Remington gestured to Conrad and pointed to the colonel. “Check his vital signs or whatever it is that you’re supposed to do with old people and see if there’s still a hieroglyph on his chest.”
The werewolf nodded and set to work. Remy, meanwhile, examined the fairy.
“Are you all right? I think you did it. Goddamn, it worked.”
She rolled onto her back, released a long sigh, and rose to her feet. “Yes, I…I’m much better than last night. And I did. I…crushed it out of existence. There’s nothing of Moswen’s left on this side of the cut I made yesterday.”
“Ha!” Remy gloated, grinned, and looked skyward. “I knew you had it in you. Beautiful work. Later, we’ll get sweet potato pie, if I can remember.”
The fairy smiled and wiped her brow. “I’d like that.”
Conrad looked up from the bed. “He’s okay, mostly. It’s been a rough twelve hours, but he doesn’t seem to be in any serious, medical danger.”
“Even better,” the investigator quipped. He ran a hand through his hair.
Russel stared into space and sweated onto his pillow and still looked like he needed a whiskey with hot lemonade followed by a shower and about ten hours of sleep. But for now, he was vaguely awake and conscious.
Remy addressed both his companions. “We’ll give him five or ten minutes to recover before we interview him. How about we help ourselves to more of his delicious tea in the meantime?”
The trio sat in silence in the kitchen. When they’d drained their cups about halfway, Russel’s voice spoke from the bedroom, forming coherent words for the first time since the fight.
“Hey,” he called, his voice weak and ragged. “What the hell is going on here? Who are you people and what are you doing in my house? I…ughhh— Jesus, it’s coming clear again now—”
Remy and Conrad nodded, and they headed into the bedroom. Riley followed at a slight distance and remained out of obvious sight. They weren’t sure if the de-thralled colonel would still be able to see her.
The investigator took the lead and tried his best to look confident and officious. It helped that he and the lycanthrope were both dressed in suits. And, thankfully, he’d had all night and morning to think things over and practice how he’d handle this.
“Colonel James Russel?” he asked.
The middle-aged man on the bed frowned. “It’s probably no use to deny it. If you people have tracked me down, you know who I am.”
He nodded. “Good answer. I can’t tell you exactly who I work for but believe me on one thing. We are on the same side. Tying you to the bed was necessary for your own protection since you haven’t been yourself lately. And you said a minute ago that memories were coming back to you. We’d like to hear more about them. This is all off the books but you can still consider it a formal debriefing.”
The colonel took a couple of deep breaths. “Can I have a cup of tea?”
“Sure,” he said. “Wonder Boy, get on it.”
“Yes, sir,” Conrad acknowledged and strode away to the kitchen.
Remy pulled a chair up to the bedside. “Right. Now we basically know what happened, but we need your version. Unusual things have occurred lately, haven’t they? Start from the beginning and tell us everything.”
Russel tightened his jaw, his face uncertain. “What’s the date today?”
When he told him, he had to hold the man’s phone up to prove as much.
Shaking his head, the colonel started talking. “A little over three weeks, ago, then. I was on my way into work and this…woman accosted me—all good-looking, and spoke with a Middle-Eastern kind of accent, although I couldn’t quite place it. Normally, I never let a stranger lay a hand on me, but something was…wrong. Different. She touched my chest and I can’t remember anything after that for a while.”
Conrad returned with a steaming mug and once they’d released his hands, handed it to the colonel, who nodded his thanks and took it with both hands.
“Then,” he continued, “things were…kind of a blur. I can’t recall everything. I felt confused much of the time and saw myself doing things without intending to do them—like my brain floated there helplessly while someone else controlled my body. Someone was giving me orders…”
“Drink some tea,” Remy suggested as the colonel trailed off. “More of it ought to come back as the effects wear off.”
Russel took a long sip. He looked at Conrad and gestured with the cup. “It’s good,” he stated.
“Thank you, sir,” the lycanthrope responded with a smile.
The colonel focused on Remington. “You mentioned effects. Is this a drug thing, then?”
