Текст книги "Dog Warrior"

Автор книги: Wen Spencer

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

"I didn't ask about them," Atticus said. "I want to know what you said about us! Now tell me, or I'll rip your arm off."

"Nothing! Not a goddamn thing."

Atticus could tell by the slight jump in the pulse under his fingertips that Daggit was lying. Clearly, though, he would have to pretend to believe him or beat the information out of him. He was already putting the whole setup at risk for what—a stranger he just met yesterday? A man who might be the coldest bastard on the planet?

Letting go of Daggit, he stepped back out of Daggit's reach as the big man surged to his feet. The room suddenly seemed claustrophobic, taken up by the angry biker, the seated Animal, and the table blocking the exit. There was some part of him, that punk kid he used to be, that wanted Daggit to come at him so he had an excuse to beat the snot out of him. An older, wiser self, nearly swamped under the drug's influence, knew that would be a bad thing. Guns were already in the mix, and Ru could easily be hurt.

"Daggit, he's Pack," Animal drawled, seemingly undisturbed by the violence or the gun that Ru held. "That's a losing hand. Just fold."

Daggit froze, hands clenched into massive fists, panting out breath tainted with beer, blood, and years of cigarette smoking. He glared at Atticus like he meant murder. Atticus stared back, ready and waiting to see how things played out. They stood statue-still for a minute, like samurai testing each other's will. Finally, Daggit wiped his bloody upper lip with the back of his hand and looked away.

Ru took it as a sign that danger was past. He thumbed the revolver's cylinder out and rejected the silver-tipped bullets; they rained onto the tabletop. "You don't want us to know about them. We don't want them to know about us. It seems fairly simple—mum's the word, all the way around."

Daggit grunted.

"We lost three men at Buffalo," Ru reminded Daggit as an explanation of Atticus's reaction. "You lost three too."

"Four." Daggit spat out blood and wiped his thumb over his lip. "No one's heard from Toback since; whoever hit the place took him."

"You sure he wasn't in on the hit?" Ru asked.

Daggit glanced to Animal and shook his head. "I don't know him that well. He's part of the Buffalo chapter."

"Big, stupid, and loyal as a dog," Animal said. "That was David Toback."

So the nomad Animal was the link between Buffalo and Boston.

"Did you tell the Temple about the Buffalo deal before it went down?" Atticus asked.

Animal thought a moment this time before shaking his head. "No. Core got really creepy in the spring, moving out to Buffalo and talking about the end of the world. Let's just say I don't drink around them—just in case they're in the middle of doing a Jonestown thing."

When members of the People's Temple staged a cult suicide with cyanide-laced grape Kool-Aid, not everyone had drunk willingly. It wasn't a good sign that the outlaw bikers—with their loose grip on normal—considered the Temple of New Reason unstable.

"So they're based in Buffalo now?" Atticus asked.

Animal eyed him warily and then shrugged. "They moved again. To Pennsylvania or Ohio. No forwarding address."

Ohio was where they killed Ukiah.

"When we do this again on Saturday, we're not doing it here," Atticus said firmly. "Do you know the Boston Harbor Hotel?"

"It's hard to miss," Animal said.

"Use the guest phone and ask for Steele. We'll meet you there Saturday, at eight o'clock."

Atticus slung the backpack over his shoulder, and they beat a hasty retreat then, the drugs weighing heavy on Atticus's back because of his hyperawareness of it.

Kyle started up the Explorer when they walked out of the bar and sat idling, waiting for them to reach the Jaguar.

"We'll need to bag this and wash my hands." Atticus hated the delay, but he wanted it off him before they got into closed confines of the Jag.

While Atticus kept watch, Ru got out a large plastic bag and tented it open for Atticus, so he could slide the backpack in without touching the bag itself. Luckily they always kept bottles of water in the car. Ru emptied two over Atticus' hands before Atticus sensed that the drug had been washed away. Decontaminated, they got into the Jag and headed for the interstate. A few minutes later, the Explorer's lights appeared in the rearview mirror.

"No one's following you," Kyle said over the radio, after Ru turned off their wires. "What the hell happened in there? It sounded like Atticus jumped someone."

"I did," Atticus snapped. Ru wisely said nothing.

"Sumpter called. He wanted to know when we're dropping the drugs to him."

"We can do it tomorrow morning," Atticus said. "I want to get back to the house."

"They managed to reconstruct some of the records from Buffalo," Kyle said. "He's got a DVD for us."

