Omega Force 01- Storm Force

by Susannah Sandlin

  Yeah, she had a point. While he was learning to ask for help, he’d have to develop a taste for pride. If he was going to have a relationship with a woman who could throw him the length of a football field — and he had little doubt Mori could do that if provoked enough — he was going to have to swallow a lot of it.

  CHAPTER 27

  Kell nailed the traffic situation. He cruised down I-45 South toward Galveston with six lanes all to himself, while the northbound lanes bulged, bumper-to-bumper, with people hoping to get out of Galveston and the coastal communities before the evacuation order became mandatory. Then it would really get crowded.

  At the noon hurricane-hunter update, if the NOAA forecasters felt more confident that Geneva wouldn’t take an eleventh-hour swerve to the east or west before landfall, they’d make the evacuation mandatory. Riding out the storm would be a dicier option then, especially after Ike had proven how destructive even a Category 2 hurricane could be. If Geneva strengthened to a Cat 3 or higher, Houston itself might be cleared out, all 2.1 million residents. Talk about hell on wheels.

  Even in that case, Kell suspected he wouldn’t suffer. No sane person would evacuate from one swampy, vulnerable spot to another. The roads into South Louisiana should be deserted.

  The water had already begun chopping into whitecaps by the time Kell crossed the bridge onto Galveston Island, exiting the freeway at its termination point and cutting down to Seawall Boulevard. Little traffic was moving on the island as near as Kell could see, and even a glance down the historic Strand as he passed revealed unusually empty streets and sidewalks.

  Benedict’s dark-blue Lexus was parked near the back entrance of the three-story faux-adobe Tex-La building, and Kell parked Archer’s pickup two spaces down. Across the boulevard, he could see past the building’s edge to where the waves crashed against the rocky seawall, a steady, dry wind blowing off the Gulf. The air smelled tropical, with an almost palpable gathering of energy not yet released.

  Definitely a storm coming.

  Kell did a mental pat down of his weapons. The Beretta was secured in a shoulder holster. He expected whomever Benedict had for security to take that one. He’d tucked his personal weapon, a Smith & Wesson, in an ankle holster that hugged tight to his skin and rested on the inside of his leg. Not as handy from a quick-draw standpoint, but easy to miss in a halfhearted pat down.

  He had two combat knives on him: one strapped to his other leg, one stashed in his right pocket. The 75th Ranger Regiment didn’t carry knives as standard issue, but he’d found them useful in close situations.

  He hoped like hell he didn’t need any of those weapons today, but the colonel’s plan made a couple of assumptions Kell didn’t think were true. First, he viewed Michael Benedict as a rational businessman who’d made some extremely bad errors in judgment. Second, he thought the prospect of making a clean start would outweigh shape-shifter politics.

  The colonel hadn’t seen Mori’s bruises or the letter branded into her back. He hadn’t seen that contract or heard her tell her story. Kell didn’t think Benedict regretted a single choice he’d made. He only regretted that they hadn’t all succeeded.

  Kell would do as he was told, however. He’d make the colonel’s offer. If Benedict rejected it, well, Kell was as prepared as he could be for whatever happened afterward. Mori might prove to be right; he could be badly overmatched in a fight. But if he died today, at least he was doing something he believed in, fighting for someone he believed in. Bullies and tyrants couldn’t be beaten unless someone was willing to try.

  The glass back door into Tex-La Shipping was unlocked. Sandbags sat to either side of it, burlap-wrapped beacons of hope that whatever this storm brought to shore, it would do it somewhere else and only send a little water over the seawall.

  The lobby was empty, and even with soft-soled shoes, Kell’s footfalls echoed. No sign of security. From his visits to Tex-La, Nik had told him Benedict’s offices took up most of the third floor, so Kell found a stairwell and climbed. No point in having an elevator bell announce his arrival. The building’s oppressive silence was eerie.

  On the third-floor landing, Kell paused and regrouped, letting his mind flip through the mantra of his training. Breathing regulated. Muscles ready to move. Thoughts focused and sharp. Hands loose, fingers relaxed.

