on the marble counter between the sinks like she was awaiting the photographer for her photo shoot. Dressed as a sexy cat, faux-fur leopard ears on a headband and all, her legs were crossed, and her hands laying one atop the other on her knee. Impeccable makeup with lips a fiery red, her heavily mascaraed eyes were eerily open and staring right at the door.

  “No wonder the woman was screamin’ her fool head off,” he muttered to himself.

  “Whatcha see, Cross?” Donovan’s tone was short and clipped. “I’ve got CSU on the way. The local cops will be here in less than three minutes. Anything you can give me before they fuck it all up could help.”

  Inhaling deeply, Hunter let his eyes slide shut as the magic of his dragon sought out anything that didn’t belong. Creeping along the floors, up the walls, and into every crevice no matter how small, one thing became glaringly obvious, one man had been in the women’s lavatory and his name was Sway.

  Unable to comprehend why the absent agent’s scent would be permeating every surface of the ladies’ restroom, Hunter dug deeper. There it was, just under the surface, the foul stench of rancid blood and rotting flesh, and further under that the faint odor of cheap cleaning fluids.

  “I can tell you the owners of this place don’t clean,” he grunted, still trying to work out what about Sway’s scent seemed off. “There’s no doubt this is Angela Thomas. She’s been cleaned with bleach and made up to look like it’s Halloween.”

  “Shoot me some pics.”

  Taking out his phone, he stepped to the center of the room and began snapping while also sending real time video. Slowly turning a complete circle, he then went to each of the four stalls and did the same. Finally, he approached the corpse.

  Letting the words of his clan, the Rite of the Passage for the Dead, flow through his mind in respect for the woman who’d lost her life, he took pictures from every angle. Getting as close as he could without leaving any evidence that he’d been there, it was the shots of the puncture marks on her neck and wrists that bothered him the most. Lifting the short leopard-print skirt, the same marks were on her inner thighs.

  Moving back, he advised, “Photos on the way. Looks like an overzealous vamp kill, or more to the point, someone wants us to think a vampire got too frisky with his dinner. See what you think, but in my opinion, those are the smallest fang marks in history.”

  “You’ve got about ninety seconds before company finds you mucking about,” Donovan warned before changing her tone. “Oh fuck, I see what you mean. I’d bet a Benjamin those are needle marks.”

  “Then why are they sitting at all the vamp hotspots?” Pausing then immediately deciding he was done covering for the Ken doll, Cross added, “Sway’s been in here. This room is lousy with the scent of pretty boy asshole.”

  “Well, shit, don’t hold back, Cross. Tell me how you really feel,” Donovan chuckled. “What about your girl?”

  “Who?” he spat, playing stupid even though he knew damned good and well who the tech guru was talking about.

  “Okay, let’s play this game while you’re getting the hell outta there before you get caught.” Giving a heavy sigh, Donovan asked, “How’s Mejia? Cover blown?”

  Walking past the bear shifter, Cross whispered, “Thanks. I owe ya.” Looking to the side, he was instantly pissed to find Kat being comforted by Craig. Doing everything in his considerable power to keep from sounding like a jealous asshole, he matter-of-factly stated, “Cover looks good.”

  “Good news that she’s okay and her cover’s intact. Bad news that there’s no way Craig can be our guy,�
� Donovan responded. “And about the whole Sway thing, don’t bite my head off, but you know I have to ask… are you sure?”

  “Yes,” he growled then immediately added in a softer tone, “but something about it was off. Are our crime scene techs going in?”

  “Sure are,” she answered. “I got to them quick enough and sent the others to a fire somewhere in town.”

  “Then I’m gonna want to go through all the samples before too many gloves, hands, bags, and chemicals screw with the scents.”

  “You think you might be wrong?”

  “No, I know what I smelled. I’m just wondering how it got there when golden boy is nowhere to be found.”

  “Good point, but he was there with Kat earlier this week,” Donovan murmured.

  “Yeah, and he wouldn’t have followed her to the bathroom, or taken the chance of a quickie with Mejia along.”

