Species II (16 page)

—and it sure wasn’t any comfort to haul ass into the driveway and hear the shrieks of terror and pain coming from one of the upstairs windows.

“Grab the hydrochlorine,” Laura shouted as they leaped out of the car.

Press leaned back inside the sedan and hit the trunk release, then was at the rear of the car almost before the lid had opened all the way. The canister, a double-tanked device with a high-tech aerosol nozzle, was heavier than he’d expected, but at least it had a shoulder strap. He slid it over his arm, then barreled toward the house after Laura. “Wait, damn it! Don’t you go up there without me!”

For once Laura listened to him, waiting on the porch by the front door until he reached her. The door was locked, of course—no one as intelligent as these people would leave their house wide open—and Press shrugged out of the canister setup and gave it to Laura. He backed up two or three steps, then hammered at the lock with his booted foot. It took three tries to get through, just as Anne Sampas’s screams began to fade.

“There!” Just inside the doorway, Laura pointed to her left. Press saw the stairway and went for it, taking the risers three at a time with Laura right behind him. They scrambled around the corner at the top and found themselves in a hallway; at the end was an open door where golden light and shadows flickered wildly and something dark flicked across the entrance.

“Aw, Christ,” Press yelled—no stealth here—as he and Laura burst into the room. A tentacle waved in the air. He recognized it as a smaller but still lethally strong version of that ugly appendage so familiar from their previous encounters with Sil. Its end was wrapped tightly around the neck of the man it held aloft, presumably Anne Sampas’s husband, his body limp, his face blue; Press knew instantly that for him, their help had come too late.

“Please—help!”

Press’s hand instinctively went for his gun. Two shots, right on target into the meaty midsection of the thing waving in the air; Sampas’s husband dropped to the floor with a thud that left no doubt that he was dead. The tentacle recoiled and wavered in the air, as if it couldn’t decide how to deal with this new threat.

A choking sound came from the bed. Out of the corner of his eye, Press saw the woman who had been Anne Sampas. The gaping hole in her belly was the source of the horrible, snakelike thing hovering over her, as blood pulsed sluggishly from the grisly wound onto the golden bedspread beneath her. Her skin shockingly white from trauma and blood loss. “Please.” Her voice was barely audible through the bubbling blood pooling in her throat. “Just . . . kill me.
Please.”

Press shook his head—
no, he couldn’t.
He heard a snapping sound as the serrated coil of flesh went for him. He recoiled and raised the Glock again, but something blue and misty abruptly filled the air in front of him—Laura had brought up the canister of hydrochlorine and triggered the spray nozzle. The brown-mottled tentacle spasmed and jerked wildly in front of his face and Press stumbled backward, nearly falling against Laura. On the bed, Anne Sampas gave a final howl of misery as her deadly offspring shuddered and dropped, then tried to pull its way back inside her body. Unable to look away, Press and Laura watched in horror as the defenseless woman convulsed under the thrashing of the thing within her—

—then died.

“Oh,
God,”
Laura choked. She whirled away from the carnage, then found a measure of control and hurried to squat next to the man on the floor. “He’s gone,” she said resignedly.

Press shakingly holstered his gun and he wasn’t ashamed to find that his hand was shaking. It had happened so damned
fast.
No sirens cut through the serene Maryland night. There hadn’t even been seconds enough for Sampas’s husband to get his call through to the emergency line. And now here they were, standing in the candlelit bloodbath of what should have been a loving reunion.

Jesus.

“We’re lucky to be alive,” Laura said suddenly. He looked at her sharply. “Even at full strength we don’t believe the hydrochlorine will be effective in stopping a mature alien. The only reason I can speculate that it worked now is because this is an—” She seemed to gag on the word. “An
infant.”

What could he say to that cheerful news? “I’ll call a clean-up crew,” he said hoarsely. He offered Laura his hand as she took it and pulled herself to her feet. “They’ll get over here right away.” He waited until she would meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said gently.

“But we have to get to the others.”

“T
he only thing better than the smell of fine brandy,” Dennis Gamble said as he inhaled deeply over his snifter, “is the scent of your perfume.”

Jemila Asante smiled and raised one finely arched eyebrow, in a pointed look. “As if you could actually smell it over the stench of that thing in your hand.”

