Sink In Your Claws

by S. E. Chase

  “Stop. Be quiet. Listen.”

  He opened his mouth. She put her hand across it.

  Her touch was electrifying.

  “I work with investigators to identify skeletal remains of murder victims and illegal immigrants. I’ve stood over mass graves, bodies decomposing under layers of lime. Gathered desiccated remains in brutal heat. Tromped snake-infested terrain to find bones. My colleagues work with Mexican authorities identifying drug trade victims—corpses missing heads, hands and feet. I see souls’ destruction.”

  She grabbed his hands and held them.

  He pulled back. “But that’s—”

  She held tight. “Families pray for missing loved ones to return. It never happens.” She looked him in the eye. “Never. Do you understand?”

  He swallowed hard. Hadn’t considered it. She still wanted him. Was she insane?

  She leaned close. “You’re alive. Or . . . at least, you’re . . . here.”

  Where did she get her strength? How did she see past the damage?

  “Get it?” She squeezed his hands. “I love you. Then and now. Messed up, fucked up, screwed up, cut up . . . whatever. I’m not letting you go again.”

  He shook his head. “Are you crazy?”

  “Yes. How do I convince you?”

  “What did . . . I can’t thank—”

  “No. Don’t thank me. I owe you, can never repay you.”

  “I don’t . . .what do you mean?”

  “I’m alive because of you.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You died—we believed you died—in an explosion after a kidnapping. I was the one who’d been taken.” She wound her fingers around his, voice quivering. “You traded yourself for me, walked into a rotten situation alone, gave yourself to a crazy asshole, my boss of all goddamn things by the way, in exchange for me. I told you not to do it, pleaded, called you an idiot. They wanted to kill you. I knew they’d kill you, told you so. You wouldn’t listen. Told me I was worth the risk.”

  “Oh.” That was rather hard-core. He wished his mind wasn’t hazy.

  “You saved my life,” She lifted his hands to her lips and kissed them. “You gambled everything and I won. Understand?”

  “I . . .” He was at a loss.

  “You’re stuck. Don’t care what you say. Get used to it, because I’ll stalk you if I have to.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The car sped to the zone, lights out.

  My game. Let’s kick serious criminal ass.

  Primary. It felt good. Damn good. Layton smiled and drove faster. After over a year of answering to Iceland, dealing with his moods, his supernatural shit, speaking in tongues and the lingering ghost of dead pretty-boy partner, he could tell him what to do. God, how many times had Hannesson lorded it over him, reinforcing his subordinate position. Yeah, he was newer and younger. But he was driven to succeed.

  Cresson was right.

  Now he could show it. He’d demonstrate how to deal with suspects.

  Iceland sat beside him. Arms crossed, jaw set, he stared out the window. Witness was in back, handcuffed and separated by the steel mesh screen. Silence washed over the car, the only sound windshield wipers beating against snow.

  He had demanded the witness follow protocol. Made him sign the CI forms, fingerprinted him, and required a drug deal go down to establish reliability.

  “Give us the dealer, we pay you,” Layton said. “Do not prove unreliable. This is your best deal. Remember, lead us to him and make a buy.”

  Iceland, in typical fashion, argued. “We get one shot. That’s all. Find the dealer and grab him. Why set up a deal? Why waste time? There's something else out there. Killing people.”

  “Shut up about monsters.” Layton shook his head. Jesus, Iceland was nuts.

  Cap stood between them.

  “We don’t need Layton mucking things up,” Iceland had argued. “Why risk another life?”

  But Layton was primary. His call.

  Layton handcuffed the informant. No coddling. He would ride in the cage. Layton yanked him to the car and threw him in. Hell, his ass was used to it anyway. How many rides in cop cars had he taken? “Prove your trust. Until then, it’s the cage, junkie.”

  They would get as close as possible to the zone without detection. They’d meet the uniformed officers in the hidden listening post.

  A hitch—narcotics officers got called to another bust. Shit happens. Go forward with the hunt for King Rat anyway. The informant would circulate through the alleys—wander as long as it took. When he located the dealer and made a purchase, he’d signal via radio contact. Cops would come in and bust them both for appearances. Then they would nab the dealer.

