by James Hunter
“And then?” she asked. “After James gets whatever intel he can gather? What’ll happen with Shelton and the ring?”
“Well, as asinine as it sounds, the ring will probably wind up back in the vault—but James will need it to confirm our story and clear us with the Guild. And Randy?” I shrugged. “James will record relevant evidence, present his findings to the council and then … well, probably it’s better if you don’t know.”
“That’s crap. I’ve been in it this far, I have a right to know.”
I thought about it for a second then shrugged again. “Yeah, okay. James is a member of the Fist of the Staff. He has the right to judge and pass punishment on the spot. Considering the nature of Shelton’s crimes and the sensitive nature of surrounding circumstances … Randy won’t make it long. James’ll make it quick.”
She looked away, tension knotting her shoulders. It couldn’t be easy for someone like her to see that kind of vigilante justice get dished out … it was so outside of the world she knew. But then, the world she knew had died the second she realized there was more to our existence than just the mortal affairs of humans running around on a spinning ball of mud.
I walked over to Randy and carefully pried the ring off his desiccated finger, before sliding it into a silver mesh bag I pulled from my coat pocket—a temporary transport until I could hand it over to James for safekeeping. Though boy did the thought of turning that ring back over to the Guild really chap my ass.
“Cuff him, will you?” I asked, heading over to the computer terminals, trying to figure out if there was anything of use there. A few minutes of fooling around, however, revealed that other than the video feeds, everything else was encoded and encrypted. Ahh, who am I kidding … the shit might not even have been password protected. My computer skills are not abysmal—I can Google things and send emails—but a computer hacker I am not. But it didn’t matter, James could get any necessary info out of Shelton.
So instead, I did what I do best: I fixed those computers so that no nefarious bad guy would be able to use them again. And by “fix,” I absolutely mean destroyed the utter shit outta the whole lot of ‘em. I conjured up a construct of fire and force, using unseen bands of energy to shred the interior, twist metal guts, and wipe circuit boards. Scorched earth.
By the time I was done, the terminals were charred black and billowing out great plumes of smoke. Ferraro had Shelton cuffed on the floor—he was starting to come to, though he seemed groggy and confused. I reluctantly retrieved the crook—already the blood had frozen back in place—but still I handled the thing with ginger care. It reached out to me, tried to force its way into my mind, but I erected a steel partition in my mind, blocking the crook’s siren call out as best I could.
“Ready?” I asked Ferraro. She hauled Randy to his feet and nodded her assent. So with the Crook and villain safely in hand, I called up a doorway to a spot not far from James’ place in Somerville.
THIRTY-SIX:
Happy Endings and All that Jazz
Ferraro sat across from me in a secluded booth. We were at a bar I’d never been to before—shocking, I know, a bar I haven’t visited—called Rook’s in Quantico, Virginia, the official home of the FBI. Quantico was a place I didn’t go, not with the kind of rap sheet I’ve got, and this place looked and felt like a cop bar, complete with a table of uniformed officers, which had me nervous down to my toes. But no one seemed to pay us much mind. Ferraro had assured me that everything was fine and that my worry was needless, and, because I trusted her, I was willing to give it a shot.
Overall, it was actually a pretty nice joint: lots of dark wood and low lighting. Some lively chatter, a couple of salty DTs playing pool over in the corner while some cool jazz drifted through the air, setting the mood. I was eating ribs—‘cause you know, ribs—while Ferraro munched on a salad that looked far too healthy for me to ever be interested in. It’d been nearly a week since our raid on Thurak-Tir. Ferraro was officially back on the job, her “recommended” vacation finally over, though the brass had mandated ten hours of counseling and had made her requalify on the range. So this was the first chance I’d had to see her since I’d dropped her off back in Virginia.
She took a final bite of salad and then pushed the plate away. Up until this point we’d only made small talk, no serious business during dinner—just sort of an unspoken rule. She sat and watched me finish off my meal, asking a few questions about how I was feeling, but staying away from Randy, which I was grateful for. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I was unwilling to talk business, but eating a plate of ribs is one of the small sweet pleasures in life, and I’d hate to have that ruined by thoughts of the Lich. After another couple of minutes, I managed to not only strip every ounce of flesh from the bones, but I’d also polished off a side order of cinnamon apples, which left me feeling fat and very happy.
At last I pushed the plate away, wiped my mouth and fingers down with an already dirty napkin, and then settle back into my seat.
“So what’s the word on Shelton?” Ferraro asked wasting little time—she was tense, more tense than I’d remember seeing her since she’d first interrogated me back in Wyoming. Maybe a more permanent vacation from the Bureau would do her good. “What was James able to get out of him?”
“Not as much as I’d like. James dug deep, but whoever gave Shelton that trinket also gave him a super-grade compulsion—a type of mind magic—that made him more compliant to orders while simultaneously wiping any relevant information about who supplied him with the ring. We know it’s someone highly placed in the Guild—Elder’s Council probably, which narrows the suspect pool down to twelve, though it could be someone in the Judges Office—but outside of that, not much. My guess is that the Lich was the one in the driver’s seat, but James can’t exactly grill Koschei, so it’s all dead-end leads on that front.”
