by Tina Moss
“Hell and a half,” Slick said. “No joke.” Her best friend and newly appointed second-in-command rubbed the back of his neck. He stood over a foot taller than her and bent to meet her eyes. His thick brown hair curled to the middle of his ears. He had been growing it out since last year, but Jame preferred the short strands to this debacle. Not that she would tell him, of course. She wasn’t that mean. He squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Boss. We’ll think of something.”
“Slick, it’s not like you can hide a multi-homicide for long. A code black isn’t a thing to…” Her brows rose. “Wait, Boss?”
“Yeah, we’re in District One. You’re head honcho now.” He winked.
She ran a hand through her black hair, smoothing down flyaway platinum streaks. A cool spring breeze whipped them forward again as she started toward the Capitol. “Boss,” she mumbled. How did she get herself into this mess? Nice cushy job as Talon’s second in District Thirteen, but no. Needed to be the top dog. Damn, she never should have taken this job. The Paranormal Crimes Division didn’t need some half-cocked agent who thought herself a team leader. Especially not the most volatile district in the entire country. What the hell had the unit leaders been thinking when they agreed to give her this spot?
The rest of the team fell in step behind her as they made their way to the security entrance. She lowered her voice so only Slick could hear. “I feel like a damn fraud.” Her teeth clamped on the inside of her cheek. She clicked her tongue against the pain. “It’s been a month, and I still don’t have the hang of this leader stuff.”
His hushed tone matched hers. “Give it more time. You’ll get there.” Popping her gently under the chin, he forced her head up. “You’re Jame ‘Got game?’ Bradshaw. A PCD special agent, and a kick-ass, confident shifter. Don’t forget that.”
Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and straightened her spine. Enough wallowing. She had wanted this position. Hell, she all but bullied her former boss, Talon, into recommending her for it. Dealing with bouts of paranoia and nightmares over the-incident-that-must-not-be-named didn’t excuse her. Don’t punk out. She met Slick’s wicked grin with one of her own. “Thanks.”
The guards eyed the team as they entered the checkpoint. Jame stepped ahead of the others and flashed her badge. “PCD agents here to review the crime scene.”
“Remove your weapons, step through the metal detector, and someone will escort you.” A man, as big as a grizzly bear, looked down his nose at her. His order seemed harmless enough, but the smug expression on his face brought up her hackles.
She cast him a twisted smile, then pulled a six-inch military knife from her boot. Next came her Glock .22 out of its shoulder holster, a can of pepper spray from the pocket of her fatigue pants, and a small foldable knife from her leather jacket’s inside compartment. After her brush with death less than a year ago, she decided being fully prepared meant a few extra pounds of raw steel and firepower.
The guard cocked his head. “This everything?”
“Well unless you found a way to disarm my shifting ability, sweet cheeks, then yes.” She choked back the memory. That god-awful day someone had found a method to eliminate her natural weapon and make her…helpless. A shiver captured her breath and turned it frigid. Happily, that bastard was rotting in a jail cell. Never again.
Slick caught her elbow and nodded, catching her thought trail. He had shared that day with her, ensnared in the same trap by that sick phage son of a bitch. Phage. They don’t deserve to live. The group of flesh-eating supernaturals claimed to be innocent, lawfully petitioning the government for citizenship, but Jame discovered the hard way that their declarations of goodness were a damn lie. The nagging sensation had filled her mind as she and Slick investigated a lead on the serial killer case last year. As they climbed the back steps to an innocuous looking porch, an oily scent had filled her nose at the last possible second, and the fireball hit them like a two-ton hammer. The blast had knocked them unconscious, and they awoke to a worse fate. No chains, no rope bound them. Noxious gas had filled a closet-sized room instead and paralyzed their muscles. Hard to shift when you couldn’t move.
Lucky for them, a vampire had saved them from that torture chamber, carrying them to freedom. Drake. Her blood heated as her thoughts turned to the cocky vampire. After the incident, PCD’s former civilian liaison spent months going through the academy to become a full agent. For three years before that, he’d enjoyed tormenting her with dirty pick-up lines. When he pulled her free of that death trap, however, things changed. She took a steadying breath. He should be here soon. He would be on a plane even now to join the team—her team.
The Old Man and Dee Two, the original remaining team members of District One, walked to the table and started unloading their weapons. The motion brought her focus back to the task at hand. Code black, Jame. Get it together. She watched her team as they disarmed. You’ve got a multiple homicide at the damn Capitol building. Stay alert. A lump in Dee Two’s short red leather coat caught her eye. The quiet special agent could decipher codes and patterns faster than anyone she’d ever met, but those psyke abilities didn’t give her the best chance in a fight. Psykes used advanced brain functions, not raw strength and speed. Jame hissed. The bulge went flat as Dee Two took out her silver Taser and placed it on the table beside her gun.
“Why not let her keep that, fellas?” Jame said to the guards. “It’s not gonna kill anyone.”
“Sorry agent. All weapons need to be checked here.” The burly guard sneered at her. His voice remained even, the hint of disdain masked in his deep timbre. “Don’t want any more trouble.”