  “True,” she quickly agreed. “Want me to call the boss.”

  “Not until I’ve had a chance to go over everything CSU collects. And I’m gonna need you to make the official request since…”

  “Since you don’t officially exist to anybody but us.”

  “Well, aren’t you a special little star?” Hunter snickered.

  “In ways you can only imagine, Cross,” Donovan chuckled. “Now, go hide in the fields or whatever it is you do when no one can find you. Four more cars filled with the local boys in blue just pulled up out front.”

  Wanting to ask if she was going to pull Kat out or let the original scenario play out, Hunter glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Craig going in to lay a kiss on Mejia. Spinning on his heels, he’d stormed halfway across the still-crowded room before Kat’s eyes met his with a look that pled, “Please don’t fuck this up for me.”

  Making himself stop just as a voice over the speaker system announced that the bar was closed, and non-alcoholic drinks would be free while the police detained everyone for questioning, Hunter did another one-eighty, and disappeared into the crowd. Out onto the patio then straight into the darkness, he found himself walking the rows of a cornfield exactly the way Donovan had suggested.

  Angry that she’d switched off his earbud, but knowing it was so no one knew he was there, Hunter carefully watched the scene as he waited for hours. Finally, when the first rays of the sun turned the horizon light blue and pink, he caught a glimpse of Kat walking to her car.

  Irritated with himself for being relieved that she was alone, he couldn’t help but keep his eyes glued to his mate until she drove away. It was another hour and a half before the last of the patrons had been dismissed and still almost two more hours before the Nokesville Police and FBI CSU packed up and left.

  Slipping through the employee entrance at the back of the building, Hunter went straight to the ladies’ room. He had to see if Sway’s scent was still there. It was driving him crazy that he couldn’t pinpoint what about it had his preternatural senses in a tizzy.

  Littered with baggies, wrappers, and bright yellow cardboard numbers from the Crime Scene Unit, the bathroom looked totally different with the debris scattered about and the absence of Angela’s corpse. Blocking out the scent of gallons of luminol, fingerprint powder, and latex, he focused on the glowing trail of dragon mixed with panther.

  Deliberately walking the same path the Ken doll had, Hunter found himself running straight into the back wall of the last stall. Not stopping there, but literally running into it like Sway had slipped through the concrete and brick. Refusing to breathe in the noxious fumes of cleaning supplies and human filth as he knelt and looked behind the tank, the dragon cursed, “Well, fuck me.”

  Reaching behind him, he tore a small piece of toilet paper from the roll then carefully used it to retrieve a tiny piece of evidence all the others had missed. Wrapping it tightly, he shoved it into his pocket before pushing to his feet.

  Leaving the club the same way he snuck in, Hunter casually walked to his Harley, ready with an excuse should anyone stop him. When no one did, he scanned the area one more time just to be sure before pulling his phone from his pocket and powering it on.

  Listening as it rang, he just about to disconnect when Donovan answered, “Jane’s Bar and Grill. You kill ‘em. We grill ‘em. Whatcha need, Hunter?”

  12

  Tossing and turning, pacing the floors, and checking her phone every two minutes was driving her crazy. Patience was not a virtue she possessed, nor was it one she aspired to have. Kat was an achiever, and God help anyone who got in her way…except for the boss.

  On her way to the office, needing to see what evidence, if any was gathered at Beastly and to confirm her suspicion that Angela had died from an uncontrolled asthma attack, she’d gotten the call every agent hated. The one from Brock ordering her to maintain cover and use the closest safe house just in case she was being followed.

  Politely accepting her orders, she double checked to be sure her phone was off before throwing the device on the seat of her company-borrowed car and cursing in a mix of Spanish, English in what her uncle called Spanglish. Furious and frustrated, she’d bitched aloud the entire way to the house, up the walk, and into the kitchen at the back.

  Not only was she in a strange place without any of her own stuff, but she was pissed at being cut out of her own case. It didn’t matter that Brock was right, that everyone had to play it safe until they knew for sure what had happened to their victim and how the perp got her into Beastly. She had a right to be at the office just as much as any other agent…more in her opinion.

