“Exactly—and they got the governor to bring in the Feds.” Three stunned faces gaped at each other, then at Chief Baker.
“A federal anticorruption task force, with local and statewide support—in Louisiana?” Howard questioned, rather as if he’d just learned hogs could fly to China.
“Yup.”
“They might be able to accomplish something,” Posada said, rubbing his jaw.
“Very much so, if they solve the murders.”
How? Devol’s goal was in Texas and his support base was in New Orleans. Steve frowned, spinning options over and over.
“Our governor has decided to join forces with them.”
“Of course,” Howard and Posada promptly agreed. Steve shot them a sideways glance but said nothing.
“Zach, we’d like you to lead the task force, including the combined Texas, Louisiana—and federal task force.”
He hesitated, then inclined his head. “I’ll explain the situation to my wife. I’m sure she’ll understand why I’m coming back for this.”
“Thank you, Zach. I’ll do my best to ensure you don’t regret this too much.” Baker grinned at him for an instant before continuing. “Posada, we need to turn the screws on the real problem—those drugs coming out of Mexico. You’ve been working those issues for a long time. Can you lead a DPS task force with the Feds?”
“My pleasure, boss.” Posada nodded, his fingers flexing on his portfolio. “I’ve got some ideas which should help.”
“Excellent. We’ve got some new grant money so funds won’t be much of an issue this time.”
A grin burst across Posada’s face and Steve gave him a thumbs-up under the table, more than pleased for her old boss. She might not be able to go after El Gallinazo but she’d be very happy to see him hang, no matter who tied the noose.
“One more thing, Chief.”
“Yes, Zach?” The chief was gathering his portfolio together.
“You’re taking my best candidate for top lieutenant away from me and sending him down to the border,” the gravelly voice complained mildly. “When I don’t know much about the murders or their investigation or the team itself. I don’t think that’s quite right, do you?”
“What do you want, Zach?”
The two big men eyed each other across the table. Steve wasn’t sure who held the better hand.
“Reynolds as my deputy.”
On a multi-jurisdictional task force, including the Feds and another state? He could ask for, and get, somebody much more senior than her.
Baker drummed his fingers on the table. “She’d have to back you up on briefing the governor.”
“Think you can handle that, Reynolds?”
“Of course, Captain.” She’d never briefed a big-time politician before but she’d learn fast, especially since Ethan had ensured the governor would always be discreet.
“Then I’ve got my core team, Chief.” He shot a steely eyed stare across the table and the chief met it blandly.
“Congratulations, Zach. I’m looking forward to seeing the two of you on TV this afternoon, with the rest of your task force.”
“Television?” Did she squeak? Steve cleared her throat.
“Don’t tell me, Chief: The governor wants a press conference?” Howard looked like he’d swallowed a rattler backward.
Press conference? At least Captain Howard would almost certainly have to answer all the questions there, not her. It made educating politicians in private look like a piece of cake.
“Yup, but in Baton Rouge, with the Louisiana governor, the U.S. Attorney, and our lieutenant governor.”
“Well, now, aren’t we going to be blessed.” He shot Baker a gold-toothed snarl, which the chief blandly returned.
“Indeed you are. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Posada and I have another meeting to attend.”
Posada rose, still grinning like somebody who didn’t quite know where his feet were.
Steve stood up a little more slowly, light-headed and cold like a hydrogen balloon heading for outer space, and reminded herself she was damn lucky.
Stupid, really; Posada wasn’t blood kin. So why did she feel as if she were losing her last family member?
FIFTEEN
COMPOSTELA RANCH, THAT NIGHT
Ethan frowned, rubbing his hand over his chin, and leaned back in his big leather chair. Allocating men was becoming more and more difficult the longer the damn war went on, no matter who worked on it. Jean-Marie had gone off to stand watch in one of the local nightclubs, saying Ethan might come up with a better configuration on his own.
