Shifter Legacies Special Edition: Books 1-2

by Mark E. Cooper

  “You can arrest me later,” someone muttered. “After I save your life.”

  Save her life? It was so surprising a thing for O’Neal to say to her that she was caught unawares. The voice surged up before she could fight it. She howled in despair as her thoughts were drowned under a torrent of soothing words. Before she knew it the blazing eyes hovering before hers captured and held them. Chris collapsed back to the bed mesmerised by the soothing words.

  Listen to the words… Listen to the words…

  “She’s going into arrest!”

  “Give me… cc’s of epinephrine… shock her… clear!”

  Pain!

  Listen to the words… Listen to the words…

  “Shock her again!”

  Pain!

  Listen to the words… Listen to the words…

  Floating… no pain… blackness.

  * * *

  19 ~ Barrows

  Special Agent Barrows had spent years of his life on the road. He rarely spent longer than a couple of weeks in any one place and hadn’t seen his kids in over two years. His work was responsible for two failed marriages, a limp that was more pronounced in the winter months, a heavily scarred shoulder, and an ulcerated stomach that his doctor said was caused by work induced stress.

  The hotel he was staying in might be a dump… no strike that. The hotel was a dump—the bed was lumpy and uncomfortable, the carpets should be dragged out and burned, and the tiny kitchen was only fit for growing mould not cooking. Despite that catalogue of disadvantages, he wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else right now. He had lived in dozens of places just like this since Executive Director Hawkings had recruited him out of the FBI’s Criminal Investigation Division, and into his shadowy world of unsolved crimes and mysterious happenings.

  Hawkings, who was then the newly promoted Assistant Director for the Office of Special Investigations, had been actively recruiting men and women from other divisions within the FBI and later from other walks of life (including various police departments, colleges, and even certain industries) for years.

  Barrows had come to his attention when he read a report regarding the suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of Senator George R. Martinez. It was a suspicion that Hawkings himself had held back then, and like so many other investigations that OSI undertook, was hard to prove. It had taken him months of mind numbing research and digging, most of it on his own time when his superiors dismissed his suspicions out of hand, to prove those same suspicions correct. It was that kind of dogged determination together with a willingness to consider outlandish ideas that made him, according to Hawkings, the perfect candidate for recruitment into OSI.

  Twelve years in OSI, and what did he have to show for it? Two ex-wives, two ex-kids, an ex-girlfriend squatting in an apartment that she insisted was his ex-apartment because although he was paying the rent, her name was on the lease, and a nearly empty pizza box in a hotel room that stank worse than a whore’s boudoir. He had seen more than a few of those in his time, so he knew. But then there was the job. He had that didn’t he? Damn right he did, and it was an important one. The job had always been more important than anything to him. That’s why the ex-wives. Even now he couldn’t say he was wrong to pursue it so hard.

  If he was honest with himself, a thing he tried to avoid at all costs when thinking about certain things like the kids, he loved his job more than anything—even his kids. That made him feel like a bad person. Well so be it. He was a bad person in some ways. But he was a good person, the best person he knew, where certain things were concerned. Things like the case he was on right now, the secret case that only a select few knew about.

  It was that secret that was on his mind right now.

  Nothing handicapped an investigation like too much secrecy, but this secret had to be kept. There was no if, why, or but about that. It must be kept. There were all kinds of things he had learned through his years with OSI. Some were so startling that even he had trouble believing what he had seen. None of them came close to being as dangerous as this case should it become public knowledge. He knew all the whys and wherefores behind it, and he agreed with most of them, but that very agreement was making his job almost impossible.

  OSI didn’t have anything like the manpower of a city’s police department. What it did have was unsurpassed data gathering and the ability to analyse that data to gain meaningful information upon which to act. When Director Hawkings told him they had new information on the Arcadian and that he had re-surfaced, he hadn’t needed orders to investigate. He volunteered. He’d been one of those involved in the disaster in Chicago and had lost friends in the so-called Shadow War that had ended it. He knew firsthand what these people (he used the word with some reservation) were capable of. That was why he was here. His lack of manpower coupled with the need for secrecy was why relying upon the local police was both necessary and frustrating. He needed them, but he couldn’t tell them anything that would help them help him!

  “It’s driving me nuts!”

  He slumped onto the couch and grabbed a slice of pizza from the box lying on the table before him. He put his feet up next to the box and switched on the wall-mounted vid with the remote. He wasn’t interested in the ball game. He already knew the score, but he wanted the voices of the commentators for company while he ate.

  While he chewed cold pizza—hmmm pepperoni, food for the gods—he picked up the report lying on the couch beside him and began to read. He had ordered a copy sent to him after his little run in with Detective Humber. He’d wanted to indulge his curiosity about her. According to the report, Chris was a rising star in the ranks of the police. Only four years on the streets had been enough for her to earn the admiration of her superiors and promotion to detective. A further three years in robbery homicide, where she earned a bunch of commendations and a medal after being shot in the chest and shoulder. That was two years ago and he didn’t doubt promotion to Captain was in her future. It was just a matter of time.

