Lassiter shrinks back from the fridge bank and half whispers, “Who was there? Who was this imposter, Kinsey?”
One last dry chuckle passes my lips, and I reply, “A shapeshifter. The vampires hired a shapeshifter assassin to infiltrate the summoning alliance and murder the apparent leaders, Martinez and Halliburton. The real leaders, McKinney and Marcus, escaped the vampires’ notice only because they were smart enough to hide their identities behind clueless proxies. Not that it saved them in the end…
“After the successful attack at Jameson’s, the shapeshifter must have stuck around, pretending to be Arthur Slate’s body, so that DSI would discover Slate’s connections to the summoning plot and ultimately blow the lid on the whole operation, leading to discord in both the practitioner and werewolf communities. And once he was sure the seeds of disorder had been thoroughly sown, he climbed out of his body bag, changed his face, probably to mimic one of the morgue employees, and walked right out the fucking door.”
Lassiter and Schultz stare at me in abject horror.
And unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do to comfort them. Or myself.
Because the truth of the matter is evident, and it’s a truth that will haunt me for years:
“The killer got away. He won. We lost. And since we have no idea what he looks like now…
“…we will never find him.”
Wraith Hunter
City of Crows Book 3
DSI Encyclopedia Entry #3386
Wraith
A wraith is a being created by reanimating a recently deceased human body through the use of necromancy.
While not independently intelligent, wraiths can be “programmed” by the magic practitioners who create them to perform certain tasks; advanced practitioners may even be able to program their wraiths to learn in some capacity.
Wraiths do not possess the ability to use magic energy on their own, rather they must be periodically resupplied with the magic of their creator in order to maintain their existence. As a result, in combat, wraiths tend to wield standard weaponry—typically knives, swords, and other blades.
There are two effective methods for destroying a wraith: decapitation and burning. Due to the magic used to fashion them, wraiths are highly susceptible to fire, and as such, it is suggested that DSI agents utilize their fire rings when in combat with them.
Because the creation of wraiths is explicitly banned by the ICM, any contact with wraiths in the field should be immediately reported to the relevant ICM authorities.
[ENTRY LAST EDITED BY LEE, C ON 4/12]
Prologue
The woman with the beehive hairdo gets run over by an ice cream truck. It is—unfortunately—not as funny as it sounds.
The stakeout begins on a chilly March morning, Team Riker’s first week back on the job after that clusterfuck of a battle on Primrose Avenue.
Riker himself, who’s taking up cam tracking for this mission, is sprawled out across two chairs in the back of our DSI van, his knee still wrapped in a bandage after his most recent round of surgeries at the Ohio facility he was shipped off to in December. Two crutches sit off to the side, propped against the wall.
Ella, crouched beside her captain as she slips some knives into hidden sheathes in her uniform, converses with him at a low volume. From street level, just outside the van, I can’t make out her exact words, but she’s using that same worried tone that has flavored her every conversation since Navarro approved us for active duty a couple days ago.
She’s not sure we’re ready. And I can’t blame her for that.
While I’m checking my own gear to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything, I test my leg by stomping on the grimy concrete beneath my feet. My tibia is no longer in two pieces, but I still feel a bone-deep ache from time to time, especially after physical activity. Navarro claims the pain will fade eventually, but I can’t help but picture the bone snapping in half again and shearing right through the tender flesh of my leg as I’m pursuing some bad guy through the winding streets of Aurora.
I mean, if it happened once…
As I’m adjusting the straps of my holsters, I subtly glance at Amy, who’s standing a few feet to my left, and who appears to be testing her recently healed arm in a similar fashion. Her injury was more complex than mine, and she needed more than one surgery to fix the mess of a forearm left behind when that car exploded in her face and slung her into a wooden fence. Apparently, she too is nervous about her physical performance. Which makes me feel a little better about my own paranoia. It’s not a rookie agent thing. It’s an I almost died in a gruesome manner and now I’m no longer sure of myself thing. Must apply evenly to agents of all experience levels.
