Chapter 3
An uncomfortable ride back to base, not least because lean sandy-haired Dan stared in front of the old Taurus like the road had personally done him wrong, refusing to even glance in the rearview mirror.
On the other hand, Pete, in the front passenger seat because of course he was, kept twisting to look back at Layla.
As if it were her fault someone else had jumped the gun.
“It was a red-stripe, skull and crossbones,” she repeated, and felt the same old dull hopelessness. Tonight’s clusterfuck would absolutely end up being blamed on her somehow. “I just couldn’t drag the name up in time. You have to believe me.”
“I do,” Pete said. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, and his mild brown eyes were for once hot with accusation as he glanced at Dave. “I told you not to put him there.”
“You prefer him on lookout, then? Or up-top with sniper duty?” Dan shook his head, an irritable flicker tossing too-long fringe out of his eyes.
He’d refused to get a trim despite Shawn’s crew mocking him, probably because they were a weirdly costumed lot in their own right—the tattoos, or the feathers tied in John Dancer’s sideburns, were the least of it.
“I’ll wait to hear what Ben has to say for himself before I decide what the hell. ”
Oh, for Chrissake. Layla strangled a flare of uncharacteristically intense anger.
Soaked with fresh sweat, her heart refusing to slow down from rabbit-gallop, and beginning to feel all the bruises from being nearly trampled to death in a nightclub because some dipshit couldn’t get it into his head not to pop off before the order was given—that was bad enough.
But to have Dan constantly giving that same dumbass the benefit of the doubt just because…
Why?
Because he’s a man. She swallowed the bitterness of adrenaline lingering at the back of her palate. “I swear to God it’s him. The one they call Nemesis.”
The car wallowed as Dan piloted left onto 45th Street.
He was playing it cool, just at the speed limit, striking a balance between cautious old granny-driving and the slight rule-breaking of a businessman one past the limit but determined not to get pulled over.
This circuitous route back to base was part of the plan.
At least they’d taken her suggestion in that regard; a miniscule, qualified victory, the only kind she ever got. But the sense of an invisible, unfriendly gaze on her simply wouldn’t go away. Her nerves were a thousand percent shot.
Pete at least had body armor under his civilian T-shirt, for Chrissake. Layla was supposed to be well out of the way before any shooting went down. She couldn’t get rid of the sensation of a big ol’ glowing target painted on her back.
“You can’t be sure,” Dan said, finally.
What the fuck? Her jaw threatened to drop.
“There’s nothing wrong with my memory, Daniel.
” Layla throttled the unfriendly reminder that she and Suze been the ones getting him through high school—Suze with her head for numbers and ideas of maybe becoming an accountant, Layla for everything else, including every single essay he’d laboriously hand-copied to turn in.
Thinking about it now, she wondered why he didn’t just spend that teeth-clenched effort to write the damn things himself.
Layla’s memory was a steel trap not just for names but for faces, a major reason why she did so much of the research and recon.
But no, Dan said she couldn’t be sure, probably thinking estrogen was clouding her synapses.
Just what did she like so much about him, anyway?
Especially considering what she’d seen just before the wedding—and yet he’d made Suzy so very happy, and the way he’d broken down after… after Suze…
After the attack at Paradise Point, and those terrible, dreamlike weeks afterward, when both he and Layla had found out how far down the rabbit hole really went.
Pete twisted again, peering into the backseat.
“Well, I think you did great.” As if conferring a huge favor, but it wasn’t his fault.
Men were just built to be dickheads; if she wasn’t so hung up on one particular specimen, she might even like Pete.
Certainly he was far nicer than some she could name.
“And if you say it was a red-stripe then I believe you. But… Nemesis? You’re absolutely sure? ”
“Curly-headed sonofabitch with a nose like that? And he was dressed the same way as in the file, same sweater even. Plus, he always goes around with a squad of cookie-cutter human goons, and I’d recognize that stare of his after looking at it even once.
” Layla shivered, though the breeze coming through the half-open window did nothing to cool her off.
It was just too hot tonight. She longed for a nice chilled bottle of chablis, a tepid bath, dreamless sleep on good sheets in an air-conditioned room.
“We went over the files like eight separate times because of what happened to O’Shaughnassey’s crew. ”
And wasn’t that a bitch and a half? Shawn and his group of quiet, scarred, diffident men who had taken their few weeks of adding professional training to Dan’s group so very seriously.
