The Bloodline War (The Community)

by Tracy Tappan

  “I’m thinking The Fish Market restaurant would be a great place to go.” His breath caressed the back of her neck, sending a shudder down her spine. “Toni—” His hand dropped to the curve of her waist and he turned her around. “Please don’t keep us dancing around this thing that’s been between us for months.”

  He dipped his head, and her heart skipped a beat when a lock of hair fell across his brow. He hesitated, no doubt waiting for her to do her usual and reject him, but…. His tempting lips were so close to hers, his body warm and smelling so damned masculine that her nucleus accumbens—the pleasure center of her brain—just took over and started making decisions. Her chin lifted on its own, offering him her lips.

  No more dilly-dallying now. John settled his mouth on hers. She exhaled a small sigh through her nose. His lips were soft and warm and moist, and he tasted surprisingly good, just the slightest suggestion of tobacco covered up by a flavor that was all man. The kiss was light, no more than gentle and reassuring…until she linked her arms around his neck and pressed her breasts against his chest.

  A rough groan rushed out of him, and he instantly deepened the kiss, angling his head to the side and opening his mouth over hers. His arms pulled her so close she could feel his heart thundering against her breasts. Her own heart surged into a faster beat. God, he felt wonderful. Everything a man should be, strong and solid, all the things that could make a woman want. With a breathy moan of her own, she slipped her tongue into his mouth and felt his shoulders stiffen. He met her tongue hungrily with the wet heat of his own, and while their tongues dueled, her stomach did a funny gyration. She waited for that little something more…and then there it was: a nice, slow-burning quickening, down low.

  She pulled her lips away from his with a gasp, nudging him back a step before her nucleus accumbens could really take over and make her plop down right there on the asphalt and to hell with the show she and John would give Officer Bug-Eyes over by the front door.

  John stood staring at her through the shadows, his eyes glittering hotly in the silver moonlight, his lungs working in short pants.

  “Well, that was convincing,” she breathed out, her own chest laboring. She turned toward her purse on the driver’s seat of her car and pulled out a business card. She was a fool to give him her number, knowing full well that she was setting herself up for heartbreak again. But damn it, she was also a woman who hadn’t had a man’s hands on her in over a year, and that kiss had been a doozy. “This is my work number”—she held it out to him—“but it connects to a message system that texts my personal cell phone.”

  He moved to take it, looking slightly stunned.

  She quickly angled it out of his reach. “Which Fish Market? Del Mar or Harbor Island Drive?”

  He blinked once, at half speed, then his lips spread into a slow smile. “Harbor Island Drive, of course, with that view of the Coronado Bay, the Beach Boys hopefully playing in the background, and us cracking crab legs.” His eyes sparkled mischievously. “I happen to think you’d look dynamite in a large plastic bib.”

  “Right.” She snorted and rolled her eyes. “If that’s the only thing I was wearing.”

  “Ho!” John clutched his chest and stumbled backward as if he’d been shot.

  She laughed. Oops. Wrong imagery, there. She handed him the card, still laughing. He really was irresistible.

  He tucked it into his breast pocket next to his cigarettes, his eyes remaining steady on hers, his mouth still too dangerously inviting.

  She quickly hopped into her car and buckled up. He closed the door for her, and she unrolled the window. “I only ask that you don’t smoke around me, okay?”

  He nodded once. “Fair enough.” He leaned through the window and snatched a quick kiss. “Get home safe, Doc.”

  She met his eyes with a warm smile. “I will.”

  He slapped the roof of her car.

  She pulled away, watching in her rearview mirror as he headed over to a blue Chevy and jumped inside next to Pablo. She caught her own reflection and saw that she was grinning like an idiot. She was an idiot. An all too familiar twist of panic shot through her belly, and she shut down her smile. She needed to be prepared going into this thing for it not to work out…. For her to like him more and more, and then for him to eventually leave because that’s—

  Her cell beeped the arrival of a text message. Frowning, she tugged her IPhone out of her purse and glanced at the screen.

  So how desperate is it that I’m already messaging you? I’m really looking forward to our dinner…:o) J.

  Pleasure entered her chest. Okay, maybe this was going to be—

  A horn blared a warning. She jerked her eyes up. Oh, my God! The headlights of another car were swerving toward her. With a gasp, she yanked her steering wheel hard to the right, her cell phone jettisoning from her grip. Her car shrieked into a sideways skid, tires smoking and screeching, and—

  The cars collided.