They'd stopped at a red light, giving Atticus time to shuffle through his options. Sending Kyle to see Sumpter was a no-go; oil and water mixed better. Nor did Atticus like the idea of sending Kyle back to the house alone. If Ukiah was awake and not as harmless as he seemed, Kyle—or Ru, for that matter—would be no match for the Dog Warrior. Ru could take the drugs to Sumpter, but there was a slim chance that they had a tail that Kyle hadn't spotted. Besides, Sumpter was an officious prick and would probably throw a fit if Atticus, as team leader, didn't show. Normally Atticus couldn't care less, but he wanted the DVD—which Sumpter might refuse to hand over to just Ru.

Atticus took comfort that Daggit probably wouldn't endanger his status as middleman. Whatever the biker leader said to the cult, it probably hadn't included specifics on how to find them. Atticus sighed. "Fine. We'll make the drop."

***

Ukiah slept deep and heavy as the dead, reabsorbed memories unfolding as dreams.

The Dog Warriors hunted like wolves. They ran silent and intent through the autumn night, the moon full and the wind wild, covering the sound of their passing. Ukiah could feel the Pack as they slipped through moonlight and shadows. Grim as their mission was, they were pleased he hunted with them. He made them feel complete: wolves showing their young how to hunt.

Fields of shorn hay. Pastures of sleeping cattle. Rich, freshly plowed earth, ready for the winter wheat. They searched for their prey, the Temple of New Reason; more specifically, for the deadly alien machines– the Ae– that the cult had stolen out of storage. Their informant, ex-cultist Socket, could give them only general directions; she'd been given exact change for getting the U-Haul truck through the tollbooths of the Pennsylvania and Ohio turnpikes, and knew that the trip would take roughly two hours. The cultists had mentioned a chain of convenience stores in Ohio by name, telling her one was close to their destination. She wasn't of the" inner circle," so the cult told her nothing more about where they were going, or the plan once they got there.

With perfect memory and a century of roaming the countryside, the Dog Warriors were able to narrow the possibilities to a twenty-mile radius. They checked the hiding places the Pack knew and found them empty. So now the Dog Warriors searched on foot, with nothing between them and clues that the land might hold, using no motors that would alert their prey.

In a low fold in the land, they found the burned remains of a bonfire, built from old telephone poles, heavy with creosote. The fire would have burned hot and long. Ukiah crouched there, smoky ghosts of the bonfire filling his senses as he shifted fingers through the fine ash, finding bits of bone.

The man had been short, dark haired and dark eyed, Italian in heritage, born of a human mother and father, middle-aged, perhaps a parent himself—and long dead before the cult killed his body. The bone fragment showed that he'd been infected by the Ontongard and replaced, cell by cell, until he was fully alien in stolen human form. The cremated man had been Hex's Get long enough that all of the bone had not only been replaced but improved upon, a creature of inhuman speed and strength, healing faster than Ukiah could; the Get should have been nearly indestructible.

Rennie came out of the darkness, silent in his passage.

Ukiah handed the bone to him." We're close."

The tall, lean leader of the Dog Warriors examined the fragment, reading Hex's familiar stamp on what once was human." They're good at this game."

Rennie meant the Temple of New Reason, who had discovered the alien Ontongard and deemed them demons. Not that they were far from wrong– the Ontongard certainly fit the description of evil personified. The first Ontongard, Hex, had extended himself into hundreds by infecting humans over the centuries; a hundred thousand more humans had died when their immune systems resisted the virulent infection.

" The Temple is successful only because the Gets never see them coming," Ukiah said. In the way that Pack knew Pack, the Ontongard could sense the Pack. The cult, though, could lose itself in the sea of humanity and strike without warning. Unfortunately, the Pack was as blind as the Ontongard to the cult, and thus just as vulnerable.

Seeing themselves as holy warriors, the cult believed the ends justified the means of saving the world. Ironically, with the stolen Ae, they could accidentally destroy all life on the planet.

A train whistle echoed out over the land, drawing Rennie's attention to the east." We're losing the dark." Rennie tossed the bone aside and took off at a run.

The dream skipped, plunging into darkness and resurfacing . . .

Ukiah's cell phone vibrated, and he paused to answer. An unfamiliar phone number showed on the display." Hello?"

" Is this Joe?" a female voice asked.

" No. You've got a wrong number."

" Is this. . ." She read off a number, but the last two digits were transposed from his.

" No. You messed up dialing the number."