Dennis chuckled and hit the
DOWN
button on the limousine’s window; in another second, his cigar was sailing away in the darkness. “Guess I can take a hint.” He offered her one of the snifters and her expression softened, her long fingers resting against his as she took the crystal from him. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, “I am a wounded man and it’s finally time for healthy healing.” He lifted his glass and drained it, letting the brandy send a trail of warmth down his throat.

“Careful you don’t drink too much, Mr. Astronaut,” Jemila said coyly. A manicured fingernail trailed down one leg of his slacks, leaving a line of fire that completely overwhelmed anything the brandy could do. “I guarantee you’ll want to remember tonight.”

Dennis smiled, desire making him woozy. Or was it the brandy? God, he hoped not. He slipped one arm across Jemila’s exquisitely coffee-colored shoulder. “When I say this man has waited a long time, I mean it was a
long
time. But the drought is almost over—”

Without urging, Jemila brought her face to his and kissed him deeply.

“—and not a moment too soon.” Her mouth opened beneath his as he pulled her closer, then realized that the car had pulled to a stop. Home at last.

They parted reluctantly as the driver came around and opened the door for them, both men watching appreciatively as Jemila unfolded herself from the back door like a dark, exotic flower spreading its petals. While she waited, Dennis retrieved her purse and the nearly empty bottle of brandy, then tucked a fifty-dollar bill discreetly into the driver’s hand.

“Thanks, chief. I can take her the rest of the way.”

The driver grinned and tipped his hat, as Dennis led Jemila toward the house. Nothing fancy there, just an inconspicuous little place in the ’burbs. He’d leave the grandstanding and show to Patrick and Senator Ross. His thinking ran more to the unobtrusive, like Anne and her husband Harry but it was home, and he knew all its nooks and crannies.

By the time Dennis unlocked the front door, he and Jemila were pawing each other like a couple of horny teenagers crashed into the umbrella stand, on their way to ectasy. Dennis didn’t care. “Oh, yeah,” he groaned. “Alone at last!”

Whatever Jemila said in return was unintelligible as her hands began yanking off his jacket. Dennis didn’t know if the wait had been worth it—eleven months had been a pretty fucking
long
time—but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun on a date. They stumbled up the stairs towards the bedroom, panting and moaning, leaving a trail of clothes in their wake—her shoes and his, the hated bow tie and cumberbund from tonight’s tuxedo, more pieces that he couldn’t identify along a staircase lit only by the night-light in the upper hallway.

“Wait,” Jemila gasped as they reeled into the bedroom. “Just a minute.”

“What?” Dennis’s voice was a croak and he tried to hang on to her. “I’ve
been
waiting—”

“Silly man,” she giggled and pushed him backward until he fell on the bed. “Just let me use the bathroom.”

Oh, jeez—of course. Women always seemed to want to do that, didn’t they? She scampered away and he grinned and used the time to yank off the last of his clothes, the trousers of the expensive tuxedo sailing off into a darkened corner. He set up a ghost of light from the dimmer switch connected to the stained-glass lamp on the dresser, then . . . what else? Music—that’d be the ticket right now. On one wall was a small bookcase with a stereo cassette player. Dennis rummaged around in his tapes until he found something he thought would be good—D’Angelo, dark and moody,
sexy.
He popped it into the player and hit the button just as Jemila threw open the bathroom door. When he turned, she was standing there, naked and waiting, and for a single, amazing moment, Dennis thought she was some dark Egyptian goddess.

“Are you ready?” she purred.

He couldn’t even answer as she glided across the room into his arms. Twisting, turning, her hands were everywhere on him and Dennis thought he would explode from the heat. Somehow they were on the bed, in the inferno that had become his bedroom. Finally, Jemila was under him, those endlessly long silken thighs, open and welcoming him, so sweet, soft and warm, and—

Then her body went stiff beneath his.

Dennis froze and pulled his lips from hers. “What’s wrong, baby?”

Jemila’s expression should have been sensual and full of passion; instead, it was a cross between amazement and fright as she looked at something over his shoulder as she tried to form words that wouldn’t come out. Dennis twisted around, at the same time the overhead light was snapped on and found himself gaping at four black-uniformed men.

