Dark Queen (Jane Yellowrock #12)

“Oh,” I said. We were bait. Nothing new there. I looked around the area. “No security cameras. We got anything here? Something I’m not seeing?”

“No,” Wrassler said shortly. “Not a damn thing.” The fact that he used language in front of me suggested that he was significantly upset about the lack of security measures.

I took another look around. The furnishings were bare-bones—the kind of slick surfaces that were easy to do a forensic cleanup in case of blood spatter. “Sooo . . . What are we doing here?”

Derek brought in coffee and I took a cup of dark roast since tea wasn’t offered. He said, “As we’ve said, Leo wants us to take their measure before he signs anything.” Right. The official stance. But his eyes were worried.

The Robere twins entered and took places at the table, greeting everyone by name, getting out paper and pens, and adjusting suit coats. Both Brian and Brandon—the B-twins, as I called them—were armed, their Onorio scents like caramel and their NOLA accents even thicker. Wrassler turned on the PowerPoint. “Let’s take a look at our research into the Bighorn Pack.” He hit a button and Del appeared on-screen, elegant and severe, her blond hair upswept in a smooth French twist.

“Good morning, everyone. I’m sorry I can’t be there in person. Let’s get started, shall we? First order of business. As you know, the broadcast company that offered the highest bid for filming and distribution rights is owned by the Bighorn Pack. Here’s what we know about them and their internal power structure.” A graph appeared on the screen. I leaned in and listened, but also opened a file on my cell that was tied directly into Yellowrock Security’s databases for a deeper read.

The highest bidder for the televised Sangre Duello was possibly the same bunch who had me in their target sights. The same group who had entered HQ with the werecats and Dominique, the traitor.

Del had dossiers on every one of the Bighorn Pack, but they were slim reading, not much more than age, DOB, ancient driver’s licenses, faded passports, and job specs. And there were no current photos at all. Someone had wiped the web of all social media presence, someone very good at that job. Even Alex didn’t have anything better.

So I actually listened to every word Del said. Not that I’d be running the business end of this meeting. I was here for effect. Leo’s badass Enforcer. While she talked, I braided my hair into a long tail and made sure I was satisfied with my weapons’ placement. Del ended the briefing with the words, “Leo saw the leader of the Bighorn Pack after the event in sub-five. Alone. I do not know what transpired.”



* * *



? ? ?

The broadcaster / camera team arrived early, two convertible sporty cars, tops down, pulling up out front. They were young, looking no more than their early thirties, male, fit, and energetic. There was a blond, two gingers, the African Brit with ringlets, from sub-five, and two vaguely mixed-race guys with black hair, and the drivers, who stayed behind the wheel. They had a collective surfer-dude vibe, or a whitewater-paddler vibe, from home. The men had perfect skin, wind-tousled hair, and they were laughing as they leaped over the car doors to the street and sidewalk. I happened to be standing at the door as they landed, holding a bag of trash. I got a good view of them all. They each had a laptop. Thicker than usual. Old models. The top-down cars pulled quickly back into traffic. One of the men turned in a circle, watching the perimeter.

My honeybunch came up behind me. “What?” he asked.

“The black guy is a Brit. He was definitely one of the wolves from sub-five, in HQ to rescue Brute. What do you think?”

“Their suits are inexpensive,” Bruiser said. “Brand-new Brooks Brothers, the Golden Fleece collection, perhaps three thousand each.”

I gulped. Three K did not sound cheap to me.

“Nicely tailored. I think I recognize the hand of Mr. Lee’s alterations in the drape of the suit pants.”

Mr. Lee was a local guy and he handled the alterations of off-the-rack suits for many local businessmen. It was kinda weird that I knew this. I had been in New Orleans for too long.

“English-cut, slim-fit, two-button, dual-vent jackets. No cuffs on the pants. No bulges indicating weapons.”

“But . . .” I stopped. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen a werewolf in a suit. “They bought suits here. Why? They’re from up north.” I sucked a breath as it hit me. “The shoes,” I whispered. “Suits and Timberland hiking boots.”

The smell of his shock hit the air. “The soles are for traction. For an attack.” Bruiser leaped back into the conference room, shouting for Wrassler and Derek to take cover. As he hurdled the depth of the room in a single bound, I tossed the trash bag to the corner and drew a nine-mil, racked a round into the chamber. Drew the other and racked the slide.

“Jane! Get back here,” Bruiser said.

“No.” Back there wasn’t my job. I focused on the hands of the blond man who reached for the door handle. Hairy. Hairy hands. Hairy backs of his fingers. Thick blunt nails.

Werewolf. Pack hunter. Beast flooded strength into me.

The wolf opened the door and I shoved one muzzle into his face, the other to his side to cover the body directly behind him. If he had reacted, he could have trapped one arm and batted aside the other. He could have grabbed my hair braid and snatched me away—stupid, stupid, to have left it down—but he hesitated. Too late. He froze in indecision. The scent of werewolf filled my nostrils. The wolf’s pupils went wide and hard as he breathed in my own scent. I recognized another wolf who had been in sub-five, looking over the Son of Darkness. “Howdy, puppies,” I whispered. “Why don’t you set down the laptops, strip off the jackets, and step inside, slowly. Then you can assume the position. Or I can shoot you and let you shift to heal in front of all the security cameras on Tchoupitoulas Street. Up to you.”

The one with the gun barrel pressed to his head growled. “What the fuck you doing, bitch?”

“Bitch might be polite in your world, but it isn’t in mine. And foul language is definitely not allowed in my sandbox, puppy. Put. Down. The laptops. Take off your suit coats. Drop your cell phones. Now. Or bleed. You’ll be Internet sensations.”

The guy close enough to kiss started to say one of the verboten words and I tapped him with the muzzle. Maybe a little too hard to be polite. “Uh-uh-uh,” I said.

From the back, the voice with the British accent asked, “May I ask why the Enforcer to the Master of the City of New Orleans has drawn weapons on our pack?”

“Two reasons. Three wolves visited the HQ of the Master of the City of New Orleans, intending to steal Brute, a white werewolf in my employ. Then two of you visited with Leo, or so I hear. But somewhere in my recent timeline, a ginger wolf and some local gangbangers attacked me. The gangbangers are dead. The wolf is not, and is in the hands of PsyLED.”

“Jax. It must be,” the same voice said on a sigh. It was the tone of a parent over a defiant and foolish child. “May Artemis strike him dead.” He looked at his group. “All of you. Do as the Enforcer says.”