Читать книгу Sins of the Undead Patriot - a.c. Mason - Страница 7

Chapter 2

As a siren chirped, blue-and-red lights flashed in Leera’s rearview mirror from the unmarked car tailing her. She hadn’t been speeding. Her car was new so the lights shouldn’t be out. She was within the demilitarized zone of Washington DC–a police state with no weapons. So what then? Two black armored vehicles with CPD on them–Check Point Defense–blocked both lanes ahead. She signaled to indicate she was pulling over, brought the vehicle to a complete stop and turned off the engine. What could the feds want with her? Growing up, she remembered her father being pulled over because of racial profiling, but compared to zombies, African Americans had nothing to worry about these days. And she’d certainly never had a run in with the authorities.

A tall black man in a charcoal-gray suit stepped out of the car and strode toward her. He tapped on her window with his knuckles. Credentials flashed–Homeland Security. She didn’t catch the name, as he flipped it closed. Good-looking, young, professional. His skin was quite a few shades darker than hers. Reflective sunglasses covered his eyes.

Leera pressed the button, lowering her car window.

“Step out of the vehicle, Ms. Waltz.” His tone was smooth with a hint of a British accent. One of his upper front teeth had a gold cap at the edge. He stepped back.

After unfastening her seatbelt, she opened the door and rose. The frosty air chilled her exposed legs. She pressed her thighs together for warmth and held her jacket closed.

He had broad shoulders and a few inches on her, and the man had something sweet, even innocent, about his smile. Those were the men a woman had to be wary of...much like her father.

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” His mirror-shaded gaze traveled up her figure. The corner of his mouth quirked upward. He licked his full lips.

What? He was going to arrest her. On what grounds? “Have I done something illegal, sir?”

He grabbed her forearm and twisted.

“Ouch.” Pain shot up her arm, causing her to flip around. If he was trying to scare her, he’d succeeded. Cold metal snapped onto her wrist and pinched her skin. “That hurt.” She jerked back, right into him.

“Resisting arrest?” He forced her against the vehicle, crushing her.

“No, sir.” She wasn’t about to give him legal grounds to arrest her if he didn’t have any yet.

He cuffed her other hand, opened the door, pulled the key out and locked her car. “You and I are going to take a ride together.”

A ride? That didn’t sound official. “Am I under arrest?”

He pressed his lips to her ear. “Maybe. Depends on my mood when I’m done with you.”

After he’d done what with her? There was nothing more that could be done to her. Losing her husband had already killed her.

The hatch of the armored vehicles opened. A blond man in a CPD uniform with a crew cut and light eyes popped up from the one closest to them. A real military jarhead. “Feisty little thing. Need a hand?” He signaled to his twin in the other vehicle.

“Thanks, Reid, but I can take it from here.” The man who’d cuffed her tilted his face toward her, eyes fixed on the soldier. “You don’t want to find out what he’d do to a pretty thing like you.”

Wasn’t he the one taking her for some type of ride?

With a roar, the military rovers rotated and headed in the opposite direction.

What on earth was going on? Just wait until she called Peter. “I have rights. My brother is a lawyer.”

“I’m aware, Ms. Waltz.” His eyebrows shot up. A deep rumble rose from him as he grabbed her arm and shoved her toward his vehicle.

Taking side streets didn’t seem as clever now, did it? Not a car or civilian in sight to witness her mistreatment.

“You had rights. You see, when national security is at risk, the rights of the many outweigh the rights of the individual.”

National security? “You must have me confused with someone else.” She was a chef, for crying out loud. Her skills were in the kitchen where she could make a mean souffle, creme brulee and coq au vin.

“I definitely do not. You are Leera Waltz, widow of Jean Denoix. Daughter of Jerome and Eliza Waltz. The late senator, your father, managed to become the first elected official to the senate from DC and maintain the only area not under martial law. His wife, your mother suffered a great deal of depression, bouts of emotional breakdowns, hospitalization, all written up as mental illness. I suspect it was all the lying your father did, or was it the beatings? I heard he was a vile man with a stern hand, but what do I know.” He smirked. “Poor little Leera didn’t do much better. You were diagnosed with depersonalization disorder. Who do you blame for that? Your father’s rampages or your mother’s inability to protect you?” His hand pressed on her head, then his body forced her into the car on the passenger side.