Ethan snorted softly. If he had a lady like Jean-Marie’s Hélène—who’d traveled from London for a reunion and looked damn good riding on a motorcycle with him—he, too, would probably find a good excuse to meet her away from Compostela. Lucky bastard.
He moved a pair of vampiros from Houston to Waco, snarled at the resulting gap along the border—and whacked the joystick, erasing all traces of the proposed arrangement.
He gritted his teeth and began again.
A solid guard for Doña Grania at Compostela. Everything else could change, but not that. As Don Rafael’s heart, she was also the esfera’s soul.
Numbers sprang to life at the map’s lower edge, reflecting the usage and availability of men. They were automatically adjusted every time he slid an icon from one location to another.
Next, Don Rafael’s personal guard, the core of his mesnaderos.
A bare minimum at each commandery, watching over Texas and Oklahoma’s key points—Dallas, San Antonio, Tulsa . . .
And damn those floods in Houston, which kept so many men busy. Move the rest of the vampiros, compañeros, and comitiva—at least those who could fight—to guard the innocent women at known attack points.
How many would remain to Jean-Marie, their master spy, to search for Devol or the thirty in his bandolerismo?
About enough to field a football team.
He snarled at the unyielding totals. Discussing this with Steve would clear his head—but that was impossible.
“Have you included rotating the searchers and mesnaderos—the top fighters—so both remain fresh?” Don Rafael asked from just behind him.
Ethan’s heart jolted and he started to rise.
“No, no, remain sitting.” Don Rafael lounged against the wall, only a few feet away. His posture sang of contentment, while he reeked of sated lust.
Ethan closed his eyes briefly in sheer jealousy but he managed to answer normally. “Yes, sir. There’s a special line at the bottom, for rotation.”
“Excelente. Perhaps if we move two from Midland to here.” He grabbed the other joystick and drew up a chair.
Ethan tilted his head, seeing the new pattern. “And these go . . .” He clicked.
Companionable phrases spilled between them, highlighted by the electronics’ gentle percussion. They’d often worked together like this, so much they spoke in code words more than sentences. Even mind to mind would have taken more effort.
His heart eased a little, given this first such session since Doña Grania’s arrival.
The map finally settled into a new pattern, which both men rose to consider. No changes arose after five minutes and Ethan turned to fetch them drinks. According to watch center tradition, only strong coffee and tea were served here.
“Where do you plan to take the rapid reaction force, since our forces are so stretched?” Don Rafael’s voice was very quiet.
“From Compostela.” He shrugged and handed his master a cup. “It has the most mesnaderos, so it should be best able to spare them.”
Don Rafael grunted unhappily and sipped his beloved, overpoweringly strong coffee. “Plus, it’s close to my Gulfstream jet,” he acknowledged, “which I saw them use in my vision.”
Ethan nodded agreement, not about to tread harder on this delicate subject. He was damn lucky he hadn’t been savaged for openly stating he was reducing Doña Grania’s guard.
“Do we have any hope for help from our law
enforcement friends, such as your Texas Ranger?”
Ethan stilled, cursing his guilty flush. Vampiros influenced cops, not the other way around. His gaze shot to his master.
Don Rafael frowned. “Are they concealing information from us? Do we need to start watching them, as well?”
“Hardly!” He could be open about that much, at least—and hope his creador wouldn’t decide to walk through his thoughts. He resumed sprinkling cinnamon over his coffee with great deliberation. “She’s done much for us, especially sharing intelligence.”
“You’ve stopped her tongue about us, of course?”
“Years ago.” He could be honest about that, too.
Don Rafael clapped him on the back. “Yet another link in a long chain of protecting Texas indirectly.”
Ethan inclined his head, keeping his eyes veiled. Life would be much easier if Steve had ever fit in that category.
“Tell me about our latest Ranger amiga.” Don Rafael leaned against the desk, his eyes just a little too intent. “The name is familiar. She provides intelligence, of course.”
“Of course. There was Reynolds the Intrepid, of course,” Ethan suggested.
“The great frontier lieutenant? Is she related to him?”
