Page 41

by J.R. Rain

(read on for a sample)

They’re waiting for us.

But first, the fog rolls in thick and slow, masking the dark waters of the Los Angeles Harbor as I pull up in my unmarked SUV.

I check the address again—yep, this is the drop-off point the informant had given me.

Or very near it. The warehouses lining the docks loom like shadowy giants, their silhouettes jagged and foreboding in the moonlight.

I cut the engine and step out, my boots crunching over the loose gravel.

Salty air mixes with the metallic tang of oil and rust that’s heavy on the breeze.

I tug my jacket tighter and adjust my holster, keeping my hand close to my sidearm.

This whole place just feels off. Too quiet.

No seagulls, no hum of passing ships, not even the distant grind of a forklift.

My phone buzzes. A text from Harris, my superior and handler. “In position?”

I don’t respond. Something about this screams ‘set-up.’

The faint echo of movement reaches my ears. I freeze, tilting my head slightly, listening. Gravel shifts—a crunch to my left. I pivot, drawing my weapon.

“FBI!” I call out, my voice cutting through the fog. “Show yourself.”

For a moment, nothing. Then the crack of a rifle splits the night air.

The first bullet cracks through the side mirror of my SUV, very near my elbow, shattering plastic and glass. I hit the ground, rolling under my vehicle, cursing under my breath.

Another shot rings out, this one grazing my shoulder. I grit my teeth. I think it did more than graze. Yeah, that hurt. I roll to my side, firing two shots in the direction of the muzzle flash.

The air erupts with gunfire. Bullets whiz past, pinging off metal and biting into the gravel around me, puncturing the vehicle’s tires.

Worried the two-ton thing might collapse on me, I roll back out, exposing myself.

In doing so, I see a shadow charging me, a shadow holding what looks like a sawed-off shotgun.

I aim for the center mass of the shadow. The figure crumples.

More such shadows appear from around the nearest building, all crouching low and advancing toward me. Shit. This is a set-up if I’ve ever seen one. I had been warned by my team. Harris, my boss, had advised me against coming here alone.

Too many, at least four, maybe five, their positions scattered across the dockyard. They’re boxing me in. I’m not some super-agent. I should never have come here alone, but I believed my contact, trusted him.

Stupid me.

A sharp crack, and then—nothing.

The impact sends me sprawling backward. My vision blurs as I hit the ground, my head ringing with the sound of the gunshot.

I reach up instinctively, my fingers brushing the warm, sticky wetness of blood pumping from over my brow.

The world spins as the pain registers—a bullet had struck me squarely in the forehead.

I lie still, my breath slowing. To anyone watching, I would look dead.

They would be wrong.

No, I’m not a vampire, but I’m pretty damn close.

Inside, my body is already working. The magic of the Fountain surges through my veins, stitching bone, knitting flesh, forcing the bullet out of my skull with a sickening pop .

My limp hand twitches. My chest rises with a single, ragged breath. A minute later, my eyes pop open as though nothing happened.

From the shadows, a man steps forward, his rifle slung low. He approaches cautiously, his face half-hidden beneath a hoodie.

“Check if she’s dead,” another voice barks from the darkness.

The man crouches beside me, reaching for my wrist. I move faster than he can react, grabbing his arm and twisting hard. His scream is short-lived as I slam the butt of my pistol into his temple, knocking him out cold. He drops next to me with barely a sound.

I’m on my feet again, blood still dripping down my face.

“All you fucks are under arrest,” I say, lumbering toward the others, gun raised, even as another bullet or two tears through me.