He had access to her medical records. The only legal option was a subpoena on the grounds she was a threat to national security. As long as he didn’t arrest her, he didn’t have to give her Miranda rights, which meant she was screwed.

He marched around the front with his hand on his gun. The man was prepared to shoot her. My God, for what reason?

“Well, is Mommy dearest or Daddy to blame for your inability to connect with others?” He sat in the driver’s seat, turned the key and peeled onto the road.

Her parents had done the best they could. “Neither.”

“Oh, come now...kids aren’t born as screwed up as you turned out.” A grin parted his lips. “Or was your smarts the issue? An IQ of 131 could make you a difficult know-it-all. None of the other kids wanted anything to do with you. What a disappointment you must be to your late father.”

Nothing she had ever done measured up in her father’s eyes, so why bother trying? She had left that for Peter.

“And yet, I feel sorry for you,” he said, trailing the back of his index finger up her cheek.

She jerked away. The last thing she wanted was for people to feel sorry for her. Not that he appeared to mean it.

“Your husband dies, and you can’t even mourn him. Pathetic. Wouldn’t you say?”

In her own strange way, disconnecting from her emotions was her way of showing how deep the wound of losing him ran. Coldness was all she had.

He turned off the road and pulled up next to a warehouse. The red aluminum siding had a thick coating of dust. On the horizon, the sun grew orange in the distance. He yanked her out of the vehicle.

“Ouch.” For all she knew he wasn’t even a Fed. She couldn’t really picture CPD helping him if he wasn’t, though. “What do you want with me?”

“Are you offering me something?” He leaned in, breathed deep and let out a misty exhalation of stale coffee.

Yuck.

He unlocked the door at the side of the building and pushed her in.

She stumbled forward. At the center of the room was a table with a chair on each side. Four bulletin boards with glossy photos reflecting light thumbtacked in groupings were pressed on the walls.

“You will be by the time I’m done with you tonight.” He shut the door behind him.

Not a chance in hell. She was in the industrial park. Not a soul around, in an abandoned building.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been with a man hasn’t it, Leera?”

The way he said her name caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise.

“Hasn’t it?” He raised his voice.

Since her husband’s death nearly ten months ago, she couldn’t imagine wanting another man. “It has.” She lowered her face.

“This arrangement could have other perks.”

What arrangement?

He traced her lip with his thumb.

She yanked her face away from his inappropriate touch.

He moved in closer, encroaching with his hand along her jaw, down to her collarbone. “Think about it.”

She backed away, hindered by the table. Physical companionship wasn’t high on her list, and his offer didn’t elicit appealing thoughts of any such acts.

Lifting his shades, he met her gaze with his hazel eyes. “I’d be lying if I said watching you get off with your toys hasn’t relieved me too. You’re nightstand drawer is impressive. My interest in exploring you is piqued.”

He’d watched her. She shivered with disgust, avoiding his stare. Photos of her were tacked to the corkboard on her left. On the other side, her brother, Peter.

“That’s a look of familiarity I see gleaming in those pretty black eyes.” He stepped back.

Not even close to charming.

He spun her and lowered her upper body to the surface of the table. “Slowly.” He guided her down. “I wouldn’t want to leave any signs of abuse.” He removed two latex gloves from the box next to her. “Nor physical. DNA.”

Evidence, was what she called it. If he was worried about leaving proof, what else was he planning on doing to her? Oh God, he wouldn’t! Would he?

“What a view.” He kneeled behind her. “Step out of your heels.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“If you test me...I’ll make you wish I’d shot you.”

What an outstanding example of her tax dollars at work. She removed one foot then the other from her shoes.

The board in front of her was covered in photos of Rowley. Short black hair framed the ivory skin of his face. His intense navy blue eyes stared off in the distance.

“Good girl.” He lifted up her dress.

Cool air chilled the exposed area. “My God.”

“Do you have a concealed weapon on you?”

“No.” She squeezed her eyes closed.

“Good. How about drugs or something I could cut myself on?” He probed along the edge of her panties with his gloved fingers.

She jerked away from his touch. “No.”

He slid his hand around the front of her thigh, preventing her retreat. “I wouldn’t want you to bruise.” His voice lowered an octave. “White lace suits you.”

The hairs on the back of her arms stood with fear.

