Honor at Stake (Love at First Bite Book 1)

by Declan Finn

  Demers handed him a glass of Kahlua from her full bar stashed under her desk. SAC Demers was a leftover from the old boys’ school, and she had more testosterone than half of them.

  Most of the time she reminds me of a secretary out of a Raymond Chandler novel, Merle thought, straightforward, as blunt as a piece of concrete, and armed.

  I’m certain I’m catching a whiff of cigar smoke from the “smoke-filled backrooms” of yore. It might be something in the wood.

  As if to emphasize Merle's point, she kept on her trench coat, even indoors.

  “You’re looking at intercepts going to Kojo Annan,” Demers answered him.

  “Son of former Secretary-General Kofi Annan? Of the UN?”

  “The same. He ran the old oil-for-food program. You’ve heard of it?”

  “It always sounded like a nice little racket to me, even before there were questions about the project. Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein was theoretically limited to selling oil that would generate enough revenue to feed the populace of Iraq. Though when I last heard the numbers, there were about eighty-thousand a year starving to death in Saddam’s little hellhole. Between everything we heard before and after Saddam fell, my bet is it was really an oil-for-money program. Considering that Saddam provided suicide bomber life insurance—$20,000 to the families of suicide bombers—as well as built himself multiple palaces designed on those of Joseph Stalin, I never thought it took a genius to figure out where the cash was going. Given the ‘success’ of the program, you’re looking at Kojo Annan because he’s incompetent?”

  “Look at the cover sheet for the wire taps.”

  Merle leaned forward, grabbed the thick file in front of him, and flipped open to the raw data page. The dates went back a decade. The incoming calls seems to indicate that there was one man who was a frequent caller to Kojo Annan, someone named Marc Rich.

  Merle frowned. “Marc Rich? Don't I know him?”

  “White collar criminal?” she supplied. “Stole a few billion? Lived with the Swiss? Died a few years ago?”

  “Oh, him. The last time I heard of that twit, he was getting a pardon from Bill Clinton. Aside from that, I’ve not heard much news coming out of Switzerland since that business with the Nazi bankers.”

  “Since then, Rich left Switzerland for Spain, and occasionally bounced back and forth between there and Israel. He didn't return home, even though he petitioned for the pardon he was given.”

  He twirled one of her letter openers between his fingers. “So, he was a player with money and international contacts. You figure he wanted to be a Bond villain when he grew up? “Her eyes narrowed, then she opened a desk drawer. “How’d you get my letter opener?”

  Merle paused, looking at it between his fingers. “Oh, sorry.” He flipped it from one finger to the other and out of sight. “I have to find out how you did that,” she muttered

  Merle gave Demers an inscrutable little smile. “So, you want me to look into Kujo while I’m at this?”

  “One thing at a time. Find who took out my guy first, and we can get to the Annan family later. And his name’s Kojo, not Kujo.”

  “Oh, like Kojo the Executioner from Star Trek?”

  She shook her head. “That was Cronos the Executioner.”

  Merle shrugged. “Whatever. I at least got you to admit you know Star Trek.”

  Demers turned, grabbed a Star Trek novel from behind her to rub his face in the obvious, but when she turned back, Merle's glass was empty, Demers' office door was locked from the inside, and Merlin Emery Kraft was gone.

  She sighed. “Who does he think he is? Batman?”

  Actually, I always wanted to be Mandrake the Magician, Merle thought.

  * * * *

  Amanda perched on top of the Soviet Embassy—No, it’s the Russian embassy, you idiot. The Soviets fell years ago—across the street from the FBI’s New York branch.

  Gee, the FBI building across the street from the Soviet Embassy, how subtle. Then again, it’s New York. Our idea of subtle involves a baseball bat. Then again, it’s the same in Brighton Beach.

  From her perch, she could see a young blonde woman enter the FBI headquarters. She could hear the woman’s pulse rate accelerate, smell the woman’s anxiety, her fear, her…

  Hormones?

