Hunted (Riley Cray) (13 page)

“You’re out of line, Harry.”

“But I’m not wrong, am I?” Johnson asked, his face contorted in a smug smile. There was real ugliness in his expression, something dark and foul beneath his smile that made me shudder. “You think we don’t all know where you were last night?”

Silence was the only answer Johnson received from the passenger seat, and it spoke loudly of Holbrook’s guilt. Looking away from his partner, Holbrook stared out the window, his embarrassed reflection igniting indignant anger that burned hot in my chest.

How dare that tool cut his partner down that way, and what the hell were they keeping from me?

* * *

It had been years since I’d ventured into the city. The towering glass edifices of downtown Denver were a foreign world of glass and steel. I was more at home in the wilderness, surrounded by the scent of trees and earth, rather than immersed in the cacophony of honking horns and choking car exhaust. I huddled in the back seat of the SUV, shielded behind the anonymity of dark tinted glass, though the nervous flutter in the pit of my stomach had me sure that someone would recognize me at any minute.

Soon enough the FBI headquarters loomed like a giant mosaic, the walls of glass appearing as so many different blue hued tiles in the bright sunlight. Turning around the side of the building, Johnson pulled up to the parking garage, the way barred by a large rolling gate topped with razor wire. A small guard house sat off the side where the gate met the solid concrete wall of the garage, and as we rolled to a stop a pair of uniformed guards stepped out, squinting against the bright sunshine.

The first of the guards, a giant of a man with arms bigger around than my thighs and hair shorn so short that his pink scalp peeked through the pale blonde fuzz, approached Johnson’s window, a hand resting on the butt of the gun at his hip. The other guard, who had a similarly imposing stature, walked a slow circle around the SUV, passing a mirror on a long pole under the car.

Rolling down his window, Johnson was already reaching for his badge when the guard greeted the two agents sitting up front. “Afternoon, Agents. Do you have anything to declare?”

“Just a grumpy werewolf who needs to pee,” I piped up, drawing irritated looks from everyone.

Wow, the FBI seriously needs to invest in some humor training. How to Take a Joke 101.

Receiving the all clear from the other guard, Blondie reached inside the guard house to hit the button for the gate. With a loud grinding sound the gate lurched into motion and slowly drew back to allow us entry. Blondie and his partner waved us through, their eyes seeming to bore into me even through the tinted glass. Glancing back over my shoulder I watched the gate roll closed behind us, the guards falling into position as the next car in line underwent the same investigation.

There were a couple of agents in dark suits and sunglasses entering a door that presumably lead into the building when we pulled into a numbered parking space. They looked like a couple of
Men in Black
rejects and I couldn’t help snorting in laughter at the sight of them. Johnson shot me another baleful glare for my mirth, and Holbrook just arched a questioning brow at me.

“So, do I need to check my sense of humor at the door or something?” I asked as I unbuckled my seat belt. “Because I’m detecting a serious lack of levity around here.”

“Sorry to break it to you, Cray, but we’re not here to entertain you,” Johnson grumbled, turning off the ignition and reaching for the door handle.

“I don’t see why that means you can’t crack a smile once in a while. Are you afraid your face will break or something?”

Pushing open my door I stepped down out of the SUV, shivering at the cold wind blowing through the garage. I was so over winter.

Roll on summer!

“You’re in protective custody in case you had forgotten,” Johnson said as he came around to my side of the car, his usual scowl set firmly in place. Maybe his face really would crack if he dared to smile.

“Oh yes, and what a bang up job ya’ll are doing, what with deer carcasses, Samson still on the loose, and all,” I said, settling my hands on my hips.

I watched as Johnson’s face darkened, his eyes narrowing to beady pinpoints. I had the sudden impression of an irritated pig, but figured I should probably keep that particular insight to myself.

And people say I don’t have any restraint. Bah!

“You think you’re so clever don’t you? You’re nothing but a stuck up smartass.”

“Hey, I’d rather be a smartass than a dumbass,” I shot back with a shrug.

