“That makes perfect sense,” I said and heard murmurs of agreement from the others.
“Kyle and I will pick up a couple of things and meet Angel and Philip back at the hotel,” Naomi said, then disconnected.
“Angel, Dr. Nikas says he has a treatment made up for you and Philip,” Brian told me. “I’d like you to meet me at a place in SoHo—Betsy’s Bakes, on the corner of Grand and Greene, in six hours.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “We should be done by then, and I know how to get in touch with you if something goes wrong.”
“Don’t jinx yourself,” he chided, but his tone remained upbeat. “I’ll save a brownie for you.”
“Save two.”
“Deal.”
I stood perfectly still as Naomi rigged up the earpiece comm thing that would allow her to monitor and advise. And I only winced a little when Kyle made a thin slice on my side above my hip and slipped a tiny GPS tracker beneath the skin. If the worst happened, and I got captured again, I wanted the Krewe to be able to find my scrawny ass. The others each had one for the same reason. The zombies’ were beneath the skin, like mine, and Naomi’s . . . well, I didn’t really need to know where Naomi’s tracker was hidden.
Kyle held the incision shut as my parasite did its weird and tingly work to heal the wound and conceal the tracker. Philip handed me a cup, and I slurped down a thin slice of brain to help my parasite out and to stay as tanked. Craning my neck, I peered down at the cut. Nothing left but a faint red line, and after a few seconds even that was gone.
“Done,” Kyle murmured, straightening.
Philip tapped out something on a computer tablet then gave a nod. “It’s working.” He was dressed in dark grey fatigue pants and a close-fitting black crew neck shirt under a lightweight black zip-up jacket, which was as much for concealment of weapons as for warmth. My outfit was similar, though about ten thousand sizes smaller.
“You’ll need to present as strong an image as possible,” Naomi had said when she produced the clothing. “You need to look confident and capable, with a don’t fuck with me aura.”
I didn’t argue with her. I’d wear purple feathers in my hair if they could make up for the fact that I was a not-very-intimidating petite twenty-two year old. Naomi and Kyle were dressed in totally normal jeans and t-shirts and hoodies, but that was because they’d be staying outside to monitor and had more need to blend in. That said, I knew damn well each was still armed to the teeth.
Philip passed the tablet to Naomi, then retrieved a cloth bundle from a canvas bag and fixed his attention on me. “Marcus said you were getting to be a pretty good shot,” he said as he unfolded the cloth to reveal a small black pistol about the size of my hand. “This is a Glock 27. Forty caliber, holds nine rounds. It’s like the one Marcus let you practice with, but smaller.”
I stared at the gun in his hand for several seconds before I found my voice. “You want me to carry a gun?” I squeaked.
“Only if you want to,” Philip said. “There’s no wrong answer here, Angel. If you’re not comfortable with it, that’s fine as well.”
My thoughts tumbled crazily. They trust me with a gun. This shit is so damn illegal. We need to present as strong an image as possible. They trust ME with a gun? And then: I could kill someone with this.
The last thought quieted all the others. I could kill someone with this. I didn’t want to do that, but the truth was I had, in fact, killed before. Twice—each time when I’d felt there was no other choice. The gun was simply another way to do so.
Gulping softly, I gingerly took the gun, then—remembering what Marcus had drilled into me countless times—kept my finger clear of the trigger, pointed the muzzle at the floor, ejected the magazine, then pulled the slide back to check for a round in the chamber to verify for myself it was unloaded.
“She passes!” Naomi crowed. I jerked my gaze to her in surprise.
“Wait, this was a test?” I blurted.
Laughing, she shook her head, then shrugged. “Not really, but since you actually know basic gun safety, we’ll even give you bullets.”
I wasn’t entirely sure she was joking.
Philip produced a holster that attached to my belt at the small of my back, and for the next twenty minutes I practiced drawing the unloaded gun from the holster until I stopped fumbling awkwardly and could actually draw it with relative ease.
