Code Black (Paranormal Crimes Division Book 1)

by Tina Moss

  “You want me to sit here and write a list?” She pulled on her jeans, her eyebrows raised.

  “Yes. You’re a journalist, aren’t you? Looking at the facts should be second nature.” He inclined his head, baiting her and calling her skills into question.

  “I can do it.” She leapt to the desk and pulled a pad from the drawer. “How soon do you want it?”

  He hesitated and caught the flicker of doubt in her eye. “Thirty minutes. That’ll give me enough time to get to District Eight’s office, go over the details with them, and come back here.” He flashed a wolfish grin. “Think you can handle it?”

  “Uh-huh. You just get your ass back here in time to rescue your agents.” She ushered him away and took up a pen. Tapping it along the writing pad, she whipped her head around to level him with a glare. “You still here?”

  “I’m going.” He ran a hand through her hair and squeezed her shoulder. His eyes trailed down her chest where she’d neglected to put on her shirt. Burning desire stung him despite their earlier tryst and he had to turn away. “Be thorough. I’m counting on you.”

  “Sure,” she said, biting the pen cap. “See you soon.”

  He took one last look at her and closed the door behind him. You’re doing this for her safety. The task will distract her while you meet with the team and come up with a plan. Then you can deal with keeping her away from the action. He banged his fist against the elevator call button. The pep talk did nothing to relieve his guilt.

  As he left the hotel—after reiterating his orders to the receptionist, and the concierge, and the head of security about Sera’s safety—he checked the perimeter a final time. The safe house, even in the form of the hotel, was one of the most secure in the PCD system. It still didn’t seem enough protection for her. He scrubbed a hand down his face, wondering how in the hell he’d gone this soft over some woman.

  “Because she’s not just some woman, asshat.” He cared about her. He might even lov—. Shit, so not the time. He started the truck and jacked up the radio. Get your head in the game. The hard rock beats drowned his thoughts, but couldn’t stop his heart from pounding.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  PCD District Eight Headquarters, Calgary, Alberta

  “All right kiddies, you’ve had your fun.” Drake shouted between the titanium bars, “You can’t keep me locked up here forever.” He paced the same six feet over again. Confinement did not suit his image at all. “I’m a vampire, morons. I’ve got centuries. You’re wasting your time.”

  “Cállate la boca, vampire.” District Eight’s second-in-command, another bleeding shifter, rounded the corner. They called this one, Shooter. Drake had met him once before. The man’s long beaklike nose and charming personality were hard to forget. “Give your mouth a rest.”

  “Now, where would the joy in that be my little feathered friend?” He grinned and showed off two very long, very sharp fangs.

  “That supposed to scare me?” Shooter tapped the bars with a shotgun.

  “What would give you that impression?” Drake’s smile widened as he stepped close enough to inhale the shifter’s two-dollar aftershave.

  “Behave, chico.” Shooter flashed a smile of his own.

  The wily bastard backed up and rested a booted foot against the far wall, a hair outside of Drake’s reach. The shotgun pointed toward the floor, but remained firm in Shooter’s hands. Thing was loaded with explosive bullets—a precaution the PCD lead pain in the ass, Valkyrie, had claimed. Not that Drake gave a shit about it. He hadn’t lived over a hundred plus years without taking a bullet or two—or okay, like twenty-six—but really who was counting. And yeah, so none of them had been the UV blasting, laser ripping, explosive type. But bullets of any kind didn’t matter unless they struck the heart, and that never happened. Proof in the pudding, Drake was still kicking while his enemies decomposed.

  “Buzzkill. Anyone ever told you, your mother looks like a—” Drake would’ve loved to rile the shifter with all types of slurs against his mother—you learned some in a century and a half—but unfortunately, that party died with Talon’s approach. “Ah good. It’s been too long, chief. Come to spring me, eh?”

  Talon’s bright blue gaze burned with an unyielding fire. “If it were up to me, you’d rot in that cell for the rest of your very long life.”

  “Oh, come on now, you’re not one to hold a grudge.” He retracted his fangs and mustered an almost innocent expression. “I would’ve held Strife for the team, but you know, maker and all. Kinda hard to get around the whole I made you and you owe me thing.”