  The South Central Ghost was her second serial killer, the first being Randolph H. Johnston. Johnston had liked strangling college kids. Man or woman made no difference to him, he just didn’t like them. Chris took him down hard—DOA at the hospital after she shot him three times in the chest with her stunner set to kill. There was an investigation of the shooting, there always is, and she was cleared of any wrongdoing. Of course, the old pump action shotgun found next to the body and the hole in the wall next to the door she had entered through had helped with that. It was a righteous shoot, just like all the other times she had been investigated. There were cops on the street that had never fired their weapon. That sounded unbelievable to many, but the stats were clearly true. Chris was not one of those lucky few, and neither was he.

  She was one of those cops that seemed to attract trouble. If she hadn’t been so good at her job, and if she hadn’t been the kind of person to attract loyal friends without even trying, she might well have found herself ejected from the department for being too brutal. In this day of political correctness where even a righteous cop could be ousted for the bad press she engendered, Chris Humber was both an outstanding asset to her Captain and an appalling risk.

  He wished he could have brought her in fully on the Arcadian. She might have some insights, something new he had not considered. Hell, something old he had dismissed that she saw merit in would be fine. At this point, he didn’t care how he got the evil blood-sucking bastard as long as he did get him. A verifiable body on the ground was all he wanted from this case; positive identification was the watchword. Arcadian must die and his nut bunny ideas with him.

  It was all his superiors wanted.

  There was no chance of a trial of course, there never was where vampires were concerned—them being already dead and all. The dead had no rights under the law, so how could you put one on trial even if you wanted to? Even if there were a way, Arcadian would not get one. He had to be silenced permanently for the good of the Republic.

&n
bsp; Humber would have made a good candidate for recruitment. He had considered it a few times before; he wondered if perhaps he might get permission to make the offer someday. It would certainly be an elegant way of letting her into the Arcadian affair, but no, his superiors wouldn’t let a new recruit join the team on this one. It was too important no matter how good a cop she was.

  He yawned and rubbed blurring eyes. Maybe it was time to turn in for the night. An early one would make a change and he had a lot to do tomorrow. He dropped the report on the table and was about to switch off the vid when his link signalled for attention. He fumbled in his jacket pocket where it lay over the back of the couch, and after a little cursing managed to find it.

  “Barrows.”

  “Jack, its Nancy. I’m at the hospital.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, and before you ask Tuck’s okay too.”

  Jack relaxed a little. “Okay good. What’s going on?”

  “First off, O’Neal is dead.”

  “Damn!” He reached for his jacket again. “You’re sure? One hundred percent certain?”

  “Absolutely. I confirmed the kill before they took the body away. He isn’t coming back. Humber was hurt really bad; it doesn’t look good for her. They don’t think she’ll make it. Do you want the details?”

  “Obviously, unless you want to tell Hawkings yourself.”

  “Ermmm no, that’s okay. We took over the surveillance from the others and stayed out of sight like you said. Humber didn’t have a clue we were there. She was strutting her stuff just like all the other nights and everything was fine. I only looked away for a second, but when I looked back, she was gone. I couldn’t believe it. One minute everything was cool, the next all nine hells broke loose. There were cops bundling out of the van shouting and hollering. The next thing I know the cops started shooting the shit out of someone in the alley.”

  “O’Neal?”

  “Not O’Neal, someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “We don’t know,” Nancy said obviously frustrated by that. “He or she got away.”

  “Could it have been him?” he said intently.

  “I don’t know, maybe, but why kill his own?”

  “Maybe because Humber knew who O’Neal was. She was closing in.” He shrugged into his jacket and hunted up his keys while still juggling his link. “I’m on my way there. We need to talk to Humber; maybe she can give us a description. While you’re waiting for me, call Doug. Tell him I want O’Neal’s body under wraps before anyone gets a look at him.”

  “I’ll tell him, but getting O’Neal’s body won’t be easy. This thing is way too high profile.”

  He was well aware of that, but stepping on local toes was the least of his concerns. O’Neal alive had been a possible way to find Arcadian—vamps always had a bond to their makers, but O’Neal dead could still work. Necromancy was a bad business, but he was way beyond letting his scruples get in the way of the job. He would do whatever it took; even steal a body and getting a necromance to work his mojo on it.

  “I don’t care about that. We can’t afford anyone running an autopsy until we’re done with him.” That was a necessity. Messing with a dead body—like doing an autopsy—would screw up any necromantic rituals they could perform. “Tell Doug to get the authorisation, or just snatch the damn thing. I don’t care which.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Nancy said before disconnecting.

  He drove to Mercy Hospital and found Nancy outside the emergency room talking to someone with a familiar face. Detective Baxter had been with Humber on the day she first realised he was tailing her. That had been a memorable confrontation in more ways than one. Doug had taken an instant disliking to her. He’d had to listen to him bitch and moan about her all the rest of that day.

  Baxter saw him approaching and turned to face him. “What the hell do you want?”

  Barrows ignored him and addressed himself to Nancy. “How is she?”

  “Not good. She’ll need surgery for certain, but they need to stabilise her first.”

