Rogue

by Rachel Vincent

  “Parker, you stay with the van,” he said, digging for the keys in his pocket. “Spread plastic over the entire floor and cut the rope in the back into three-foot sections. We’re hoping to bring them out alive, but they won’t be pretty. Wait for my call, then pull into the rail yard from the front entrance. That’s the only way in with a car.”

  Parker nodded, catching the keys Marc tossed his way.

  Marc spun on the concrete to face the rest of us, while we stood in a straight line like good little soldiers. “They’re in the old engine depot. The windows are all boarded over or blacked out, so I couldn’t see them, but I could hear them talking and clanging around.”

  Blood rushed through my veins, pounding in my ears in a rhythm so frantic and fast I thought I might pass out. But I was just excited, and more than a little nervous. This was the first big assignment I’d been involved in since we’d taken out Miguel, and that one was a bittersweet success. We’d lost a man.

  We couldn’t afford to lose another one this time. Not even one of the bad guys. Everything had to go according to the plan. Which was surprisingly simple.

  “The bay doors are barred from the outside, which leaves only two ways into the depot,” Marc was saying, eyeing each of us in turn. “One standard door in front and one in the back. Jace and Faythe, you’ll go in the front. Burst in and make some noise to get their attention.”

  I couldn’t help wondering why he’d paired me with Jace instead of Vic.

  “Vic and I will pick up a couple of two-by-fours, then come in from the rear when we hear you. The objective is to take them both out with a single blow to the head. Without killing them. So control your force, please,” he said, that last part aimed at Vic.

  Vic nodded.

  “Any questions?”

  I frowned, thinking hard. Surely there was something I should ask. It couldn’t be that simple. Could it? But I was drawing a complete blank.

  “Good.” Marc pointed toward the fence at the back of the park, where he’d gained entrance to the rail yard. “We’ll go in there, over that last panel. Give us three minutes to get into place. Then make your move. It’ll go fast from there. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. No argument, and no unnecessary communication. And keep your minds on the job at hand. Understand?” Marc seemed to be looking at me in particular for that one, which pissed me off.

  Jace nodded and elbowed me in the arm. I glowered at Marc but nodded grudgingly.

  Parker climbed into the van to make the preparations, and we jogged across the park. Sweat was already running down my back and gathering behind my knees. September in Texas was a really rotten time to be chasing bad guys.

  We leapt the fence one at a time, then followed Marc, our shoes silent on the hard-packed earth. At the front of the building, Marc pointed to a spot between the huge bay doors and the closed front door, indicating that Jace and I should wait there. He tapped his watch, then held up three fingers, mouthing “Three minutes” as he and Vic picked their way noiselessly around the far corner of the building.

  I nodded, already focused on my watch. The second hand seemed sluggish, ticking from number to number with painful lassitude. By the time it completed its first cycle, I was bored, staring around the rail yard at abandoned parts, machines, train cars, oil barrels, and countless other leftovers from the glory days of cross-country freight trains.

  On my right, Jace sighed. He inhaled deeply, and I did the same, searching the air for any sign of Andrew or Luiz. I found none. Not even on the doorknob, which they’d surely touched to enter the building. Unless they’d come in from the rear.

  If that were the case—if the front door hadn’t been opened in years—might it not be locked? And thus difficult to open? Hmm.

  Catching Jace’s attention, I mimed kicking the door open, rather than turning the knob. Jace nodded. Glancing at his watch, he held up one hand, fingers spread. As he met my eyes, he folded down one finger. Then another. I nodded; his message was clear.

  “Five…four…” The third finger went down, and I studied the door, trying to decide where to kick. There, just below the knob. “…two…one,” Jace mouthed. He nodded at me, and I nodded back. My pulse spiked. My heart pounded. My leg flew.

  We kicked at exactly the same time, in near-perfect form. My father would have been ecstatic.

  Wood splintered. Metal creaked. The door flew open, tilted at a crazy angle. We’d ripped the top hinge from the frame.

  For a long moment, we stood still, staring into the building, waiting for our eyesight to adjust to the darkness within. When it didn’t adjust, I glanced at Jace and stepped into the depot. That’s when the figure inside came slowly into focus. The only figure. One body. Not two.

