The Seven: A Taste for Jazz: Book 3 of The Seven series

A Taste for Jazz

Book 3 in The Seven Series

Ciana Stone

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The Author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Bank of America: Bank of America Corporation

Glock: Glock, Inc.

Harley Davidson: H-D Michigan, Inc.

LoJack: LoJack Corporation

Lotus Cars: Group Lotus Limited

Navigator: Ford Motor Company

Reader's Digest: The Reader's Digest Association, Inc.

Yahama: Yamaha Corporation

Chapter One

One thing's for sure, ever since hell broke loose over The Seven, I've had more strange gigs than I imagined possible. Oh, sure, the bulk of my work is still the bail jumpers and those high bounty cases I stumble across, but in the last six months, my jobs have included tracking down and apprehending Vampires and Shifters, Fae and even a Daemon. Not my normal gig and it sure as hell isn't as easy. These Seven people have skills that make guns as effective as bring a knife to gunfight.

If you can't get the jump on them, or take them while they're asleep, you're only hope is to drug or tranquilize them. And to be honest, I've stopped taking those gigs. Not because I can't use the money, but because nothing about it seems right.

I mean, if they've committed a crime or are on the run from the law, well that's okay. But to bring them in just because they're different? That just feels wrong to me.

I'm not a woman to stand on a moral platform, and my life stands as testimony that I'm not above bending a rule or skirting a law if the need arises. But the way things are going with the government and The Seven makes me think of the Nazis - and genocide is a nasty business I want no part of.

It cuts into my bottom line, but hey, there are still other bounties to be collected. And if push comes to shove, I can always go back into personal security. I'm sure some rich or famous person somewhere needs a bodyguard.

Jazz performed a quick visual of the area to determine if she were being observed. Clothed in black and protected by the cover of a large hedge, she felt secure, but never forgot a lesson learned early in her career. Caution is the first and most important rule of the game.

After carefully removing the circle of glass she'd cut in the window and placing it on the ground, she quickly repacked her instruments into her pack. She slipped into the pack's harness, once again admiring its design. The body-hugging fit prevented the tools of her trade from jostling around on her back. A shift in their position could affect her mobility or balance.

She reached inside to unlock the window and slowly push it open. Music from inside the house disguised any minute sound she made as she climbed inside and pulled both guns from their holsters.

Despite having a veritable arsenal to choose from, nine times out of ten she found herself selecting the same weapons, a matched set of Glock 31c's, two 357 SIGs with fifteen-round magazines, ported on the barrel and slide to reduce muzzle flip while shooting.

Muzzle flip could mean life or death in her business, thus her preference for the 31c. Its ports pushed gases up so that the resulting upward force kept the recoil minimized. In short — a quicker follow-up shot due to reduced muzzle flip, or what most people called recoil.

With weapons securely in hand, she crossed the room, staying out of the line of sight from the door. Once she reached the door, she flattened herself against the wall and carefully peered out into the hall. Empty.

On silent but swift feet, she hurried down the hall. Upon reaching the end, she pressed back against the wall, listening to the sounds coming from the living area of the house. She could hear three voices, all male. She could detect no other movement or sound from the rest of the house aside from the music. Jazz grinned as she felt the surge of adrenaline that always preceded action and stepped out into the room, feet braced wide, both arms extended and weapons ready.

"Sorry to bust up the party, boys," she announced in a mocking tone.

All three of the men jumped and went for weapons scattered on the coffee table, amongst a large bag of Junk—a street-slang term for heroin—and empty beer bottles.

"I don't think so." She shot a round from each Glock into the tabletop, prompting all three men to rethink their actions. Their eyes raked over her. She expected that. Hell, she dressed for it. Thanks to good genetics, she'd been blessed with a body that drew men like the proverbial moth to a flame. There was no vanity involved. She simply accepted it in the same way she accepted being athletic, or having the uncanny ability to locate people.

When she worked, she dressed the part in a tight black bodysuit, black boots, and black shoulder holsters. Sort of a Lora Croft meets Catwoman kind of appeal. Another thing she had learned early in her career was diverting a man's attention often earned her the few seconds she needed to get the advantage. And the best way to get a man's attention was to give him something to look at.

She smiled at the men. "Now," she said in an amicable tone, "this is the way this is gonna play out. Davey, you're coming with me, darlin'. And you other two boys are going to lie face down on the floor. Now."

The men glanced at one another and one started to rise from the sofa. At the same moment, Davey went for his gun.

Jazz squeezed off one round, catching him in the right shoulder, before one of the other men grabbed a pistol. She pumped a slug into him, again going for the shoulder shot, before the third man returned fire.

Diving toward the hall, she hit the floor, rolled and came up pivoting to face the door, waiting for a move. That's when she heard the sound of a gun being cocked behind her.

Her only thought was that she'd been fed faulty intelligence. Only three men were supposed to be in the house. So who was the fourth?

"Drop 'em." A man's voice came from behind her.

Jazz gave his order about a nano-second of consideration before she pivoted on one heel, dropped back onto the floor, and fired both weapons.

At a rock wall.

"What the fuck?"

She shook her head and bounded to her feet. Not only was there no gunman in the hallway, there wasn't even a hallway. Instead, a stone wall faced her. An old stone wall. She turned slowly, guns at the ready, her eyes raking over the room. It was like something from a movie set. The only thing missing was a casket and a sharp fanged vampire.

What's going on? Where am I?

"In my home."

Jazz spun in the direction of the voice. "Hold it right there," she warned as the ethereal beauty took a step toward her. "Who are you and what's going on? How did I get here?"

"Please." The woman waved her hands at the guns. "Those are quite unnecessary."

"I beg to differ."

The woman laughed and the sound sparked something inside Jazz. Something old and forgotten. A memory. She'd heard that sound before. But where?