“It’s okay,” Dee whispered. Her hand shook as she pushed a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. Those coffee-colored eyes pleaded with Jame to let the issue drop. “Don’t worry.”
“Let’s get a move on. I want to get a whiff before the blue boys mess up the scene.” The Old Man’s brow wrinkled, matching the deep grooves across his face. His skin looked like waves of desert sand, same color and endless lines. He gave up his black hunting knife. Turning out the pockets of his tan fringed coat, he showed the guards the empty interiors. Yet the metal detector beeped as he strutted through it. “What now?”
Jame held back a laugh and pointed at his belt. “That buckle’s probably the size of Texas.”
“New Mexico, chickie.” He grunted, snagged off the snakeskin belt with the thick brass buckle and walked through the machine again. It blasted an alarm. “This is ridiculous. Wave the stupid wand, and let’s get on with it.”
The Old Man had a way of demanding compliance but held no interest in the leader spot. Lucky for her. The guards sprang into action, brandishing the detection rods over the team’s arms, legs, torsos, and chests. When the burly guard lingered a little too long over Jame’s breasts, she coughed. He shot her a leer that had her screaming inside. No fighting. Gotta set an example for the team. She fought down the shifter buzz threatening to break through and settled for narrowing her eyes at the disgusting guard.
“See ya later then, honey,” he called as a secret service agent took over leading them to the crime scene.
“Son of a—” Jame spun on her heel, ready to sock the guard in the mouth. All males were the same. Her mother had that bit right. Before she could get too far, Slick grabbed her arm and pulled her away.
“Easy,” he mumbled. “You’re not a field agent anymore.” He lowered his voice. “Too bad. I would’ve loved to see that dickwad with a black eye.”
Jame clamped down the shifter energy. It seeped into her muscles like a shot of adrenaline. She struggled to bring it under control. He’s right. No more kids’ games. I’m a leader now. She half smiled, patted Slick on the back, and took point behind the secret service agent. The man’s stoic demeanor, after her encounter with the security guard, provided a balm to her irritation. She took note of hidden corridors where an attacker could lie in wait for a victim as they walked the halls. “This is a logistical nig
htmare.”
The Old Man huffed his agreement behind her.
At the end of a particularly long stretch, far from the building’s famous dome, men in black suits had sealed off the area. Large metal barricades held reporters and camera crews, hungry for a story, at bay. The secret service agent spoke something unintelligible into a hand mic. The men in black moved aside to allow her team into the next room in single file.
Jame entered first.
“Damn it all.” Her stomach dropped to her feet. The acids reminded her that she hadn’t eaten all day. Lucky break. If she had, she wouldn’t have been able to hold it down. Blood coated the floor, turning the black and white square tiles into a dark red carpet. Three men and two women lay face down in the crimson pool, their limbs contorted at unnatural angles. One of the women, a blonde in a navy-blue Burberry skirt suit, had lost a shoe.
“Dee, start snapping photos and see if anything in the details gives away our perp. Search for the patterns.” Jame walked the perimeter of the scene, avoiding a series of chairs and two large desks. The secret service agent had told them this room functioned as a gathering space for private congressional meetings. Curious. Her eyelids contracted to slits, and her brow furrowed in concentration. The victims each dressed in business attire, likely senators. A backroom meeting amongst likeminded politicians made sense. The woman with the lost shoe didn’t fit. Her designer suit and single Prada pump appeared notably out of place. Too highbrow.
“You think we’re dealing with a SUB killer?” The camera’s shutter clicked as Dee snapped shots on the opposite side.
“Dunno. Something’s—” Before Jame could comment on the oddity of the mixed company, a deep bass cut her off.
“Do we have to use that idiotic tag?” The Old Man hovered by the wall, surveying the big picture. “A SUB is something you have for lunch, like those dang TV commercials tell ya, not a group of people.” He grumbled and covered his mouth with a wide palm. “SUBs, supernatural or undead beings, can’t these politicians come up with anything better?”
“It’s short and easy.” Slick crouched low. He took tissue samples from each of the victims. The gloves on his hands wouldn’t negate the sickening aroma of blood, no matter how prevalent the latex smelled. Even with his half-human heritage, his shifter side would make him as sensitive to aromas as full shifters like her and the Old Man. He stuffed some tissues up his nostrils.
“Still ridiculous.” The Old Man backed into a pedestal in the corner. An antique looking vase swayed dangerously on the edge until he turned to catch it in one thick hand. “Shit.”
“Can we argue over word choice later?” Jame tried to resist the temptation to stuff something up her nose too. The coppery tang shot up her nasal passages like sulfuric acid, burning everything in its path. Another few minutes and she’d lose her sense of smell for a week at least. Sometimes shifter abilities were a real pain in the ass. “Let’s catalogue the evidence and get the hell out of here.”
“What’s a matter, girlie? Losing your stomach?” The Old Man’s nose elongated into an orange duck beak. He stepped closer to the scene and inspected the victims.
“Well, at least I don’t have to shift to do my job.” Her insides churned, making his words hit too near to home. She blocked out the pangs in her stomach and sidled closer.