“By adoption, yes. Her family were Cherokee Indians who were forced to take a white man’s name when they left the reservation. Their former commander honored them by accepting them as kin.”
“Blood to be proud of. And she, too, proved that she could not be stampeded, as all Rangers must?”
Ethan choked and Don Rafael raised an eyebrow. “I’m not aware I made a joke, mi hijo.”
“Do you remember a few years ago when the two murderers managed to break out of Death Row and kidnap two women who were driving to a singing competition?”
“Of course. They were rescued a few days later, as I recall.”
“At a convenience store, late on a Saturday night. Reynolds had been a bridesmaid that day and stopped to restock her refrigerator.” Since all of its contents resembled science projects more than food. Good Lord, would she ever learn to cook?
“She was a cop, sí? Then her attire must have made them disregard her as a threat.”
Ethan choked again.
Don Rafael’s eyebrows shot up.
“Was she wearing one of those hideous concoctions that American girls foist on their friends only at weddings?”
Ethan nodded, biting his lip.
Don Rafael’s eyes narrowed. “Brilliant pink with a tight bodice and diagonal neckline? Plus immense sleeves one could hide a small arsenal in, as I recall, and an enormous skirt upheld by netting. Her long hair was ornately arranged, too, with flowers and ribbons.”
“She had her Sig in the matching purse,” Ethan pointed out. “There wasn’t any place else to carry it, as regulations required her to do.”
“Madre de Dios,” Don Rafael murmured, his inscrutable gaze resting on Ethan. “No wonder those slime didn’t think she was a threat.”
“Exactly, although she was carrying an extra magazine as balance for the dress’s—more memorable qualities.”
Don Rafael’s eyes danced briefly before he signaled Ethan to continue.
“The escapees allowed their captives to openly use the restroom. The women were afraid of the male store clerk”—Don Rafael growled—“but they jumped at Steve, begging her for help.”
“Whereupon the convicts reacted poorly and shooting broke out.”
“In the end, the store clerk and former hostages were fine, while one of the convicts died of his wounds.”
“She did extremely well.” Don Rafael steepled his fingers. “No wonder the store’s surveillance tapes are so often shown on television.”
“Entitled The Bridesmaid’s Revenge.” Ethan grinned, as proud as if the shoot-out had occurred yesterday. Better not remember how his heart had stopped a hundred times while he’d listened to it over the scanner, though. Thank God she’d had the extra magazine for her gun.
“She is your amor, sí ?”
His gaze flashed to his creador and was snared by the bittersweet chocolate eyes. He hesitated but nodded, committing himself to the darker question underlying the few words.
Yes, Steve was his love, not just his lover. He wasn’t sleeping with her to obtain information but because he couldn’t live without seeing her, whenever and wherever he could.
Don Rafael’s jaw set hard under the golden skin, accentuating the strength which had kept this esfera at peace longer than any other.
There is no place for a vampira in Texas, mi hijo, Don Rafael warned.
I know that, not under Texas law. Ethan looked straight back at him, hiding nothing. The pain of future loss carved his bones but he’d adjusted to that. Or rather, he would learn to. Memories were better than complete emptiness.
I am a Texan. Texas is worth everything, even saying good-bye to her.
Don Rafael inclined his head, his eyes hooded.
Steve considered the ancient cellar, bereft of a barn with its jaunty red walls for a cover. She eyed the steep ramp, now pitted and overgrown with brambles. She studied the circular frame of an ancient well, still tall enough that it wasn’t quite a complete hazard.
“It’s been decades since this ranch was occupied.” She stepped back, her boots soundless on the dirt road. “Maybe the Depression?”
“A little more recent.” Ethan held up a small jet fighter.
“At least the cellar isn’t deep enough to have sheltered any vampiros. Maybe the well, but not the cellar.”
“High noon would send daylight down either,” Ethan said flatly.
“Incinerating the enemy and saving us the problem. Pity.” She kicked an inoffensive pebble. “I can’t imagine where he’s keeping all of them.”