  She cried out as her body lurched forward violently. The exploding airbag punched her back in the seat and sent her head snapping against the headrest. A searing pain tore through the backs of her eyeballs. Glass tinkled, steam hissed, and….

  There was only blackness.

  Chapter Two

  It started out like a normal enough mission. Then again…all missions do, don’t they?

  Jaċken Brun stood braced for action next to his other two operatives, all three of them riding up the Scripps Memorial Hospital elevator in focused silence. Their fourth operative, Cleeve, had already been dropped off at Admin. There, as per their usual MO, the young computer dweeb would hack into the hospital’s system and enter transfer orders for their target female, giving this abduction a nice, official stamp of approval.

  On Jaċken’s right was Vinz Mihnea, decked out in a Brooks Brothers suit and lab coat for the role of doctor he’d be playing, reeking of Elvis appeal with those thick black sideburns. On Jaċken’s left was Thomal Costache in a pair of scrubs. Thomal’s flattop blond hair might’ve made him look too much like the soldier he really was, but his face would distract from that; he had the kind of unreal good looks most women found fertility-inspiring. Having Thomal along pretty much guaranteed a whole lot of babbling, “Of course, sir. Anything you want, sir.”

  Jaċken had no way of knowing that in less than fifteen minutes one of these men would have a knife planted in his chest. And not just any knife. A Bătaie Blade.

  Yeah, that’s what the real goatfuck turned out to be. Jaċken hadn’t even remotely considered that there might be competition for the woman at the hospital, especially from someone who carried a Bătaie Blade. They’d never faced opposition before, not in their six previous, immaculately executed abductions. For a short second, Jaċken had worried his team had gooned something up. It’d been two long years, after all, since the data-filtering spyware they’d embedded in the laboratory computers of various hospitals around San Diego had spotted a woman’s blood containing the coveted Peak 8 in it. But no. Their only mistake had been getting caught with their pants down.

  The elevator dinged its arrival on the fifth floor.

  Game on.

  Vinz broke right and headed for the doctor’s lounge, where he’d wait for the go-ahead from Jaċken once the transfer orders were complete. Thomal went left, a syringe filled with 250 mgs of Ketamine tucked in his breast pocket next to a fountain pen—really a mini camera and microphone—and headed for his destination: Room 506, temporary living quarters of their target.

  One Dr. Antoinetta Parthen.

  Jaċken found the nearest deserted waiting room, and stationed himself there—as good a place as any to conceal himself from the general public. Sunny Californians seemed to get all jumpy around the distinct Rambo vibe he gave off. He bought a Styrofoam cup of coffee from the vending machine, planted his butt on an uncomfortable couch, then set his laptop on the coffee table and flipped it open.

  The main screen instantly lit up into three smaller screens: video i
nputs from each operative’s fountain pen camera. Two quadrants were on top—one for Vinz, one for Cleeve—and a half-screen on the bottom for Thomal. From this point on, Jaċken would serve as the team’s communications center. Even though his men could hear and speak to each other through earpieces, he was the only one who could see the whole picture.

  Cleeve’s voice crackled into his ear. “Transfer orders are in, cha-ching.” The kid angled his fake fountain pen toward his face and tossed Jaċken a pleased-as-punch smile. “Who d’ya love, huh?”

  Jaċken twisted his lips. That was damned fast. “I owe you a beer at Garwald’s Pub, runt. Now shut up and get out of there. Vinz—show time.”

  “Aw, man, I just grabbed a jelly donut.” The image in Vinz’s quadrant changed, a long hallway appearing, at the end of which was a nurse’s station.

  Jaċken sipped his coffee as he marked Vinz’s progress; Thomal’s, too. The lower screen showed that Thomal-the-male-nurse was just arriving at Antoinetta’s room. Passing by the door, Thomal continued down the hall about ten more feet and stopped beside a gurney.

  Jaċken narrowed his eyes at Thomal’s half-screen. What the hell was the man doing?

  “Good morning, I’m Dr. Bernard,” Vinz was saying to a busty nurse with the name Barbara Hollowitz stamped on her ID tag.

  “Um, Jaċken,” Thomal said in a low tone. “The subject’s awake.”