" I'm sorry; I just got this new phone. Sorry."

The line went dead. Storm clouds cloaked the moon; the night grew darker. The lone headlight of a train crossed his path, a quarter mile ahead . . .

. . . the freight cars flashed by, the rails ringing up and down the sonic range. He was the only one on this side of the track. The diesel engine roared on, too far ahead for him to catch. Somewhere a mile or more in the opposite direction, the end of the train had yet to come into sight.

"Go on," he thought to Rennie, who had paused in his hunting to check on Ukiah."I'll catch up in a few minutes."

Rennie's memories played back over the countryside they'd just searched, reconsidering it for hidden dangers, finding none."Come when you can."

Ukiah ran alongside the train, looking for something that went over the tracks, or under . . .

. . . Ukiah's cell phone vibrated. Who now? He took out his phone. The same number as last time showed on the display. He thought about answering and growling at the clueless woman, but he settled for turning off the phone completely . . .

. . . He paused on the berm of the highway, squinting as the headlights of an oncoming truck hit his night-sensitive eyes. He fumbled out his flashlight, knowing that he'd be night-blind for several minutes after the truck passed—a hazard of having eyes that shifted to night vision. At the fringe of his awareness, he sensed sudden intensity from the others– they'd found something. He went still, focusing on them. The Dog Warriors gathered around a farmhouse, windows dark, hunched under towering oaks. The wind brought the smell of C4 and the taste of red.

Movement warned him too late, and he snapped out of the focus as the truck suddenly veered toward him.

It hit him on the left side, smashed him to the hard road, and rolled over him. Caught between the truck and the road, he tumbled. His flashlight flipped alongside him, showing frightening glimpses of the trailer's undercarriage. Strut, axle, gears flashed by. Somehow the big wheels missed him but his flashlight went under the last set and was crunched flat.

It lasted only seconds but it seemed like forever. Finally it was over. Ukiah lay sprawled facedown on the pavement, dazed and broken. The truck shuddered to a stop, its engine dropping to the low rumble of an idle. The air was heavy with the smell of smoking rubber.

"Cub?" Rennie's thoughts pushed through the pain."What happened?"

Good question. Ukiah tried to lever himself up and discovered with an explosion of new pain that his left arm was shattered.

"Cub?"

"A . . . a . . . a truck. A truck hit me."

Cars were stopping on the highway; people were getting out. For a moment it seemed like a normal accident. Then Ukiah recognized one of the cars: Goodman's dark blue Honda. The cult had taken the car after dismembering their rogue kidnapper.

"Rennie! Rennie!" He could only think of the bonfire victim, chopped up and burned to ash. He fought to stay conscious, to try to crawl away. They were certain to do worse than kill him.

Ice swung down out of the truck's cab and headed toward him, in long, determined strides." He's probably not alone. We have to act quickly. Kill him."

" But if we're right about him—" a female cultist started to protest.

" Then he'll only be dead a little while." Ice handed her a pistol." And ye shall chase your enemies, and they shall fall before you by the sword. . ."

Ukiah bolted awake. Even with his eyes open, though, he could see the muzzle flash suddenly brilliant in the rain-cloaked night, feel the bullets hit him with a force that nearly matched that of the truck.

He looked around the room, trying to fill his vision with something else. He was safe. He was with his brother. He was safe.

Then he realized he was alone in the house, his panting the only sound except the rumble of the surf and the wind buffeting the walls of glass.

Atticus left?

Implications of the dream dawned on him. He had his memories back. Atticus must have put the mice in bed with him. That skunk!

Wondering what time it was, he checked the waistband of his boxer shorts. Yes, Ru's phone was still where he'd slipped it during the Iron Horses' arrival. Eleven-thirty—Atticus and Ru had done their drug deal, and probably were on their way back. The call log indicated eight missed phone calls.

Working through the phone's unfamiliar menu system, he discovered that most of the calls were from Max, but the latest was from Indigo. The display showed that the battery was low and the phone was picking up only a weak signal from the carrier.

He left Indigo's number showing and hit the talk button.

"Special Agent Zheng," Indigo answered.

"It's me. I just woke up."

"Good, you're still with the phone," Indigo said cryptically.

"The battery is low, so it might cut out at any point," he told her.

"Are you safe?"

"Yeah."

"Hang up then. Save the power."

Trusting her, he did.

