Sapphire Flames

by Ilona Andrews

  Nobody understood how swarms worked or the exact nature of their implantation. Most people didn’t survive the procedure. Those who did gained an ability to process visual information and sometimes computer code at superhuman speeds. They burned bright and died fast. The normal life expectancy for a swarmer was about two years. That’s why the military offered them a truckload of money. It was essentially a delayed suicide.

  Somehow Bug survived. When Nevada first met him, he was an obsessed, manic wreck. Rogan was able to steady him through a cocktail of carefully curated medication and a stable environment, and usually he could almost pass for a normal person.

  Right now, there was nothing normal about him. His brown hair stuck out at odd angles. His rumpled T-shirt, decorated with pizza stains of various shapes and ages, hung on his slight frame. His movements were quick and jittery, the agitation rolling off him in spasmodic waves.

  “How long have you been here?”

  Bug glanced at the kitchen island. “Four days.”

  “Did you have to count the pizza boxes?”

  “Yes.”

  He had been here since Rogan and Nevada left for New York before traveling on to Spain for the funeral.

  “Why didn’t you stay on base?”

  Rogan’s estate contained a fully functional compound, complete with a barracks, commissary, gym, and everything else a small army would need to stay sharp. He used to just run everything from his enormous house, but after getting married, he and Nevada wanted privacy.

  “There’s nobody on base,” Bug said. “It’s the holidays. With the Major gone, there’s only a skeleton crew protecting the house. I got lonely. And your security sucks. I’ve been here for half a week and they didn’t notice. People deliver pizza to the door downstairs and nobody asked why.”

  For a second, I didn’t know what I wanted more, to hug Bug or to scream in Abarca’s face.

  “No more pizza,” I told him.

  “What are you, the pizza police?”

  “You’re going to come home with me and you’re going to have a normal dinner. With vegetables.”

  “I have mushrooms and tomato sauce on pizza. Add the meat, bread, and cheese and you’ve got all the food groups.”

  “Tomato is a berry, mushrooms are a fungus, and that isn’t cheese, it’s a cheese product. I don’t even know if it can be classified as dairy. You’re going to have a nice dinner, and you’re going to bring your laundry, and you’re going to take a long shower.”

  Bug tried to sniff his armpit and jerked his head away. He looked at me. “There will be people there.”

  “You know everybody, and everybody likes you. You and Bern are friends. The only new people are Runa and Ragnar, and they’re nice.”

  Bug pondered it.

  “You can play with my new dog.”

  Bug looked at Shadow. Shadow wagged her tail.

  “Is it too soon?” Bug asked.

  It was clearly a rhetorical question, so I didn’t answer. Bug’s old French bulldog mix, Napoleon, had died a year ago. Bug had rescued him off the street, and Napoleon enjoyed a spoiled, carefree life until time took its inevitable toll.

  Bug dug in the desk drawer and fished out an ancient dog biscuit.

  “How old is that thing?”

  “It’s a Milk Bone. They’re like Twinkies, they don’t go bad.”

  Shadow took the bone from his fingers and hid under the couch.

  “I’ll come to dinner,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “What do you need?”

  I brought him up to speed on Diatheke, Benedict, and the missing two million dollars.

  “I need you to go back to Sunday on CCTV and see if you can spot Sigourney leaving Diatheke. Assuming Diatheke didn’t send a hit squad after her to steal the money back, I want to know what she did with it.”

  Bug’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “What kind of name is Diatheke anyway?”

  “It’s ancient Greek. According to biblical scholars it means a contract, specifically the last disposition of all earthly possessions after death, or a covenant.”

  “So like a will?”

  “Kind of. It can also mean a business agreement between two parties.”

  “Umm. Their name means make your final arrangements, and Sigourney was a poison Prime, and she worked for them . . .”

  I raised my hand. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m thinking it too, but I have no proof and I don’t want to jump to any conclusions.”

  Bug shrugged and turned to his screens. I went to the kitchen, pulled up the sleeves of my sweatshirt, and attacked the mess on the island.