  “I don’t give a shit about that vamp bitch right now.” Drake didn’t miss the vibrations ranking Talon’s body as if the man had been caught in the wrong end of a blender. “I want to know everything you know, every piece of intel you gathered on Sera from the underground, and whoever is after her. And I want it now.”

  Drake’s ears perked up. The blatant dismissal of Strife meant shit had hit the fan. “Fill me in. What’s the situation?” Bloody hell, he hated sounding pathetic, but damn-it-all if he didn’t want to be kept in the loop.

  “Go get the scoop from Val and let me handle this asshat.” Talon turned, addressing Shooter, and giving Drake his back—deliberate disrespect. Drake laughed aloud, knowing the shifter all too well.

  “Yes, do be a good little bird and fly, fly away.” When the taunt failed to get either shifter’s attention, he howled and continued poking. “The dog and I have much to discuss.”

  “Want me to take him out?” Shooter leveled the butt of the shotgun against his shoulder and took aim. “I don’t have to hit the heart. Can leave ‘em with a nasty head rush instead.”

  “No. I need him coherent.” Talon palmed the barrel of the gun. “But I’ll borrow this if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all, amigo.” The gun passed hands. Shooter shook out an extra round of bullets from a case at his belt and handed them to Talon. “Enjoy,” he said, waving a goodbye as he trotted down the hall.

  “Nice guy.” He sat on the poor excuse for a bench inside his cell and patted the seat beside him. “Now, why don’t you come on in and we can chat.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.” A deafening boom rang out as Talon pulled the shotgun chest height and fired into the cell. Drake’s eardrums throbbed and his hands covered them in an effort to stifle the pain. The click-click of the shell case emptying from the gun’s chamber followed the racket, but sounded even louder to his now sensitive ears.

  “What the bleeding hell, man?” The English slang seeped into Drake’s speech with his shock. When the speedy vampiric healing fixed his inner ear canals, he jumped up, slammed into the bars, and bore his fangs.

  “That was a warning shot.” Talon’s dark hair fell to his shoulders as he slanted his head. His face caught between the wolf’s primal rage and the man’s thirst for action. “Next one goes in your kneecap.”

  I could rip these bars apart and take off your bloody head before you fired another shot. The knowledge didn’t settle Drake’s anger, but it did put things in perspective. Ha! And Jame always said he couldn’t find perspective with two hands and a flashlight. Eat that, Kitty. The thought of Jame eased his foul mood, but an undercurrent of restlessness thrummed along his mind.

  “Understood.” He bit back, then attended to his real interest—finding out about Jame. “Where’s the rest of the troops? Didn’t want to face me again, huh?”

  The buzz in Talon’s body ceased and his face blanched. He sucked in a ragged breath. When he spoke again, his words drew out harsh and low. “They’re not here.”

  “Bullocks, Talon,” Drake whispered darkly, not bothering to hide the emotion brimming under the surface. “Enough games. We can play at this later. Tell me what happened. Where is she?”

  “I don’t know.” To his credit, the shifter didn’t bother to pretend to misunderstand the she. “Jame and Slick were drawn into a trap by the same psychopath who’s blackmailing Sera’s father. We think he�
��s using new made vamps or phage in the murders and the attempts to abduct Sera.”

  “You’re telling me some nutter who thinks himself a god has Jame?” A spring coiled deep within his gut. The tension mounted, extending to every muscle. His temples throbbed to a staccato beat. The air in the cell grew bitter.

  “Team eight’s already using their resources to track them down. Bull’s been sent south with two of their agents on a possible lead.” Talon placed the shotgun on the wall beside him. The wolf receded and shallow lines etched around his eyes. “But we have a deadline.”

  “Let me out of here.” Darkness gnawed at his mind, a festering malignancy. The vampire nature beckoned. Allowing it to wash over him, even for a moment would threaten his soul, but oh the freedom. He gripped the bars, fighting for control. “We both know I could shred these pathetic metal bars like a silk scarf. So, let me out of here and let’s get to work.”

  “We don’t need your help on this one. This isn’t your territory. You don’t know the underground scene here.” He cracked his knuckles. “I’m only telling you out of respect.” Talon leaned against the hallway’s dull gray wall. His head held erect while his eyes blazed blue fire. “We’ll find them.”