Ukiah sat up and took inventory of his newly healed arm, bending and flexing the fingers, wrist, and elbow. The knitted bones were still weak, but he could use it if he was careful. Under the bandages, the bullet wounds had healed to scabs. It would be another couple of days before the skin was unmarked, but he was strong enough to leave.

The door, though, was locked.

They certainly didn't want him leaving.

He rested his head on the door. Was he strong enough to break the dead bolt?

Outside, a vehicle pulled up to the house. Was Atticus back? His sleeping memories marked the departure of a Ford Explorer and the snarl of a sports car. This engine didn't sound like either. Someone else had found him.

***

The Jaguar's navigation system said that they had an exit coming up on the right. A proliferation of signs, though, stated that the road was closed and suggested they use unfamiliar roads.

"Figures," Atticus muttered. "Our luck is running true lately. All bad."

The navigation system also seemed decidedly annoyed by the detour, insisting that they take the exit as they flashed past the barricaded roadway. Beyond the heavy fortifications, the pavement came to an abrupt halt at a vast pit, seemingly a mile square—a forest of cranes and a jumble of structures, none of them linked, that refused to take any logical form.

"What the hell are they building there?"

Ru made a noise to indicate he was clueless.

"It's probably the Big Dig," Kyle said over the radio.

"The what?"

"The largest urban construction project in the history of the modern world. Forty-two miles of underground highway in a path over two hundred feet wide."

"Oh, yeah. I guess I've heard of it," Atticus said. "Mostly that it's overbudget and way behind schedule."

"Well, they're basically building the Panama Canal through the heart of Boston."

"I heard that in some places they'll have, like, four tunnels stacked on top of themselves," Ru said.

"Four? What the hell for?"

"One for cars, one for buses, the subway system, and the last . . ." Ru searched his memory. "Oh, yeah, the subway station itself."

The detour sent them off on a newly constructed road that the navigation system didn't acknowledge existed, and minutes later they were lost in a maze of small one-way side streets. Atticus cursed softly under his breath as the navigation system struggled to plot a new course. Hopefully finding their way back to the beach house wouldn't be as complicated and time-consuming; he wanted to see for himself that Ukiah was safe.

***

The Iron Horses had described the Boston Harbor Hotel as "hard to miss," and they were right. The street in front of the hotel was an obstacle course as the old elevated freeway was being dismantled. The hotel itself, though, was surprisingly beautiful: crowned like a princess with an elegant rotunda and a four-story archway through the heart of the building to a harborside courtyard and yacht-lined wharf.

They parked in the hotel's underground parking lot and rode the elevator up to the lobby. There it stopped and Kyle stepped off.

Atticus stuck his hand out to catch the doors before they could close. "What are you doing?"

"There's a business center here. I'm going to connect to the Internet and do some searches on the cult."

"You can do that after we talk to Sumpter."

Kyle fidgeted in place. "I don't want to talk to Sumpter."

"I don't want to talk to him either," Ru said.

Atticus gave Ru a hard look. "Neither do I, but we have to."

"You two talk to him. I don't need to be there. I'm just backup."

"Yeah, we're a team," Atticus said. "Come on."

Kyle shook his head, getting his mulish look. "No."

Atticus sighed. "Fine, fine, we'll talk to him. We're going to make this quick, twenty minutes tops."

"I'm just downloading stuff to my laptop for later." Kyle patted his shoulder bag.

"Ten minutes." Atticus let the door shut.

"I don't blame him," Ru murmured as the elevator started up again.

"Sumpter is an asshole," Atticus agreed.

He and Ru rode the elevator to the top floor and found Sumpter's room.

"Yes?" Sumpter called from within the room when Atticus rapped on the door.

"It's Steele and Takahashi."

Footsteps neared the door, there was a pause to use the spyhole, and then the door opened. The wave of air brought out the reek of Sumpter's cologne, Old Spice put on heavy.

"Come in!" Sumpter murmured. He glanced beyond them. "Where's Rainman?"

"Who?" Ru chose to misunderstand him.

"Johnston," Sumpter said.

"Kyle isn't autistic," Atticus stated as calmly as he could.

"Well, there's something wrong with the dweeb."

Atticus stepped close to Sumpter. "Don't . . . insult . . . my . . . backup."

"Did you make the deal?" Sumpter ignored him, heading back into the hotel room. It was a large suite, with windows overlooking Boston Harbor. The door they came through opened to a living room with a sofa, desk, easy chair, and coffee table. A door into a second room revealed a king-size bed, slightly rumpled.