  Frowning, I squinted at the form standing in the center of the floor, maybe thirty feet away. Something was wrong. The figure was too short to be Andrew, and too thin to be Luiz. And had way too much hair to be either of the men in question.

  I sniffed the air and found a familiar scent—but not the one I was expecting. It wasn’t a stray scent. It wasn’t even a male scent.

  “Stop,” she ordered, in a beautifully lilting, lyrical accent. And as my eyes adjusted further, I saw that she was pointing at us with both hands. “I don’t want to shoot, but I will if I must.”

  We hadn’t found Andrew, or Luiz. We’d found Manx. And she had a gun pointed right at Jace’s head.

  Twenty-Eight

  “Whoa.” Jace held both hands up in the familiar defensive posture. “Manx, right? We don’t want to hurt you. We’re looking for someone else.” His voice gave no indication of the half truth in his statement. “Probably the same person you’re looking for.”

  Where the hell are Marc and Vic? I stared furiously at a rectangle of light in the dark, the outline of a closed door ten feet behind the tabby. Beyond the door, something moved, blocking part of the light. Marc and Vic were waiting. They’d probably heard the tabby speak and knew she had a gun. Bursting in behind her would only get somebody shot, so they were waiting for a better opportunity to make their entrance.

  The tabby frowned at Jace, but her gun never wavered. “I look for no one.” Her accent was thick, but her English was perfectly understandable. And her lie was as transparent as a pane of glass.

  “We have a common goal,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t want to shoot potential allies. “We can help each other.”

  The tabby growled and swung the gun my way.

  My pulse jumped and my throat tightened. I took a deep, calming breath, and the tabby’s scent filled my nostrils, thick with that odd element I couldn’t quite place. My mind flashed back to my mother holding the red-and-gold afghan up for my inspection.

  Was I smelling wool? Or cotton? Or whatever the blanket was made of?

  “Is your name Manx?” Jace asked louder than necessary, trying to draw her focus—and her gun—away from me.

  She hesitated, her gaze shifting between us as she tried to decide who was the biggest threat.

  “What’s that scent?” I asked Jace beneath my breath. Her scent suddenly seemed very important. “She smells weird. What is that?”

  The tabby’s eyes widened in surprise, then quickly narrowed in fury. Her lips pressed together. She adjusted her aim, and my breath caught in my throat.

  Gravel crunched behind me. Had Marc and Vic circled the building?

  Manx cocked the hammer.

  “No!” Jace threw himself in front of me. The tabby pulled the trigger. A blue flash sparked. The blast echoed through the building.

  Jace flinched violently, all over. He stiffened, then staggered backward.

  “No!” I screamed, tears blurring my vision. I stepped forward to catch him, but a hand grabbed my arm from behind, jerking me off my feet. Jace fell to the ground. The scent of blood saturated the air.

  Manx stared at Jace, mouth wide in horror. She dropped the gun. The door behind her flew open, and Marc rushed into the room, a jagged two-by-four in one hand. The tabby whi
rled toward him and froze. Vic ran in on his heels, wielding a steel pipe.

  So who the hell was hauling me away from Jace? “Let go!” I yanked on my arm, trying to pull free with no success. I whirled around, expecting to see Luiz and prepared to re-break his nose.

  I saw Andrew instead.

  Adrenaline shot through my bloodstream like a jolt of electricity. I jerked furiously on my arm. Andrew’s sweaty fingers slipped from my skin. His nails ripped my flesh. I hissed in pain and stumbled out of his grasp, already crawling toward Jace.

  Jace blinked up at me.

  Stunned, I tried to clear my vision.

  Andrew leapt into my path. His face twisted into a vicious snarl. He bore almost no resemblance to the man I’d once known. The man whose life I’d ruined.

  His fist shot toward me. I ducked, my leg already sweeping toward his. My foot hit his ankle. He fell on his ass, hissing. His fingers brushed the hem of my jeans. I danced away, then turned toward Jace.

  Vic knelt at his side, bare-chested, pressing his own shirt against Jace’s right shoulder.

