Flame in the Dark Page 6

  JoJo blew a laugh through her nose. “Yours and mine both, chicky. I think the designer was British and male. Black and female weren’t on his radar when he input his ‘regional pronunciation, intonation, and enunciation modulations.’”

  I held in a grin at the quote. “Hillbilly was even less on his radar. Still, I think the new software is pretty good.”

  “Anything that keeps me from being the unit’s transcriptionist is good by me.” JoJo—who was really Special Agent Josephine Anna Jones—stretched in her chair, throwing her arms up and arching her spine. PsyLED agents didn’t tend to follow regulations in dress or hairstyle, and JoJo was less amenable to rules than most. Today she was wearing red and pink—red beads in her wrapped braids; red leggings under a flowing pink skirt; layered dark pink, skintight, tank-style tunics that flared below her waist; and a short, dark red jacket. Her shoes were black. If for some reason JoJo had to go into the field, the skirt would come off, field boots would replace the shoes, and she would be ready to go. “What else did you find?” she asked.

  I almost told her that the mints were happy today, but JoJo would just roll her eyes. “Everyone at the party has interlocking business and personal relationships that sometimes go back generations. They attend the same churches, are either right wing or left in their politics and theology, vacation at the same places, and bank at the same institutions. Their vacations are lavish. They routinely cheat on their spouses. They divorce often, and those divorces are spectacular and vicious, the custody battles brutal. They make money together, they politic together, and they marry into each other’s families. It’s almost incestuous.” And I would know, coming from a church where the bloodlines were mapped out for generations to keep us from marrying our own cousins. “You?”

  “More of the same. Nothing that points to a specific reason for murder, terrorism, or even political assassination. There’s been no recent chatter about anyone looking for a hired gun, and nothing on the terrorism boards, international or homegrown. So we still don’t know who the real target was.”

  “The Holloways’ blinds and draperies were open, so if there was a specific target, all the shooter had to do was take a hunting rifle and a deer stand, ratchet it up into a tree, and take a single shot,” I said, “or several if he wanted to confuse the objective. This was messy. It feels like terrorism.”

  “Look at probie drawing conclusions.” She pointed at me as if showing me off to a crowd. We were alone. I wasn’t sure I understood, but she added, “Not bad, girl. I’m leaning that way too. Evidence that obviates that conclusion?”

  “The eight seconds we noticed on the video before he started firing,” I said. “He took time to study the scene, choose his target, raise his weapon, aim, and make a limited fire to take out people with the first rounds. And he had a rate of fire upwards of seven hundred rounds per minute and a caliber of ammo that would punch through brick walls, enough to take out everyone at the party if he’d wanted to. It’s been suggested that he—we’re guessing male—wasn’t used to the weapon or wasn’t a good shot. Or had another agenda.”

  “Yeah. Not bad at all, Maggoty. Get back to work.”

  I shook my head. The nickname Maggoty had made its way into the official reports. It was embarrassing, though there was nothing I could do about it.

  A piercing wail came over JoJo’s computer and her attention snapped back to the multiple screens. “Get your gear,” she said. “We got another one. Knoxville PD just got a ten-eighty-one code. Multiple shots fired into a restaurant. Secret Service is on-site, which means the senator was there. Sending the address to your tablet and your cell.” Her voice rose to follow me down the hallway. “Abrams Tolliver’s family is inside. His security team is pinned down. Wear your vest! Take an AR-15 and a comms unit. More info as I have it.”

  “I’m not certified yet on automatic rifles,” I yelled back as I grabbed gear.

  JoJo cursed and said, “Take one anyway. Give it to one of the team when you get there!”

  “Got it!” I shouted and checked out an AR-15 from the weapons room and added it to my gear.

  “Be safe!” JoJo shouted.

  I grabbed my gobag and was out the door into the dying light of day while the last words were still dying on the air.