  It took me twenty minutes to bring the kitchen to a state of cleanliness that didn’t send shivers of horror down my spine. I took out three bags of trash and filled the recycling bin halfway. How someone could exist on pizza and Mello Yello alone, I would never know. Once I cleaned up, I settled on the couch with my phone and Shadow.

  “Got her,” Bug said finally.

  I walked over to stand by him. On the central screen, Sigourney Etterson stood frozen in the process of walking into Diatheke, Ltd. The image was slightly out of focus, but I’d know that red hair anywhere. Judging by the angle, the footage was recorded from across the street.

  “Apartment building?”

  “Yeah. It’s under construction and the construction crews always have good surveillance. Helps to cut down on material theft. 10:00 a.m. on the dot.” Bug pressed a key and the grainy picture sped up. “She walks in and seventeen minutes later, she’s out.”

  On the screen Sigourney emerged into the street, pulling a wheeled suitcase behind her.

  “What’s in the bag?!” Bug screamed dramatically.

  “Probably the money.”

  “I was quoting a movie.”

  “You were misquoting a movie.” The movie referenced a box.

  “Whatever.”

  Sigourney walked to the parking lot and loaded the suitcase into a blue BMW SUV. She climbed into the driver’s seat and drove offscreen.

  The eight monitors around the central screen ignited, showing the images of Sigourney’s SUV from various angles and cameras.

  “X6 M,” Bug said. “A hundred K, before modifications. Clearly, whatever she did for them paid well.”

  “Where is she going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  The video sped up, changing on the screens as different cameras tracked the SUV through the streets. Finally, it came to a stop before a metal gate. Beyond the gate stretched a long rectangular building with bright yellow doors.

  “CubeSmart Self Storage,” Bug said. “They’re all over Houston.”

  The view switched, showing a shot of Sigourney’s vehicle from the driver’s side. She rolled down the window, punched a code into the box by the gate, the gate swung open, and she drove in.

  “She rented the unit in advance,” I thought out loud.

  “Yep. She leaves six minutes later. I can’t see it, but I assume the bag is no longer in the car.”

  “Thank you. You’re a wizard.”

  Bug turned to me, his eyes shining. “But wait. There’s more.”

  The video feed turned blurry as the images flew by.

  “Wait for it . . .”

  “How can you possibly keep track of anything at that speed?”

  “Magic. There it is.”

  He pressed a key and the recording slowed to normal speed. A white Jeep Renegade pulled up to the gate. The driver’s-side window slid down and Alessandro’s shockingly handsome face came into view.

  “Son of a bitch!” I leaned closer to the screen.

  “I know, right? This must be his blend-in-with-the-locals car. I guess his Italian wheels were too flashy. How can that ass clown look so good on a damn surveillance camera? The guy flew in from Sydney, eighteen hours in the air, drove straight from the airport here, and he looks like a million bucks. Two million to be precise.”

  “When did he get in?”


  “Monday at 8:42 a.m.”

  Sigourney was already dead then. A weight dropped off me. It wasn’t that I suspected Alessandro murdered her, but I hadn’t been able to discount that possibility until now.

  Bug turned to me. “I have been chasing that shit monkey all over the fucking city. He destroyed three of my drones. He mocked me.”

  The top right screen showed a view from above, clearly from a drone. The screen shuddered, the view plunged to the ground, and rose again as someone picked up the fallen drone. Alessandro appeared in the camera, grinned, gave us a thumbs-up, and the screen went black.

  “Do you see what I’ve had to put up with? But now, I have redeemed myself. And there is still more.”

  Bug dramatically paused.

  “Tell me before I explode from anticipation.”

  Bug reached over and held his finger above the keyboard. The finger descended in slow motion.

  I would strangle him. I swear, the court would understand.

  “Bug!”

  The finger kept dropping. Bug finally touched the keyboard. The image of the white Jeep Renegade filled the monitor, the nine screens presenting a single picture, like a mosaic.

  The street by the Jeep looked eerily familiar.