With a large gloved hand, he examined up her leg, groped her ankle to her knee, onto her inner thigh and tucked his fingers in the seat of her panties then fondled her ass. “You do take good care of yourself. Fit. I especially enjoy when you run around the house in your panties and bra.”

Her stomach lurched. There were cameras hidden in her house, or he wouldn’t have known that. How long had her home been invaded in this way?

He descended her other thigh, past her knee to her ankle.

She needed to dissolve into nothingness like she did when she was a kid. When her parents were fighting or her father beat them. It was better to be anywhere but there.

She focused on the pictures before her. Anything but his hands. Where was the photo of Rowley taken? The image struck her as familiar. The trees in the background and water. Down by the river. He enjoyed sitting by the shore’s edge. Just the wind, birds, and them. She’d seen him in that shirt and slacks at the restaurant recently.

The Fed yanked her upright, reached around front, untied the belt of her coat and slid the fabric down her arms, resting the weight of the garment against the handcuffs.

Her muscles tensed. “Ouch.” She gritted her teeth.

The gap between them narrowed and his erection pressed into her palm. He patted up her ass and back. “Nothing so far.” He exhaled deeply.

She couldn’t deal with this–with him. She needed to find her way out of herself. The restaurant was the only thing keeping her sane since her husband’s death. Had she remembered to double the order of turnips? The soup of the day was going to be a puree of turnip soup, a fall favorite of the restaurant’s patrons.

He smoothed his hand over her exposed collarbone to her chest, then slipped his fingers beneath the top of her gown, inspecting her areolas. “Magnificent breasts. Are you cold, Leera?”

He pawed the peak of one of her breasts.

She cringed. “What?”

He groaned. “Are you cold or enjoying yourself?” His hard thing twitched against her palm.

Her extremities were numb. Please God, this had to end.

Extra carrots wouldn’t hurt either, as garnish with the parsley for a dash of color. She should make sure she added more of those to her order as well.

“Bear with me. I’m nearly done...” His breath blew on her neck. He gathered up the front of her dress and slid his hand beneath the waist of her pantyhose. Then he pressed his fingers under the material. With his knee, he knocked the inside of her thigh, forcing her legs further apart.

“Please don’t.” She was out of practice and struggling to shut him out. Tears formed in her eyes.

“Shh, if you relax you might enjoy this.” Hunger laced his tone. “All part of my duties, as unpleasant as this may seem.” He reached down there and parted her.

Oh God. Her breath hitched in her throat. She fisted her hands, determined get through this. Was the sunflower bread roll the best accent to go with the earthy turnip? Maybe a stronger flavor would work better. What about a pumpernickel roll? That was a much better companion for the turnip.

“So beautiful.” He probed down below.

She jerked as far as she could away from him. Her hip bones knocked the table.

“Careful. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself. Don’t be alarmed.” Between her legs, he pressed back and forth. “Done. But if you’d like me to continue, Leera?”

“Huh?”

“Should I continue?”

Was he giving her an out, or was this another part of his twisted game? Either way, she wouldn’t consent. She shook her head, slumping to the table.

He huffed as he withdrew his hand. The cuffs loosened then released from her wrists. “Leera.”

Where was she? In a warehouse with a warped Federal agent, who was employed by Homeland Security. She massaged the sore skin of her wrists. Her fingernails had turned blue.

“Sit.” He pointed to the chair next to her.

As instructed, she sat, pulled her jacket closed to cover up and crossed her arms. In front of her on the table was a pile of photos with one flipped facedown and a laptop.

What on earth did this disturbed agent want with her? “Why am I here?”

“Do you know what brought two of the men on the boards together?” He sat across from her.

Behind her, one of the photos was of an Ancient. At least, that was what the zombies over a hundred years old called themselves...or so she’d heard. His gaze held sadness. Had she seen him somewhere? TV maybe? Who was this undead, and what did he have to do with her, Peter and Rowley?

She got what he was implying. “Geography and or me. Since I’m here, I’m assuming you mean me.” It wasn’t like she controlled where her family lived. Rowley grew up in the house next door with his uncle, his guardian.

“Very good, Leera.” He pushed back in his seat, shades resting on his head. He removed them and set them on the table. “We should start with Rowley McKie. Isn’t he the reason your parents agreed to ship you to Paris to study cooking?” He chuckled.