  Drake studied the shifter. He’d known Talon for years. They’d met chasing after the same baddie, a sick bastard who got his kicks by preying on little girls. The crimes had hit too close to Drake’s past and he’d gone after the creep without the consent of Veritas. Granted he didn’t need the group’s permission, having left it decades prior, but without their support, he had a hard time tracking the psycho. When he came across a young PCD agent investigating the same crimes, he agreed to work with him. Together they’d discovered the sicko’s hiding place and took him down before he could hurt another little girl. Talon didn’t know it, then or now, but the murdering psychopath had been a phage.

  “You mentioned a deadline?” Drake slid from the edge, a firm mask slipping over his face. He lost control far too often, but doing so now would cost them time.

  “Yes,” Talon said, scrubbing a hand down his face. “One hour.” He brought his wrist up and stared at his black leather watch. “Actually make that thirty minutes. Shit. Where did the time go?”

  Shoving his hands deep in his coat pockets, he let the warring emotions wash over him before projecting an air of calm. His gaze remained stoic, an impassive disguise. Inside, however, his worry over Jame’s safety wreaked havoc. “I can find them faster than anyone.” He made sure to include them to win over the stubborn shifter, but truth be told, he didn’t give a damn about Slick. Then again, if anyone was going to damage the half-breed, it was going to be him. “I’ve had Jame’s blood. I can track her.”

  A jolt of elation jumped from Talon’s eyes, but quickly dimmed. “You had her blood?” A coldness swept across the cell again, reflecting the mood. “How?”

  Drake let out an exasperated humph. “Do you give a rat’s ass about how? I did. All you need to know is it may save her life.”

  Another war flashed over Talon’s face. His upper lipped curled, revealing a set of canine teeth. He snarled a warning. His mouth drew into a sharp line. He pushed off the wall and approached the bars. The rattle of metal echoed in the small cell as a key turned in the lock. Talon threw the door to the left. It churned like gears springing to life when it drew open.

  “Wise decision.” A slow smile spread over Drake’s face, until Talon slapped a pair of cuffs on him. He almost laughed at the absurdity of a shifter handcuffing a vampire, until the damnable things started to chafe his skin. He tested their strength with a quick tug and found them unmovable. “What the hell?”

  “A device courtesy of team eight.” Talon thumped him on the back—hard. “UV radiating cuffs. Works well on vamps.”

  “I’m not sensitive to the sun anymore,” Drake said, eyeing the round metal for signs of their freaky magic.

  “No, but too much UV concentration, lasers, or fire are effective weapons for a vamp of any age.” He grabbed the shotgun and dragged Drake down the hall. “Of course, shooting you in the heart and decapitating you would be effective too, but that’s if I wanted you dead. And I don’t...yet.”

  “Well, chief, aren’t you a sweet talker.” He twisted his wrists, curious about how much force it would take to break the blasted cuffs. “And quite the little science whiz.”

  “Not my invention.” He opened the door to an inner office and shoved Drake inside. “But incredibly handy.”

  The air stank of shifters. Shooter and the lead beeatch—emphasis on the B—stood over a desk, pointing at and perusing some paper. Valkyrie, aka lead beeatch, looked up, narrowed her pretty brown eyes, then pointed to the handcuffs and grinned. “It’s a good look for you, Drake.”

  “Thanks. You got something in black though?” He lifted his wrists high to give her a decent show while inching forward to catch a glimpse of the paper. He flicked his gaze down, identifying a city map, and backed up faster than they could track. He continued the conversation without missing a beat. “Want the color to match my eyes.”

  “We might be able to arrange something,” Valkyrie said. Her posture stiffened, arms crossing over her chest. She turned her scrutiny on Talon. “Any reason the vamp’s out of his cell?”

  Talon strode to the desk, snatched the map, and held it in front of Drake’s face. “He can track them.” When Valkyrie went to speak, he waved his hand and cut her off. “Don’t ask.”

  “I’d track them a lot better without cuffs on.” No way in hell was he going to face some sicko—probably another phage—with his wrists shackled. Ok, maybe he would for Jame, but he wasn’t telling that to the shifters. No reason to put the idea in their minds.

