“Cole’s been alone too long as it is. At the very least, I need to try and get another message to him.”
“If that were possible, we—”
“Just take me there,” she snapped. “If you’ve got men in Boulder, then take me to them. I can help track Cole down.”
“No. Our people are placed strategically and cannot be exposed just to ease your mind about your partner. I promised we’d take him out of Denver before he was brought down by police snipers, and we did. I promised we’d put him in a facility where the IRD has a presence, and we did.”
“What about the other promise you made about getting Cole medical attention? Do you people even really have doctors that know their way around Nymar spore?”
“Of course we do. There were some initial studies done by one of our doctors.” Adderson lowered his voice until she could barely hear it over the phone. “We think the medical team is where we were infiltrated. Cole was in their care when he was taken. One of them was under my microscope about a day before Cole disappeared from Canon City.”
“Who is it?”
Surprisingly, Adderson replied, “His name is Hal Waylon. Run that by your sources, and if you find anything, let me know. As long as we get proof that he’s been sanctioned, we don’t care who does the deed.”
“If sanctioning is the same as jamming a shotgun up his ass and pulling a trigger, I’m in.” When Paige looked over at the other car, she found two sets of little eyes staring at her from the backseat. She wasn’t certain she’d been loud enough for them to hear her, but the harried dad stretching his legs suddenly seemed ready to climb back into his kidmobile just to get away from there.
“Which brings us to ground we’ve already covered.” Adderson sighed. “As soon as I get an update on where Cole is, I’ll let you know. Now, would you like me to arrange a pickup? It would be helpful for us to know if we might encounter any hostility when we arrive.”
Paige ground her teeth, suddenly thinking of reasons to refuse the offer. She needed to move faster than her stolen car could take her, but if Cole had gone missing while in Adderson’s care, then perhaps it wasn’t such a great idea to climb into another one of those choppers. Also, she had a few more tactical options available when she wasn’t hindered by any sort of authority looking over her shoulder. Even worse, the last thing she needed was to lead Kawosa to a pseudomilitary group that was armed to the teeth and had enough access to arrange tricky ways to bamboozle the citizens of a major country. She still didn’t know where the shapeshifter had gone after scampering away from that expressway. “I got some hostility, all right,” she told Adderson. “I’ve been saving it up for a special occasion and I think I know where to send it.”
“We can pick it up if you like.”
She’d never wanted to hit someone so badly in her life, and that included the day when she couldn’t get away from a boy band radio marathon while being stuck in a cab during rush hour. “Forget it. Call me when you find out anything. I’ll make my own way.”
Adderson’s valiant attempt to get the last word in was cut short by a decisive poke from Paige’s thumb. Once she’d hung up on him, she dialed another number and opened her window to get a better look at the road leading up to the crescent-shaped little parking area. The cool air helped calm her down, right until the point that she was reminded of how Cole used to hang his head out the window like a dog just to feel a breeze on his face. She allowed herself a quick sad smile while watching for any sign that she was being followed. Rico wasn’t dead, which meant he would be coming after her with all he had if he still believed he had to kill her. Since she doubted that Kawosa had planted that stuff about a Skinner splinter group, she wasn’t sure if she should trust him anyhow. That was a tough fact to wrap her mind around, but would have been dangerous for her to take lightly.
“Midwestern Ectological Group, Branch 40,” chirped a fresh voice that Paige had never heard before.
“Can I talk to Stu?”
“He’s in the field. Someone else can help you, though.”
“No. Put me through to him. Take this number down.” After Paige rattled off her identification number, the girl at the other end of the phone wrote it down, asked someone else what to do with it, looked it up and then made a quick connection that resulted in a transfer to another phone line.
“Paige? Where have you been? Wait, is this really you?”
“Yeah, Stu, it’s me.”
“Prove it.”
She drew a breath and brought the phone so close to her mouth that she almost ate it. “I already gave my number to the stupid little dimwit you got answering the phones, and if you make me give it out again, I’ll drive to wherever you are and tattoo it onto your face with a piece of broken glass.”
“Whoa! That’s you, all right. Sorry about that, but we’ve had some changes on this end. And please don’t start making comments about my end. I’m kinda in mixed company here.”
Not everyone at MEG knew about Skinners. Most of the organization just chased ghosts and investigated paranormal claims, but the core members were more than happy to provide a communication structure for those who knew where to find the occasional genuine Bigfoot lair. Stu was not only eager to be Paige and Cole’s primary contact, but able to back up that trust with results.
“Have you heard anything from Cole?” he asked.
“I was just going to ask the same thing.”
“If we had, don’t you think we would have called?”
“Yes,” she said earnestly. “What about Rico? Have you heard anything from him?”
“Yeah. Just a little while ago. Sounds like you two got separated. Want me to connect you to him?”
“No. Calling him right now may be dangerous. You know how it is.”
“Yeah,” Stu said, even though he was too far removed to know how anything was.
“Do you know anyone who can pick me up?”
“Any Skinners, you mean?”
“No,” she replied, without worrying whether it was too quick. Rico still hadn’t tracked her down, but that was as comforting as a fuse taking just a little longer than expected to reach the dynamite. “I was thinking more along the lines of one of the MEG branches. You guys have to have an office somewhere in New York, right?”