“What the
fuck
—who are you?” he demanded. Reflex made him jerk the side of the bedspread over himself and Jemila.

The first of the men who barged into his bedroom held up an identification badge. “Federal agents,” he said flatly. “Dennis Gamble, I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us.”

“Who put you up to this—Patrick Ross?” Dennis snapped. “If this is his idea of a joke, it’s not funny. Now get the hell out of my house!”

“This isn’t a hoax, Mr. Gamble,” said the same man. He jerked his head at his three comrades and Dennis watched with a sort of detached horror as they unshouldered their weapons—the standard federal-issue M-16s—and leveled them at him. Cowering behind his back, Dennis felt the whimpering Jemila’s taut breasts hitch against his skin.

“Aw, Jesus,” Dennis said. “What’s going on here—what did I do?”

None of the men answered; instead, their leader strode to Dennis’s dresser and began opening drawers; in a few short moments he held out a pair of jeans and a shirt. “You’ll need to put these on,” he said simply.

Dennis started to stand, then glared at them. “At least turn your backs.”

All four men continued to stare at him with black eyes. Finally, the first one gave a small shake of his head. “I’m sorry, sir. We can’t do that.”

Dennis started to say something, but fell silent. Defeated, Dennis stepped out of the folds of the bedspread and yanked it quickly back over Jemila—he’d be damned if these bastards were going to get a free look at her. He dressed without a word, telling himself that these men were only following orders but unable to stop himself from sending them murderous glances. When he was ready, he turned back to Jemila still huddled on the bed. “I’ll be back in no time,” he promised. “Get this straightened out and we’ll start over, fix everything up just right.” Another furious glance at the agents still waiting patiently. “And next time, we’ll find somewhere
private.”

She gave him a brave smile but he could see tear tracks on her cheeks. “Okay,” she said, and what a woman, she even managed to keep her voice steady. “We’ll try it again.”

“You just curl up and relax,” Dennis told her. “Hell, fix yourself some popcorn and watch a movie downstairs.” He grinned. “Or better yet, draw up a nice hot bath and wait for me there.” That earned him another trembling smile.

Dennis tenderly touched her cheek, then spun around and faced the federal agents. “Let’s get this over with.” He started to step past them and they did a vague quick-shuffle that somehow planted him in their middle as they left the bedroom and descended the stairs. The bastards were making him feel like some kind of criminal.

“This is no way to treat a national hero,” he told them icily as they guided him to a black van parked outside. No mistaking this for a government vehicle, right down to the transmission antennae sprouting like metal weeds all over the roof. “Come on, fellas,” Dennis entreated when they opened the back door and gestured at him to climb in. “What’s this all about? I know you boys can talk—somebody speak to me.”

Nothing, and damn but he was getting angrier by the minute. Finding another two agents waiting in the third seat didn’t help matters—for God’s sake, had they sent enough men to do their dirty work? Or did they think he was that dangerous?

“You know,” he railed, “I’m a personal friend of Senator Judson Ross. You ever watch the
X-Files?
By the time I’m through, I’ll have all of you investigating radioactive sewage on Russian sea tankers!”

But nothing Dennis Gamble said could stop the van from speeding off into the Washington, D.C. night.

“C
an’t you go any faster?” Laura demanded as she broke the connection on her cell phone.

“Not in this bucket.” As if to prove his words, the tires slipped and sent the sedan sideways when he took a turn too fast and he had to fight to bring the Chevrolet back under control. “Piece of crap!”

Laura didn’t comment on his driving. Instead, she said, “Burgess left a message that he’s got Dennis Gamble in custody and he’s undergoing tests.”

“That’s two out of three. We’re getting there.”

Laura twisted on the seat and glanced out the rear window, making sure the backup cars were still there. After what she’d seen at the Sampas house, she wasn’t looking forward to the next encounter, and she definitely wanted to even the odds a little. “How much farther?”

“Two blocks up from Georgetown Commons. We’re almost on it.”

Homes and small buildings blurred past the window as Press focused on navigating the streets. This late at night, the sidewalks were mostly deserted and traffic was almost nonexistent. Along the sidewalks, lights from a thousand windows were nothing more than wavery bright lines crossing Laura’s vision. She cleared her throat. “Let’s hope he’s not with his fiancée.”