  A blur of motion caught my attention from the corner of my eye. I turned my head to see Marc swing the two-by-four at Manx, who’d reclaimed her gun and was aiming it at Vic. He hit her right arm with the broad side of the plank. The gun fell from her grip and slid on the concrete. Manx screamed and toppled. But instead of clutching her injured arm, her good hand covered her belly in a familiar protective gesture.

  The afghan flashed in my mind again. The one Natalie had crocheted. Natalie, who was expecting her second…baby.

  “Marc, no!” I shouted. He froze, the board raised high over his head, ready to come crashing down on Manx again. “She’s pregnant!”

  Shock claimed Marc’s expression. He lowered the board slowly, staring at Manx with a look of wonder—or maybe horror—as if she had three eyes rather than a microscopic, parasitic, completely un-infectious invasion in her uterus.

  Instead of hitting her again, he kicked the gun. It skittered across the huge room, lost to deep shadows in less than a second. Marc met my eyes, his mouth already open to ask how I’d known. Instead, his brow wrinkled and his gaze shifted to something behind me. “Look out!”

  I whirled around, ducking as I spun. My fingers scraped the gritty, dust-covered concrete.

  Andrew stood behind me, arms raised. Something heavy whooshed over my head. I buried my fist in his stomach. Air burst from his lungs. He doubled over. Something hard crashed onto my head, then clanked to the ground.

  I stood, rubbing the new bump on my skull, and prepared another kick. My foot slipped on the pipe he’d dropped. It rolled from under my boot. I landed on my ass in front of him.

  He kicked and I rolled out of the way. I sucked in a quick breath, and with it came dust and a sticky cobweb. Andrew kicked again, and I reached for his foot. My hand closed around his ankle and I pulled. He fell beside me, catching himself on both hands.

  I rolled over, and my hair clip slammed into the concrete. It burst open. Thick black hair fell over my face. I pushed it away, freezing in place as a low, unfamiliar roar rumbled from overhead.

  Scrambling to my feet, I looked up to find a loft running across the left side of the engine depot. And another on the right. I squinted, trying to see movement in the darkness. But I saw only shadows.

  On my right, Andrew lurched to his feet and a growl echoed from my left. Whirling around, I saw a dark form spring from some twelve feet above, taking shape as it neared. The shadows cleared, exposing the lithe, elegant form of a werecat in midleap.

  Luiz. He’d hidden in the loft to Shift.

  The cat landed gracefully in the middle of the room, on all four paws. Marc faced him, two-by-four held ready in both hands. Luiz considered him for a moment, then turned toward Vic instead.

  “Vic!” I shouted. He looked up to see Luiz flying toward him, but had no time to move. The cat landed on his chest, claws bared. Vic screamed.

  I was scanning the ground for a weapon, when something hit me from behind. Pain exploded. I flew forward, throwing one foot in front of the other to stay upright. My feet tangled over each other, and the ground soared up to meet me. I caught myself on my left arm. Pain shot through my shoulder, reviving an injury three months old.

  Fingers tangled in my hair and pulled. I clenched my jaws against a scream and scrambled to my feet to keep my hair from being ripped out by the roots.

  “Payback’s a bitch,” Andrew whispered in my ear, his voice a bitter echo of what it once was. “But then, so are you.”

  “Andrew, wait—”

  His grip on my hair tightened, and his free fist slammed into my kidney.

  Pain ripped throughout my entire body, rebounding for an instant encore. My legs folded and I crumpled to the ground. Tiny popping sounds filled my ear as hundreds of individual hairs were ripped from my scalp. I couldn’t breathe, much less scream.

  I forced my body into motion, rolling away in spite of the pain. He kicked me in the thigh. Then the blows stopped.

  I opened my eyes, and Andrew was gone.

  Manx lay unconscious across the room. Parker knelt over Vic, who now lay on the ground near Jace, who was in a pool of his own blood. Beyond them, Marc stood, iron pipe in hand, facing off against the werecat.

  Luiz hissed, teeth bared. He lunged forward. Marc swung the pipe. Luiz dodged the blow easily. But Marc had already gotten off at least one good shot; Luiz was bleeding below his right ear.

  I sat up, and Andrew stomped past me, headed for Marc. Before I could shout, Parker shoved himself off the ground and snatched the slab of wood Marc had dropped. He swung. The board connected with Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew hit the ground, and I gained my feet carefully, wincing at the ache in my spine.