  A gush of wind hit him in the chest. Two massive paws wrapped around his coat collar and yanked him inches off the ground. A wolf’s snout sniffed his jaw, baring long pointed teeth. Drake’s fangs sprang in response. He breathed deeply willing them away.

  “No need for the bravado, Talon. I understand your meaning.” He patted the shifter’s furry arm. He leaned closer, allowing the nasty canine breath to fill his nose. A black haze fell over his vision as he stared into the wolf’s golden eyes. “Listen well,” he whispered the faintest of sounds so Talon alone would hear. “You know of my feelings for your second-in-command. I will not allow her to come to harm.” The darkness inside him seeped from his skin sending forth icy pinpricks. “If you believe nothing else, if you trust not my word, then believe that, trust that.”

  A heartbeat of time passed before Talon shifted. Swift and seamless, fur disappeared, skin stretched and colored, bones reshaped, eyes returned to blue. Without a word, he encircled Drake’s wrists and removed the handcuffs. Shooter grunted in protest and moved to intercept, but Valkyrie, in a shocking move, reached out for the man’s forearm and held him back. She shook her head once and Shooter stood in place again as if he’d never budged.

  “What do you want us to do, Talon? Your team members, your call,” Valkyrie said. Compassion etched on her face in the draw of her brows and the frown on her lips.

  The room fell quiet. Drake dared not move. His heartbeat—yes, he had a heartbeat and could also stand garlic, wood, crosses and holy water, thank you very much, damn urban legends—drummed a wild rhythm.

  “Our time’s running out and we have no other leads. Let the vamp track them.” Talon pointed his thumb at Drake. “Keep a close eye on him and call me the second you have a location.” He rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a cell. “I’ve got to check on Sera, but then I’m heading your way.”

  “We’ll put a lockdown on him. No worries, amigo.” Shooter’s lilting voice came off a shy too thrilled about their new orders for Drake’s taste.

  “Do not.” Talon stepped up to Valkyrie, imposing his size. The little psyke-shifter femme fatale circled her hands in a quick sweep to transform the air particles into a wall—a bleeding solid cement wall. Talon showed no signs of surprise. Hell, he didn’t even seem to no
tice. He walked to the side of the wall, leaned his weight on it, and stared down at Valkyrie. “As I was saying, do not go into the danger zone without me. You’re to await my arrival. Understand?”

  Valkyrie cocked an eyebrow. “I said your call. Stop stressing so much. You’ll get wrinkles.” She pinched his cheek and walked by him, crumbling the wall as she did so. “Now, go check on your girl and be ready for action.”

  A pocket of wind swept toward Drake, coiling around his body. “Now you, my friend, are going to be a good vampire,” Valkyrie said as she motioned toward the door. The air grew thicker, encircling Drake’s waist, wrists, and ankles. The clever snare worked better than even the cuffs. He smiled, begrudgingly impressed at the way the wench used her abilities to trap him. “Do we understand each other?”

  “Not going to be a problem. We all want to see this end well,” Drake said, showing a bit of fang. No reason to let them forget who—and more importantly, what—they were dealing with.

  “Excellent.” Valkyrie clapped her hands like a cheerleader.

  Go, team. Go. The thought had Drake snickering and kept his mind off the fear creeping through his veins. If that son of a bitch hurt Jame— He cut off that train of thought with a sobering, “Let’s get a move on, eh?”

  “Come on Shooter. Time to head out.” A pair of 10mm pistols rested in Valkyrie’s hands—girl went old school on her firearms. She checked the chambers, nodded, and placed them in holders strapped to her thighs. “Talon, we’ll call you. Be quick about your visit.”

  “I’m already gone,” Talon said. A blur flew passed them next, splitting the air and shaking the door.

  “Show off.” Valkyrie shimmied into a brown leather jacket and held the door open. “After you, vampire.”

  “Want to get a view of my ass, huh?” A certain shotgun wacked him in the kidney for that remark. Drake flashed a fang filled grin over his shoulder. “Shifters. No sense of humor.” Then, his attention directed inward as darkness bled across his vision. He focused his mind to one task, and one task only, nothing and no one else mattered. He sniffed the night air, catching a weak scent...almost imperceptible...of oranges. Jame. With the trail detected, the night enfolded him, unmasking the predator behind his civil façade.