“Was he able to ascertain what was going on down there, with all the computer equipment?”
I bobbed my head yes. “That’s the only solid thing James came up with. It seems like whoever is running the carnival has some major plans—no big shocker there. He’s supporting rebels and upstarts in the five fae courts, and he’s also reaching out to uber-bad shitheels from just about every part of Outworld. If I didn’t know any better I’d say we have a gen-u-ine Lex Luthor, Legion of Doom thing going on. He also managed to drag out one, super-unhelpful, cryptic comment. Shelton said, ‘The White Seal is in play.’ What the hell that’s supposed to mean is anyone’s guess, but there it is.”
“And what happened with Shelton?”
“Still alive. Looks like he’s actually gonna stand trial before the Elder Council, which is a stupid idea, considering one of those assbuckets is probably our baddy.”
“Then why is it going to trial? Shelton’s a murderer. And not just a murderer—I remember what he did to Kozlov—the man is twisted. And he’s dangerous.”
I looked away, trying to figure out how best to phrase it. “Look, it was James’s call. I think Shelton being dead is the safer option, the easier option for us. But because of the level of compulsion involved, James just isn’t convinced that Randy is wholly to blame. I mean the kid made a bad choice, a lot of bad choices, but he was also the victim. Someone used him up. Probably the council will push for his execution anyways. Might not even make it that far—I’d bet that whoever arranged for Randy to get the ring will also arrange a little accident for him before the trial ever starts. Safer that way. But until then, Shelton gets to keep breathing.”
We were quiet for a while, I took several long pulls from a dark Guinness stout, while Ferraro nursed a Jack and Coke on the rocks.
“So what’ll you do now?” she asked after a time. “Now that Shelton’s been dealt with?”
I shrugged, not really sure what to say, how to answer. “I dunno. Probably pretty much what I’m doing right now. Hit the road, eat some good food, play some music, mostly keep my head down … and I guess I’ll also keep an eye out f
or any more evil shenanigans coming down the pipeline. Maybe I’ll ask around, see if there’re any leads to follow up on, see if I can figure out what the White Seal is. Nothing official.”
She reached across the table and took my hand in hers. “Maybe you could hang around here for a while. I’ll be busy with work—always have a full caseload—but it’d be nice to see you some more. I could also help with your unofficial investigation.”
I looked at her and though it broke me inside, I gently pulled my hands away from her. “Look, Nicole, you’re a helluva woman. Seriously. And I’d love to do this”—I waved a hand vaguely at the restaurant—“again. But settling down in one place? No, that’s not for me. I traded in my chance at regular life a long time ago—that ship has sailed and I have no intention of trying to shimmy my ass back on board. But …” I offered her an apologetic shrug. “I’ll be around, there’s work to be done, and right now you’re one of the few people that I can trust.”
She smiled, but it was a rueful grin, one that seemed to say, Yeah, I know how it is. She slid out of the booth and grabbed me by the hand, giving a tug as though to say, Let’s get moving.
I looked at her, unsure.
“My place isn’t far,” she said. “We”—she waved a hand between us—“don’t have to be official. My life is complicated, busy, hectic. Not conducive to lasting relationships, so I understand. But I also understand that life is short—this whole thing has reminded me of just how short it might be—so you have to enjoy what you can get when you can get it.”
I let her pull me from the booth and lead me from the bar by the hand, only too happy to follow. I had a feeling that my life was gonna get more complicated and much more dangerous in the very near future. But Ferraro was right, you do need to take your victories where you can get ‘em.
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About the Author
Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—‘cause that’s a real thing. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.
Okay … the last one is only in my imagination.
Currently, I work as a missionary and international aid worker with my wife and young daughter in Bangkok, Thailand. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.
Dedication
For the special ladies in my life: Jeanette, Lucy, Mom—I love you all so much.
Special Thanks
I’d like to thank my wife, Jeanette, and daughter, Lucy. A special thanks to my parents, Greg and Lori. A quick shout out to my brother Aron and his whole brood—Eve, Brook, Grace, and Collin. Brit, probably you’ll never read this book either, but I love you too. Here’s to the folks of Team Lazarus, my awesome Alpha and Beta readers who helped make this book both possible and good: Brenna, Owen Wilkie, Andy Shapiro, Megan Meyers (aka Teal.Canary), Bob “Gunslinger” Singer, Suzanne Driggs, Dan “Danh” Goodale, Marty Snodgrass, Dawn Cornish, Joan Carmouche-Hairston, Nell Justice, Jen “Ivana” Wadsworth, Sean McIntosh, Rhonda Almodovar, Robert Olsen, Brett Farris, and Renee Robertazzi. They read the messy, early drafts so that no one else had to; thanks guys and gals this book wouldn’t be what it is without you all. And of course a big thanks to my editor, Ashley Davis who rocked this book.
—James A. Hunter, June 2015
Copyright
Cold Hearted is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by James A. Hunter
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher, subject line “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.
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