  Crouched in the back, Michael stared out the window. They wove through dark streets. He bent stiff wrists, stretched his fingers and swore. Layton had cuffed him tight and the metal cut his skin. With no gloves, his hands were cold.

  He tried to ignore it.

  His mind whirled. Kait. He leaned against the glass.

  Earlier Einar had caught his eye in the rearview window. “Hang in there,” he mouthed.

  Michael didn’t respond. Layton was watching.

  I've messed up their lives.

  Einar’s predicament was his fault. He’d been the broken, drugged out, batshit crazy reason for secrecy and disappearing acts. Einar had tried to protect him.

  I can solve it.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated, reassembling the shattered pieces of their last case, that horrible string of child killings. The river. Four victims. And monsters.

  He wouldn’t have picked a brutal cold evening to look for King Rat, who wasn’t reliable in subzero temps. Not his call. Layton didn’t listen. He was busy being in charge, wanted the collar and accolades.

  They arrived at the command center, hidden in the side bay of an old brick warehouse. Uniforms met them. Layton hauled Michael out and scowled when he stepped toward Einar.

  “I’m your contact. Don’t forget. Iceland can’t help. Your fate’s in my hands. Pay attention.” He rattled instructions.

  Michael looked around.

  Fuck. Don’t trust him.

  He hunched his shoulders and clenched his hands, teeth chattering. Revert to survival mode. He slipped into street persona, demeanor like an animal, eyes darting, suspicious, on edge.

  “I don’t like this.” Einar looked concerned.

  “Too bad.” Layton snapped. “Wait here. Don’t let him out of your sight.” He went to review the stakeout. Took a uniform by the elbow and rambled about expectations. Two others followed, trying to keep up.

  Einar stomped to Michael. “Damn. I’m sorry. Shouldn’t be here.”

  “Not your fault.” Michael shivered, looked around. It scared him. “Got a bad feeling . . .”

  “Michael . . .”

  He glanced up.

  “You’re memory’s returning. In the station . . . I saw it.”

  He hesitated. “Yeah.”

  “Kait knows.”

  A nod. “Great timing, huh?”

  “Impeccable . . .”

  Michael closed his eyes.

  Einar put a hand on his arm. “Take it easy. I’m relieved you remember us.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Knew you were in there.”

  “Broken fucking mess—”

  “Cut yourself a break, okay?” He handed over his scarf. “Christ, it’s cold. Let’s get this done and get out of here. You shouldn’t be on a stakeout in subzero temperatures. Not with the Narcs guys pulled away. And monsters on the loose.”

  “Not my call.

  “Fucking Layton.” Einar kicked snow. “Too arrogant for sense.”

  “I . . . remember,” Michael hesitated. “You were right. About me not letting others in. Doing too much alone. Cost me. I should’ve listened. Might have—”

  “Christ. Not time for true confession.”

  “I just—”

 
; “For now? Give it a rest. Stay safe. We’ll discuss philosophical transformations later. Watch yourself. Layton’s impatient. Doesn’t have your back. I'm worried.”

  “Yeah. Thinks I’m a piece-a-trash junkie.”

  Einar looked him in the eye. “Don’t give a fuck what he thinks. What do you believe?”

  “I have no fucking idea anymore.”

  “Still the misanthrope. Look, it will be okay . . .”

  “I trust you. But this is a bad idea. Not enough back up.” He exhaled. “Besides, don’t like your new partner. Step down from your last one.”

  Einar raised an eyebrow and smiled. “No false modesty—”

  Michael motioned with his head. Layton stormed back. He was livid.

  “Back off, Iceland. Don’t talk to him. You coddled his drugged ass enough.” Layton pushed him away. “It’s my show. Do your job. Sit with the uniforms.”

  “Not a circus,” Michael said. “I’m not an animal act.”

  “Be careful,” Einar said.

  “Shut up, both of you.” Layton undid the cuffs, yanked Michael to the alley and pointed. Shoved. “Get to work.”

