Which was rather unfortunate, since Roark and I were right in the middle of their trap. It was ingenious, really: they knew we’d be drawn to the commotion, one way or another. Protect and serve, right? Then, either the sirens got the information they sought, or we died.
Maybe both.
Win-win, basically.
I kicked a portly middle-aged man, sending him crashing against a wire-frame rack of championship DVDs. He was quickly replaced by a young tattooed woman, who launched her sharp nails at my face.
I deflected the blow and yelled, “Roark!”
I received no response. Three more assailants joined the young woman, hands clawing at my throat. Still fond of breathing, I swung the shotgun like a bat, clocking one in the head. His place was seamlessly assumed by another member of the endless horde.
The numbers weren’t in our favor.
As the fragments of the sirens’ influence faded from the corners of my mind, the wisps coalesced. Strands of blue and red down one path, if I dashed to the counter. And a far more uncertain kaleidoscopic collection of possibilities led to where Roark had disappeared into the crowd.
Blood and safety.
Or a crapshoot.
A punch to the jaw decided for me. I jabbed the shotgun’s stock into my attacker’s stomach—a rather paunchy and bedraggled mom-type—and scraped my way along the rough carpeting. I found Roark backed into a literal corner, near the running shoes.
Still on the ground, I felt a hand grasp my leg. In response, I launched a kick straight back like the most ill-mannered horse in existence. If I couldn’t shoot my way out—technically these were innocents, even if they wanted to kill us—I sure as hell wouldn’t be pawed at like a zoo animal.
Elbows thrashing through the mob, I managed to stand.
“Roark!”
This time, his eyes swiveled toward mine. The fabric ear plugs must’ve fallen out in the scrum. Only ten feet away, we were separated by a mosh pit. Fortunately, like zombies, the hypnotized crowd’s attack skills were unimpressive. However, en masse they still presented a significant problem.
“Get outta here,” Roark said. “You can make it.”
“Not without you.”
Fingers tore at my shoulder, and I shook them off—or at least tried to. But their owner was persistent and strong, clutching my jacket with surprising tenacity. Roark grunted something unintelligible, the noise accompanied by the thud of a solid punch.
The wisps danced behind him, and I saw where my intuition had led.
A fire alarm, inside a glass case. Unfortunately, Roark’s head was in the way.
I tried again to shake my attacker, but the second attempt proved equally futile. A half-turn showed why: the hand belonged to a mountain of a man, with arms the size of my quads.
I swung the shotgun with my free arm, but he caught the barrel effortlessly.
My muscles quivered, trying to push the metal and wood forward, but he stood there like an immovable tree, his eyes glazed over from the sirens’ intoxication.
He released his grip on my jacket, his broad hand shooting toward my throat. With nowhere to retreat, I couldn’t dodge the attack. He lifted me off my feet like an empty sack of flour, stubby nails digging into my vocal cords.
My survival instincts kicked in—innocents be damned—and I reached for my belt. My fingers fished for the electric blade Roark had given me. The one that had once belonged to his brother. I felt the energy in its hilt as I dragged it from its scabbard.
Then I plunged it into the mountain man’s arm.
He shook like I’d attached a car battery to his nerve endings. We both crashed to the floor, some of the electricity from the blade reaching my body, too. Nonetheless, I clung tightly to my lifeline, driving the knife deeper into his flesh.
I saw his eyes flicker briefly before rolling unconsciously into the back of his head. Only then did I release my grip, skin still tingling from the power surge.
Brow sweaty, I yanked the shotgun from his limp hand and stumbled to my feet. Roark was still fending off the mob with his fists and well-timed kicks. That wouldn’t last long. They were growing more violent and frenzied, agitated by our resistance.
“Duck!” I shouted, pointing the gun his way.
“What?” Roark called back as he landed another punch, his knuckles bloodied.
“Get on the damn ground.” I racked the slide, and the noise explained things better than words. His head disappeared, and I aimed down the mounted sights at the fire alarm.
Then I pulled the trigger.
Glass exploded around the racks of shoes. The sprinklers burst alive, nozzles dousing the sporting goods store in a cool mist. Between the howling alarm and the sudden downpour, the mob suddenly stopped its advances.
The ringing gradually ceded to the background as I pushed toward the front of the store. The injured murmured and moaned softly, the rest of the mob looking around in stunned confusion.
In the distance, I heard sirens.
But these were of the police variety.
And, as I’d soon find out, equally unwelcome.
9
“What the fuck were you two doing?” Supervisor Emma Janssen crossed her arms, looking about ready to murder us both. With the .50 caliber pistols lurking beneath her trench coat, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’d crossed her mind. “First day in the big leagues and this is your idea of an investigation?”
“I told you what would happen.” I wiped my face with a borrowed towel from the EMTs, throwing a glance back at the ruined store. “The Crusaders don’t play around.”
“So you thought this was a good idea.” Janssen jabbed her finger at the dripping counter.
Tempted to answer we weren’t thinking at all, I instead kept my mouth shut as the supervisor glared daggers at us both.
“That man might lose his arm, Ruby.” Janssen snapped her fingers, trying to grab my attention.