"Yes." Atticus examined the plastic bag containing the backpack a second time, looking for the drug's telltale glitter. He'd checked it downstairs in the garage while writing his name on the tape sealing it shut, but he was feeling paranoid. "We've got some information on the drug. It's a lot more dangerous than we've been led to believe. It's possible that it's lethal with one dose."

"And it's transparent—nearly invisible," Ru said.

"Invisible?" Sumpter frowned, eyes narrowing. "Are you sure you weren't gypped?"

"This is the real stuff." Atticus held out the bag. "It should be handled only while wearing plastic gloves."

"Check." Sumpter took the bag and added his name to the seal.

"We set up another buy on Saturday, but we changed the location to here."

"Here?" Sumpter asked.

"Lasker's beach house is too exposed. Also the sellers won't deal out there."

"You've made contact with them; that's all that matters." Sumpter disappeared into the bedroom with the bag. The closet door slid open, and a moment later slid closed. He returned with a DVD in hand. "The case and circuitry of the digital video recorder's hard drive were trashed, but the platters were salvageable. A few hours in a clean room and the boys in the lab managed to recover most of the drive. They burned about ten days of data onto this DVD for us." He loaded the DVD into the laptop set up on the desk. "I've scanned through the disk, and it looks like the last few minutes is the only thing worthwhile."

The Buffalo team had used a standard eight-camera system, recording the last minutes of their lives. One camera focused on the desolate parking lot in a mostly abandoned industrial park, carefully set to pick up license plates and faces of people sitting inside the cars. Four others covered different angles of the staged "office" area, well lit and painted a sharp white for better contrast. The last three cameras had been scattered through the shadowy warehouse with motion sensors and silent alarm systems attached.

Sumpter started the video with the team waiting for the buyers as caught by camera four.

The kid, Jason German, juggled while telling a joke; he arced four small cloth sacks through a continuous graceful loop. Tracy Scroggins sat on a battered desk, still and patient, quirking his mouth into a smile at Jason's nervous antics. Walt Boyes, the backup, wasn't visible, most likely stationed at the monitors in the concealed room, judging by how the camera zoomed in and out on the kid. The time stamp ticked off the seconds until they died.

". . . and she says, 'Whatever you gave me, Doctor, didn't work.'" Jason was midjoke as the video started. "'While my farts are still perfectly silent, they now smell awful. Thank goodness that no one can tell it's me farting, because they could peel the paint off walls!' 'Good,' shouts the doctor, 'now that we cleared up your sinuses, we can start to work on your hearing!'"

There was an odd noise from off camera.

"I think you just killed Walt," Scroggins said. "You okay back there, Walt?" A muffled laugh was the only answer. "You've heard that one before, haven't you?"

"It's funnier this time," Walt Boyes called from his concealed room.

"I don't know whether to be complimented or insulted." Jason sent one of the balls looping over his shoulder and deftly caught it.

"Heads up!" Boyes announced the buyers' arrival.

Jason caught the cloth bags he'd been juggling and put them aside, saying, "It's about time."

Tracy nervously checked the draw on his pistol.

The door opened. Four men entered dripping slightly from rain, just as the Iron Horses had claimed. Atticus had seen the bodies of the other three bikers, so he focused on the missing man. He was a big black man with a sleepy look to him. He leaned against the back wall, tucked between two support columns. Nothing about him suggested that he knew what was coming. While Jason and the lead biker exchanged presale banter about the heavy rain outside, Toback literally picked his nose out of boredom.

"Who gives a fuck about the rain?" Scroggins gave the banter a shove toward real business. "Are we going to do this, or talk ourselves to death?"

"Tracy! Jason! Incoming!" Boyes shouted. "Incoming!"

Sumpter reached down and slowed the playback, murmuring, "This goes too fast to see otherwise."

The door flew open and a man walked in, shotgun at his shoulder. He fired as he walked, shooting the bikers even as they turned. Others filed in after him, six in all, faces set and emotionless as they fired. The bullets slammed the bikers' bodies around like puppets with their strings randomly jerked. In the slowed replay, the blood splattered gruesomely. Scroggins and German had flung themselves behind the steel desk. The camera showed only the tops of their heads as they returned fire, pinned behind the desk. Two of the shooters went down, but the other four rounded the sides of the desk and fired point-blank. The police would find later that Scroggins had tried to shield German with his own body.

The time stamp had ticked through twelve seconds.