“He’s probably rotating them. Letting some terrorize us, while others rest.”
“Or hiding them in plain sight.” She sighed, turning around once again, to look at the deserted hulk of a ranch. “My gut says there’s nothing here.”
“Same for me. Let’s get back home so you can be ready for the Feds in the morning.”
“Yeah, the Suits.” She grinned. “They’re kind of cute, though.”
“Why?” he bit out.
She glanced sideways, a little surprised by his harshness. Was he jealous? Silly boy.
“They’re sooo well dressed, y’know? Badge, gun, cuffs, ankle holster, extra pair of cuffs, extra magazine, radio. What am I missing?” She leaned against his pickup and tapped her cheek, pretending to consider.
“Two guns and two sets of handcuffs? Do they think mass murderers will stay put so they can be hog-tied?” His lip curled.
“Gotta be prepared, y’know.” She tried to sound impressed.
“You only carry a badge, one gun, and one pair of cuffs,” he pointed out.
“For everyday wear, not tactical gear.” She gave up the effort and laughed. “Exactly, we’re so different. The Louisiana guys are always teasing us both.”
He laughed with her, his face softening, and settled comfortably against the hard metal. She leaned into his shoulder, cuddling as best as she could, given their respective quantities of armament and her Kevlar vest. He laid his arm over her shoulders companionably and they stayed like that for a few minutes, letting crickets and a distant owl do the talking.
“Ethan.” She had to ask this. “What if Devol decides to make more vampiros?”
“Are you asking if we’d need to face more than thirty vampiros?” He glanced down at her. “There’s no danger of that, honey.”
“Why not?”
“It takes a minimum of two years, sometimes as much as nine, to give somebody El Abrazo and make them a vampiro.”
“Oh.” Well, the bad guys wouldn’t overrun the countryside right away. “But in all the movies, baby vampiros are dangerous right away.”
“Cachorros,” Ethan corrected, a muscle throbbing in his jaw. “Actually, most people die after being given El Abrazo wi
thout ever rising as a cachorro.”
“You’re joking!” She spun to stare at him.
“Not at all.” He shook his head, his hazel eyes deadly serious. “Very few cachorros survive La Lujuria—The Rut—immediately after they first rise, when they’re insane for blood and emotion. It’s a time that lasts for months.”
“You’re crazy that long?” It sounded like a prescription for complete disaster.
“Yeah—and it’s much, much worse for women. In fact, so few survive that it’s almost impossible to predict which ones will make it to become vampiras.”
“Oh,” she said flatly, and swallowed. She spotted a hole in his argument and dived for it. “But you’ve got plenty of vampiros here in Texas.”
“Don Rafael, El Patrón of Texas, is the creador of every vampiro here.” The lines in his face deepened to a harsh mask. “He is the only North American patrón who has never lost a cachorro. But he refuses to give El Abrazo to a female.”
“That’s a stupid, old-fashioned, patriarchal attitude!”
“It’s his law and it will be obeyed here.” Ethan rested his hands on her shoulders very gently. “Stephanie Amanda, I have seen ladies’ brains scalded and destroyed by El Abrazo. I won’t argue with my creador—especially since his methods have always been successful.”
She started to spit out another angry retort but stopped, caught by his emphasis on the single word.
“Is it always so difficult then?” she asked slowly, feeling her way through a bloodshot darkness.
“The San Francisco patrón has the next-best record at little more than ninety percent. That’s for men, of course.”
“What about women?”
“Nobody has ever done better than ten percent. Usually it’s less than five.” He gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and released her. “Come on, let’s go home and have some fun together. Or do you want to keep talking statistics in a dirt patch?”
“Sure thing, cowboy.” She smiled as he intended her to do and brushed her knuckles against his cheek.
She was silent while he expertly drove the pickup out of the old ranch, barely noticing the frequent gearshifts needed to get over the rough terrain and across the old riverbed.
Bond of Darkness Page 21