  “She’ll make it,” Baxter said not liking Nancy’s tone. “She’s a fighter.”

  “Where’s her partner?”

  “He’s inside with her. They tried to throw him out but he wouldn’t go.”

  He checked his wristband and noted the time. He needed to get O’Neal’s body under wraps. He gestured for Nancy to follow him to a quiet corner. Baxter stayed where he was watching them suspiciously.

  “Did you get in touch with Doug about that matter we discussed?”

  Nancy nodded. “No word back from him yet.”

  “Okay. Is there any chance of getting to Humber tonight?”

  “None. Not tonight and maybe never. She flat lined a couple of times already.”

  He grimaced, another casualty in a never ending war. “Did she say anything when they brought her in?”

  “Nothing that helps us. She was raving when they brought her in. You know the kind of thing. O’Neal bit her—almost ripped her throat beyond repair. Just a fraction deeper and she would have bled out at the scene. As it is, if she makes it out of surgery, she’ll have a scar on her neck to match yours.”

  He winced and rubbed his shoulder in sympathetic pain. “They won’t believe anything she says while in that state. Believe me. I know what she’s going through.”

  “You better hope they don’t,” Nancy warned. “We both know this isn’t just another vamp attack, Jack.”

  “They won’t,” he said and frowned in thought. “Okay, there’s nothing we can do here right now. Tell Tuck to keep an eye on things here. Where is he anyway?”

  “Having a smoke outside.”

  “I didn’t see him. Tell him to watch and interview Humber if that becomes possible, and then you meet me at the car. I’m parked opposite the main entrance.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The morgue.”

  “You really know how to show a girl a good time.”

  “So my ex-wives keep telling me. Five minutes,” he said and watched as she went to find her partner.

  “Barrows,” Baxter growled as he left his post at the door. “I want to talk to you.”

  Barrows began walking. “Sorry, no time to chat.”

  Baxter’s hand shot out and grabbed his shoulder to spin him around. He went with the motion and turned it to his advantage. He grasped Baxter’s hand, twisted it into a wrist-lock, and then followed it by putting the arm into an elbow lock behind Baxter’s back before slamming him face first into the wall. It was instinctive on his part. He had been extensively trained in hand-to-hand combat when he joined OSI. The entire fight, if it could be called that, had taken a matter of seconds.

  “Let go of me,” Baxter hissed in pain.

  “Not until you calm down.”

  “It’s your fault that Chris is lying in there dying.”

  He let the arm go and shoved Baxter away. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. My fault, how is it my fault?”

  Baxter worked his arm free of pain and glared. “You know more than you’re saying about O’Neal, and you knew it before all this went down. There’s something weird about this whole thing. I told Chris back then that we were dealing with something stranger than a vamp serial killer.”

  Barrows gave Baxter blank face and said, “I was told O’Neal is dead.”

  “He is, but we didn’t kill him. Another guy chopped the evil bastard’s head off, and I bet you know who don’t you?”

  He kept his silence on that one, and tried to keep all expression off his face, but polite interest wasn’t cutting it apparently. Baxter’s face darkened.

  “Yeah, I figured as much.” Baxter said in disgust. “You’re as much responsible for Chris’ condition as O’Neal is. You knew what she was up against and you did nothing.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t try shovelling your bullshit in my direction. I’ve deal
t with your kind longer than you’ve been alive—”

  Barrows grinned; that was a slight exaggeration. He would judge that they were of an age with each other.

  “—damned feds think they’re better than the rest of us. You and your people should be locked up as accomplices to murder!”

  “Are you finished? I have places to be and I don’t have time for your hysterics.”

  “I want to know what the hell is going on. Who was the guy with the sword and why did he kill O’Neal?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, but he did. Or he suspected he did at any rate. Offing O’Neal to cover his tracks was an obvious thing for Arcadian to do. Why he had left it so late though was a question. Arcadian had screwed up leaving the body behind. If he had acted sooner, he could have made him disappear with none the wiser, so why hadn’t he? “I really don’t know,” he said again, but the answer was to his own internal question not Baxter’s.

  “You know,” Baxter growled. “I know you do. I don’t care why you’re hiding what you’re hiding, Barrows. I swear I’m going to find out what it is. The guys think we missed the other vamp, but I know we didn’t miss. I know it. We emptied our boomers into him—silver hollow points, Barrows, not stunners. We used enough silver to take down ten vamps not one, but he ignored us like we were nothing but an irritation. Just so you know what you’re dealing with I’ll tell you something: I never miss.”

  He wasn’t oblivious to the veiled threat, but ignored it. “So you’re a good shot. So what?”

  “So I hit O’Neal’s killer three of four times for sure. No ifs, buts, or maybes. Three silver rounds from my gun hit him square and he kept going. The others aren’t as good as I am, but they hit him as well. I’m sure of it.”

  Barrows tried to school his expression but knew he had failed when Baxter’s eyes narrowed. He looked away, then at his wristband again, and then back to Baxter trying to think what to do. It had to have been Arcadian. That much silver? It had to have been him. Only a really old vamp could have kept going.