“He’s lucky I didn’t kill him,” I said hotly. “We could’ve shot our way out.”
“This isn’t the Wild West.” Janssen shook her head, silver hair cascading down the navy-blue coat. “Goddamnit, pulling a stunt like this…”
“We didn’t pull anything, ma’am,” Roark said.
“Oh, no? A half dozen broken bones, a quarter million in merchandise ruined? That must’ve been someone else.”
“We were following a lead,” Roark said, wet boots squeaking slightly against the polished floor. “The sirens wanted information on the investigation.”
“I don’t suppose you gave it to them.” Janssen’s gaze bounced between us both. “Because I’ve reached my daily quota for bad news.”
“You should be thanking him,” I said, running my fingers through my damp hair. “He saved lives.”
“Oh, well, in that case.” Janssen shook her head and made a shooing motion with her hands. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”
I was happy to oblige, but I was no more than two steps away when the supervisor said, “Wait.”
“You’re sending mixed messages, here,” I said. “A girl could get confused.”
“Don’t get smart with me. Especially not now.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, turning to look at Janssen. Her polished jet eyes wore the expression of an investigator mulling pieces of a puzzle that just didn’t fit together.
“These sirens should’ve killed you.”
“You sound disappointed they didn’t,” I said.
“If you’d stop being so damn witty for a second, you could actually listen.” Janssen took a deep breath, eyes swinging from me to Roark. Satisfied that neither of us would interject, she said, “You were outnumbered what, fifty to one? Seventy-five?”
“I didn’t count,” I said. Her eyes flashed with restrained anger. “But sure, that sounds about right.”
“And yet, here you both stand, causing me no shortage of grief and paperwork.”
“Sorry we’re such a burden.”
“Be that
as it may,” Janssen said, “I’m curious to know why.”
“What, you think we planned this?” I asked, temper rising.
“I don’t think you two idiots could plan your way out the front door.” Janssen stepped forward so that we were nose-to-nose. “This was a ruse. A loud distraction.”
“And here I was starting to believe that thinking wasn’t in your repertoire,” I said.
Janssen held my gaze and then shrugged, silver hair cascading over her shoulders. “You’re both suspended until further notice.”
“What?” This was absurd, and I was about to shove my shotgun right down her throat to prove it.
“Go home.” She turned to Roark. “And goddamnit, Colton, keep your expert consultant in line.”
With that, she left us to our own devices, her input needed at the waterlogged crime scene. After a few moments, I felt Roark’s hand lightly grip my wrist. It was only then that I realized I was shaking with actual rage.
“You’re gonna stroke out if you keep going like that.”
“That lady—”
“Pressure from above.” His blue eyes told most of the story. “PR nightmare.”
“We saved the day.”
“It’s a powder keg, Ruby. Mortals get hurt with the supernatural around, heads start getting lopped off.”
“So you’re saying we’re lucky we didn’t get fired.”
“I’m too good to fire.” Roark winked and gave my arm a gentle tug. “Coming?”
“I’m not helping these assholes.”
“So we spend a couple days on the bench,” Roark said. “Who cares?”
“It’s the principle.”
“No one said we couldn’t use our unpaid leave wisely.” Roark nodded toward the exit. “What do you say?”
I didn’t say anything.
But I still followed him out the damn door.
10
Downtown Phoenix
9 hours ago
When we reached his cruiser, however, I had plenty to say. Especially when the first words out of his mouth were, “I think the supervisor’s telling the truth.”
“The truth? Absolutely fucking—”
“Easy there,” Roark said with a small smile as the doors unlocked. “About this being a distraction.”
“They would’ve killed us.” I slid into the leather passenger seat and ran my fingers through my damp hair. As I mulled the problem over, it made more sense. The sirens could have forced those people to do practically anything. Turned them rabid.
Instead, they’d been more of a nuisance. Enough to injure or warn us. Maybe enough to kill us.
But all of that was gravy.
“See, I knew you’d come around.” Roark pressed the ignition key, the engine roaring to life.
“I didn’t say I agreed.”
“I can see it on your face.” The car took off by itself, quickly picking up speed.
I gave him a sideways glance. Maybe this was why we were partners. I reflected on the events in silence, trying to figure out the angle. The Crusaders of Paradisum weren’t known for granting their hunters amnesty. But, then again, they’d never made a move as bold as this morning’s body dump.
I considered the theatrics. Twenty-three bodies split on each side of the fence. Like a rib cage with one removed. The media would eat up that symbolism: the association with Adam and Eve, the latter created from a rib.
But all of that was a smokescreen. It was brilliant because it was the weird shit you expected from a cult. All that it did, though, was tie up useful investigative resources on a goose chase.
Like a shell game.
“The force,” I said.
“I don’t follow.”
“How much of the FBI came to Midtown just now?” I asked as the car whipped down the street.
“Basically everyone important.”
“Maybe the Crusaders are trying to take everyone out.” I scratched my nose. No. Too messy and ill-targeted. They had morals—just the bizarre kind. The Crusaders weren’t indiscriminate terrorists. They only killed sinners. “Or.”