  Jaċken furrowed his brow. “At 3:45 in the morning?”

  Vinz cleared his throat pointedly. “Yes, Miss Hollowitz, I see by the patient’s chart that Dr. Parthen has a concussion and is being awakened periodically according to proper procedure.”

  “Ahhhh”—Thomal elongated the sound in understanding—“that explains it. You want me to go in there and charm her, chief?”

  Jaċken plunked his coffee cup down. “It’s why I put up with your annoying personality, Costache.”

  Thomal half-stifled a laugh. “Well, no prob on this one. I caught a whiff of the lovely Miss Parthen on the way past and…damn, she smells hot.”

  The busty nurse tsk-tsked sympathetically. “My, Dr. Bernard, you’re certainly getting an early start this—”

  “Just get moving before I call in Arc to replace your ass.” Arc was Thomal’s older brother, taller and longer-haired but with the same blond “dreamboat” attractiveness. He was currently hanging out in the downstairs parking garage with the other backup team members, probably chewing gum and playing hacky sack, not a worry in their heads about this mission. Jaċken grunted. “He’s better looking than you are, anyway.”

  “That hurts me, man.” Thomal strode into Room 506, switching to a cheery, “Good morning, Dr. Parthen.” He moved over to Antoinetta’s bedside, giving Jaċken his first glimpse of her: the soft lines of an elegant profile, shimmering strawberry blonde hair spread out across the pillow. The muscles in his stomach tightened. Even with her image pixelized by the computer screen—not to mention she probably wasn’t at her best in a hospital—she was a knockout.

  Then things got moving. He shifted his gaze back and forth between screens as he kept track of his two main players, the babble of multiple voices filling his earpiece.

  “…sure you’ll find everything complete, Miss Hollowitz,” Vinz assured the nurse, “with the transfer request….”

  “…change in doctor’s orders, Dr. Parthen,” Thomal was saying in a chipper tone. “He’d like you to get some solid sleep now.” Thomal’s hands reached for Antoinetta’s IV.

  “Wait, what are you doing?” Antoinetta interceded.

  “If you’d sign here, Dr. Bernard,” Nurse Hollowitz crooned, “then we’ll just head down to Room ....”

  “I have a concussion, Nurse. I’m not supposed to sleep deeply.” Antoinetta’s voice turned authoritative. “I’d like to see your badge.”

  Ah, shit. “You need to throttle back, Vinz,” Jaċken hissed. “The target isn’t knocked out yet.”

  Vinz’s voice suddenly mellowed into warm honey. “You know, Barbara, that’s a very beautiful necklace you’re wearing. Do you mind if I take a closer look at it?”

  Jaċken saw Thomal plunge the syringe of Special K into Antoinetta’s IV tube.

  “My God!” Antoinetta blasted. “What did you just give me?” She started to yank the IV needle out of her arm.

  Thomal grabbed her wrist.

  A loud crack rang out as she slapped Thomal across the face with her free hand. “Let go of me!” She reached for her needle again, and they started to struggle.

  “Oh, ho, my fun meter is pegged now,” Thomal panted out.

  “…a lovely stone, Barbara. Is it an opal…?”

  Jaċken gritted his teeth. “For Chrissake, Thomal, is this what you call charming the target? Get moving!”

  “Ah!” Thomal exhaled, straightening from a limp Antoinetta. “Target is sacked out, gentlemen.”

  Jaċken released a pent breath. “You hear that Vinz?”

  Apparently, yes. Vinz’s video image started down the hall again. “Well, I should probably see to my patient,” he said to the nurse, both of them entering Room 506. “Don’t want to get stuck in San Diego rush hour traffic if—oomph!” The picture in Vinz’s quadrant fell to the floor, blanking to fuzzy snow. A second later, the nurse screamed once, then went abruptly silent.

  Jaċken stiffened on the couch. What the—?! “Costache!?” he barked.

  But the image in Thomal’s quadrant was jiggling wildly, the sounds of scuffling and cursing exploding into Jaċken’s earpiece. Holy shit! He jumped over his laptop and the coffee table in one leap and ran from the waiting room, moving down the hall with absolute silence in his heavy boots. Pressing his back flat against the wall just outside of Room 506, his breathing tight, he peered around the jamb.