She’d thought about signing up with them for good, but they were Catholic and took a dim view of girls getting in the way.
Story of her life. Of course, maybe she could be grateful, since just last winter they’d run across a really powerful biter and got wasted in a parking garage, of all things. The footage from that, as well as the autopsy reports, made for some nightmare viewing.
Everything did, nowadays.
“We did.” Pete no longer sounded entirely dubious, just mostly. It was a nice change.
The car veered again; they were getting close to base. The few active storefronts along this street were closed, locked, and bearing metal grilles across their doors; the abandoned ones were boarded up. Both types ignored anything happening before their shuttered gazes.
“I’m telling you I recognized him. We should’ve aborted.” The undeniable, atavistic sense of being watched was really giving her ‘the wiggins’. Now there was a Suze-ism.
Poor Suze. Poor Shawn. Poor everyone.
“And wait how long for another chance at that Griskov bastard? Where are we gonna find the funding, huh?” Dan’s hands were tight on the steering wheel, knuckles pale, and Layla was suddenly very aware of her bare, bruised shoulders, naked knees, the thin material of the dress.
“Fuck. Fuck. The asshole we were after was supposed to be there. He was supposed to be leaving at two, just like always!”
I’m sure he’s checking his day planner right now. She swallowed the observation, just as bitter as stale coffee or leftover adrenaline. “Well, if he got word Nemesis was paying a visit, he’s probably long gone. We’re lucky to be alive, Danny.”
Maybe her tone wasn’t exactly as soft or forgiving as it could be, but honestly, did she have to be the voice of reason all the damn time? Managing every single man’s emotional state as well as his laundry pile was a thankless goddamn occupation, and she was tired.
So, so goddamn tired.
“For fuck’s sake.” Now Dan glanced in the rearview, and if looks could kill she’d be bleeding in the backseat. “Can you try not to call me that, Lay?”
Why do I like you so much, again? She was asking herself the question more and more these days. Her back was positively crawling with gooseflesh; Layla found she was also hugging herself despite the heat and the sweat, fingers slipping against bruised, aching upper arms.
All of her was throbbing like a bad tooth. “Sure thing,” she muttered, and settled to stare out the window. Maybe Pete was now watching her in the side mirror; the sense of being looked at only intensified.
She’d thought the night couldn’t get worse, but it just had to go and surprise her.
Base was an abandoned, boarded-up machinist’s shop out on LaGranda Boulevard, its interior jammed with detritus and a few ‘rooms’ excavated for their use.
Ack had jury-rigged the electricity and Ben, for all his flaws, was a dab hand at guerrilla plumbing, so at least there was a little bit of wash-up before debriefing.
Layla could jam herself into jeans and a pink V-neck T-shirt—neither piece too fresh, since she was the only one who did any cleaning at all plus funds were scarce—and tell herself the persistent feeling of being stared at was just post-operation letdown.
She pressed a folded, dribble-soaked washcloth against her nape, ignoring the sharp smell of mildew. Any temporary illusion of coolness was well worth the hassle. “That’s him.”
The trestle table in what Steve called ‘the ready room’ held four piles of intel paper and several neatly arranged weapons; at least Steve and Ack spent time tidying those up.
The rest of the place looked like a bomb had gone off, but the stacked walls of crap helped shield them from outside scrutiny and would slow down cops if any came calling to check for harmless, houseless folk just trying to find some shelter.
NEMESIS, the manila file proclaimed on its tab, sprawled open under a tensor lamp. The grainy 8x10 photo was just as she remembered, and seeing the biter again, even in 2D, was unpleasant at best. Alias: Nemesis Name: Unk. Age: Unk. Range: Unk.
Lots of unknowns, but the listed sightings were thought-provoking. If oh God that’s terrifying qualified as provoking, that was. The biter had been all over the continent in steadily widening loops since at least the late 1800s.
Shawn’s intel guy Mike had taught Layla how to use shorthand and cross-reference in the particular way real demimonde investigators found most useful.
Even he had looked a little green going over some of the reports from Nemesis sightings, and their group had been about as hardcore as it got—fancy new ceramic armor, chain gorgets to guard against bites, crucifix tattoos, Vatican funding, the whole nine.
Fat lot of good it had done.