“Wisdom over beauty. Ducks don’t have much sense of smell. Makes it more tolerable.” He rolled over one of the male victims after Dee took more pictures. The man’s dark bangs stuck to his forehead, matted with blood. A knife handle protruded from under his left armpit, the blade positioned expertly into his heart. His head dangled from the neck, almost severed. The man’s eyes, as black as midnight, remained open. Two long, pointed front teeth pegged him as vampire. “This one didn’t go down easy. He’s got blood on his fangs. Let’s hope it’s the perp’s.”
“Are we ever that lucky?” Jame droned.
Dee shot still more photos, the shutter clicking every second. She didn’t need the sound. The camera’s digital design made a shutter useless, so the ticking was nothing more than a false prop. Despite the annoyance, she refused to take pictures without it, saying the constant noise gave her something to focus on during the crime scenes, besides death.
“We might be this time.” Slick flipped over one of the female victims. His mouth dropped open. “Jame, you need to get over here.”
“Just a sec.” Jame kneeled beside another male casualty. From the contortions in his bone structure, it appeared he died in mid change. A shifter. Her eyes watered. The scent of raw flesh stung worse than onions and month-old trash. She swatted at the unwanted tears with the back of her gloved hand. The horrible artificial smell stung her nose, but at least it gave her a reprieve from the blood and gore.
She flipped on her recorder. “Male shifter. Approximate age from appearance is mid-fifties. Blunt trauma to the head.” Grabbing ahold of the man’s side, she turned over the victim. His gray, tailored suit had several holes where his bones broke through. “Looks like he tried to shift.” She leaned closer. “There’s a thin line across his throat. No knife cut.” Pinching the flesh of the man’s skin, she examined the slice. “Something like a surgical scalpel, done post-mortem.” No one would get that close to a shifter’s neck if he were alive. A chill ran through her blood. Someone had gotten that close to her. The memory of the disabling gas swarmed her mind. “Or possibly as the victim lay unable to move.”
“Boss, you really need to see this,” Slick called louder, cutting off her train of thought.
“All right.” She waved at Dee. “Finish up the inspection here.” Pointing at the victim’s neck, she added, “This looks personal.”
“I’m on it.” Dee glided to the spot. Her boots somehow avoided contact with the blood or disturbing the scene. Jame nodded her appreciation and tried to mimic her fellow agent’s movements, avoiding the mess as much as possible.
“Okay, Slick.” She tapped his shoulder and inclined her head to the side. “What is it?”
“You’re not going to believe this.” He slid to his right and motioned her to crouch beside him.
Jame squinted, following Slick’s pointed finger to the blond female victim. She swallowed a mouthful of bile. The heel of the woman’s missing Prada pump stood implanted in the victim’s forehead. Her neck possessed the same sharp cut as the dead male vampire. The head detached ninety percent from the body.
“This isn’t any random act, Slick. There’s hate and aggression here.”
“I know, Boss, but that’s not the shocking bit.” He reached forward and pushed aside the dead woman’s hair. Empty green eyes stared back at them. “Recognize her?”
Jame’s heart stilled for a single beat before it picked up double time. Her blood raced in her veins as fast as a plane crashing to Earth. “It can’t be.”
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Glossary
NUA—Northern United America. Unification of countries formerly known as Canada, U.S.A., and Mexico under a centralized government.
PCD—Paranormal Crimes Division. An agency of the North United America's Justice Department comprised of fourteen districts. Responsible for the investigation and apprehension of paranormal criminals.
Phage—Unregistered paranormal group. Not recognized by the N.U.A. government. Rumored to survive on flesh. Currently advocating for equal rights.
Psyke—One of the three registered paranormal groups with advanced mental abilities unique to each individual.
Shifter—One of the three registered paranormal groups with the ability to morph into various animals.
SUB—Supernatural or Undead Beings. Acronym utilized by law enforcement.
Vampire—One of the three registered paranormal groups with heightened physical capacities. Survive on blood.
Veritas—Ancient underground organization ded
icated to justice for all. Labeled vigilante by the N.U.A. government.
Find book two, RED ALERT, featuring Jame and Drake available now, and discover more from Tina Moss at www.tinamoss.com
Special Agent Jame Bradshaw has five dead senators on her hands...and a pack of trouble between her claws.
As the newest team leader for the Paranormal Crimes Division, this feisty shifter is smack in the middle of a political hornet’s nest waiting to implode. With the mass murder at the Capitol building and the city under a red alert, paranoia spreads like wildfire. She must solve this mystery before the higher-ups call for her head.
When former vampire vigilante and newly minted PCD agent, Drake, shows up to the scene, the case heats up and so does the tension.
Fighting off the charms of a lethal hundred-and-fifty-year-old vamp may prove Jame’s final undoing...in the most delicious ways. But if this alpha shifter doesn’t learn to let down her defenses and channel the passion into a true partnership, she’ll risk losing more than her badge.
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Acknowledgments
Writing may be one of humanity’s most solitary endeavors (minus the time researching and procrastinating on social media). It requires intense focus and emergence into an imaginary world that exists only in the author’s head. Yet the act draws on a deep well of experiences and a community of support to bring the imaginings of the mind to the page. Thank you to all those who make the journey possible.