  * * * *

  A petite, athletic, golden-haired woman stood in the doorway of the FBI headquarters of New York City. Strands of brassy hair fell smoothly to the nape of her neck. Rich blue eyes set over smooth Celtic cheekbones locked onto Merle Kraft immediately. She wore a lightweight black sweatshirt with a zipper in front, opened partly at the neck, revealing creamy skin he knew so well, with a pair of black jeans. Merle hadn’t accounted for her when trying for a getaway from the building.

  Detective Kristen Kelly caught his arm as he tried to leave. “Hi, Merle.”

  He blinked, pretty sure his irises dilated to ringlets. “Kristen, um, hi.”

  “Are you going to tell me why you stole my murder case from me?”

  “Murder case?”

  “Dead body? Alley? Greenpoint?”

  “Oh, that. He was an FBI agent, Kristen. They get their own, you know that.”

  She nodded. “Certainly. But why you? They think it was a vampire and wanted you to look at it?”

  He smiled. There are days Merle still wondered whether or not she simply teased him about his job, or if she knew the truth, and merely expressed that knowledge in a jocular manner. “Well, um, I’m not sure. He was working on something, so I guess I’ll need to look at both the murder and finish off whatever it is he’s been working on. Is Captain McShane interested in this as well, or just you, since it was yours?”

  “Where do we start?”

  “We? Like heck. You know you’ve been removed. So has the NYPD; it’s—”

  “I’m your local contact, darling.”

  Merle froze, stunned. Wow, I dug myself in deep on that one. “Oh, um, great! Perfect. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then, bright and early.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Probably at the airport hotel. It’s easier that way.”

  She shook her head. “You’re coming with me.”

  “Why?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Because Arthur wants to see his father before he forgets what you look like.”

  * * * *

  Because Detective Kristen Kelley, NYPD, didn’t trust him to find his own way home, Merle Kraft's ex-wife secured him to the passenger seat of her car and drove to their home.

  Her home, you idiot, he thought. “You didn’t move?”

  “Why would we? The place was small enough to begin with. It can fit me and Arthur. Actually, I’m surprised it was ever that tiny. With your black bag crap, I’d think the government would pay you more. Whereabouts are you now?”

  If only she knew that half the time the black bag is a body bag. “I own a magic shop in San Francisco. I live above the shop. It supplements the income nowadays.”

  The blonde--his blonde--laughed. “You mean it’s a cheap place to live and the government pays for it as your cover?”

  He looked out the window for a moment, affirming her answer. “So, what did you think of my last offer?”

  “Moving out to San Francisco?” She stared out into the street for the space of several streetlights. “It’s an idea, but wouldn’t it simply be easier for you to move than anything else? I can’t say I see many advantages.”

  “It’s quieter than New York. It's also smaller. You might not even consider it a real city.”

  “Sold.”

  Merle studied her. “That was too easy. What’s the catch?”

  “There are enough days that Dalf has stopped by unannounced that I think it’s worthwhile to be on a different coast.”

  His eyes narrowed. “My brother Dalf? He visits?”

  She nodded slightly, keeping her eyes fixed on the road. “He came to see Arthur.”

  His fingers flexed. “I’m going to kill
him.”

  “You’ve bought stock in silver bullets lately?”

  He gave a tight-lipped smile. “You finally believe that Dalf works for the forces of Hell?”

  “I’ve seen his eyes glow red,” Kristen told Merle. She stared at the stoplight, and didn't look at Merle, even though they both knew it was a long light. “It was after we took his picture, and I don’t think it had anything to do with the camera flash.”

  Merle thought about it over, trying to make sense of it. Didn't most cameras remove red eye from photos nowadays? Heck, couldn't it be done at home? “How could you tell?”

  Kristen gave him a look. “They were glowing for the next minute after the picture was taken.”

  “Did he come out on the film?”

  “It wasn't film,” Kristen explained. “It was digital. The camera hasn’t worked since. I'm just assuming he's a monster straight from Hell and writing him off right now.”

  “Good idea. Not even I know what he is, really. And I'm afraid to ask.”

  “So, what do you have on the dead Fed?” she asked.

  Yeah, that's as good a note as any to change subjects on. “Wiretaps between Marc Rich and Kojo Annan.”