  “Skit. Andskotinn hafi pað! Shit. Goddamn it . . .” Einar stomped into the warehouse. What should he have done different? The situation was fucked up. How dare he be relegated to work backup while Layton tailed Michael, viewing him as garbage to be used and discarded after the deal went down.

  Let’s get it over. Enough crap.

  If anything happened, Michael was on his own.

  Fuck it. Einar swore again. Babysitting in the listening post with three fresh-faced and clean-shaven recent academy graduates.

  The uniforms kept their distance. None spoke to him. They whispered and watched with trepidation. They’d heard tales of Iceland.

  Michael wandered for two hours through alleys and parking lots, staying out of street light glare. He halted at shadows, senses heightened. Froze at every noise. He crouched near old car chassis and broken foundations, back flush against a wall, watching for movement. Didn’t see the dealer.

  Exercise in futility.

  He shuffled through the snow, acting wasted and getting angry. Hated being back on the street. Too familiar. His hands and feet were freezing. Frostbite wasn’t far off. Going through an undercover buy-and-bust, more memories returned. Cop instincts kicked in. Layton’s plan was a bad idea. Too many things left to chance. Not enough coverage. He shoved his hands into the pockets of the long coat Einar had given him. Pulled the scarf tighter around his neck.

  He didn’t want to be back in this hell. It haunted him, the wasteland of lost souls and broken lives. He should still be one of them. Or dead. Einar and Kait made the difference—he owed them everything.

  Don’t think about it now. Look for the dealer.

  Every twenty minutes, he spoke into the small radio, checking to make sure it was working per Layton’s orders. “Check one, check two.” Once or twice he added, “Layton, fuck you.”

  Layton tailed at a distance, serving as his ghost, staying out of site but within eyeshot, keeping a suspicious eye on him. The words coming through the radio did not amuse him.

  Who’d that junkie think he was?

  He swore when the informant wandered through snow banks, sinking up to his knees. He was taking the most difficult path possible and sliding along icy patches of rotted wooden floors, scrambling through debris in collapsed buildings, compelling Layton to follow. Damn asshole was making it harder than necessary to stay on his tail.

  Another hour. No progress. Michael backtracked and moved through the zone again. Crept to an abandoned warehouse, swearing when he almost fell over a cement foundation. No sign of the dealer. Snow was piling up fast. Layton’s plan was going nowhere. He clicked on the radio, asked for a five-minute break to bring feeling back into his hands and feet.

  Layton said no.

  Einar, listening from the command post, swore.

  The uniforms stared.

  Another hour. He leaned against a dumpster. His head throbbed. Old injuries ached in the cold. His teeth chattered. Layton kept muttering into the radio, ‘have you found him yet, druggie?’ Jesus, how had Einar not killed him? The man was impatient, aggressive and careless.

  Wait. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a shadow. Crouched motionless behind a dilapidated brick foundation, waiting.

  Pay dirt. He’d found the dealer. He whispered into the radio, “King Rat located.”

  “Make a buy,” Layton growled back.

  “Yes sir, asshole,” Michael muttered. He mentioned a few landmarks over the radio—a rusted Ford pickup, a collapsed section of a corrugated steel shipping container. He wanted Einar to understand his location. Just in case. “You’d better be ready to go.”

  Layton swore in reply.

  Then it became complicated. Two figures stepped from the shadows and shook the dealer’s hand. The taller one gestured with a clawed hand. The short one sniffed the air.

  A glint of yellow eyes.

  “Shit,” Michael said, “I’m not crazy. Monsters. I see the fucking monsters. Repeat. I see the monsters.” He ran a hand through his hair, crouched against the building. His mind raced. The killers. He remembered those eyes. Something else clicked—another toothy face, yellow eyes dead, staring. It unnerved him. He shivered.

  Focus.

  He knew his assignment.

  Make the score.

  He inhaled. “Let’s get this over with. Making the buy. Monsters or no monsters.” He left his hiding place.

  Here goes nothing.

  CHAPTER 24

  The stakeout went downhill fast.