  Oh my God. “Is that our oak?”

  “Yes, it is. He’s parked it here, under the carport across from this building, every night since Monday. I checked the feed from your cameras while you waited. He swapped the plates with the cleaning crew truck, and your idiot toy soldiers have been letting him in because the license number is on their approved list. Yesterday he brought them coffee.” Bug opened his eyes as wide as he could. “The calls are coming from inside the house, Catalina!”

  I took off running.

  The Jeep sat in the carport, its windows so tinted, they bordered on illegal. I peered through the windshield.

  Empty.

  I tried the doors. Locked.

  I crossed the street and headed around the warehouse to Grandma Frida’s motor pool. Shadow trotted after me.

  Grandma poked her head out of a familiar-looking Guardian. Its twin sat on the left, with its doors open. I walked to the tool bench, grabbed the largest flathead screwdriver on it, took the reciprocating saw from the wall, and walked out.

  “Safety glasses, Catalina!”

  I did a one-eighty, snagged the safety goggles off a peg on the tool wall, and kept going.

  “Catalina,” Grandma Frida called out behind me. “When you’re done cutting up the body, call me. I’ll help you hide it.”

  I turned and looked at her.

  Grandma flexed her arm. “Ride or die.”

  I squinted at her. “I’m still mad at you for ratting me out.”

  “You looked like death warmed over,” Grandma said. “You may be the Head of House Baylor, but you’re still my granddaughter and I won’t be taking any of your bullshit.”

  “How is my sweater coming along, Grandma? Have you knitted more than two inches yet?”

  Grandma Frida gave me the Look of Death.

  I walked back to the Jeep and stabbed the two tires on the driver’s side. The sound of the air hissing out was very satisfying. Shadow jumped back and hid behind the low stone wall bordering the oak. I put the safety glasses on and jammed the screwdriver into the driver’s-side window. It cracked with a loud crunch but held. That’s what I thought. Laminated glass.

  Car windows came in two types, tempered and laminated. Tempered glass shattered into dull pieces. Laminated glass was made by sandwiching a layer of plastic between two panes of glass. Traditional escape tools did nothing to it. The Jeep was new enough to have all its windows laminated.

  I pictured Alessandro’s smirking face and stabbed the crack in the window. Stab, stab, stab. The glass finally gave, and I slid the blade of the saw into the small hole I had made.

  Abarca came out of the mess hall down the street and zeroed in on me.

  Keep going. Don’t see me, don’t talk to me. I have a screwdriver, and I’m not afraid to use it.

  I turned the saw on. The blade chewed through glass and plastic. Abarca wandered over and stood next to me.

  “Would you like some help?”

  Yes, I’d like some help. I’d like you to help me understand how an Antistasi Prime has been driving in and out of our territory, parking his car fifty feet from our front door, and your elite security force, which had this place locked down so tight “not even a squirrel” could get through, has been letting him in and out and accepting his coffee. Help me understand that. “No.”

  Shadow poked her head from behind the wall and barked. For a small dog, she sounded surprisingly fierce.

  Abarca ignored her. “I realize this might not be the best time to discuss this, but it can’t wait.”

  “I’m listening.” Ask me why I’m cutting the window out of this car. Ask me whose car this is. Go ahead, I dare you.

  He raised his voice, trying to be heard over the dry grinding of the saw. “As you know, we had to let Lopez and Walton go. It was a difficult decision, but ultimately it was for the best.”

  He seemed to have forgotten that I was in the room when Mom told him to fire those two or pack his bags. He didn’t have to make any decisions, just follow orders.

  “We need to fill those two open slots as soon as possible. I submitted a list of candidates to Pen, but we don’t seem to be on the same page.”

  Same page? He and Mom weren’t even on the same bookshelf.

  “The two individuals I’ve chosen have spotless track records, and I have no doubt they would make fine additions to the team.”

  The team which would be replaced tomorrow night.

  Abarca fell silent, clearly anticipating some sort of response. He was trying to go over Mom’s head to get his guys hired.