While Johnson glared daggers at me one of the other SUV’s from the convoy pulled into the space beside us. I recognized both of the agents that exited the vehicle from the cluster fuck that had been the media frenzy at the motel, but didn’t know either of their names.

The younger of the two agents didn’t look old enough to drive, let alone handle a weapon. He was tall and rail thin as if someone had grabbed him by the ankles and pulled, stretching him out like an old rubber band. Close cropped, baby fine brown hair fluttered in the breeze, causing him to run a hand over it in what looked like a gesture of habit in an attempt to flatten it down. A pair of thin framed glasses completed the look, and I couldn’t help imagining him hanging out in someone’s basement with a bag of dice and a prized miniature figure playing Dungeons & Dragons. But for all his seeming gawkiness he moved with a sense of surety, his bright blue eyes alive with intelligence and awareness.

The other agent was as short as the first was tall, and was the first woman I had seen in a law enforcement capacity since Johnson and Holbrook had appeared on my doorstep. The tight ponytail that pulled her ash blonde hair back from her face made her look severe, but the faint lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes hinted at a tendency to laugh rather than frown.

“Come on guys, just settle down,” Holbrook said in a tone akin to a frustrated parent dealing with two rowdy children. It was kind of him to try to ease the tense silence stretching out between Johnson and I, but it was also utterly naïve and futile. There was no kissing and making up happening here.

“Don’t defend him. It’s not your fault he’s such a gigantic fuck sock,” I said, my voice carrying surprisingly well in the parking garage.

Beside us, the two agents smothered their chuckles behind coughs and mutterings of “Looks like it’s going to snow again.” Meanwhile Johnson’s face was beginning to darken from red to maroon.

“I mean, you can’t be blamed for the fact that he seems to have had his sense of humor removed through his ass along with his brain.”

“What did you say?” Johnson demanded in a low snarl, turning the alarming shade of purple I was starting to classify as DEFCON 3.

“You heard me. You’re being an ass clown,” I offered off-handedly, turning my back on him to grab Loki’s carrier from the backseat. A few paces away the other agents were continuing to try not to laugh, and failing miserably. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who thought Johnson was a world-class asshole. Turning back to face him I added, “A douche nozzle. A twat waffle.”

And there it is ladies and gentlemen. We have achieved DEFCON 2
, I thought, watching his eyes bulge in his blotchy face, his mouth flapping open and closed like a fish on a hook.

For a slightly heavyset man, Johnson moved surprisingly fast. In the blink of an eye he was looming in front of me, his white knuckled fists pressed to the doorframe on either side of my head. I recoiled as his ashtray breath swirled in my face, Loki’s crate clattering to the concrete at my feet, drawing a piercing yowl from my furry friend.

“Listen to me, you dumb wolf bitch. I’m the only thing standing between you that fucking lunatic. Keep pushing me and I’ll hog tie you and hand you over to Reed with a big God damned red bow stapled to your forehead,” Johnson hissed, spittle flying from his lips to splatter across my face.

Oh, that’s just gross.

Daring to take my eyes off Johnson for a fraction of a second, I saw the alarmed expressions of the other agents over his shoulder, their hands already reaching for their weapons.

“Take a step back Agent Johnson, nice and slow,” the younger agent said. His voice had a tight, worried edge to it, but the way he held his gun pointed at the ground in an unwavering grip, ready to raise it at a moment’s notice, let me know he was all business.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit
, I chanted internally, the wolf joining me in my panicked mantra.
Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him that last little bit
, I thought, but then again, I’d always been the type to poke a bear with a stick. Sometimes I just couldn’t help myself, I had to see what would happen if I jabbed it in the ass.

When my gaze shifted back to Johnson I barely recognized him, the murderous rage, gleaming manic and fever bright in his eyes, made me suck in a sharp breath.

“You think you’re such hot shit, don’t you? That you’re something special just because you didn’t have the good sense to die when that maniac split you open like a melon. Or is it because every cock within a hundred miles is drooling at the chance to get in your quim?” The savagery of his words made me flinch.