But the shooters had missed Toback, who had cowered between the support columns. While they started to reload, he charged, a long steel pipe in hand. The foursome glanced up, and one, handing his gun to another, stepped forward to engage Toback hand-to-hand.

The shooter ducked the steel pipe casually, and then caught hold of it. There was a momentary contest of strength that the big man should have won, but the shooter wrestled the pipe away and struck Toback down with it.

The other three stepped forward, guns now loaded, and aimed down at the prone biker. They checked, apparently reconsidered killing Toback, and turned away. They turned toward Boyes's hole instead, leveled their guns, and opened fire. They systematically shifted their fire, visibly working left to right. Atticus recalled the line of bullet holes, how they ran with machine precision across the back wall; he thought that only one marksman had made them. He watched now, stunned with the knowledge that three men had acted in unison. How were they coordinating their shots? He realized then that so far they hadn't uttered a single word.

Behind them, the impossible happened. The two dead shooters scrambled to their feet. One picked up the bags containing the money and the drugs. The other stooped down to grab Toback by the ankles and dragged him outside, leaving the swath of clean floor that would later puzzle Atticus. The shooters' clothes showed bloody bullet holes and gaping wounds, entrances and exits indicating paths through vital organs, but they seemed unhampered and unperturbed by the massive damage done to them.

Walt Boyes started to scream, a wordless howl of anger and pain, like a wounded animal. The guns thundered, and the screaming stopped, and then the video ended.

Sumpter took the DVD out, put it in a jewel case, and held it out to Atticus. "That was the best angle to view the shooters. You'll want to study all the angles."

Atticus took it numbly. Two images chased through his mind: the shooters standing up, ignoring their wounds, and Ukiah coming back to life. His brother had known about the drug, known the bikers, and they found him on I-90, a straight shot from Buffalo. It was the cultists who manufactured the drug and killed Ukiah. Who were the bad guys here? Was it the cult who hit his brother with a car and then shot him? Or was it the Pack, who might have staged the shooting in Buffalo? He was going to get answers from his brother, even if he had to beat them out of him.

***

Ru talked them out of Sumpter's room. There was an older couple waiting for the elevator, so they rode in silence, watching the floor numbers count downward. They found Kyle in the business center, downloading information to his laptop.

"That was not twenty minutes," he grumbled, typing furiously on the keyboard.

"Change of plans," Atticus said. "You and Ru are staying here."

"What?" Ru gave him an angry look.

Kyle glanced up to eye them standing over him and then bowed his head back over his keyboard. "So the video was that bad? I, for one, would rather not see it, but I know I'm going to have to digitally enhance it until my eyes bleed."

"There's no reason for all three of us to go," Atticus stated, answering Ru and ignoring Kyle because he was completely right.

"And we'll be safer here?" Ru added, as if he were finishing Atticus's statement.

Yes.He knew what Ru would say to that, so he didn't say it aloud, not that it mattered. Ru knew him well enough to guess what he was thinking.

"I'm going with you," Ru said.

"I'm just going to pick up Ukiah and come back," Atticus said.

"Don't get stupid because of what happened to the Buffalo team," Ru said.

"The Jag only seats two comfortably," Atticus said.

"We can take the Explorer," Ru countered.

"It needs gas," Kyle interjected the information quietly into conversation.

"I'll be fine alone," Atticus said.

"We don't even know if there are rooms available here." Ru waved his hand to indicate the hotel.

"Two rooms." Kyle paused in his typing. "Should I reserve them?"

Atticus glanced at the screen and saw that Kyle had the reservation form for the Boston Harbor Hotel up, the request for two rooms already filled out, his hand hovering over the enter key. "Do it."

Kyle tapped downward. "You two fight it out." He shut down his computer and unhooked it with swift efficiency. "I'm checking in."

Ru sat back on the desk as Kyle escaped. "I'm coming with you. This is different this time. These people know what you are. They know what it takes to really kill you. The playing field is level here, and I'm not going to let you go without backup."

Atticus sighed, recognizing the pattern. He was being overly cautious, and Ru was asserting his right to put everything on the line. If Ru didn't want danger—and the accompanying adrenaline rush—he'd have been a lawyer like his father had wanted him to be. "Fine."

***

Atticus decided to take the Jag, as it was faster. Ukiah would have to suffer in the cramped space pretending to be a backseat—if the Dog Warrior was even still at the beach house. It was possible that he had woken up, found them gone, and left. Atticus funneled his anger and fears into the car, and they roared down the highway at speeds that made it more low-altitude flying than driving.