  • • •

  I had requested use of an official vehicle, but the request was taking forever making its way up the chain of command, and so I was still using my old truck for official business. The C10 didn’t have speed, it didn’t corner well, and it drank gasoline like a Saturday night drunk did liquor, but it did have three things going for it. It wasn’t a vehicle that people saw and thought, Cop, it was reliable, and the heater put out hot air like an industrial furnace. It was already warm inside by the time I reached the end of the street and turned on my jerry-rigged blue lights. My new PsyLED car would be here in a day or a week or maybe a month. With official vehicles it was hard to tell. But when it came, I’d have an ugly but city-smart vehicle to drive while on business, and the truck could be for farm activities, as it should be.

  Pierced Dreams was the only four-star restaurant in Old City Knoxville, and the location was not good for armed response. East Jackson Avenue completed its evolution into West Jackson Avenue at the intersection with South Central, which was a hub of the Old City revitalization. The intersection was not a perfect ninety degrees, but a skewed crossing of angles, with nearby access to I-40, Highway 158, and Hall of Fame Avenue, as well as industrial sites and multiple railroad tracks. The Tennessee River cut the city in half and it was always close to anything in Old City, not that the river was any sort of getaway route, not with RVACs and drones and such. But the shooter could get away easily by car, motorbike, or bicycle or on foot. Or take hostages. Or hold law enforcement or the populace in place, pinned down, and take them out at his leisure.

  Into my comms unit, JoJo said, “More shots fired. And a fire alarm is going off. One report says flames are visible inside Pierced Dreams. Another says flames are shooting up from a nearby building. Rural/Metro Fire and KFD are all en route. This is an active shooter scene. Repeat. This is an active shooter scene.”

  “Copy,” I said. I took corners too fast, hearing sirens converging on Old City, seeing the city’s blue law-enforcement lights interspersed with the red flashing of other emergency units and the Christmas decorations on buildings and streetlights. Leaving the rest of the city with a decreased policed presence. If there was a second incident, things could get difficult. Law enforcement concentrated in one area was a major concern. A few well-placed bombs and the city could lose a large percentage of its officers. It also gave criminals the opportunity to commit crimes in other parts of the city, places with less coverage.

  My headlights bounced across the greenery as I took a turn too fast. My heart was speeding up, my breath growing fast and shallow. I forced my breathing to slow down and tried to relax my shoulders.

  “Info coming in,” JoJo said into my earbud. “Feds are on-site. Uniforms are on-site. We have two civilians down and two security personnel stationed outside not answering comms. According to Secret Service, Abrams Tolliver is among those inside, uninjured. I do not have a name for the SAC. Repeat, do not have the SAC.”

  The SAC was the special agent in charge, the person coordinating law enforcement and making demands. Secret Service superseded the FBI, the state police, and the city police. And PsyLED unless we proved that the suspect was a paranormal, and that hadn’t happened. Since it hadn’t been backed up by a reading of a known paranormal creature on the psy-meter 2.0, and all I had was a possibly anomalous spike, my reading about the shooter from the Holloway party was opinion. If Ming of Glass hadn’t been involved in the first shooting at the Holloways’, I doubt we’d have been part of it at all, but mundane human LEOs hated to deal with the blood-suckers. That I could deal with. Not knowing who the SAC was complicated matters because it said that the chain of c
ommand had not been established.

  “More info,” JoJo said. “Tonight was also a fund-raiser event, and I have the guest list. Scanning and comparing to last night’s event.”

  “Copy,” I said, taking another corner too fast.

  JoJo said, “Meanwhile, we have Occam heading that way as part of the fed contingent, ETA one minute, and T. Laine and Tandy coming in from the medical examiner’s office, ETA seven.

  “Occam, you copy?”

  “Copy. Arriving on-scene now with feds. I was liaising with them when the call came in.” The sounds of shouting and sirens came through Occam’s comms system. “Don’t know which way our people are coming from, but enter from the west. City streets are being blocked off by uniforms. Staging area is on West Jackson, half a block from Central. According to on-site security, there were multiple shots fired. No shots for the last two and a half minutes. No sign of the shooter or shooters, but it’s getting dark, so we may have missed something. Activating vest cam. JoJo, you getting this?”