Good to know.
Desmond, to my right, is leaning against the brick wall of one of the two small offices we’re parked between. He doesn’t seem to be checking his now scarred back or stretching to ensure his intestines won’t unravel during a fierce battle with a dastardly villain, but he’s noticeably less chatty than usual. His eyes are closed, his breathing even, like he’s doing some sort of meditation. Or maybe he’s reciting philosophy quotes in his head. I swear, if the man hadn’t run face first into a witch-on-witch slug fest several years ago, he’d probably still be preaching Descartes at UCLA.
At least he has something to keep him calm in tense situations though.
Me? I’ve got lingering nightmares about Eververse monsters and the power of déjà vu.
Ella finishes her conversation with Riker and hops out of the van. “Final com check, guys.”
Riker shifts in his seat(s) and taps a button on the main com console on the left side of his multi-screen computer setup. “Sound off. Can everyone hear me?” He mutters the words softly into the microphone attached to the console, so quiet that my free ear can’t pick up his voice from eight feet away, but the message comes through loud and clear via my earpiece. In response, I tap the com to switch on the microphone, and reply with a “Check,” in turn with the rest of my teammates.
“Good,” Riker replies at his normal volume while turning off his mic. “Now, a quick review before we move into active operations. Our target is one Melissa Reeves. ICM witch. Public records have her at thirty-two years old, but our intel tells us she’s actually in her nineties. That ridiculous anti-aging magic again.” He snorts. “Physical description is as follows: light brown hair kept in an outdated ‘beehive’ hairstyle, hazel eyes, light skin, about five and a half feet tall. She has a part-time job as a teller at the bank at the end of the street, and she usually gets off for lunch at quarter to twelve.”
Riker taps a few keys on his keyboard, bringing up an array of security cameras for Avery Street. “You all will take up the strategic positions we previously discussed, and when she leaves the bank for her lunch break, Cal and Amy will confront her and ask her—politely—to come in for questioning regarding her potential affiliation with Marcus’ group of rogue practitioners. If she tries to make a run for it, you will chase her down and arrest her without hesitation. Since the ICM has yet to replace Marcus with a new chapter head, we currently have unhindered jurisdiction on rounding up and interrogating practitioners. Let’s not waste the opportunity.”
Amy huffs in irritation, her breath forming a little white cloud in the cold air. “Nice thought, boss, but the opportunity hasn’t exactly produced what you’d call results so far. Ramirez, Sing, and Nakamura have been snatching practitioners for weeks, and all they’ve come up with is one guy who maybe thought that Halliburton was up to no good, but didn’t pursue his suspicion because he was afraid of stepping on toes that might step back. What makes you think this Reeves lady will give us any answers we don’t already have?”
Riker peers out of the van, down at Amy, with a sour expression. “To be quite honest, I don’t think she’ll give us much, if anything. But she’s the only remaining practitioner on our radar right now, the only one who’s slipped up and admitted she might have a connection to Marcus’ group. Personall
y, I think whatever connection she does have will be tenuous at best, and our questioning will fail to fill in any blanks.”
Amy raps her knuckles against one of the van’s back doors. “Then why are we here, boss?”
“Truthfully?” Riker rubs his forehead. “I think the commissioner was concerned about our performance, since we’ve been out of the field for a while, so he decided to give us Reeves as a practice mission.”
Amy frowns. “Training wheels? Really?”
“I don’t think it’s a bad idea.” Ella straightens her coat. “I’m not saying we’re rusty or anything, but we’ve never, not in the history of this team, had so much leave time after a single mission. A few weeks, here and there, after particularly tedious cases, but we’ve never been out of the game for months, guys. I think a warm-up mission might be good for us. Get us back into the swing of things.”
“Oh, all right.” Amy scuffs her boot against the concrete. “I guess I’ll take what I can get. But if this lady ends up being a hassle, I’m not going easy on her.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Ella pats her on the shoulder and walks past her, heading to the end of the alley. She stops, flush against the very edge of the brick wall, and peeks around the corner, scrutinizing the small bank at the intersection of Avery and Marston. “It’s about 11:30, so I think we should get into position.” She looks over her shoulder. “Everyone remembers where they’re going, right?”
