Raven's Revenge: Paranormal Prison Romance (Paranormal Prison Series Book 2)

by Naomi Martin

  I kneel down next to a skylight and peer over the edge, into what looks like a spare bedroom. That’s my entry point. I channel a thin thread of fire, intending to melt the bolts on the lock, but Zane reaches out and grabs the lip of the frame, pushing it upward. Unlocked. Shit.

  I look over at him and see the wide grin on his face. He doesn’t even need to say it. I already know. Rolling my eyes, I use a weave of Air to lower me to the ground inside. Zane drops down beside me, silent as a shadow. The instant my feet touch the ground, though, I know something is wrong. I glance at Zane and see his face tighten.

  “Blood. And lots of it,” he says. “Nobody in this house is alive. I can’t hear a single heartbeat.”

  I let out a groan I feel the knots in my stomach constrict painfully. We step out of the guest room and make our way down to the first floor of the brownstone. There’s so much blood it seems like somebody came in here with buckets of it and sprayed it everywhere. It covers practically every surface, arcs high on the wall, and drips from the light fixtures on the ceiling.

  Zane looks at it all longingly. “What a waste.”

  “Shut up,” I say. “You’re gross.”

  “This from the girl who eats kale.”

  “Can we, like, not talk about food right now?”

  The furniture has been overturned and smashed to kindling. The walls all around us have been scored with deep slashes—claw marks. Everything on the ground floor has been destroyed, and when we step into the kitchen, we find two bodies. Or, rather, what used to be bodies and are now simply indescribable lumps of pulped meat sitting in a lake of blood.

  “Cook’s bodyguards,” I note.

  They are standing before a doorway and when I look beyond it, I see the large steel frame of what must have been Cook’s panic room. The door stands open, ragged scratches deep in the metal. I descend the three steps and walk down the short hallway, already knowing what I’m going to find.

  What’s left of Cook is spread out across his panic room. As we found in the other rooms, everything has been smashed, the walls are all rent by deep claw marks and splashed liberally with blood. Chunks of meat are strewn everywhere. The only thing that lets me know the bloody devastation we’re looking at is Cook is the fact that his head is sitting on a table. His mouth hangs open in a silent scream, and his eyes are wide, staring at the ceiling.

  “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, a flutter in my belly nearly making me throw up.

  I step forward and pause, thankfully avoiding what looks like a giant pile of dog shit. I move around it, shaking my head and looking around at the destruction. The power of a shifter unleashed is a terrifying thing. I turn to Zane and see him standing amidst the carnage, his eyes focused on the pile I almost stepped in.

  “Was it Gray?” I ask.

  He raises his eyes, a smirk on his face. “We’re close,” he says, gesturing to the pile. “But we weren’t that close.”

  “Not funny,” I say. “Not the time for jokes.”

  He shrugs. “Levity is often helpful.”

  “Not this time.”

  He sighs heavily. “I don’t know if this was Gray,” he admits. “I can smell certain things but… everything is muddled. All I can tell you is that this was definitely done by a shifter.”

  “Great. Thanks for that, Sherlock,” I snap. “As if the massive amounts of blood, body parts, and deep scratches in the wall weren’t a dead giveaway already.”

  “Sorry,” he tells me. “My sense of smell isn’t as acute as a shifter’s.”

  I run a hand through my hair. “Sorry for snapping at you,” I say. “This isn’t your fault.”

  He suddenly stiffens, his head cocked to the side. “We need to go,” he says. “We need to go now.”

  “What? Why?”

  “The police are coming,” he explains. “A lot of them.”

  We both move quickly, stepping out of the panic room, then making our way up to the top floor and the skylight we entered through. It’s only then I realize we’ve given ourselves away, when I look down at the carpet and see our bloody footprints. I glance at Zane and his mouth tightens as he shakes his head.

  “There’s nothing we can do about it,” he says. “There’s a helicopter coming, Raven. We have to go. Now.”

  “Right.”

  Channeling a flow of Air, I lift myself up and out of the room and onto the roof. The sound of sirens splits the night air and, in the distance, I can see the spotlight on a helicopter drawing closer.

  “Shit,” I spit. “Goddammit.”

  I channel another weave of Air and step off the edge of the roof.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Villa

  “I need five minutes with the President, Ms. Reynolds,” I say.

  “You know that’s not possible,” she replies. “His schedule is packed today.”

  I’m standing with Marcy Reynolds, President Oliver Sharpe’s Chief of Staff, in the antechamber just outside the Oval Office. It was a gamble to come here, knowing I would likely be turned away. The President doesn’t meet with people not on his schedule, and the lowly colonel of a military unit he’s not even aware exists is never going to make his schedule. Which is why I came prepared.

  “Ms. Reynolds, I understand the President is a busy man, but I have information of an impending terrorist attack. Time is of the essence,” I tell her. “I need you to ask him to give me five minutes. Please. This is critical, ma’am.”

  She stands back and looks me up and down. I made sure to wear my Class-A uniform today, just to make an impression. It’s more difficult to ignore a man in full military dress, with a chest full of ribbons and medals, than it is some pencil-necked bureaucrat in a three-thousand-dollar suit.

