"Don't shoot!" he says. He sounds startled, the way you should with a gun in your face, but something in me feels uneasy, because his eyes aren't startled at all. They are busy. Looking, weighing, thinking.
"Do not move," I say. "Put your hands behind your head, and get down on your knees!"
He fixes his gaze on me, licks his lips. "Whatever you say . . . Smoky."
I have a millisecond to be alarmed at his use of my name. He moves like a savage wind, stepping first to one side and then straight into me. His hands move in separate directions, one pushing my gun aside, the other slamming into my face. I am flying backward, seeing stars, and the millisecond passes.
I land on my back on the floor and struggle to get up. I've managed to hold on to my gun.
He is still moving, some kind of ultrapractical form of martial arts, all power and uniformly devastating. As with me, he moves into his targets, and all his punches and kicks are short and brutal. It's not flowery, but it's effective. I watch as Agent Decker gets elbowed in the jaw, note with dizzy interest that two of his teeth don't just fall out, they shoot out, like two bullets, and then I hear Callie, cold as ice, saying, "Move, and I'll fucking kill you."
Everything that had been in motion becomes still. Suspended. Because Callie now has her gun at his forehead. His eyes dart around in rage and then he is being body-tackled by Agent McCullough, and by Dylan as well, who's arrived from the elevator lobby to join in on the fun.
I register that I am bleeding, and that I am dizzy. Very dizzy.
"Honey-love, are you all right?"
I stand up, staggering. "I'm fine--"
And then I fall back down. I don't pass out, but I sit straight down on my ass.
The perp is screaming at me. "You stupid whore! Useless cow! You think this means anything? This means nothing! Nothing! I'll still--"
"Jesus Christ!" I yell. "Shut up--or I'll shoot you in the leg. Dylan, McCullough. Book him and gag him, please."
Dylan grins at me but slaps the cuffs on our guy and takes him out into the hallway to search him and read him his rights.
"How are you now?" Callie asks, concerned.
I shake my head, testing. "Not dizzy anymore. Okay, I think. How's my face look?"
"He did a number on your lips, honey-love. You have that 'I don't use collagen, I just beat my face against a wall' look."
This makes me jump to my feet, alarmed. "Decker!"
"Over here. I'm okay."
I see him standing. He's using a wall for support. He has a handkerchief against his mouth, which is soaked through with blood.
"Whoa," I say. "You need to see a doctor."
"I need to see a dentist," he moans. "Fucker knocked out two of my teeth."
"Callie."
She flips open her cell phone. "Calling the EMTs now, honey-love."
The door to Leona's bedroom opens, just a crack. "Is it safe to come out?" she asks, voice quavering. "Is everyone all right?"
I look around at her living room, taking in Decker and his bleeding mouth, the splintered coffee table, and it hits me. Adrenaline doesn't just shoot through me, it explodes.
"WE GOT HIM!" I yell.
Callie and Decker both jump and stare at me. Callie grins. Decker tries to.
"Everything is fine, Leona," I say. I look toward the doorway. "Everything is just great."
I crack my knuckles. My lips ache.
But the dragon is thrashing, roaring, and gnashing her teeth. Feed me, she's hissing. Let me crunch on his bones. I lick my upper lip and taste my own blood. That should keep her satisfied for now.
44
I'M ON MY way into the FBI building with Callie. We'd left a policeman with Leona, and our suspect is being taken to the Wilshire police station for booking. I came here to get Alan and to plan out our interrogation strategy. I have just punched the up elevator button when my cell phone rings.
"Smoky!"
I go on instant alert. It's Elaina, and she sounds terrified. "What's wrong, Elaina?"
"There are three men sneaking around outside the house. In the backyard. Young-looking."
A thrill of terror shoots through me. I think of Ronnie Barnes. Is this related? Did Jack Jr. create himself a little psycho army? Or am I just being paranoid?
Paranoid? With Jack Jr.? No way.
I think about what I had said to Alan, about how Elaina wasn't in any physical danger, and I am sick at the possible consequences of this misestimation.
I break into a run, forgoing the elevator, rushing up the stairs. Callie follows. "Elaina, what about the agents out front?"
Silence.
"Their car is there. I don't see them."
"Do you have a weapon in the house? A gun?"
"Yes. Upstairs, in the closet."
"Get it, lock yourselves in the bathroom. I'm getting Alan and it'll take us maybe fifteen minutes to get over there."
"I'm scared, Smoky."
I close my eyes for a moment, as I continue to run. "Call the cops, get the gun. We'll be there soon, Elaina."
I hang up, hating myself as I do it. But I do it to force her into motion. Moments later I burst through the door of our office. The look on my face has everyone's attention.
"Alan, Elaina has visitors!" I point at Leo and James. "You two stay here. James, coordinate with LAPD on the suspect they're booking for us. Callie and Alan, come with me. Move it!"
Alan is in motion already. His face is full of questions, his eyes are full of terror. His voice is steady, even as we rush down the stairs toward the parking lot. "How many?" he asks.
"Three. Creeping around the house. I told her to call the cops, get the gun, lock herself in the bathroom."
"Where the fuck are the agents who are supposed to be guarding Bonnie?"
"I don't know."
We run through reception, slamming through the front doors of the building, racing down the steps. Elaina and Bonnie, Elaina and Bonnie, the mantra cycles through my mind, over and over and over. On some level I register that I should be more afraid, but everything is about forward motion, not enough time to feel or think deeply. Callie hasn't said a word. She's following without question. And then it happens.
"Die, cunt!"
We are in the parking lot, and the young man who screamed this is rushing toward me, a knife raised in his hands. His face is contorted, maniacal. His eyes are hungry. Time slows to a frame-by-frame. Six feet, I think, analytical. Running, knife raised, that means he'll be on me in about a half second--
I have blown a hole through his head before I really even finish this thought. The speed involved in pulling my weapon and firing is just too fast to track if I had to think about it. It's instinctive, a decisive lightning strike.
His head explodes, time restarts at normal speed, I'm whipping aside as he pitches forward, his body hitting the pavement with a dull thud that sends both gray matter and the knife flying.
"Holy fucking shit!" Alan yells.
I notice neither he nor Callie have pulled their weapons yet. I don't hold it against them. We have a special relationship, my steel blackbird and I.
My mind continues to move at the same blinding speed. "Callie, you're going to drive. Keep moving!"
I see Tommy running toward us. I don't stop. "We're okay!" I yell.
"But there are unsubs at Alan's home!"
Tommy doesn't break stride, or nod, or do anything other than whip around and continue running at the same speed back toward his car. That Secret Service training, I think. Instant, unhesitating, decisive action.
We reach Callie's vehicle and pile in. She has it in gear and is burning rubber about two seconds later.