  “Acquiring direct video upload now. Feds are sending up an RVAC, people. Tandy and T. Laine, you copy?” JoJo asked.

  “Copy on active shooters, staging area, and RVAC. ETA four if traffic holds,” Tandy said, his voice tense. I hoped T. Laine was sending out soothing vibes. The empath on a meltdown at an active shooting scene would be a problem.

  “My ETA is thirty seconds,” I said. I took yet another corner too fast, seeing blue and red lights just ahead, grateful for the RVAC. Remote-viewing aircraft were small, quiet, and easier to control than drones. The lack of wind, the presence of city lights, and the location made them useful tonight. They could buzz rooftops, clearing them for shooters, drop into alleys and take a look with infrared and low-light cameras, and follow unknown subjects from above. They were freakishly expensive and if the shooter spotted one and shot it down, there would be no replacement until next year’s budget. But better a dead plastic toy than a dead human; I didn’t care how many got trashed.

  My talents were pretty useless in the inner city. If I recalled, there was nothing green within blocks. The closest green would be the artificial berms near the loops of major roads.

  “People,” JoJo said. “We got some major players at both events—the party last night and the dinner venue tonight. Abrams Tolliver and his brother Justin Tolliver and their wives. Justin is one of the überwealthy. He is heavily involved in, and financially supports, the state’s political scene. He also runs the family finances, a wheeler-dealer in real estate development and hedge funds. He’s got so many enemies it’s easier to figure out who doesn’t hate him. Mayor Morning was present both nights. Ming of Glass, the vampire VIP, is on both guest lists. Ming justifies our presence. I see Matilda Johnson, Irena Hastings, and Samuel L. Clayton. Johnson and Hastings are big in the arts scene and Clayton is a local preacher and political up-and-comer. All three are on tonight’s guest list but were not on last night’s.” She paused and added, “I see here that Clayton is not attending because of his sister’s death at the Holloways’ party. That would be Margaret Clayton, deceased. There may be more last-minute inclusions or cancellations, names that didn’t make it onto tonight’s guest list as compiled by the Secret Service and just sent to us.”

  I pulled onto West Jackson, wondering if the original target was Abrams Tolliver or one of the others or more than one of the others. This was getting sticky. I rolled down the truck window and held out ID to the uniformed officer at the barricade. I followed his pointing finger to parking in the staging area. “I’m on-site in official parking,” I said. “Occam? What’s your twenty?” His “twenty” was his location.

  Occam said, “I see your POC POV. Park at the back of the lot where it adjoins the train tracks. Approaching you now.”

  “POC POV” was “piece-of-crap personally owned vehicle.” Occam was making fun of my truck. I pulled into a parking spot between a van for EMTs and the special operations team—SWAT—patted the dash, and cut off the engine. Occam tapped on the window. I opened the door and slid to the ground.

  Shots sounded. Two, close together, followed by a third. Before the first two echoed, I was on the pavement underneath Occam. Fear blasted through me. Fear of being held down. Fear of being controlled. Memories of fighting for my life. I could take his life . . . Bloodlust slammed through me. On instinct, I elbowed him in the gut, rolled, and hit his jaw with the heel of my other hand. A fast two-strike reaction. Spook School training. Fighting my need. “Get off me!” I yelled, kneeing him hard.

  Occam oofed, breath leaving his body fast.

  I could have his life for the land . . . I hit him again.

  He rolled over. Out of my reach. “Do not . . .” I caught a breath. Forced down the craving, the want, the blazing desire to kill, to take his blood and his life and his soul for the earth. To save myself. I found my feet and backed away, moving in a crouch, into the shadows of early evening, hiding. Heard sirens taking off and tires squealing as if chasing a car. I shivered hard and took another breath. “Do not ever . . . ever . . . attack me. Again.”

  “Holy shit.” He groaned, still on the ground half under my truck. Curled in a fetal position. “Ohhh. Why’d you do that?”