Not even. Her parents saw her as the failure. However, said just that way, it would make sense. “No, not exactly. My reckless behavior with him convinced my parents it was in my best interest to study abroad.” She’d spread her legs was how her father had put it.

“As far as I am aware, it takes two to make a baby.” The corner of his eyes narrowed. “It’s unfortunate what happened, painful and irreversible.”

At eighteen, an ectopic pregnancy in her ovary had nearly killed her. In typical Waltz family style, they covered it up with fake appendicitis. She had lost a baby and an ovary. And all her father, the good senator, cared about was being publically embarrassed. Why she had let them muzzle her from telling Rowley the truth, she couldn’t even rationalize now.

“All that seemed behind you when you met your husband, Jean. He didn’t mind that you were damaged. Bet you never revealed McKie was the reason or father. When your husband died in such an unfortunate accident, McKie’s interest piqued anew. Can’t blame the man.”

She was Jean’s world. He’d given her everything she had asked for and more. Rowley couldn’t live up to how Jean had adored her, and yet she couldn’t keep away from him, even while married. Depraved and sick was the name of the game she had played with Rowley. Jean had given her safety and comfort and she’d craved Rowley’s poison, which hurt her husband. What kind of person did that make her? Not a good one.

“We can’t forget your brother in all this. You and Peter grew up quite adept at lying for your father, covering up his affairs and violent fits to protect him–the Waltz’s public image. You hated it though, wanted nothing to do with it. So poor Peter had to do all the heavy lifting, while you played the free spirit. After you were shipped away for your own good, Peter and McKie grew even tighter. Do you think he did it to keep the man at bay from poor, broken Lee-lee? Whatever his motives were, Peter started to recruit supporters on Capitol Hill to help McKie’s terrorist organization and cover up his illegal activities.”

“Peter would never.” Her brother didn’t like the undead, but he believed in the laws of the country. Could that have all been an act? Was this the reason Peter decided against running for the senate? He always said he would by forty. And yet, nothing. Rowley was always a troubled soul and he never truly answered her questions about what he was up to.

He tossed photos on top of each other of Peter with Rowley. Counting money, handing over thick envelops to senators and a few big-name lobbyists.

“Just because he didn’t plant the bombs doesn’t mean he didn’t take part in the preparation and funds to ensure someone else did.” He flipped up the laptop screen and tapped the keyboard.

“How’s Lee-lee?” Rowley’s voice came from the speaker. All these years later and he still called her that. It had bothered her husband, but she had never wanted him to stop.

“Not well. She hasn’t even begun to deal with her emotions. Don’t push her,” Peter responded.

“Pete, I want the best for her. Me. You should want that too.” Rowley’s tone lowered. “You know I’ll take good care of her. We both know she needs that.”

A huff. “But you can’t. The authorities are always breathing down your neck.” Anger peaked in Peter’s tone. “She deserves better than the crap we grew up in. If you love her, you should want that for her too.”

“I’m nothing like your self-righteous and two-faced father.” His tone held a hard edge. “I’m paying you to...what?”

“To keep you out of jail.”

“And?”

“Slip you the names of individuals with similar beliefs to yours. Not to arrange meetings or funding.” Peter’s voice sounded strained.

“Time restraints have come into play. I got to move up my plans so I can give Lee-lee a more stable environment, like you’re providing for Meg and the baby. I’d hate for something to happen to your sister or your family because we didn’t act. The house of cards needs to crumble.”

“Are you threatening me?” Peter huffed.

“Think of it more as giving you good advice for the safekeeping of those we both care about.”

“What do you want?”

The audio went silent. What on earth was Peter helping Rowley do? Names and funding. What kind of mess had her brother let himself get sucked into? They could only afford one fuck up in the family, and that was her.

“Need I say more?” The man across the table from her shrugged. “I can pick Peter up right now for aiding a terrorist, ship him to Guantanamo Bay and deny we have him.”

This was a lot to take in. Rowley wasn’t an activist? He founded the Coalition of the Living, protested against legislations that protected or was inclusive of the undead. Angry, vocal and militant maybe, but not a terrorist. For years, the feds had been trying to prove he also headed the Army of the Living, a group responsible for nearly all domestic terrorism. She’d always thought Peter handled his cases because he was an old friend and to uphold the First Amendment of the Constitution, Freedom of Speech.