“Affirmative,” he said. “By the way, Colonel, are you aware that you’re technically officially retired from the Armed Forces and the Department of Defense now?”
The man looked startled and altered his posture subtly. “No…what? Wait—yes. I remember now. I applied for retirement without even knowing why.”
He drank more tea, gathered his thoughts, and continued. “And I also remember”—he fixed Remy with a hard stare—“your face from the photos they showed me. I was…I was supposed to assemble a team for a black op and eliminate you.”
Remy nodded. He wasn’t exactly shocked. “Who’s they, Colonel? Who showed you these photos and gave you these orders?”
His gaze went distant as more of the truth unveiled itself within his mind. “That same woman. As far as I knew at the time—or seemed to know—she was one of ours, acting off the books. She said you were a dangerous criminal and an accessory to terrorism. I seem to recall thinking in the back of my mind that this was all as suspicious as hell. The Army National Guard doesn’t conduct domestic covert operations like this, for fuck’s sake. But somehow, I couldn’t help myself. It seemed right and official, and yet it didn’t.”
That’s interesting, Remy thought. With Alex, Moswen used a simple brute-force approach—“Do what I say or I’ll hurt you,” basically. Now, with her plans growing in scope and complexity, she’s become more subtle. Her top thralls operate under layers of deceit and illusion.
The colonel’s eyes hardened, and the muscles along his jaw went tight. “If I find out,” he rasped, “that they were right and we’re not on the same side, and you have any intent to misuse this information, you’d better kill me right fucking now or I’ll rip your throat out the second I get out of this bed.”
Conrad tensed and kept his gaze focused on the officer.
Remy was a poker player, and it took most of his considerable powers of self-control to keep a calm face at that statement. Russel definitely meant what he said.
“No, Colonel,” he replied, “there will be no need for that. The people who tried to brainwash you, to begin with, are the criminals here. And, together, we’ll stop them.”
Russel snorted and leaned back in the bed, shaking his head. “This is Company shit, isn’t it? Anytime you guys get involved, it’s all smoke and mirrors.”
He smirked a little and shrugged. “Well, sir, if you’re still confused, let’s review the facts, shall we? You were approached by someone—clearly a foreigner and possibly from a country with elements that are, shall we say, not aligned with American interests.”
After a small pause for effect, he continued before Russel could interrupt. “Then, you find yourself in a state that matches the description of several experimental psychotropic drugs, in which you’re persuaded to do strange things like suddenly retire, and perform a de facto hit on persons such as, for example, the two of us.”
He pointed to Conrad and himself. “Ivy League douchebags, aka the Company’s favorite recruiting pool. This foreigner specifically targeted you, a high-ranking officer. And all of this happened at a time when everyone knows that New York’s streets are flooded with new drugs from somewhere overseas.”
The man remained impassive, but Remy spread his hands. “You do the math, Colonel. Do you really think that we’re the terrorists or transnational criminals here?”
His face took on a droopy, sullen look. “I damn well better see some kind of official proof, and the sooner the better.”
“You will,” he promised and immediately wracked his brain for ways to deliver on that. They’d be able to concoct something, he was sure.
Briskly, he stood up. “Finish your tea and take a minute to think it over. Then we’ll talk about what to do next and even let you get out of bed.”
“Gee, thanks,” Russel snarked. “There isn’t anything else in this tea, by the way, is there?”
Remy snapped his gaze toward Conrad. “Wonder Boy. You didn’t put sugar in this man’s tea, did you?”
“A little,” the lycanthrope admitted as they strolled casually to the kitchen. “I thought it would help to perk him up.”
He threw his hands up. “For fuck’s sake, man, I told you not to do that anymore.”
In the kitchen, the trio conferred in low voices. Riley started off by asking what had happened. “Is he better?”
“He’s free,” Remy whispered. “He’s suspicious of us but I’m fairly sure we’ve got him.”