“Our closest branch is in South Jersey. There’s another bunch of guys covering the East Coast paranormal scene better than us. I could make a call. They don’t know about you, but they’d probably be willing to help you out as a favor to us.”
Paige was going to accept the offer when she thought better of it. Calling the MEG guys was sketchy enough. They were still only observers and phone operators. Bringing anyone else into this mess was just cruel.
“Paige? You still there?”
“Yeah, Stu. I’m just thinking.”
“Let me call the Jersey branch. Don’t you know someone out that way?”
“It’s all right.” Wanting desperately to put him on another track, she asked, “What are you doing in the field? Usually the only time you’re away from the office is to play in one of those Sniper Ranger tournaments.”
“One of our investigators got shoved off a patio. He swears it was a poltergeist that did it, but the guy once tripped over a bump in the sidewalk and broke his wrist. Whatever the reason, I’m taking his place. I love talking to you guys, but going out on real investigations beats the snot out of staring at a computer screen all day.”
“Congrats.”
“Thanks. Everything all right, Paige? You sound upset.”
She fired back with: “Maybe it’s the whole fugitive thing. Or it could have something to do with Cole being in prison. That kind of stuff tends to put a damper on things.”
“Okay, fair enough. Dumb question. Just trying to help.”
There was no way for Stu to help. She felt like an idiot for even thinking MEG could be of any use in this situation, especially when they were purposely kept as far removed from Skinner business as possible. �
��Do me a favor. Try to find out what you can about Cole. Run a search on Colorado State Penitentiary. Google his name. I don’t care. If you find anything, let me know before anyone else.”
“I can do that, definitely.”
“I’m serious about that last part. No matter who else calls or asks, even Rico, I want to know first.”
“He’s your partner,” Stu replied. “I can respect that.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Paige hung up and faced the stretch of road leading back to I-190. Her ears had picked up the crunch of approaching tires on gravel. Moments before the car came into view, her hand was already wrapped around the Beretta and preparing to empty its entire magazine through her window. She didn’t relax until she was certain that the old woman driving the late model Dodge wasn’t one of Rico’s contacts.
After the Dodge pulled to a stop, the old woman killed the engine and reached for her passenger seat. When she turned back around, she was holding a little sandwich that she nibbled on while gazing out her windshield.
There was one more number Paige wanted to dial, but she wasn’t going to do so while standing still. Her nerves were jangling so badly that she thought it might feel better to run all the way back to Chicago. She backed out of her spot, headed for the interstate, and began tapping out her next call.
Prophet wasn’t answering his phone. Screening his calls was one of several precautions the bounty hunter was taking after escaping Denver the night the SWAT teams took Cole away. Deciding against leaving a message, she hung up.
Her car was barely up to full speed when her phone rang with Prophet’s caller ID notification lighting up her screen. “Walter,” she said without wasting time on a greeting, “when was the last time you saw those Gypsies?”
“Number one,” Prophet replied, “they don’t like it when we call them Gypsies. It’s insulting, but only when it comes from an outsider. Maybe a racist thing. I kind of lose track, but the proper name is Amriany, and that’s what they like to hear. They carry a lot of guns, so you might wanna keep that in mind.”
“Yeah, yeah. Have you seen them lately?”
“Number two,” Prophet continued calmly, “I haven’t seen them since Denver.”
“Can you get ahold of them?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“I’m in a jam. Rico and I went after the Nymar communication hub in Toronto. We got some leads, but Kawosa turned him against me.”
Suddenly, Paige felt like her stomach had imploded. If Kawosa had somehow tracked the bounty hunter down, she could very well be making the same mistake where Prophet was concerned. If he’d already taken Rico’s side, he could call the big man and send him to her. Unfortunately, it was too late to worry about all that. She needed to trust someone, and if Walter wasn’t trustworthy, things were even worse than she’d imagined. “I need help, Prophet, and I don’t know who else to turn to. You said the Amriany had serious funding and transportation. Is there any way you could convince them to get me to Denver? It’ll take too long for me to drive, and I’m not about to surrender my weapons to make it through an airport security check.”
“Don’t you know any other pilots? What about the guy who smuggled Cole out of Canada after Gerald and Brad were killed?”
That man was a Skinner, and she hadn’t spoken to him more than a handful of times in her life. Considering what had happened with Rico and the fact that Kawosa could be turning any number of the others against her, going outside the Skinners made the most sense. “He’s not available,” she said. “It’s got to be the Amriany.”
Prophet sighed heavily. “I can make some calls. Even if I can get them to pick you up, I can’t guarantee they’ll just drop you off wherever you want.”
“Thanks, Walter. Tell them I don’t expect a free ride, but I’ve got to get away from here. Tell them—”
“I’ll think of something,” he cut in. “Just let me get to calling before you talk me out of it.”
Chapter Seven
Cole sat with his back against the side wall of his cell. He was close enough to the bars to reach out and scrape his fingers against them without having to extend his arm more than an inch or two from his body. The grating of his thumbnail against the iron was a sound that reached all the way down to the base of his skull to twang his nerves like banjo strings. After a few hours he barely even heard it anymore.