  I ignored him and tried to replay the shots and the echoes. I estimated them coming from a distance. More cop cars chased away. No more shots were fired. “The unit’s AR is behind the seat,” I said, “if you want it.”

  Occam shook his head no and made a little gagging sound. I locked the truck cab.

  “Are you Special Agent Ingram?”

  I flinched. Whirled. Pulled my service weapon. All at once. A female uniformed cop stood near me, crouched low between vehicles, as if to avoid shots fired. I swallowed a pillow-sized fear clogging my throat. I was breathing fast, my pulse beating in my temples and the back of my neck. I pushed down the bloodlust and managed to speak almost normally. “I’m Ingram.”

  “Ming of Glass just drove up. She deman—requests that you speak with her.”

  If the vamps were here, it was now officially night. I bent and picked up my comms gear and my bullet-resistant vest and reseated my ten-millimeter. Occam was watching me as he rose from the ground, not quite all cat grace. His nose was bleeding where I’d hit him. The blood-need reared up in me, almost as if it was a separate consciousness, a demon of deadly desire. I squeezed it down, forced my shoulders to relax. Surprisingly, the lust inside me complied, if only enough not to kill.

  Occam wiped his nose on his jacket sleeve. If he reported the blow I’d be in trouble. But he was grinning, a satisfied, intense smile that suggested something I couldn’t interpret. His blond hair hung over his eyes and his jaw was fuzzy with a two-day beard he hadn’t had last time I saw him only hours ago. The beard was a result of shifting to his cat and back to human. His cat was still close to the surface, but not so close that his eyes glowed. Yet.

  A thought squirmed in the back of my mind like a worm on a hook, that female cats often fought a male as part of mating rituals. Which was not an idea I wanted to contemplate. I shoved it aside.

  “Where did the last shots come from?” Occam asked the uniform as I geared up. Our eyes met and slid away. Met and slid away. Nervous, I reseated my Glock GDP-20 in the hard plastic holster with a faint click.

  “Shooter in a car. Drive-by. Handgun. No casualties. They already got him.” To me she said, “If you’ll follow me. And keep your head down.”

  I was still fastening my vest as we wove through the lot, our feet silent on the pavement. I caught snatches of conversation between cops as we jogged:

  “Twenty-five rounds located so far. Most in the restaurant’s wall.”

  “Way more casings in the street than twenty-five.”

  “No shit?”

  “Way more.”

  “Witnesses’re in the empty building next door.”

  “Two bottles of perfectly good vodk
a hit and shattered.”

  “I hear the vodka set off a kitchen fire.”

  “Singed the hair off a cook but didn’t touch her scalp.”

  “Ten-ninety-ones are to stay in place until CSI and the MEs are finished.”

  “Medical examiners are here?”

  “I know, right? Weird.”

  Ten-ninety-ones were dead bodies, in Knoxville PD radio codes. The stink of gunfire and burned hair and scorched building fouled the air. I looked around for fire trucks and decided the trucks must have pulled up to the restaurant from the back, from the street on the other side. EMS units were lined up in the roadway, uniformed officers standing guard at the door to the restaurant, visible in the glaring headlights. Heavily armed SWAT officers were inside and out. Shadows flickered on the walls and the asphalt, oversized, bulked, armed.

  “Over here.” The uniformed cop jerked on my sleeve, pulling me against a marked vehicle. She pointed to a black limo across the street. “In that one.” It wasn’t a long limo, but a short one. The vehicle looked heavy, as if armored. “Don’t expect me to get any closer to the fangheads,” she said. “I like the blood in my veins where it belongs. Maintain cover position until we clear the street and the buildings.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “and I feel the same way about vampires. But you don’t say no to Ming of Glass.” Crouching, I stepped off the curb into the street and raced over. The chauffeur got out, hunkered down like I was, and opened the back door. I did not want to get in that limo, sit on that leather, touch anything with bare skin. The thought of dead possum and maggots wiggling on my bare feet nearly made me gag as I ducked inside and sat, hands in my lap, my eyes adjusting as the door closed on me with a solid thunk.