“You know,” Conrad interjected, “I did once have a gentleman from the CIA try to recruit me. I didn’t fancy the idea of them finding out about lycanthropy, so I turned him down. Still, that Ivy League comment was a nice touch, sir.”
He gave his bodyguard a thumbs-up. “Thanks, Conrad. And it’s too bad. You would have made a great CIA guy. Anyway, we now merely need to make sure this man doesn’t immediately run and tattle to the government. That would result in our operation being blown out of the water, while Moswen slips back into the sewers and keeps mentally enslaving people until she wins.”
Riley remained to rest while the two men headed into the bedroom.
“Colonel,” Remy said, “I’d like to exchange phone numbers and I’d like you to tell this team you contacted to stand down but also stand by. Within the next few days, we’ll get back to you on the latest developments, and your help would be appreciated.”
The man still looked somewhat skeptical, but then the investigator thought of something.
“Our contact with the FBI—a senior special agent named Gilmore—might be the one who makes contact with you. With your help, we can expose these pricks and shut them down once and for all.”
Russel nodded toward Remy’s pocket. “You already took my phone. If you want to exchange numbers, you don’t exactly need my permission. Let me out of this bed so I can take a piss and a shit, though, and I’ll consider cooperating. For now.”
He smiled. “Deal.”
Chapter Thirteen
Moonlight DetectiveAgency Offices, Bushwick, Brooklyn, New York
The black Tesla pulled up to the office at 10:02 am.
“Hey,” Remy observed, “it looks like Bobby’s car is here. That’s a good sign, I think. Unless someone stole it and is laying a trap for us. Ugh, why did I say that out loud?”
Conrad frowned. “I have no idea, sir.”
Riley looked out the windshield from her usual position on the dashboard. “I don’t see or smell anything unusual. I think we’re probably fine.”
“Excellent.” He drew into his usual spot, shifted into park, and shut the engine off. As they emerged from the vehicle, though, he had to admit that he was disappointed to be the first and only driver of a black Tesla in the lot.
Remember what Presley said. Taylor always has good reasons for the seemingly bizarre things she sometimes does.
He pushed the door open, stepped into the lobby, and instantly noticed Ms Roberta Diaz.
“Bobby,” he greeted her. “It’s so nice you could make it in. Por didn’t say anything nasty about my drinking habits, did he? If so, I guarantee he merely made it up to make it sound like he’s selling even more booze than he already is. Pure propaganda.”
“Hi, Mr Remington,” she responded. “And Conrad, and Riley. Did you guys sleep in your clothes? No offense, but I’ve always seen you looking sharp, so it’s…uh, you know, weird to see you all rumpled. Oh, Volz is here also—he’s fine—and Alex is back.”
Yesterday, they’d sent Alex to buy pipe bomb components from multiple different stores across the Tri-State Area using cash. Buying all they need from one place with a card would have probably resulted in Agent Gilmore needing to interview them yet again.
“Good,” said Remy. “Our date with the colonel went…” He sighed. “Fairly well. Are there any developments on your end?”
“None,” she reported and ran her fingers through her hair. “I took a route that made it difficult to follow us, and we avoided traffic cameras, so I think we stayed off the radar and obviously, we’re still safe.”
He nodded. Not that he’d ever disliked her previously—she’d always been nice and mildly entertaining—but he was growing fond of the new, genius version.
“Good job. As for the business with Russel, we’ll tell you all about it in a moment. Is that donuts I smell?”
“Yes.” Bobby smiled. “Volz and I picked some up on our way in. Alex did the same, so there’s, like, four boxes back in the break area.”
“Can I have one?” the fairy asked.
He glanced at her. “Sure, although I’m not sure all that fried bread will fit in you. Maybe in human form. If you go that route, though, make sure you stay embiggened until you’re done digesting it—and preferably, passing it too. Unless the spell also transforms the size of foreign substances in your digestive tract?”
Conrad cleared his throat. “Mr Remington had a long night. He seems to have trouble keeping his thoughts to himself.”