Mr. Homeland Security hadn’t picked up Peter, so he had to believe she could do something the feds couldn’t. Not good for her. “What do you want from me? I won’t help you mount a case against my brother.” Despite the strained relationship between her and Peter since their father’s death, he was all the family she had left.

“You could give Peter a get-out-of-jail-free card for the rock-bottom price of your cooperation.”

“I don’t know anything about any of Rowley’s other affairs.” Hard to believe that Rowley lived a double life. Attacks aimed at undead killed the living too.

“Don’t worry...I’m going to put your best assets to good use. Accept McKie’s advances on you, let him have what he wants. It’s not rocket science. I’ll handle the rest. Occasionally I might need for you to show up unexpectedly. Nothing dangerous.”

“And who are you?” She’d never expected to serve her country on her back.

“Barton. That’s all you need to know. The less you are aware of, the better for you if found out.”

Found out? Given what she’d just learned, she had to consider that all the scary, brutal things written about Rowley in the newspapers were true. Not fabricated stories by the government trying to make him into a monster. As long as all the feds wanted was her on her back, she might survive this. She’d endured his twisted pat down. Maybe she could make it through this. She hadn’t fallen off the turnip truck and was sure, soon enough, the feds would want more and she’d be dead if uncovered.

“See the undead behind you?” He pointed beyond her shoulder.

The bald man with the blue-hued skin in the photo had nobility in his features. “Yes.” What did he have to do with all this?

“That’s Vaihan Louchian, Special Advisor to the President Undead Relations. An Ancient zombie. He moonlights as a CIA agent. We suspect they are planning to take down Peter. McKie is nothing without funding and support or your brother to keep him out of jail. You are going to be Vaihan’s way in, a vulnerable young widow ripe for the seducing by a charismatic and affluent Ancient. And you’ll fall for his pursuit. Call Meg and accept the invitation to the performance of Jean-Baptiste Lully’s Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme. Louchian’s a boxholder at the Kennedy Center. Simple.”

Her country wanted her to take it up the ass with sand thrown on. She preferred lube. Some type of federal bureau pissing contest was underway and she was caught in the middle. Funding. It was always about money. Since Check Point Defense, CPD, was formed to patrol the streets of the country to keep its citizen safe, the CIA and Homeland Security had to fight to keep their operations financed.

“If Rowley finds out I’m seeing an undead, he won’t have anything to do with me.”

“McKie may become angry at first but he will also pursue you harder. Losing you to one of them won’t be an option he’d consider feasible.”

The man never had tried harder than when she was married. “I’m not a fan of Ancients.” She was happy to live and let unlive, but that didn’t mean she wanted to mix.

“You don’t need to be.” He chuckled. “I’m not your type either, but your body enjoyed our encounter. It’s why you’re perfect for the job. Emotionally frigid and physically torrid. You’d have made a great agent.”

The man wished she had enjoyed it. She had shut down to get through it and it would seem he hadn’t even noticed. Her father would be proud that she was finally putting her smarts to good use. Who knew the feds were such pimps? “I might not have a grip on my emotions, but I do have morals.”

“And do those include your brother wasting away at Guantanamo Bay? We are less concerned with your morals than we are with the safety of the president.”

This was way over her head. How was the president’s safety involved? He’d made no mention of this before. Guess she was on a need to know basis.

“I’ll pick up Peter if you can’t see past your own self-righteousness.”

Asshole. “I’ll help you.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want you to overstep your morals, Ms. Waltz.”

“I’ll do it.” For Peter, she’d do anything. “What if I can’t pull this off? I have no training and no clue what I’m doing. I’m a chef, not some government agent.”

“Technically, now you’re both. From the footage I viewed, you’re a pro in the sack–can’t think of much else female agents do. For Peter’s sake, you’ll find a way to pull this off.” He reclined and set his feet on the table. “I trust you can find your way back to your car? It’s a block back.”

“Yes.” She didn’t give a damn how cold it was. The last thing she wanted was another ride with him. She slipped on her shoes. “How will I contact you?”

“I’ll be in touch as needed.” He jerked his head to the side, gesturing to the exit.

That was cause for concern.

How was she to date this Ancient she knew was trying to ruin her brother? She tied her jacket.

“Oh, and use protection. Wouldn’t want you to catch anything or get hooked.”

What a mess she was in.