  Marcy purses her lips and nods to herself. “Give me a moment.”

  She disappears through a door and the secretary behind her desk gives me a pleasant smile before turning back to her computer. A moment later, Marcy opens the door and nods to me. I step through and she closes the door behind her as she goes, leaving me alone with President Sharpe.

  He sits behind the Resolute Desk, dignity personified, his eyes on me. His reputation of being Mr. All-America—the squeaky-clean President, a bastion of integrity—is a carefully crafted image. One that he doesn’t quite live up to in his personal life. He’s had more mistresses than I can count, and more “indiscretions” that have been covered up and swept under the rug than the last half-dozen Presidents combined. But people still consider him the poster boy for values and wholesomeness.

  But that’s fine. I’m not here to talk to him about his image, real or imagined. Nor am I here to cast aspersions upon him. I’m here for a very simple reason… to convince him to give me the power and control I seek. Power and control that should already be mine. This is the second prong of my current plan of attack. The first prong is already in motion, and it’s too late for anybody to do anything about it.

  Sharpe stands and comes around the desk, giving me his well-practiced and polished politician handshake—firm, but not too firm, while making solid eye contact the whole time. He offers me a seat on the sofa, then sits down across from me.

  “Colonel Villa,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

  I nod. “It’s been about a year and a half, sir.”

  I’ve met the President on a couple of occasions. Nothing memorable, I just happened to be at fundraisers he was at. We exchanged a few words, but when he wanted to know more about my unit and our purpose, I always made excuses to back away and get clear of the area. But now, it’s time to pull back the curtain and give the man a small peek at what I do.

  “Ms. Reynolds said you have a matter of national security to discuss with me?”

  “Yes, sir,” I reply.

  I open my briefcase and pull my laptop out. I open it and turn it on, giving it a moment to boot up. I look up at him.

  “Mr. President, I’m the commanding officer of a… specialized military unit,” I say. “Our official designati
on is Joint Task Force Sierra Bravo, but we’re informally known as the Cleansers.”

  His eyebrows shoot up as he looks at me. “The Cleansers?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say. “We operate under the auspices of Homeland Security.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Colonel, but I’ve never heard of your outfit.”

  “I know that, Mr. President,” I reply. “We were set up specifically so you wouldn’t know about us. So that there is a very small circle who knows we exist. It provides plausible deniability.”

  His face darkens as he looks at me. I can see him going through the political calculus in his head, as well as battling his irritation that he was not included in the circle of trust.

  “I’m the President. I should be read into matters such as these.”

  “Don’t take offense, please, Mr. President,” I tell him. “You not knowing about us is better for you. You don’t want to be entangled in our operations.”

  “And what kinds of operations are those?”

  “We run domestic military operations, often targeting U.S. citizens,”

  His eyes widen and his mouth falls open. Definitely not the answer he was expecting. Good. I’ve got him back on his heels, on unsteady footing. Just where I want him.

  “Please tell me you’re joking, Colonel.”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. President,” I reply. “But before you get too irate, you should know that these are not ordinary people and, in fact, represent an existential threat to this country.”

  “What are you talking about, Colonel Villa?”

  My laptop is cued up and ready, so I turn it to face him and hit play. The video the President is watching is a compilation video of supernaturals wreaking havoc and killing people. I made sure to edit the video to include the most egregious acts we have on film, simply for the shock value. Sometimes, you need to smack these political types upside the head before they actually understand the threat we’re facing.

  “My God,” he whispers. “Is this… real?”

  “Of course it is, Mr. President,” I reply. “I do not deal in fantasy. What you’re looking at are examples of the creatures we target: werewolves, werebears, Elementals, vampires. You get the idea.”

  He’s shaking his head and I can see his entire view of the world being turned upside down. He’s the sort who never considered the possibility that creatures such as these exist anywhere but in the tabloids. And the tabloids are definitely full of “sightings” and “eyewitness accounts” of these creatures running amok. But there haven’t been enough credible news outlets brave enough to actually dig into these stories. That’s why the freaks have been able to run the streets, completely unchecked, for as long as they have.

  By breaking the President’s supernatural cherry, I’m hoping to bring all of that to an end. I’m here to convince him of the need to act with an iron fist, to bring the freaks to heel, and to let me operate autonomously to accomplish those goals.

  “I’m sorry, Colonel, I’m just having a hard time believing this is real,” he says, his eyes still fixed to the screen. “This is like something out of a fairy tale.”

  “I’d say it’s more like something out of a nightmare. But I assure you, Mr. President, they are very real,” I tell him. “In fact, I operate out of a base in the Badlands of South Dakota. We call it the Pit and we detain hundreds of these creatures.”

  “This is unreal,” he says, finally looking up at me. “How is it that I have never been made aware of the existence of your task force, Colonel?”

  “Like I said, sir, it’s to protect you,” I reply. “If it was known you were sanctioning the imprisonment and death of American citizens, the bleeding hearts would have your head on a spike.”

  “Then why are you telling me now?”