The guards filed in like a marching band. Instead of tubas and drums, however, they carried shotguns and riot shields. When he got a look at that, he jumped to his feet.
The guard who stepped forward was one of those who had been watching him since he woke up on that hospital bed. “You know the drill,” he said. “Stand back.”
“What drill?”
“To visit another section of the prison. It’s the same every time.”
“I’ve barely been out of this room,” Cole said.
When the guard approached, he looked into the cell to find nothing but bloodstains on the floor, a rumpled bed, the squat cylindrical toilet, and a wadded napkin stained with sour gravy that was the only remnant from lunch. “Turn around, get on your knees, clasp your hands behind your back and stick them between the bars.”
Cole did as he was ordered. Once his hands were extended between the bars, he felt a pair of lightweight cuffs cinched around his wrists. Unlike the cuffs that had been used so far, these were lighter and scraped uncomfortably against his skin. Twisting his hands within the restraints, he could feel the warm flow of blood start.
“Don’t fidget so much,” the guard said. “You’ll only hurt yourself. Now get on your hands and knees.”
No matter how badly he wanted to get outside his cell, Cole hated crawling for the privilege. He assumed the position, clenched his fists and planned three different ways to defend himself from an attack that might be launched when he was vulnerable. The most threatening thing he heard was the brushing of fingers against a wall followed by the creak of hinges.
“Crawl through,” the guard said. “Backward. That’s your only warning. Try to come through any other way and I’ll cave your head in.”
Cole found the opening by tapping his feet against the bars and backed through as quickly as possible. Once he was outside, he choked back the desire to jump to his feet, and instead asked, “Can I get up now?”
“Slowly.”
The guard gripped the short length of steel links between Cole’s wrists and stood behind him. When Cole tried to move in a way the guard didn’t like, he felt the sting of the sharpened cuffs against his wrists.
“Are these cuffs standard issue?”
“No,” the guard replied. “We don’t answer to anyone when it comes to how we do things. Kind of like you guys, huh?” To make his point, the guard pulled up on the cuffs to send a jolt of pain all the way up through Cole’s arms. “You want me to tighten them, just keep on talking.”
Cole looked over to the cell where Lambert was held. The skinny man held up one arm to show him a wrist that had a thick scar encircling his entire wrist. The look in his eyes was a friendly reminder to do what he was told before the guard made good on his threat. When Cole looked at the cells he passed on his way to the elevator, he expected that his head would be shoved down, as it had been upon his arrival. But the guards didn’t seem interested in averting his eyes, so he took the opportunity to catch a fleeting glimpse of a collection of specimens from what might have been in a Skinner’s field guide.
Half Breeds paced in two of the cells on one side of the corridor, while a Nymar in a straitjacket sat on the toilet in another. The cell directly beside Cole’s was inhabited by a tall man wearing a standard-issue jumpsuit. He filled out the garment with a solid, muscular build. Unlike the bodybuilders one would expect to find in a prison, this one’s skin was pale yellow, segmented by rings that sectioned his flesh into narrow strips, and covered in bumps that resembled chunks of gravel embedded beneath his flesh. He crossed his arms, flexed the gill flaps along the bridge of his nose, his translucent lids bl
inking open to reveal solid yellow eyes.
The elevator doors slid open and Cole was shoved inside, to find Waylon already waiting with clipboard in hand.
“Evening, boss,” Cole said in an accent he’d lifted straight out of Cool Hand Luke.
After the doors slid shut, Waylon replied, “It’s afternoon.”
“Really? What day?”
“Two, since you were brought here.”
“Is that all?”
Waylon nodded while scribbling a few notes onto his clipboard. “Maybe.”
“Do I get my phone call yet?”
“No.” Punctuating his note with a loud tap that would have snapped the tip off of a lesser writing implement, Waylon pressed the button at the end of his steel gray pen and dropped it into the breast pocket of a crisp, dark blue shirt. “A woman has been making inquiries at the Canon City facility about you. Is she your partner?”
The rigors of the last few days had chiseled Cole’s expression into solid rock as he said, “Maybe she’s an ambitious lawyer.”
“It’s too late for that, Mr. Warnecki. After the commotion that was stirred up by the deaths of all those police officers, we were certain to throw them a sacrificial lamb right away.”
“So you have control of the media too? Good luck with that.”
“Not control,” Waylon said. “Someone had to stand trial, to answer for your crimes, someone who was connected to all those murders. We gave them another Skinner who was apprehended at a similar fracas in Texas, so now you and I have all the time in the world together.”
“Oh shit,” Cole grunted. “Is this some sort of weird conjugal visit? Even if I swung that way, I’d rather go without than see what’s under that suit.”
After a quick nod from Waylon, one of the two guards in the elevator slammed the butt of his shotgun into Cole’s ribs. As soon as his knees hit the floor, the second guard cracked his knee against his face.
“I’d suggest you cooperate,” Waylon warned. “The tests that lie ahead may be rigorous, but we could always get some answers from you in the form of an autopsy.” Only then did Waylon press a button on the wall panel.
The Breaking Page 10