  A low curse snarled past his lips. Vinz’s body was sprawled out on the floor in a stain of spreading blood, a knife sticking out of his chest, that busty nurse flopped over the top of him with her ass in the air. Two other men were in the room, both large, both dressed in the type of metal-accessorized aggressive black leather usually saved for BDSM parties. One had a shaved head with black flame tattoos curling up from his temples to the top of his skull. The other guy had spiked black hair and the same tattoos, his climbing the length of his neck.

  It was this asshole, Spike Boy, who was clutching a blue-faced Thomal by the throat.

  Louder alarm bells went off in Jaċken’s head. Whatever power these men were wielding was something outside the norm. Thomal was one of the fastest of his kind, and Jaċken had never seen anyone get a firm grip on the man unless he allowed it in training.

  Hissing under his breath, Jaċken reached to the back of his belt and eased a long knife out of its sheath. He stepped through the doorway and, keeping to his maxim of fuck up an enemy first, ask questions later, he threw the weapon with a sharp snap of his wrist. Aiming for a point as far away from a collision with Thomal as possible, he sent the blade thwacking into the meaty part of Spike Boy’s shoulder.

  With a scream, Spike Boy stumbled backward into a medical cart, sending metal drawers clattering, scissors, gauze, forceps tumbling to the floor. Thomal crumpled out of the man’s hands, and then Spike Boy himself dropped.

  Jaċken turned on the other one, Skull—just as that peckerhead let fly his own knife. Jaċken hit the deck and rolled, hearing the knife swoosh just past his head, then thunk into the floor. A moment later, it exploded, geysering up ragged pieces of linoleum. Holy Christ. Only one type of knife exploded. A Bătaie Blade! Who the hell were these assholes? There wasn’t time for a Q&A. Powering to his feet in front of the bed, Jaċken plowed a hard right cross over the mattress into Skull’s face, landing the punch dead center. Skull’s head snapped back, the bones in his nose splintering beneath Jaċken’s fist. The man hit the wall, bounced forward, then grabbed Jaċken by the shirtfront.

  Jaċken shouted as Skull hauled him off the floor with impossible strength, tossing all 215 pounds of him over Antoinetta’s bed and into the far w
all. His shoulder rammed out a hole in the drywall, the plaster blasting apart into a dense white cloud around him. Landing unsteadily on his feet, he struck out blindly and missed, his head spinning. His upper gums throbbed ruthlessly in primitive reaction to the violence.

  Spike Boy was on his feet now, too, Jaċken’s knife still sticking out of his shoulder, white liquid oozing from the wound. White…?

  Spike Boy slammed a fist into Jaċken’s gut.

  Air whooshed out of Jaċken’s lungs. Jesus Christ, these guys were strong. “I need backup!” he yelled, hoping like hell Thomal’s fountain pen would pick up his shout, his own mic being inconveniently attached to his laptop back in the waiting room.

  Skull and Spike Boy exchanged looks.

  “Bloody fuck!” Skull whirled and snatched up Antoinetta.

  Jaċken bolted forward, but Spike Boy’s fist flying into his peripheral vision stopped him. Ducking the punch, he came up with a brutal uppercut that evidently sloshed Spike Boy’s brain in his skull; the asshole made a second trip down to the linoleum, this time in an unconscious heap.

  Jaċken grabbed Antoinetta out of Skull’s arms, pulling so hard he fell backward onto the bed with her.

  Skull jumped on top of him, toppling Antoinetta to one side of the mattress, her body wedging against the bedrail. Skull grabbed Jaċken by the collar and cranked back a fist.

  Two things pinged Jaċken’s senses in rapid succession: one huge holy-shitter was that Skull’s eyes were as black as his own. Not just very dark brown, but as black as if the pupils had eaten up the irises—and only one breed of man owned black eyes. Second, Skull stank…like corroded metal or transmission fluid. Not at all like blood. Not at all like the way he should’ve smelled with the black eyes of an Om Rău.

  Jaċken dodged the punch Skull threw at him. Skull countered by trying to put him in a headlock. Jaċken grappled with the man, grunting and cursing, their arms and legs tangling. Muscling Skull underneath him, Jaċken hit the fucker hard enough to split the skin on his knuckles. Skull rolled Jaċken back over, both men landing on Antoinetta’s feet, and punched Jaċken in return, a ring on his finger tearing a line of flesh out of Jaċken’s cheek in a streak of pain.