We all nod.
“Okay, let’s get started.” She claps her hands together. “Desmond, get those doors, will you? We don’t want the captain to overexert himself.”
Riker crosses his arms, annoyed at being treated like an invalid, but he doesn’t openly complain as Desmond ambles over and closes each of the van’s back doors. Once the captain is secured inside our mobile operations center, his voice chimes in again over the com. “I’ll be watching via the street cams. If our confrontation with Reeves devolves into a pursuit, I’ll help you all navigate the area. There are a lot of little side streets and alleys—it’s an old construction district—so Reeves has a lot of escape routes to choose from. Try your best not to lose sight of her.”
“And if she veils herself, Captain?” Desmond says.
“Ask Cal. Didn’t he solve that issue once?”
I raise my hands. “Hey, now. I’m no genius. Marcus made a dumb mistake.”
Riker’s chuckle reverberates into my earpiece. “Everyone makes dumb mistakes, Cal. The trick is to keep a keen eye on your enemy, so you can exploit those mistakes the second they’re made.”
“You know what the problem with that strategy is?” I ask as I trail Desmond and Amy to the lip of the alley. “It assumes the enemy is the one who makes the first dumb mistake. In my—admittedly short-lived—experience as a super-special elite detective at the well-respected organization known as DSI, I am the one who makes the first dumb mistake. Every single goddamn time.”
The team has a good laugh at that, myself included. Because I’m not above teasing myself for my numerous shortcomings.
Ella smacks her cheeks to bring herself out of the giggling. “All right, team. Enough dawdling. Find your positions and prepare for the confrontation. The second Reeves leaves the building, it’s mission start. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the rest of us murmur.
And then we go to work.
My position is the small park across the street from the Marston side of the bank. I scuttle quickly down the sidewalk, jaywalk across the road when there’s a break in the midday traffic, and jump a row of those short, prickly bushes I’ve come to loathe during my short tenure as a DSI agent. (I always seem to end up landing on top of them or running straight through them at some point. Ow.) There’s not enough leafy foliage in the park this time of year for me to stand directly in front of the bank’s entrance without being conspicuous, so I hunker down between a unoccupied metal bench and a reasonably thick tree about ten feet to the left of the doors.
If Reeves heads off to the right, it’ll take longer to catch up with her, but if she moves to the left, I can grab her faster. So if I’m lucky…
Hah! Who am I kidding?
Crouching, I shift my legs at a sharp angle away from the tree, so I can pounce up at a right diagonal and rush across the street the second Reeves appears. As I wait, I spy, out of the corner of my eye, my teammates settling into their own designated positions.
Desmond, being as tall as he is, can’t stay anywhere out in the open without being noticed, so he conceals his bulk by entering a department store on Avery and hovering just beyond the door, next to a mannequin.
Amy, being as short as she is, can literally hide anywhere, even while wearing the telltale black DSI uniform. She grabs a newspaper from a freebie stand and sits her ass on a bench right next to the bank entrance, folding up the tail of her coat beneath her to hide it. Then she flips the paper open and holds it up high enough to cover the top of her head. Boom. Totally hidden.
(I’ve heard art imitates reality, and vice versa, but that is like Looney Tunes level of kitsch right there. And yet, somehow, it works.)
After I finish shaking my head at Amy’s antics, I look over to the alley between the bank and the cosmetics store next door. Ella marches up to the end of the alley, having come around the back side of the building, and squats down behind a couple of overfilled metal trashcans. Out of all of us, she’s positioned the farthest away from the bank entrance, but if Reeves manages to escape from Amy and me, and makes off toward the cosmetics store, there’s no person better than Ella to give chase and bring her down. She’s a master of hand-to-hand combat after all, and she’s not a shabby runner either. (She’s got my best mile time beat by a whole two minutes.)