  “I’m confused. What exactly would you like me to do?”

  Abarca smiled at me. “I value your opinion.”

  Since when?

  “I’d like you to review the candidates.”

  “All security matters must go through my mother.”

  “But you’re the Head of the House.”

  I turned the saw off and faced him. “I am the Head of the House and I’m telling you that all security matters must go through and be approved by my mother. If she wants my opinion, she’ll consult me. Was there anything else?”

  Abarca opened his mouth, hesitated, then said, “No. That’s it.”

  “I’m glad we cleared that up.” I turned the saw back on and continued my slow cutting.

  Abarca walked away. If I wasn’t hacking at Alessandro’s car, I would almost feel sorry for him. It wasn’t altogether his fault. He was trying to do a job that he wasn’t qualified for, but we were the ones who hired him for that job in the first place. I didn’t blame him for taking the position. He’d needed the work in the worst way, from what Mom had said. And I didn’t blame Mom for hiring him. She was trying to help a friend and keep us safe. But I was really glad Heart was on his way.

  If only I knew where we could find the money to pay him.

  The saw tasted air. I had cut a ragged rectangle in the window. I turned it off and hit the window with the handle of the screwdriver. It fell in onto the driver’s seat.

  I popped the lock and opened the hatchback. The back was empty, except for a folded blanket, a rain poncho, and a garment bag. I unzipped the bag. A tuxedo, good quality. Typical.

  I opened the back doors and went about searching the car.

  I climbed the ladder to my loft, carrying the dog pillow, my arms filled with dog shampoo and puppy pads. Shadow bounded up the steps ahead of me and sprinted into my room.

  The Jeep yielded no clues. I found no hidden stashes of weapons or gold coins, no fake IDs or passports, no rental agreement, no paperwork of any kind, not even a fast-food receipt. For some reason Sigourney Etterson had paid Alessandro two million dollars and I had no idea why.

  I’d returned the tools to Grandma. Bug was watchin
g the Jeep, so we would know the moment Alessandro reappeared. At least he would be in for a hell of a surprise when he came back to the car. I would actually raid our overstretched budget and pay good money to see the look on his face.

  My hip hurt. I would put the dog pillow down for Shadow, then I would wash my hands and go down to eat some lunch, during which I would sit across from Runa and Ragnar and have to think of some way to explain why I hadn’t found their sister yet. Ugh.

  I walked into my loft.

  Alessandro Sagredo lounged on my bed. He lay propped on one elbow, his large, muscular frame taking up the entire space. He couldn’t be real; he had to be a painting made to tempt women; masculine, handsome, erotic, from the broad spread of his shoulders and his flat stomach to his long legs.

  Shadow lay next to him, chewing on some yellow rectangular thing.

  Alessandro raised his head. His amber eyes lit up and he smiled a slow, lazy smile, like a wolf cornering a doe.

  He was holding the pink frame with his picture in it, which I had left on my nightstand.

  The enormity of it hit me all at once. I wanted to fall through the floor, strangle him, grab my dog, and scream at the same time. My brain took those conflicting urges and compromised. I dropped the dog pillow and hurled the pack of puppy pads at his head.

  Alessandro caught the pack one-handed and tossed it to the floor. He didn’t even move, the son of a bitch. Just raised his hand, caught the pack, and went back to looking at the picture.

  He turned the frame, so I could see his picture in it. “Smoochie poo?”

  “It’s Italian for ass clown. What are you doing in my room?”

  “Admiring your taste in arts and crafts?” He tilted the frame. “The application of glitter could use some work.”

  “Shadow, come here.”

  Shadow wagged her tail and stayed exactly where she was.

  “What is she eating?”

  “A Himalayan yak treat. Unlike you, your dog can be reasoned with.”

  “Yak what? What part of the yak?”

  “Relax. It’s made of cheese.” He tilted the photograph toward me, so the light caught the pink glitter. “Can we postpone the topic of dog treats and go back to the fact that you have my picture in a pink frame on your nightstand?”