  “Lemme guess, food-for-oil?”

  Merle Kraft smiled. “Wow, that wasn’t even hard, was it?”

  “Hell no, that’s the only thing Kujo did that’s worth mentioning to a man like Rich.”

  “His name’s Kojo, not Kujo.”

  “Oh, like Kojo the Executioner from Star Trek?”

  “That was Cronos the Executioner.”

  She smiled. “Whatever.”

  These are the days when Merle remembered why they got married. Whenever he talked with her, he was hard-pressed to remember why they got divorced in the first place.

  “To tell you the truth, Kris, I’m not even certain where to start. Fine, Kujo’s been a bad boy…so what? If he skimmed a few billion here and there. Who cares? I mean, the Kurds made noises about food-for-oil for years before Saddam was overthrown, and no one cared enough to blink funny at it. Even after there was a full-scale investigation, no one did anything about it. What would they do about it? Blow up Turtle Bay? Exile the UN? Please, no one has the balls. John Bolton, who was painted as being the Darth Vader of Diplomacy, spent most of his time at the UN pissed off and disgusted. Supposedly, he scared people.”

  Kristen looked at him. “So did Karl Rove. So what?”

  “That’s true.” Merle remembered so many rumors about the political advisor that he would have sworn Rove was a Dark Lord of the Sith. I’m halfway surprised that no one’s labeled him as a demon and sicced me on him yet. “So what was this Fed doing in Greenpoint?”

  “Well, his home was within sight of the UN building, in Greenpoint.”

  They looked at each other simultaneously, and Kristen performed a sharp J-turn, driving back immediately the way she had come, heading straight for Turtle Bay and Greenpoint.

  “Laser mic,” they said as one.

  A laser microphone, or electronic ear, as some people might call it, could basically be pointed at a window a block away and pick up everything going on in that room. Granted, there were some problems with it, especially if you were too far away. The last thing someone wanted was to be listening to a conversation going on across the river and then get a foghorn blasted into their ear because a ship drifted into the path of the laser beam.

  Merle opened his files and turned to the agent’s folder. “He’s got an apartment above a clam restaurant in Greenpoint.”

  She nodded. “I think I know that one. That’s on the bay, within bullet strike of the building—hell, you could hit that place with a handgun.”

  “Even better.” Well, I couldn’t hit that place with a handgun. I can’t shoot worth a damn.

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Dance with the Devil

  April 5th, 9:00 PM

  Merle Kraft was halfway out of the car before Kristen even hit the brakes. “Stay here, watch my back, and make sure no one follows me up. Ring my cell if you see anyone coming. I’ll put it on vibrate so it doesn’t attract attention.”

  Personally, he thought the reason sounded good, and not at all like he was being protective. I don’t want to tell her that if I find a blood-drinking freak in the apartment, I want her at a safe distance.

  Merle ran to the front of the restaurant and leapt over the small gate locking off the al fresco area. He landed on a table before grabbing the awning, and swinging himself up to the windowsill of the apartment. He entered the apartment without seeming to open the window.

  The next window over had the laser mic, attached to a computer and a digital recorder.

  Both of which were in pieces, one part currently in each hand of a towering man in black leather jacket and black jeans. He wore sunglasses over his eyes, and the rest of his face was covered in scars. The man’s hair was slicked back and jet black against his stark white skin. “Let me guess, bad night in Romania?”

  Scarface glared, then hurled the last mic fragments to two different corners of the room before leaping on the government agent.

  Merle barely managed to leap out of the way, and Scarface kept flying through the air, and would have gone through the wall had he not pushed off of it with his hands. Scarface landed on his feet and turned on him.

  “Did you by chance eat an FBI agent lately?” Merle asked.

  Scarface smiled, revealing teeth that were crusty and stained with dried blood.

  * * * *

  Amanda slowed to a stop on the rooftop, and just in time, too. She didn’t want to miss this little encounter. She could track the entire fight from her position.

  Amanda's entire thought process stopped dead when she saw who Merle Kraft was fighting. It was the vampire who had pushed her in front of a train during her attempt to save Lily Sparks. Scarface.