  “Because events are in motion that I can no longer stop, Mr. President. On the video I just showed you, you can see the attack that’s claimed the life of Senator Alton Cook,” I tell him. “He was set to be the Chairman of the newly created Homeland Defense Committee.”

  Sharpe nods. “Right. They’re being impaneled to deal with national security and terrorism crises,” he says.

  “That’s correct. Mostly. What you don’t know is that committee was also being impaneled to expand the operational budget for my task force. It was getting more difficult to hide our numbers in the books, as we step up our operations against these supernaturals,” I tell him. “It was also to be within the purview of the committee to oversee this fight against the supernaturals. They knew it, and they murdered him to keep that from happening. They knew he was a fierce opponent and would wield tremendous power over them if allowed to head the committee.”

  Sharpe runs a hand along his jawline as he sits back on the couch, letting out a long breath. I can see him still wrestling with the idea of supernaturals being fact, rather than fiction.

  “I know this is a lot to take in at one time, Mr. President,” I say. “It’s not easy to believe one thing for the entirety of your life, only to find out things you assumed were mythical are, in fact, very real. I’ve been there, sir.”

  His eyes drift back to the screen and the look of horror crosses his face once more. Presidents are supposed to be stoic at all times; they’re not supposed to look rattled in the face of war, natural disasters, terror attacks. In some ways, they’re not supposed to be human. But something like this, nightmares made flesh… it would be impossible for even the most calm, rational of men to remain impassive and unmoved by what Sharpe is looking at right now.

  “What do you need from me?” he asks.

  I have to fight to keep the grin off my face, knowing I’m about to get everything I want. Everything I deserve.

  I’m about to get carte blanche to carry on my fight against these animals.

  “In light of the murder of Senator Cook, I need you to disband the committee,” I say. “And I need to be given full operational control over the task force.”

  “Done.”

  “Further, I need to be able to operate autonomously,” I continue. “I will be prosecuting this war on two fronts. First, we will be continuing our covert operations against the supernaturals. Second, we will also be waging a PR campaign against them. We need the general public to see these creatures for the threat they are. And we need to stem the tide of bleating from the bleeding hearts before it begins.”

  “I think no matter what you do, you’re going to face blowback from the public, Colonel,” he says. “It’s the nature of the beast.”

  “That’s a given,” I reply. “But I intend to sow fear and division. I intend to make it difficult for these creatures to move about freely. I want people willing to turn them in, rather than hide them from us.”

  He thinks about it a moment and then sighs. “It’s a risky play, Colonel,” he says. “You divide people that much and you could very well find it blowing up in your face.”

  I nod. “I’m aware of that. However, I think the risk is worth the reward. We will need help from the general public to root these creatures out wherever they may be hiding,” I counter. “And the way we do that is by painting them as the terrorists they are. We cannot show fear, Mr. President. And we have to show them we’re willing to fight. Additionally, we will need help from Congress. We’ll need to pass legislation to back up what we’re doing.”

  “That is something I can’t guarantee, unfortunately,” he replies. “Dealing with Congress is like herding cats. Surely you know that.”

  I nod. “We just need some people with a backbone. I can already give you the names of some on board with us,” I say. “We’re going to need to move, and move quickly, Mr. President. To save this nation from these creatures, I need your full backing.”

  He’s silent for a long moment and I can see him filtering everything I said through his political prism, calculating the odds and weighing it all out. He’s almost there. I just need to give him that final nudge.

  “The cost of doing nothing is high, Mr. Presi
dent,” I remind him. “If the public finds out that you knew about this threat and let it happen anyway…”

  I let my voice trail off, the statement hanging in the air between us. He looks at me, his gaze firm and determined.

  “Do what you need to do, Colonel,” he tells me. “You have my full backing and support.”

  I nod grimly and try to control my enthusiasm. I love it when my plans come together and I get exactly what I want.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Elliot

  “So, do we think it was Gray?” I ask.

  Both Raven and Zane give me a shrug. Since they returned to the hotel room, aside from telling me what they found, neither has said very much. Both of them seem lost in their thoughts, Raven especially. She looks downright miserable. And angry—angrier than I’ve ever seen her before.

  I want to go pull her into a hug. I want to comfort her. Given her demeanor, I think that’s about the last thing she wants right now. But what we don’t need is to sit here sulking and doing nothing. We need to come up with a plan. We need to find Gray, and then we need to get out of here.

  The television is playing the news and a pretty brunette reporter is on the scene, broadcasting from Senator Cook’s house.

  “We have few details at the moment, but our sources are saying this was a savage, brutal attack,” she says. “Again, if you’re just joining us, three people have been violently murdered in the Georgetown residence of Senator Alton Cook. We have no confirmation that the senator is one of the victims, but a highly placed source has told us that Senator Cook is indeed one of the dead. We will caution you, though, that report is, thus far, unconfirmed—”

  “Turn that shit off,” Raven snaps.

  I pick up the remote and mute the volume, the room descending into a tense silence. I drop the remote and fidget with the comforter on the bed, pulling at loose threads, my nervous anxiety getting the best of me. A thousand different images scroll through my mind—mostly of Gray being run down by the Cleansers and killed in some horrible fashion—which only fuels my anxiety.