  He grasped the metal knob and pulled open the door into a narrow hallway. Its lush carpet, a greenish-blue print in a subtle pattern of swirls and curlicues, sank under the weight of his steps, absorbing the sounds. A central lobby area sat empty, but as soon as he stepped in front of the reception desk, a voice boomed from down the hall to his left.

  “That you, Kellison? Last door on the right.”

  As he crossed the length of the hallway, Kell expected one of Benedict’s security staff to block his way and search him. If he forgot for one wrong instant that Benedict and any of his employees could be shifters — sharper hearing, keener sense of smell, greater physical power — he could pay for it with his life.

  He paused in the doorway of the oversized corner office at the end of the hall. The windows showed a turbulent sea and, in the far distance, a looming mass of clouds. The outer bands of the storm would be here before long.

  A small seating area had been placed to the left, but Kell’s focus riveted on the big oak desk and the man lounging behind it, his hands clasped behind his head, a big smile on his face — and a simmering of rage behind his brown eyes. There had been no sign of any security, so either they were hiding until needed or Benedict had underestimated Kell. If so, he’d regret it. He might not be as strong as the shifter, but he could guarantee he was more stubborn.

  “I meet the competition for Emory’s affections at last.” Benedict stood up, and Kell was glad Mori had warned him about how big the guy was. At six foot one, with a muscular frame, Kell hadn’t found many guys that dwarfed him. Michael Benedict made him feel like a scrawny teenager, but since they both knew it, there was no point in getting his jockstrap in a bunch.

  Benedict didn’t offer to shake hands, robbing Kell of the chance to refuse him. He pointed to the chair facing his desk, an expensive-looking armchair of tufted beige leather. “Have a seat, after you rid yourself of the gun, please. I’m curious to hear about this generous offer of yours.” He stressed the words as if they were a joke, and Kell suspected that’s exactly how he’d treat the colonel’s proposal.

  Kell paused, recalling the colonel’s admonition to be cordial, serious, and not insulting. Undersell the fuckup Benedict had made of things. Be Mr. Cooperation.

  He unsnapped the Beretta holster, emptied the gun of ammo, and laid it on the table. He stuck the clip in his left pocket and mentally took a deep breath as he settled into the chair. Time to start an all-star performance.

  “I think you’d agree that the events since the Zemurray bombing have unfolded in a way that’ll be hard to untangle.”

  Benedict leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of his chin. “Maybe. Although, that unfortunate tragedy did have some positive outcomes.”

  Kell’s vision washed red, but again, he took a mental step back. “Possibly. The industrial expansion plans are down the drain, so your goal of protecting the native habitat was a success. But the loss of lives was a big price to pay.” A damn big price.

  At the mention of habitat, Benedict’s expression changed from cheerful arrogance to wariness. “I suppose.”

  Interesting. Benedict seemed genuinely surprised they understood the environmental benefits. Did he really think Mori would keep his secrets after what he’d done to her?

  Kell continued. “Another upside for you — you found a way to potentially control environmental policy from the governor’s office, although the thing with Felderman and the jaguarundis didn’t work out very well. Clever piece of work to use them to make a controllable hybrid, by the way. Kept your hands clean.”

  As Kell talked, Benedict slowly leaned forward, propping his elbows on the smooth, polishe
d wood of his desk. His arrogant smile had left the building. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Course not. I have a tendency to ramble.” Kell smiled and leaned back in his chair, mimicking Benedict’s earlier posture. “Then there was the whole screwup in New Orleans. The bombs have been cleared, by the way, and we’re a step away from identifying the Tex-La employees who planted them.” Or they would be as soon as Nik did his psychic vision act.

  Benedict said nothing, so Kell pretended to examine his cuff and kept talking. “Here’s the way I see it, Mr. Benedict. More important, here’s the way the people I work for see it.”

  Benedict had gone perfectly still, and it was fucking creepy. Not so much as a muscle twitch while several seconds ticked by. Finally, he broke the silence. “And who do you work for, exactly?”