If Reeves runs the other direction, well, she’ll have to deal with Desmond. Who can clothesline her in a single swipe of his beefy arms.
Either way, the witch is going down.
The minutes tick by, ever so slowly, and I impatiently check the time on my phone whenever the intersection lights change. The bank doors are tinted, as are the windows, so I can’t see inside the building to get a fix on the tellers and customers. I can only tense up whenever the doors open, and then relax, mildly irritated, when the person who emerges doesn’t look like a time traveler from the sixties.
Luckily, I’m not alone in my impatience. Every time I glance at my comrades, I see Amy, peeking above her newspaper, Desmond, with his face pressed against the department store door, or Ella, peering around the side of a trashcan.
We all want to get this over with.
Or maybe we all want to prove we haven’t lost our “elite skills.”
Whichever it is…
I check my phone one more time. 11:44. Reeves should emerge from the bank any minute now.
I keep my eyes peeled on the doors. An older man with graying hair comes out. A younger woman pushing a stroller goes in. A group of college-age kids stroll on past, talking animatedly as they head to lunch at the popular bistro a few blocks farther down Marston. And, after that, no activity, no activity, no activity, no act—
Melissa Reeves saunters out of the bank.
I know it’s her because I could pick that beehive out of a crowd of actors dolled up for a sixties period piece. It adds roughly a foot to her otherwise moderate stature, and I think that, if she and Desmond were to stand side by side, Reeves might actually have the height advantage. How she goes about her daily life without ramming that thing into doorframes and bumping low ceilings, I will never know. But it’s not my job to unravel the mysteries behind the outdated hair care practices of magic users. It’s my job to arrest them on suspicion of colluding to murder innocent people.
Thank god for that.
Reeves pauses briefly to hold the door open for an elderly woman leaving the bank, then turns and shuffles off to my right—as I predicted—heading straight for Amy. As soon as I’m out of the witch’s periphery, I rise, check both ways before I cross the street, and pad
quietly across the asphalt so Reeves won’t hear me coming up behind her. I’m a mere eight steps away from the witch when Amy tosses the newspaper aside, springs up, and bounds halfway across the sidewalk in one smooth motion, sliding to a stop so close to Reeves it’s a wonder she doesn’t collide with the woman.
The witch halts, confused for a second. Her shoulders tighten when she recognizes Amy’s DSI getup. Reeves backtracks and whips around, only to come face to face with me, standing there casually, hands in my pockets, like I’ve been shadowing her for miles without her noticing. She lets out a high-pitched squeal, peers over her shoulder at Amy, then back at me, then back at Amy, then at the brick wall of the bank, then at the busy street.
She visibly deflates when she realizes she’s blocked in. Her gaze falls to the concrete, and she mutters, “What do you want, Crows?”
“We need to ask you some questions, Ms. Reeves,” Amy says, “back at the DSI office.”
“Questions about what exactly?” The woman taps her low heels, pretending to be impatient instead of scared. “I’ve had no involvement in any of your recent cases, to the best of my knowledge. And I do not make myself available to general inquiries from you…people.”
Amy and I share an exasperated glance over the witch’s shoulder.
I pick up with, “I guess you’ll have to think a little harder, Ms. Reeves. Because we’ve received some information that suggests you were, in fact, involved with the group responsible for an illegal Eververse summoning that took place late last year. And don’t pretend you have no clue what we’re talking about. We’re not stupid, lady. Every practitioner in this city, ICM or not, knows about the Ammit case by this point. Or, as you refer to it, the Marcus Plot.”
Marcus is the word that triggers the flight response.
Before Plot even rolls off my tongue, Reeves is kicking off her kitten heels and racing across Marston Street, toward the park where I was lying in wait only minutes before. A muttered curse stuck to my tongue, I take off after her, Amy falling in behind me as she punches her mic and shouts, “Suspect on the move!” into the com feed.
City of Crows Books 1-3 Box Set Page 55