Finally, the others pronounced me ready enough. I loaded the magazine, chambered a round, then secured the gun in the holster. It was heavier loaded, though I wasn’t sure how much was simply my imagination. I’m wearing death on my butt, I thought, then coughed to cover the slightly hysterical giggle that bubbled up.
“Remember, we’re keeping our eyes and ears open for anything and everything that could be useful for a later extraction of Mr. Ivanov,” Philip said as we made last minute adjustments to gear.
“Got it.” I fought the urge to scratch at the place on my side, and settled for rubbing the itchy spot on the crook of my arm instead.
Naomi checked a few more things on the tablet, then slid it into a backpack. “Kyle and I will be in front of the Saberton building, keeping tabs on everything from the car,” she reminded us. I managed not to roll my eyes at the mention of the car—a sleek hybrid SUV that had rolled off a production line less than a year earlier. Apparently the combination of spy work and way too much money meant that Naomi had a half dozen vehicles stashed around the country in long term storage. Not in south Louisiana, though. No, that would have been way too easy. “If you see any problems, vocalize them if at all possible since I can’t see what’s going on,” she continued, oblivious to my internal snarking. “Any questions?” When no one had any, she gave a crisp nod. “Let’s do this thing.”
Naomi and Kyle left as soon as Jane called to arrange for us to meet her at Washington Square near the arch. Philip and I waited about five minutes, to give the pair time to get into position, then we headed out.
Philip shifted from foot to foot in a very uncharacteristic show of nerves as the hotel elevator descended.
“You okay?” I asked.
A worried look passed over his face. “I’m still not sure it’s the best idea for me to go in.”
“Cut that out,” I said sharply. “You haven’t had any problems since we started taking the stuff Dr. Nikas recommended. Not to mention, you actually know what you’re doing. I sure as hell can’t do this by myself.”
“I’m still having some dizzy spells. Kyle could go in with you,” he said, but it was a weak protest. We’d already hashed this out several times. Naomi couldn’t go in since there was too much chance she’d be recognized, and it didn’t make sense to split her and Kyle up when they worked so seamlessly together. Philip grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. It keeps surfacing. The worry.”
“You’re my partner,” I told him. “Not my romantic partner,” I hurried to add in case he’d misread me. But the smile that twitched at his mouth told me he understood perfectly fine and found it more amusing than insulting that I’d felt the need to clarify. “I mean you’re more than my damn zombie kid or any shit like that,” I went on. “I got your back, and I know you got mine.” I smiled and bumped him with my shoulder. “It’s cool, ZeeBee.”
He returned the bump and the smile as the elevator doors opened. “Got it, ZeeEm. I’m good.”
We took the subway to Washington Square without incident, and Jane’s black sedan pulled up shortly after we arrived, with Victor and the Escalade only a second behind it. Philip took the front seat of the limo, I slid into the back, and we were on our way.
“Damn, you look awesome, lady,” I said as I swept an appreciative gaze over Jane. With a perfect updo, sleek navy suit, white silk shirt, and current no-nonsense expression, she pulled off sophisticated power perfectly.
“Even with the circles under my eyes?” she a
sked, but she smiled as she smoothed out a fold in the skirt.
“Oh, please,” I said with a snort. “It’s obvious you’re ready to kick ass and take names. Again.”
Jane’s expression turned to southern ice. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get Pietro out of there.” She looked down at her hands, folded them gracefully on her knee and exhaled. “He asked me to marry him.”
“Oh. Wow.” I didn’t quite know what to say after that, and I made myself take a few seconds to gather my thoughts before blurting out something really stupid. “I’m sure he’d’ve told you about him being a zombie,” I finally said. “I mean, if you said yes. Before you, er, did it.” Okay, only partly stupid. Jeez.