"No harm will come to you, Jasmine Boudreaux." The woman took a seat on a brocade-covered divan.

"Who?"

Another laugh floated on the air like musical notes from an almost forgotten melody. "Yes, Jasmine, I know your name and that you prefer to be called Jazz. Not because of your predilection for the particular style of music but because you think Jasmine makes you sound too feminine and you can't afford any kind of feminine weakness in your line of work."

Jazz stared at her for a long time before holstering her weapons. "Okay, what's the deal? You've obviously had me checked out, but that doesn't tell me who you are or how I got here."

The woman patted the seat of the divan beside her. "Come, sit with me."

"I'd prefer to stand."

"As you wish. My name is Stanzia, and I brought you here because I have need of a Warrior."

"If that's fancy speak for bounty hunter then you could've just called me on the phone. And it doesn't tell me how I got here."

"Like this." Stanzia snapped her fingers.

Shit
. She was back in the hallway, on her back with a gunman pointing his weapon at her. She fired first. He screamed and dropped as the shot found its mark in his upper thigh.

Jazz leapt to her feet moments before the only unwounded man from the living area rounded the corner behind her. She took off down the hall, firing behind her as she ran. Back into the bedroom where she'd entered, she kicked the door closed behind her and dove out of the window, hit the ground, rolled and came up.

Once again facing Stanzia
.

"How the hell did you do that?"

"If you'd put away those weapons and sit, I'd be happy to explain."

This was crazy. Either she'd gone around the bend and was hallucinating all this while locked up in some loony bin, or one of the bullets had gotten her and she was lying on a floor dying with her mind conjuring up the fanciful scenario as an escape. Whatever the case,this couldn't be real and therefore had no power. With that thought in mind, she holstered her weapons and took a seat on the divan beside the woman.

"Okay, let's have it."

Stanzia smiled. "Excellent, but before I answer, let me ask. What do you know about The Seven?"

*****

A spinning roundhouse kick caught his opponent on the side of the head. The man dropped like a sack of cement, rolled around on the mat and groaned as he got to his feet.

You're not paying attention," Conner said as his opponent, Adam, took his stance.

"The fuck I'm not!"

"Everyone telegraphs, Adam. If you focus on their eyes you'll see their intent."

"Right. Less talk, more fight." Adam shot him a cocky grin. "This time you're going down."

Conner grinned and let Adam make the first move. He saw it coming and easily defected the kick, as well as the combination punch and spinning elbow strike Adam attempted.

He played around, delivering a few half-hearted blows, watching Adam's technique. The guy had talent. No doubt about it. Twenty-eight years old, fit and fast, Adam definitely had potential. If he could learn to stop telegraphing his moves, and anticipate the moves of his opponent.

That was the most common problem Conner found with the men he tested for training. They were not smart fighters, but relied on strength and speed to win the battle.

Conner knew better. Every fight was won in the brain. You had to outthink your opponent. If you did that, the rest was easy.

"Hey Rock!" His manager, a gnarled old boxer named Ed Nash called from the small office. "You got a call!"

"Take a message." Conner kept his eyes on Adam.

"Fella says it's important!"

Conner blew out his breath. "Okay, Adam, that's enough for today."

He stripped off his gloves, tossing them onto Ed's desk as he accepted the phone. "What?"

He leaned against the edge of Ed's desk as he listened to what the caller had to say. "No thanks," he replied and hung up the phone.

"What was that?" Ed asked.

"Somebody wanting to give me a million bucks." Conner gave Ed a clap on the shoulder. "I'm gonna take off. See you tomorrow."

"I'll be here."

Conner didn't bother to shower and change. He'd do that when he got home. He grabbed his stuff and jammed on a pair of dark glasses as he exited through the rear entrance, stepping out into the glare of the late afternoon Florida sun.

Before long the temperature would start to climb and the warm days of spring would turn into the oppressive heat of summer. Not that he minded the heat that much. At least not until around September. That's when he usually took off and headed back to Colorado, somewhere he could enjoy the change of the seasons.

But right now it was perfect. He climbed onto his Harley Fat Boy and turned it on, listening to the engine. There was nothing quite the same as the sound of a Harley engine. It never failed to make him smile. The Fat Boy was what he thought of as his chilling bike. He rode the Harley back and forth to the gym, and when he was in the mood to cruise slow and easy.

When he felt the need for speed, he had a Yamaha YZF-R1, what some people affectionately or others not-so-affectionately called a crotch-rocket.

But today was not a day for speed, even with the call he received. He hadn't lied to Ed about the call. He had just been offered a million dollars. But no amount of money in the world would tempt him in the direction the offer would force him to go.

He'd turned his back on that world and didn't plan to go back, no matter how much money he was offered.

He'd told no one about his previous life. Not about being a child prodigy, or graduating college at the age of sixteen and being recruited to MIT. He never mentioned his three doctorates in device physics, nanotechnology or quantum mechanics, or the patents he held for several of the most advanced technological achievements of the century.

And he sure as hell never told anyone about being one of the Seven tribes, a shifter. Particular these days. Conner Rockbridge had vanished after the fiasco at the wedding of Augustus Thurinus, Prince of the Vampires, and Layla Summerfield.

Conner, as a district Governor, attended the event and witnessed the attack. He'd witnessed many of their people die, and he believed, as did many others, that Asha Iltani, the Queen of the Vampires and Head of The Council of Seven, was behind the attack.

She didn't want peace with humans. She wanted to rule them. She'd found an ally in Elysia Whitehorse, a powerful Fae from a royal bloodline. Elysia had secretly crossed through the portal into this world when her siblings Ellie and Eldric opened it. She hated humans and since she'd entered this world had worked with Asha to destroy the peace between The Seven and humanity.