  Parker turned toward Luiz. Marc swung the pipe again, and again Luiz dodged it—right into Parker’s path. Parker swung, low and arcing, as if the board were a golf club. The two-by-four hit Luiz’s back left leg.

  Luiz yelped and limped sideways.

  Marc slammed his pipe into Luiz’s right shoulder. Luiz whined, then growled. He bounded to his left, past Marc and out of his reach. In less than a second, he was gone, limprunning right out the door. Marc took off after him, the bloodstained steel pipe clenched in his fist. “Take care of them,” he yelled over his shoulder at Parker. Then he was gone.

  Andrew watched them go, his jaw slack with shock, eyes brimming with fury. He’d been abandoned—again.

  “Andrew…” I began, hoping he’d believe me now. That he finally understood Luiz wasn’t helping him. And that I could, if he’d let me.

  He met my eyes, and the pain and loathing in his made me sick to see. He hated me. He wouldn’t let me help him. And he certainly wouldn’t help me.

  “Fuck this,” he growled through clenched teeth, looking from me to Parker, then back to me. “And fuck you.” Then he turned and ran, right for the front door.

  I took off after him, without a second thought.

  “Faythe!” Parker yelled.

  “I’ve got him,” I yelled, already halfway out the door. “Don’t you dare let Jace bleed to death.”

  “No!” he shouted. But he didn’t follow me. Jace and Vic needed him worse than I did. At least, I hoped I wouldn’t need him.

  I followed Andrew around the corner of the building just in time to see the door of the abandoned train station swing closed. Shit. We didn’t have time for hide-and-seek. If anyone had recognized Manx’s gunshot for what it was, they’d have called the police. The cops were probably already on their way.

  But a glance at my watch told me that—amazingly—less than a quarter of an hour had passed since we’d jumped the fence into the rail yard. Though the fight in the depot seemed to last an eternity, it had only been minutes long. Thank goodness.

  I jogged up the steps to the rail station. “Andrew?” I called, pushing the filthy glass door open. I was giving away my position, but I didn’t care. I hadn’t come to fight him; I’d come t
o explain. And to apologize. “Andrew, where are you?” My eyes skimmed over the room, but I saw no sign of Andrew.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this. I just want to help you.” My boots crunched on broken glass as I moved farther into the room, and I’d gone several steps before I realized I could hear him breathing. Fast and hard. I sniffed the air when my ears couldn’t pinpoint his location. His scent was strong, and heavily tinged with anxiety. He was still in the room—somewhere.

  Stepping carefully, I headed for a beat-up customer service booth in the center of the main room, the only obstruction in sight. When I rounded the counter, my foot hit a busted metal cash register and I clutched the cracked countertop to save myself from landing face-first in a scattering of shattered window glass.

  And there, crouched behind the counter between a metal filing box and the wall, was Andrew, shirtless, his khaki shorts unbuttoned.

  He froze, staring up at me with one hand on his zipper. His shirt lay at his feet. He’d been undressing so he could Shift. And kill me. I could see it in his eyes.

  I exhaled slowly, devastated by the rage in every line on his face. “Andrew, you have to let m—”

  He pounced. In human form, and from a complete crouch, he was suddenly airborne. His shoulder slammed into my chest. My feet left the ground for just an instant. Then I hit the floor, and his weight drove the air from my lungs.

  He sat on my stomach, his knees straddling my bruised ribs. My back burned in a dozen places, where each shard of glass had sliced through my blouse and into my flesh. I lay stunned and breathless, wishing I could get to the handcuffs poking me from my pocket.

  Andrew snarled, his eyes wide, lips drawn back from blunt, square teeth. He was in human form, but his inner cat had taken charge. And it was pissed.

  “Listen to me. You don’t want to do this.” I wedged my arms between our bodies and planted my hands on his chest. “I can help you. Let me up, and let’s talk.”

  I pushed against him, but he wouldn’t move. Andrew wasn’t as big as my fellow enforcers, but he still outweighed me by quite a bit. And thanks to me, he had a werecat’s strength. I could make him move but not without hurting him, and I wouldn’t hurt him if I didn’t have to. I’d already damaged him beyond repair.