Rick dropped my hand, leaving it in the middle of the table. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin as if he were wiping beer--or the remembered taste of my mouth--away. "No one tells me who to sleep with." And he left me alone in room 666.
I pulled my hand back into my lap. "That went well." Beast hacked a laugh. I stood. I had work to do, most of it on the computer and in the files I'd photographed and sent to myself, the files from this very room. Odd how I ended up back here all the time, in the woo-woo room. On the way out of the NOPD, I discovered that I had missed a call from Derek Lee. And what he told me made me smile.
Half an hour before dusk, I roared into the Breaux Mart grocery store where Derek had told me to meet him and set my booted feet on the pavement. The black steel-walled van that pulled in beside me and idled might have worried a lesser woman. Cops call them snatch vans, among other things, none of them nice, because the vehicles are perfect for grabbing a woman or child and making off with her. I reached over my shoulder and placed a hand on my shotgun, ready to pull. I wasn't frightened, just cautious. Really cautious. A faint click sounded and the tinted window lowered with electronic smoothness. I cut the engine and set the kickstand. Derek pushed back dark glasses. "Jane with the funny last name."
"Derek with the marines. How long you been working with Leo Pellissier?" Me and my smart mouth.
"Six months. Ever since the Crips decided to make my boys into their boys and kill any who thought better of the offer. Why? You got a problem with it?"
This wasn't the first time I'd heard mention of the Crips. Another coincidence? Not likely. It was all starting to come together. Not that I had any idea what the final picture would look like. "Not really. I'm not fond of the Crips or any other gang that allies with a practitioner of dark magic and a few rebel vamps getting ready to start a vamp war."
"Is that what's happening?"
"I'm thinking yes."
"You ain't stupid, Injun Princess. I'm not fond of any fang-heads. But the devil you know . . ." he said with a bitter smile.
"The story of my life. How many you got with you?"
The side door slid open, revealing six young men--three I knew from mapping the hunting territory in their neighborhood--kneeling in the back open space, all but one dressed in black combat fatigues and armed to the teeth with military or military surplus equipment. I spotted shotguns, one assault rifle, numerous knives and vamp-killers, but nothing in the way of body armor. When I commented on that, one of the men unbuttoned his black shirt to reveal a chain-mail vest and a neck choker, a T-shirt beneath to protect his skin. "Silver-plated steel works better in combat with a vamp than armor. Guns are loaded with silver shot." He nodded at the shotgun strapped to my back. "What you carrying?"
"Various weaponry. Shotgun is a Benelli M4 Super 90, loaded with silver-flechette, hand-packed rounds."
"The model M4, designated by the military as a Joint Service Combat Shotgun? That M4?" I half smiled and he went on, the early-twentysomething man sounding as if he quoted from a military handbook, showing off. "Steel components have a matte-black, phosphated, corrosion-resistant finish. The aluminum parts are matte and hard anodized, the finish reducing the weapon's visibility during night operations."
From the back, another man took over. "The model M4 shotgun is considered by many experts to be nearly idiot-proof, and requires little or no maintenance, operates in all climates and weather conditions, can be dumped in a lake or pond and left for long periods of time and not corrode. It can fire twenty-five thousand rounds of standard ammunition without needing major parts replaced. That Benelli?"
"That Benelli," I agreed, my smile widening. "Mostly, though, I just like the fact that it's idiot-proof." The men shared a masculine chuckle for the little lady and her nice, safe weapon. "All you guys ex-military?"
"Why you asking?" the first man asked. His tone made it clear they still weren't interested in me knowing their names.
"We have a license to kill any vamps harboring the maker of the young rogues, and the young-rogue maker himself, of course. But there's no room for human collateral damage. Local law won't turn a blind eye to mistakes. So we're looking for the best of the best, which means military, not gangbangers. Shooters have to be sure--absolutely sure--what you fire at."
"Not a problem." Guy number one tossed me a set of low-light infrared goggles. "One man wears these. He goes in alone and quiet--recon. Places all humans visible to him as warm and living. Then the rest of us go in and take out anything dead and cold."
I bumped his age up to mid-thirties as I turned over the goggles. I hadn't known for sure that vamps wouldn't register on infrared. Learn something new every day. "Sweet," I said, tossing them back.
"The gear is from bounty money. Cash you got us for the vamp heads paid for all this."