  Scarface ran forward, and Merle disappeared from view, reappearing behind him. Kraft grabbed Scarface’s leg in mid-step and pulled, flattening him to the floor. Kraft was about to leap on him and restrain him, but Scarface rolled onto his back and jackknifed onto his feet, leading forward with a right jab.

  Merle ducked it by the enamel of his teeth, then sprang up, delivering a left jab to his kidney, and a reverse spin kick to the back of Scarface’s head, a blow which should have blinded if not killed him.

  Scarface merely stumbled forward a little. Merle pushed off one foot to deliver another spin kick to the small of the man’s back. There was an audible crack, which Kraft expected, and Scarface’s legs went out from under him. It was logical for him to have a broken spine after an attack like that.

  Kraft slid into fighting position, grateful he hadn’t gone for the man’s neck, otherwise there would be a problem getting him to talk.

  Breathe, breathe…that’s better, he thought. And why are you braced for impact? He’s not going anywhere.

  Kraft relaxed, then moved forward, dropping to a crouch next to Scarface’s head. “So, why did you kill him?”

  Scarface looked up at him, glaring.

  Snap. Merle looked up, and thus was unprepared for the sharp uppercut that sent him sprawling across the room.

  When the stars cleared from his vision, Scarface was looming over him…Standing over him. But didn’t I just break his spine? Time to play hardball.

  Scarface smiled, baring eerily sharp teeth, and took his time bending over Merle. Kraft curled his knees to his chest, then lashed out with both feet into each of the giant’s knees, bending them backwards. Scarface collapsed backwards, a growl coming from his throat. Merle flipped onto his feet, grabbing the leg off a ruined side table.

  “Fine, then how about I just drive a stake through your heart and be done with it? Oy, you are no help at all.”

  Scarface rolled away from Merle. Scarface rolled to his feet, and smiled at Kraft. He looked at the wooden table leg warily, and then shrugged.

  The larger man turned and leapt through the window, landing on his feet like a cat, not even slo
wing down for a second.

  Amanda was tempted to intervene herself, but she had no idea how either Merle or Kristen Kelly would respond to the sudden appearance of someone leaping off a roof. She didn't relish the idea of getting a bullet in the head.

  Scarface landed nearly in front of Kristen Kelly’s car. He smiled at the blonde and ripped the gate off its hinges, raising it over his head, ready to smash the car in.

  “Don’t kill him!” Merle yelled. “We need him alive.”

  Kristen opened the door and rolled out, drawing her gun as the gate came down on the hood. She fired twice, taking out both knees.

  Not only was he still standing, he was advancing.

  Kristen glared. “Screw it.” She promptly fired three rounds into his heart. Each .45-caliber bullet had enough force to knock a grown man off his feet. Scarface didn’t stagger. Kristen stood and then emptied her gun at his chest.

  At the same time, Merle raised the table leg like a harpoon and hurled it from the window, going through Scarface’s right knee.

  The giant finally dropped to one knee, growling in pain. He glared briefly at Kristen, then pulled the table leg through and out of his body.

  Kristen reloaded.

  Scarface blinked, then twisted and hurled himself into a limping run.

  Merle muttered a curse, and then leapt out the window, rolled off the awning, and landed on his feet before running to his ex-wife’s side.

  He stopped short of hugging her. “Are you all right?”

  Kristen leveled her gun at Scarface’s back. “I think so. You think he’s on something?”

  Kraft smiled, then looked at the minimal blood spatter. “I think his blood was around a hundred and fifty proof, and the other fifty was PCP. Even if he’s on Meth, E, XTC, Y and Z, he should’ve been down when I broke his knees…now he should just be dead from the blood loss.”

  “It’s amazing, Merle, you can’t shoot to save anyone’s life, but you can hurl a table leg like a harpoon so it can hit a dime.”

  “More like a nickel.” He chuckled. “Excuse me a moment, I need to chat with him. He has to be slowing down from the blood loss, if nothing else.”

  On the rooftop, Amanda watched the engagement with amusement. It was fascinating to see how the short one and his ex-wife interacted with Scarface.