She glanced at me. “I did say yes. We were going to wait until I was bit more established in Congress before making it public.” She shifted her attention to the sights beyond the window. Traffic was lighter than usual, though still way more than I was used to. Yellow taxis meandered uptown with us, and a bike messenger with a thick chain slung across his shoulders expertly wove between vehicles. “I’d like to think that he would, indeed, have told me,” she continued, “but right now none of that matters. What does matter is that bitch has my husband, whether it’s official or not.”
“Damn straight,” I said with a firm nod.
Jane closed her eyes and leaned her head back, but I doubted she was taking a nap. She looked more like a warrior preparing for the battle of a lifetime, psyching herself up and doing whatever meditation or calming mental exercises would help her win the day. Meanwhile, I tried not to fidget in my supposedly badass outfit. Philip looked like an action movie hero, while I felt more like a kid in a costume.
I pulled out a packet of brains. We’d already tanked up, but a little extra edge couldn’t hurt for a situation as serious as this, right? I zipped off the top and sucked down the contents. A few seconds later a delicious tingle swept through me, colors sprang to life, and everything looked as cool as a 3D movie, but sharper.
Philip glanced back at me, forehead creased in concern as he noted the empty brain packet in my hand. I gave him a reassuring I know what I’m doing smile. We’d be done with this crap and out of there long before I needed some crash time. He gave a slight nod and returned the smile, but a whisper of worry remained in his eyes as he faced front again. He was most likely tense about this whole excursion, I decided. There was no reason in the world for him to be worried about me when it came to brain consumption. I’d been managing my own supply for over a year now, and I knew better than to waste them.
The car came to a smooth stop in front of the Saberton building, and Jane opened her eyes. She looked calmer, more centered. I needed to learn that trick.
Victor and Philip were out first and kept a sharp watch on everything while the driver came around and opened the door for us.
“Ready?” Jane asked. Her light smile stood in sharp contrast to the steel in her eyes.
“Sure, what the hell,” I replied with a fatalistic shrug.
Jane stepped out with elegant ease. I climbed out behind her and tried not to trip on the curb. As if we’d practiced, the three zombies fell in around Jane like an undead human shield.
The back of my neck prickled as we walked up to the broad glass entrance. I had no doubt we were being watched, but I hoped it wasn’t through a rifle scope. After the packet in the limo I felt badass enough to tear through the milling humans on the street like a fox in a henhouse, but none of that would help me if a sniper bullet blew out my brain stem.
Philip moved in beside me and gave my shoulder a nudge, eyes fixed straight ahead though a faint smile played on his face. I’m with you, his nudge told me. I got your back.
I nudged him right back. Ditto.
As we approached I caught sight of the reflection of our foursome in the glass that fronted the building. We looked damn good, I decided. Jane and the Zombies. Sounds like a punk band, I thought with a stifled laugh, though I had to admit that Naomi had been right—we sure as hell didn’t look like a group to be fucked with. Still, I breathed a sigh of relief as we entered the building, and was amused to hear it echoed by the others even though we all knew the relief was short-lived. We were in the dragon’s den now and far from anything resembling safety.
I caught myself gawking as we continued moving. From outside, the building didn’t look all that special, but inside, trees, glass, and at least three floors of open space above made it feel as if I’d walked off the street into a different world. A curved reception desk of polished wood and glass stood in the center of the gleaming marble floor. The whole place was empty, and it took me a few seconds of wondering before I remembered it was Sunday. To the right, a stairway curved up to the mezzanine, and to the left, a sitting area with uncomfortable-looking chairs occupied its own garden of potted plants. A security guard dressed in dark pants and a light blue shirt stood beside a smaller desk near a short corridor with a bank of elevators, his gaze on us. Another man in a charcoal grey suit approached from the direction of the elevators.
I recognized Andrew Saber from the Gourmet Gala and the party the other night. Tall, with an athletic build, he had a strong, square jaw and wary eyes. He strode toward us, cool and calm with a hint of swagger as though he owned the place—which he did, of course, or damn near.
Jane walked up to him while the rest of us hung back a few steps. “Andrew, it’s so nice to see you again,” she said with a gracious smile as if she’d been invited for tea.