“Or what?” Roark said, bringing up the holographic map on the car’s nav console.
“Does the FBI provide security for anything?”
“That’s pretty much what we’re paid to do.”
“All right, smartass. I meant specialized security. As in assigned to watch an object. Or person.”
“Or a place.” Roark’s fingers stopped playing with the hologram, a realization settling into his eyes. He dug the data cube from his pocket and slotted it into a crevice on top of the dashboard. “I might know what they want.”
“Oh yeah?” I looked at the small cube. We’d had to hunt all over Phoenix for a glass table to read that when we were chasing the necromancer. And yet, here we were, from the comfort of his car, enjoying the data stream. “Since when can your cruiser read those?”
Roark gave me an embarrassed look. “I, uh.”
“What.” His face had guilt written all over it.
“I might’ve gotten a promotion this morning.” Roark scratched his neat brown hair and looked out the window, avoiding my gaze.
I narrowed my eyes, taking in the interior. Indeed, it was almost identical to his last cruiser, but with just a hint more luxury. The kind that came with a corner government office—albeit only a modest pay raise.
“Congratulations,” I said. “But you’re full of shit.”
“No, I really got a—”
“You wanted to tell me last night.”
Roark leaned back and pretended to focus on the road. Which was hard to pull off, since he wasn’t actually driving.
“Look, I just didn’t get around to it, okay? I got kicked up after the Marshall case cleared.”
Roark reached toward the stream of data, but I was having none of it.
“So you don’t trust me,” I said. “Even though I’m the one who killed that son of a bitch.”
“We really need to focus on the Crusaders.”
“Sure,” I said. “Once you tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“I’m the Bureau’s new MagiTekk liaison.” He cracked his neck. “No new title, really.”
“Sounds pretty damn official to me.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“How modest,” I said with a fake grin. “You’re really moving up in the world.”
“I didn’t know how to explain it.”
“Oh, but that’s easy,” I said, keeping my eyes on him. “Just over a few drinks say, hey, Ruby, you know those people we were gonna take down and burn? Yeah, I kind of already worked for them because the Feds are in their pocket. But I really work for them now. And oh, by the way, my father figured out what we were planning because of my new job. Background checks and heart-to-hearts and such.”
“You’re angry.”
“No kidding, dipshit.” I stared at the sidewalk bazaars blurring past the windows. “You don’t think they’ll keep a close eye on their little government mole?”
“I’m not a mole.” Roark noticeably bristled.
“Next thing you’ll tell me is that you report to your father.”
“What’d he want last night, anyway?”
“You guys didn’t talk it over?” I asked with a sneer.
“We’re not close.”
Funny, I’d heard that before. “Nothing big. Just calling in a favor. Protect MagiTekk’s little suppression serum rollout on Friday.”
“I told you that asking him for a favor came with strings.”
“I’m just wondering if the same is true about you. Partner.”
“If anything, this makes it easier to bring them down.”
“Whatever you say.”
Instead of answering, Roark swiped through the data stream with stiff fingers, bringing up a photograph of a church in Old Phoenix. While I’d only been out for three weeks, there had been a startling lack of religious structures—anything other than corporatized businesses, really—ar
ound the city.
“The Cathedral of St. Peter.” I peered at the dilapidated structure, dropping the oh, you basically work for MagiTekk issue temporarily. Most of Old Phoenix was in absolute shambles, and this building was little exception. Reading the brief database description revealed that it was being monitored by the FBI for its “historical significance.”
“How the hell does a building less than twenty years old qualify as historically significant?” I asked.
“It’s the last church to be constructed anywhere in Phoenix.” Roark swiped through the file, which was thin. “One of the last in the entire United States.”
“Did the Crusaders pray there?”
“No.” The image dissolved into a stream of digital bits as Roark went on to the next part of the improvised presentation. An endless blur of data ran through the air. “But the Feds caught a couple of guys trying to sneak in during the summer of ’36.”
Maybe the Crusaders had been back longer than I’d thought.
Then again, I hadn’t gotten all the world’s breaking news during my stay in Tempe.
Roark dismissed the information and continued through the stream. I could’ve been imagining things, but even the data connection seemed snappier with MagiTekk’s invisible blessing. It didn’t thrill me that the people we’d sworn to get rid of were now our bedfellows.
Sharing a cage with a tiger rarely turned out well.
Roark turned his palm over, halting the blur on some out-of-focus surveillance snaps. The low resolution made it difficult to tell whether the infiltrators were even male or female.
“Very helpful,” I said. “Practically cracked the case.”
“If you’re gonna be like this the whole time, you can get out,” Roark said, pissed off.
I almost said, sure thing, asshole, but I bit my tongue and said, “What happened to the perps?”
“They self-immolated instead of surrendering to authorities.” A flick brought up the charred bodies. “Notice anything?”
The glowing magical split cross in the center of a bare chest, pulsing with energy even in the still shot. Unlike the sacrifices, the magic within these markings was far more powerful—branding them proper Crusaders, on a Holy Mission.
Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection Page 25
