The whole show-must-go-on concept explained the presence of Cassandra, who’d helped us tame the last monster we’d faced, though the Tor-al-Degan had nearly chowed down on my soul before our black-braided beauty had finally sent the beast back to Kyronland where it belonged. It didn’t clarify Bergman’s presence, however. A mom-and-pop show like the one Vayl meant for us to stage didn’t require a brilliant, neurotic inventor to babysit the spotlight and the CD player. However, I was willing to leave that mystery until later. My integrity was at stake here!
“Surely there’s another, better way to get close to this Chien-Lung,” I said, very reasonably I thought, considering the fact that I wanted to rip off Vayl’s eyebrows and Super Glue them to his upper lip.
He didn’t reply. Just sat back on his beige couch. It exactly matched the one on which I perched directly across from him. But he ignored me, looked instead at Cassandra, who sat beside me, and said, “Chien-Lung is an ancient vampire with a dragon fixation. It is said that soon after he turned, he was caught draining the chieftain’s daughter. For this crime he was boiled alive.” Cassandra made a sound that landed somewhere between compassion and disgust, and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her bright red skirt. “He claims a dragon saved him, though not soon enough. He lost his sanity but not his brilliance. In him it has become an explosive combination.”
Vayl went on. “During at least three previous presidential administrations Chien-Lung enjoyed diplomatic immunity while he stole nuclear technology and influenced foreign policy toward China. Then he disappeared. Our sources tell us he was trying to complete his transformation from vampire to dragon.”
Without taking his eyes off the road (good thing, since he was driving) Cole said, “Hang on a second. Transformation? To dragon? What’s that all about?”
“He believes his vampirism is a larval state from which he can, when stimulated correctly, emerge as a dragon.”
Bergman, sitting beside Cole in the passenger seat, spun completely around at that comment. “You can’t be serious.”
“I did say he was insane.”
Yeah, but that’s no cause to call in the assassins, I thought. So I asked, “What’s he done this time?”
Vayl raised his left eyebrow just enough to let me know he was about to say something momentous. “He has been conspiring with Edward Samos.”
Moment of silence while we all digested. During our last mission we’d averted a national disaster planned by Samos and a few of his newest allies. Only we’d been calling him the Raptor then, for want of a true identity. Unfortunately, only the partners had paid for their crimes. Samos had slipped our net entirely.
“What have they been plotting?” I asked, managing a casual tone despite the fact that I badly wanted to punch something.
“We were able to intercept a cell phone call during which they discussed exactly how Samos would arrange for Chien-Lung to get in and out of White Sands undetected.”
Bergman perked up like a dog that’s just smelled a T-bone. “I know that base,” he said. “I’ve sent a few things to be tested there.”
I was still so distracted by the belly-dancing news combined with this new bombshell I almost didn’t catch Vayl’s nod or the tightening of his lips. Sure signs of trouble on the horizon. I said, “Are you telling me the same son of a bitch who nearly released a plague on our country gained access to one of our military installations?”
Vayl clenched his jaw so hard I could see the muscles spasm in his cheeks. “The prospect horrifies me as well,” he admitted. “But we know Chien-Lung traveled to Las Cruces last week with his Chinese acrobats. He took the show to the base, and while he was there we believe he used the Raptor’s inside knowledge to steal a vital piece of technology.”
He looked at Bergman, who shifted uneasily at being the focus of the vampire’s gaze. “Miles, I am sorry. The item is your invention.”
“But the only thing I have at White Sands right now is . . .” Bergman’s eyes lost focus. He turned red, paled, then slumped so far forward in his seat I thought he’d passed out. “Oh my God,” he moaned, clenching tufts of his limp brown hair between his fingers. “Not M55. Not that. Not that.”
“What is that?” asked Cole.
“The researchers I was working with called it dragon armor. It’s a type of personal protection for soldiers in the field that actually binds to its wearer at the cellular level. It took me eight years to develop it and now you’re telling me it’s gone?” Bergman put his hand over his mouth as if to keep himself from gagging.
“We will get the armor back, Miles,” Vayl said, in a tone so reassuring even I felt better. “That is part of our mission. Though during the conversation we overheard, Chien-Lung and the Raptor did not reveal why they were working together, we can assume Samos feels his nefarious schemes will be furthered once he controls the armor. That we cannot allow.”
Despite the gravity of the situation I took a second to delight in Vayl’s continued connection to his eighteenth-century roots. Oh, he tried to fit in. Back at the home office (we work out of Cleveland, I think because the CIA’s tired of paying DC rental prices), Vayl and our boss, Pete, could trade football stories like they’d both played for Ohio State and hoped to God the Browns needed a fifth-string quarterback the year they graduated. True for Pete. For Vayl, well, as soon as he fumbled a word like “nefarious” you knew he’d never touched a pigskin in his life. Unless it was attached to an actual pig.
He met my eyes. “The second part of our mission is directly related to the first. In order to retrieve the armor, we must terminate its wearer. When Bergman feels better, he will help explain why.”
I couldn’t stand it any longer. I went to Bergman, knelt beside his chair, and took his trembling, chapped hands in my own.
He peered down at me through blasted eyes. “Oh, God, Jasmine, please. Please get it back.” He looked like he’d lost his only child. And in a way he had. That’s how much he invested in his creations.
“We will,” I said. “I promise.”
Bergman had barely spoken a word since. When we’d finally parked our colossus at a gas station/convenience store called Moe’s, I’d been relieved when Cole had suggested our present mission. It would finally give me a chance to escape the gloom that had permeated our ride so thoroughly I’d begun to feel like I was breathing thunderclouds.
“There’s a booth with an actual phone book inside,” I’d said as we’d exited the RV, pointing to the plastic-encased stall at the north corner of Moe’s lot. I’d headed toward it.
“Who’re we calling?” asked Cole.
“A cab. I assume the festival is too far from here for hiking.”
“Oh, we don’t need to walk,” he said. I stopped, turned, and followed him back to the trailer we’d towed all the way from Ohio. Though small, it still looked like it could hold everything I owned. Since he’d been the last one to drive, Cole had a set of keys in his pocket. He unlocked the doors and threw them open. I looked inside, and every one of my ribs knocked against its neighbor in a domino drop straight to my feet. No doubt they heard therattle, rattle, clunk all the way to Amarillo.
“Oh my God, this can’t be happening!” I cried.
“What?”
“Mopeds? Those are the wheels Pete gives us? Iknew he was pissed off at me! It was all that time I spent in the hospital, wasn’t it? Or was it the wrecks? But I only tore up one car last time! And that wasn’t my fault!” I wailed.
“Jaz, calm down!” Cole pleaded. “They don’t allow anything more powerful on the festival site. He thought it would give us the best mobility for what the rules permit.”