“Congresswoman Pennington, it’s truly a pleasure,” he replied with equal warmth, while I wondered how the hell these people could fake such niceness. He bestowed the same genuine-looking smile on the rest of us before returning his attention to Jane. “If you would all please come with me?”
“Of course,” Jane murmured, still smiling as he turned and headed to an elevator set apart from the others. Yet a flicker of uncertainty in her quick glance my way made me wonder if her stomach had the same butterflies as mine.
Andrew pulled a set of keys from his pocket and pressed a thumb-sized piece of grey plastic on a control panel beside the elevator door. A light flashed green, and the doors slid open. As soon as we entered he ran his thumb over a scanner like the ones we used at Dr. Nikas’s lab, then pressed the “10” button. Nobody said a word, but the message was clear: Shit was real now, yo.
“Your mother has filled you in?” Jane asked placidly as the car began to rise.
Andrew flicked his eyes toward her. “She informed me that you wish to see and speak to Mr. Ivanov for yourself, Dr. Pennington.”
That didn’t really answer her question, I noticed. Nicole Saber had probably told her son as little as possible of the humiliating scene at lunch.
“What is your opinion of his condition, Andrew?” Jane pursed her lips. “Your mother tends to, ah, not always give a clear picture.”
The elevator stopped, and the doors opened. Andrew stepped off and held them to allow everyone to exit. “He seems tired, ma’am,” he said, “but I assure you he’s being fed well and is not being abused or sleep deprived.” His expression flickered ever so briefly before he regained his cool, professional mask. “Right this way, ma’am.” He gestured down the hallway.
Before he could turn, Jane stopped him with a voice that could cut steel. “Other than amputating a body part, you mean?” Silently cheering Jane, I watched Andrew’s reaction. There’d been something in that box at lunch, something Nicole had hoped to shock Jane with. And it sure as hell hadn’t been a tennis bracelet.
A brief flash of annoyance swept over Andrew’s face. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, voice thick. “Other than that.” He straightened his shoulders, jaw firming. “Right this way,” he repeated and started off down the hall. Jane glanced at me then followed, Victor right at her side.
After a couple of turns, Andrew opened a set of dark wood double doors and entered a large conference room. J
ane and Victor followed him in, but I paused, shoulders prickling as I scanned the area within. No windows and no other exits, with four security guards in navy blue uniforms spaced around the room, each paying very close attention to our every movement. One of the guards was Mr. Perfect Eyebrows and another was Boat Launch Guy, both of them hard-core assholes, as I knew all too well. A uniformed woman stood a bit separate from the others, demeanor calm and professional. Muscled without being bulky, she had light brown hair in a sensible but attractive chin-length cut, sharp blue eyes, and a jaw a bit too square for her to be conventionally pretty. She had on the same style of navy blue tactical pants as the others, but her shirt was a dark grey, she wore two radios on her belt, and an air of authority surrounded her. Probably the head security person, I decided. And, of course, all the security personnel were armed, with regular guns and tranq guns ready in their holsters.
I weighed the odds. Three tanked zombies and five human security guards. Easy pickings if things got ugly, except for the damn tranq guns. I didn’t need a buttload of tactics training to know that it would be insanely easy to trap us in this room.
But Nicole won’t get Jane’s help if she does that, I told myself as I moved on in. I knew without a doubt that Jane had spoken the absolute truth when she said she’d taken precautions that would ensure Saberton went down in flames if anything happened to her—which was great, and sounded like strong insurance. Except, I couldn’t help but think it was like a restraining order: only as good as a person’s fear of it.
Yet the risks all seemed worth it at the sight of Pietro Ivanov sitting at the far end of the table. He looked wiped out, shoulders slumped. His left hand was wrapped in gauze, but he was alive, and in mostly once piece. My eyes went back to his hand. That answered the question of which body part Nicole had chopped off, but why the hell was it still bandaged? With brains, it should have grown back.
How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back Page 25