“Silence, Conrad,” he responded. “You’re…uh, kind of right, though. Sorry. Let’s get some coffee.”
En route to the break corner, they bumped into their favorite Australian intern.
“G’day,” Alex said. “Or not so good, depending. I bought all your pyrotechnics. They’re in the back storage room with the components well separated, so there’s no chance of them going off accidentally unless someone walks in there and flame-throws the whole lot.”
“Spectacular,” Remy congratulated him. “Too bad about not being able to bring my flamethrower in to work, though. By the way, have you had any brand activity? We probably pissed Moswen off again.”
The Australian grimaced and his right hand went involuntarily to his chest. “A few palpitations, some stinging, and a half-arsed impression of anger, but nothing too overwhelming. What did you do this time, anyway?”
He smiled. “Remember when we removed your brand to stop Moswen from killing you and made you our trusty, donut-fetching intern? Well, we did basically the same thing to this Colonel Russel guy. Riley handled the magic.”
“Really,” he marveled. “It almost makes Taylor a mite redundant, doesn’t it? Don’t tell her I said that.”
“Of course not.” He patted the man on the back and proceeded toward the coffee machine and the stacked pastry boxes.
Once everyone’s belly was filled with caffeine, sugar, and fat, they reconvened around the corner from the lobby. That way, they could quickly greet any customers who came in while still being out of the immediate sight of the front door.
Remy found the murder board, as they’d taken to calling it—a large, wheel-mounted poster board that handled erasable markers and sticky notes equally well. He pushed it into the center of the floor, while the others arranged themselves in chairs in front of it.
Bobby, seated closest to the lobby so that she could perform her reception duties if need be, stared at the board with heightened interest.
“Huh,” she remarked, “I never realized you guys actually used that thing. I saw it with the sheet over it a few times or pushed into the corner facing the wall, but I thought it was simply…there. Extra.” She almost looked embarrassed.
He shrugged. “The More You Know. We mainly use it to keep track of info we’ve gathered on especially sensitive cases, hence the necessity of keeping it a secret. Since you weren’t initiated int
o the preternatural at the time, it would have obviously raised too many questions.”
She waved a hand. “Fair enough, I guess. Now, are we gonna get on with the show here? I’m curious about Russel.”
Volz made an “ooh” sound, followed by, “Show? I wanna watch a show. The one with the colors. It was funny.”
“Later,” Remy said. “Actually, Conrad, give him your phone and let him play Candy Crush or something.”
With a sigh, the werewolf did as he was told and winced when the dwarf’s thick, strong-fingered hands closed around the screen.
“Okay,” the investigator began, “let’s review. Each of these notes represents a different important fact or a major player in the Moswen case. They detail everything we know about her or her operation. I’ll get to where Russel comes into all this in a minute.”
He quickly summarized the stakes of the game. Mostly, they all knew this stuff—even Bobby picked up most of it at a rapid pace—but there were a few threads that needed weaving into the overall fabric.
His summary complete, he moved on to emphasize the new information that they’d gleaned from the colonel.
“Basically,” he stated, “Moswen is doing the next best thing to putting a bounty on our heads, which is to use subtler forms of enthrallment combined with half-assed cover stories to make it seem like we need to be wiped off the planet. Or at least captured, which might be even worse.”
He tried not to shudder at the thought as the memory of how Alex had almost died under Moswen’s burning brand raised itself in his head. He didn’t particularly like the pompous, whiny bastard, but it had still been…unpleasant. And he had little doubt that the Egyptian vampire would do the same, or worse, to all of them if she could.
“We’ve temporarily neutralized the threat from Russel and his team,” he pointed out and moved the sticky note with Russel on it to the side. “And we might even be able to use them as allies. Although first, we’ll need to legitimize ourselves, which will probably involve talking to Agent Gilmore again.”
Bobby raised her hand. “We might want to stall on that, though, since Gilmore mainly deals with Taylor and she’d start asking questions about where she is. I don’t think she’d react well if we said we didn’t even know.”
Under Pressure Page 12