  Picking up the phone for the hundredth time, her finger hovered over a single name in her contacts. Someone she knew would have the answers she needed. An agent who seemed to have all the answers about damn near everything.

  No, she shouldn’t call him. They were hardly friends. He pissed her off with his arrogant attitude and high-handed actions, but the fact remained that her nerves were rattled, and he was the only one she wanted to talk to. The only friggin’ name that came to mind.

  “You’re losing your damned mind, Katrina Andrea. He’ll make you feel stupid. Treat you like you’re an idiot. Make jokes at your expense. Or worse, he won’t answer and laugh about the fact that you took the time to call.” Making another lap around the living room, she mused, “But then again, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d see it as initiative. As taking charge. As tenacity. As doing whatever it took to get the bad guy and close the case.”

  Falling back onto the couch, she crossed her arms, uncrossed her arms, looked at her phone, pulled her legs up under her, and finally huffed, “And there really is a land with little people, a talking lion, tin man, scarecrow, and a chick that can click her heels and go home. I’ve lost my fucking mind.”

  Grabbing the remote, she turned on the TV. Flipping through the hundred fifty-some channels without really looking at the screen, she continued to go over everything she knew about Craig.

  Yes, he had been wearing makeup, but it turned out he had a raging case of acne. His name really was Craig Nielson. He really did live on Woodward Ave. And he was thirty-one years old. There were no doubts. The dweeb had shown her his license in an effort to make her trust him enough to say yes to a second date.

  Of course, she had agreed with a big sappy smile and a flutter of her lashes, and of course, she was going to call and cancel because…why bother? He wasn’t Casanova. She wasn’t attracted to him in the slightest. And more to the point, he wasn’t Hunter Cross.

  Groaning aloud as she let her head fall backward, Kat grumbled, “What the hell is wrong with me? Hunter Cross is a jerk. He makes me want to rip my hair out.” Grinding her teeth, she growled, “And rip his clothes off, and kiss every inch of that amazing body, and beg him to do the same to me.”

  Springing off the couch and pacing the floors for the hundredth time, she kept ranting, “I would lick him like an all-day sucker and then some. He is the one man I would literally tie to the bed so he could never leave. I would…”

  The chiming of h
er phone blessedly cut off her rant. Snatching it from where she’d dropped it on the couch, absolutely sure that Jane was finally calling her with an update, Kat stopped and stared. It was a number she didn’t know. One no one would know because it was only five digits.

  Gawking at a phone that was no longer ringing, she headed for the encrypted laptop in the tiny office. Her fingers had just touched the cool metal lid when the same number reappeared on the screen.

  Without time to access the FBI database, she swiped the screen and lifted the device to her ear. Before she could answer, the sound of an antique music box, its pins dragging across the cylinder and scratching the teeth of the comb filled the room. It was a tune she knew by heart, one that took her all the way back to the little yellow cottage just outside Mexico City where she’d grown up.

  “Who is this?” she demanded. “How did you get this number?”

  “K-Kat,” a hoarse croak she knew she should recognize pleaded. “K-Kat, you have to…” Stopped by a deep, rattling cough that trailed off into sounds of retching, the voice finally returned wheezing, “Run, Kat, ru…”

  “Wait! Wait! Who is this?”

  A stab to the side of her neck left Kat spinning to the left before stumbling toward the couch. Missing the mark and falling to her knees right beside it, she lurched forward. The biting scent of rubbing alcohol, the cloyingly sweet tang of rotting fruit, and a spicy whiff of frankincense stung her already blurry eyes as she struggled to stay upright.

  Grabbing at a shadow, she felt the cold bite of steel immediately before the all-too-familiar sound of handcuffs snapping shut echoed in her ears. Fighting to stay conscious, she collapsed backward.

  Scooped up by a pair of large arms, her limp body refused to respond as her vision narrowed to a single dot of dank, yellow light. Opening her mouth, she simply couldn’t get the words to form.

  Flailing her head backward, giving one last try at escape, her captor whispered, “It’s no use, Katrina. Now, you’re mine.”