  “People in very high places, Mr. Benedict, and here’s how they see your situation.” Kell ticked off offenses on his fingers. “You have committed one act of terrorism and have plotted a second. Very serious federal crimes, by the way. You have directly or indirectly cost more than two hundred lives, including the governor of Texas. A capital murder charge in each case, and Texas does love its death penalty.

  “You fabricated a report to Homeland Security, resulting in wasted dollars and man-hours investigating a false lead.” Kell looked Benedict in the eye. “You’ve committed two incidents of kidnapping and torture, and a possible case could be made for engaging in human trafficking by your purchase of an infant twenty-five years ago. An exchange, by the way, for which you arrogantly signed a written contract that is currently on its way to Washington.”

  OK, so he might have been exaggerating. The contract was on its way to Iberia Parish, Louisiana.

  Were the stakes lower, Kell might have laughed at the range of emotions that ran over Benedict’s face as he talked. From shock to outrage, back to shock, then all the way to fury. With this guy, it always ended in anger.

  “I think our mutual friend Emory has been talking too much, which doesn’t speak well for the future of either one of you.” Benedict’s hands lay on his desk, his clenched fists the size of small hams.

  Kell had one more piece of info to share. “I should add that I know you’re the alpha of the Dire Wolves. I know what started this whole fiasco. I know what you’d planned to do before we took Mori out of that ice-cold palace in River Oaks you call a home.”

  Benedict raised an eyebrow at Kell’s blunt words. “That little bitch has a lot to answer for. Did she also tell you that revealing our existence to humans, especially human authorities, is a mortal crime?”

  Before Kell could answer, Benedict stood up and began to pace back and forth behind the desk. Kell crossed his legs and kept his hand within easy reach of the Smith & Wesson.

  Benedict didn’t notice. “You’re seeing only one side of this situation, Sergeant Kellison. The only thing — the only person — who has a chance of keeping our species alive for another generation is Emory Chastaine. Did she ask for that burden? Of course not. Believe me, I wish it had fallen to anyone but Gus Chastaine’s spoiled little granddaughter, but the responsibility is hers nonetheless.”

  Kell knew he was going off script and warned himself to stay calm. But Benedict was so full of shit it should have been running from his eye sockets. “Mori is more than willing to do her part in continuing the species.”

  On some possessive, asshole level, the idea of Mori carrying another man’s child made him want to shoot something, but he understood why she needed to do it.

  “She’s even offered to have your children, as the Dire Wolves’ alpha,” Kell said. “It’s your refusal to compromise that’s brought us to this state of fuckery. So don’t blow off my offer before you’ve heard it.”

  Benedict stopped pacing and stared out the window at the roiling gray Gulf. “And what is this offer?”

  “A way out. Obviously, we realize you can’t be brought to trial without revealing the existence of your people. No one wants that.” Kell got to the part that really ate at him. “Walk away from this obsession, keep your hands clean, and the people above me will make it disappear. You won’t be tied to it, Mori and the Co-Op will be cleared, and everyone goes on with their lives.”

  As Kell talked, Benedict turned to look at him with naked surprise. “Who do you work for?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Like Kell even knew. Who had enough power to make an offer like that? Not a semi-retired Army colonel from Georgia. “The stipulation is that your comings and goings are monitored for the rest of your life, with a zero tolerance for anything remotely illegal. You’ll have no contact with Mori Chastaine without her permission, although whatever arrangement you mutually agree on regarding children is up to the two of you.”

  “That is quite an offer.” Benedict turned back to the window. “It’s also the biggest bunch of bullshit I’ve ever heard. Do you think for one minute” — he turned back to Kell and slammed his office chair against the desk hard enough to send a Texas-shaped paperweight tumbling off the end — “that I would agree to let human bureaucrats dictate where I go and who I fuck and what business plans I make? Or that I’d let that selfish little girl dictate whether or how our entire species continues?”

  Kell slipped the Smith & Wesson out of its holster as he uncrossed his legs and stood. He needed to stem Benedict’s growing agitation before this got any uglier. The man was as coiled as that storm sitting two hundred miles offshore, gathering fury.

  “Just think about it, Benedict.” A last appeal to reason. “It’s a good deal for everyone. Especially you.”