  Layton ranted. “What the hell, Iceland? Knew your fucked informant was unreliable. Dealer’s in our sights. And what do you know, he’s off his rocker. Spouting off about goddamned monsters. What’d you tell him? How can he play his role? What do we do now?”

  The young cops listened, befuddled. They stared, eyebrows raised, not sure if the conversation was serious or a joke. Monsters hadn’t been covered in the academy.

  Einar unfurled a string of expletives and took off, barreling through the snow to where Michael reported them. Yeah, he’d left his post, a violation of protocol, but fuck it. Cap could fire his ass. He didn’t care. He’d be damned if Michael was going to face those things without backup—again.

  Michael approached the dealer and the monsters. Layton stuck close, hiding behind a brick foundation near a dumpster to better see him. Rat looked up and postured surprise. Michael shambled toward him.

  “Been a while, Troll man, where ya been hidin’?” Rat flexed ungloved hands, causing tattoos to appear and disappear. He sauntered to Michael and patted him in mock camaraderie.

  “Need a fix, man. Time to take a ride . . .” Hoped he sounded convincing. “Got cash.”

  “No prob. Cash I like. What’s the want?

  “Gave me a vial month or two back. Powerful shit. Got more?”

  ‘Yeah, man.” Rat smiled. “Today’s your lucky day. Got the suppliers here. Tell ‘em how much you like their product.”

  Michael looked up.

  They stared and began screaming at each other.

  “What the bloody hell,” the taller creature yelled, “he’s supposed to be dead!”

  The shorter one lunged but Michael ducked and dodged his blows. Their hands ended in sharp claws, extending from fingers where fingernails had once been. The taller one reached for a .45 caliber pistol in his coat. The smaller one snarled, but ran in the opposite direction.

  He didn’t remember them, couldn’t place them at first.

  He stared, hard. Wait.

  Christ.

  He struggled to recognize them—but what the hell were they?

  Donnie and Thompson had returned to Seward City in altered form. After fleeing, they escaped to Eastern Europe where they used Michael’s contaminated blood to distill their drug. But in exile they became greedy and partook of it themselves, una
ble to balance patience with desire. With every refinement another dose, with every dose more mutation. They felt stronger, powerful—but at a price. They’d become immortal but they were losing their human forms in the process.

  The toxic mix coursed through them, augmented each time they shot up again. Addicted to the rush, they mutated into adult versions of the revenants Thompson had used and discarded. Need fed desire for the drug, and then for blood—they couldn’t get enough. In altered form, they craved blood from living human sources and had become careless in trolling for prey, using the drug to lure them in.

  When Thompson believed the drug ready for external testing, they tried it first in Eastern Europe. Their trials went badly, drug causing immediate murder and mutilation. Thompson demanded Donnie refine it and lessen its issues, requiring more doses over a longer period to achieve full effect. After more experimentation, they readied supplies to try again—and what better laboratory to use for final tinkering than a homeless population? Donnie’s parents had died six months earlier, and, still connected to where they’d met, they requested to be buried on the grounds of their beloved, destroyed complex in their matching Futura Atomic fleece jackets. Donnie, the dutiful son, came back to Seward City, Thompson following.

  They wanted to build a market in the United States anyway.

  And drink in the rewards.

  Donnie and Thompson were the monsters Michael had seen kill on Christmas Eve.

  They screamed.

  King Rat’s bravado evaporated in an instant. He bolted, flailing hands sending vials scattering. Took off into the alley and skidded in the snow.

  Layton jumped into his path, stunning him.

  “I got you, prick,” he yelled. “Don’t move.” He collared Rat, snapped cuffs on and threw him down.

  Rat didn’t protest.

  Layton wheeled around and pursued the other suspects.

  He ran at the tall one, yelling “Stop Police! Halt Your Ass,” all energy and adrenaline, pumped to make another collar, careless in allowing himself to be seen. Thompson roared. He raised the pistol and fired twice.

  Gunshots echoed.

  “What the . . .”

  Something tackled him. He collided with the ground and lay stunned then spit snow out of his mouth. He looked up, confused.

  The informant had shielded him. Layton was dumbfounded, trying to comprehend. The junkie's shirt darkened with bloodstains.