Whoa. What the hell?

“Step away, Agent Johnson. I won’t tell you again,” the agent said, the sound of his shoe scuffing on the concrete drawing my gaze away from Johnson’s raging face for a second.

The sight of the gathered agents with their guns raised, sighted on Johnson’s back, made my heart hammer painfully against my ribs. This was so not how I had pictured being taken out.

“Come on, Harry,” Holbrook pleaded, though the aim of his gun didn’t waver for a second. “Don’t do this. Think of Cheryl.”

Something dark and vicious flickered across Johnson’s face, like a leviathan rising up from the depths for the briefest of moments, before sinking back down into the darkness. Barely glimpsed, but terrifying all the same. And then Johnson spun away from me, rounding on the other agent, his shoulders rising and falling with his rapid breaths.

“Fuck you, Darius,” he said, jabbing a thick finger at his partner, before stalking past the other agents, completely ignoring their drawn weapons as if they held no more threat than a water pistol.

The agents slowly lowered their weapons as they watched Johnson stalk down the ramp of the parking garage, digging a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket. Coming to a halt at the end of the ramp he leaned against the wall of the garage and pulled a lighter from his pocket. The snick of the lighter echoed in the otherwise silent structure, and even at that great of a distance I could smell the smoke as he exhaled in a long breath through his nose, the twin trails looking like the exhalation of a slumbering dragon. He certainly appeared to have the temper of one.

“Should we go after him?” the female agent asked, holstering her gun, but keeping her hand close by.

“No, leave him be,” Holbrook answered, his brow furrowing as his gaze lingered on his partner.

Leaning back against the side of the SUV, I hung my head, bracing my hands on my knees as I breathed deep. “So that’s DEFCON 1.”

Holbrook shot me a quizzical look, but I just waved him off as I struggled to figure out what the hell had just happened.

Like anyone else, I’d learned the basics of human and supernatural history. I’d learned, how once upon a time all the various races had existed in one unified world, how we’d lived in tandem for millennia until some cataclysmic event, that no one seemed to remember, had torn the world into five separate, parallel realms. It was said that passage from one realm to another was still possible, but only through doorways where the barriers were weakest, doorways that were often secret, and always heavily guarded.

Or at least, that’s what some people liked to believe.

Others believed that we’d been created by an omnipresent God, designed in his image to inhabit the world he had made. That’s what my grandparents had believed, and the faith that most mundanes ascribed to in one way or another. As for me, I didn’t really believe in much of anything that I couldn’t see with my own eyes. I’d believe in a god made of spaghetti and meatballs if he dropped down from the sky to say hello and wave his nooddley appendage at me.

Along with the various origin stories earth’s assorted races placed their faith in, I’d also learned about the evolution of rights and laws pertaining to supes. While Martin Luther King, Jr. was marching on Washington in the 1950’s, Olaf Sorenson, the pack master of Milwaukee was demanding equal rights for all Americans, be they human, were, vampire, or anything else. King’s campaign of equality for African Americans had proven more successful than Sorenson’s ever did.

Supes were barred from serving in the military, law enforcement, and any branch of government, whether it was Federal or State. Magic users are considered somewhat of a grey area – technically they’re still human, the genetic testing proves that, but whatever it is that enables them to wield magic in any of its myriad forms makes the mundanes nervous. While they’re given all the same rights as any other human, those that choose to join the military or law enforcement often suffer such prejudice and ridicule that they either resign or elect to conceal their true nature. There’s a whole lot of “Don’t ask, Don’t tell” going on these days.

We’ve made some progress since Sorenson’s time, but there’s still a lot of fear and prejudice dictating the laws. I’d never given much thought to the unequal balance of rights between humans and supes until I’d been torn from one group, and thrust headlong into the other. As a supe there are a lot of limitations in place that just don’t exist for mundanes. Overstep those bounds and you’ll find yourself on a one-way trip to the afterlife, no take backs.