  Benedict rounded the edge of the desk faster than Kell would have imagined possible, but by the time his hands closed around Kell’s neck, the Smith & Wesson was pressed into his gut.

  The big man grinned and stepped back, throwing his hands in the air. “How much do you know about Dire Wolves, Sergeant Kellison?”

  Kell aimed the gun slowly and deliberately, bracing his right wrist with his left hand. “Enough to know that even the biggest wolf’s heart can’t survive a close-range shot with a large-caliber weapon.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s true.” Benedict knelt and tied his shoelace, looking up as he spoke.

  Kell tracked his movement with the gun, but wasn’t prepared when Benedict lunged forward with a head butt to Kell’s groin. He had the dizzying sensation of flying in reverse before they hit the floor. The gun clattered across the hardwood, out of reach.

  Holy fuck. This was definitely not on the script.

  Benedict rose off him and stepped back, motioning for Kell to get to his feet. Kell struggled upright, reaching for the combat knife in his right pocket as he stood. He’d just touched it with his fingertips when Benedict spun him around and locked a meaty arm across his throat from behind, pressing his windpipe until the room turned gray.

  “Looks like our Emory forgot to mention something, the careless bitch. A human and a Dire going one-on-one in a fight?” Benedict sounded downright cheerful again as he leaned in to whisper in Kell’s ear while his arm continued to squeeze. “Human’s never going to win that one. Oh, and I discovered something very interesting about you in my background check, Kellison.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?” The rasp of Kell’s lungs trying to suck in air through his crushed trachea sounded deafening from inside his head. Choking out those few words hurt like hell.

  “You’ve had a little back problem, as I understand it. I might be able to help.”

  The arm across his throat disappeared. Kell gulped in a few huge, desperate lungfuls of air before Benedict grabbed his shoulders and slammed him, back first, into the desk at the perfect angle.

  The sharp corner of the desk corner dug into Kell’s lower back with a sickening crack. Again, the room grew gray, but Kell fought it off. He had to stay conscious if he had any hope of surviving.

  Benedict released Kell’s shoulders, and he slid to the floor, coming to rest on his side. The pain shooting in all direc
tions from his lower back was his friend, he kept reminding himself. The pain was the only thing keeping him conscious.

  “Did that help? Maybe we should try it again.” Benedict stood over Kell, looking down with arrogant mirth. “Or better still, maybe we should get Mori here. See what kind of deals she’s offering. I bet she’d fuck me in front of you if I’d agree to let you go, don’t you agree?”

  While Benedict talked, Kell worked his fingers slowly to his right pocket and clenched them around the hilt of the knife. Praying Benedict was too intent on his taunting to notice, he slid the weapon out slowly and gathered up all the energy he could muster for one final surge.

  With a feral snarl worthy of a wolf, Kell lunged upward with the knife, aiming for Benedict’s femoral artery. If he missed and stabbed the son of a bitch in the balls, so be it.

  But the knife hit true, slicing through Benedict’s trouser leg like it was butter, digging into his thigh until its hilt hit skin. The bleeding was instant and heavy.

  The toe of Benedict’s shoe smashed into Kell’s gut, sending him sliding several feet across the floor, robbing him of air again. The room grayed. The gray deepened.

  The last thing Kell witnessed before it all went black was Benedict falling and, in his place, the biggest goddamn wolf he’d ever seen.

  CHAPTER 28

  The closer she and Robin got to Galveston, the more Mori fidgeted and imagined what they might find. Kell dead and Michael unharmed. Both of them dead. Kell maimed or injured so badly he couldn’t recover.

  She couldn’t forget what he’d told her at the hotel in Baytown about his back injury. He’d put up with the pain because he wasn’t willing to risk paralysis, and she’d gotten the impression he feared being incapacitated more than being killed.

  “This interstate is surreal.” She was driving Nik’s SUV since Robin had said she didn’t like Houston traffic. But with the cars all headed in the opposite direction, that excuse didn’t quite ring true. This vehicle was big, however, and Mori suspected her petite new friend couldn’t reach the gas pedal.