Page 15

15

A n hour later Damon sat facing the rows of monitors in his home control room as Tiffany lingered outside the doorway, pacing. Sweat gathered on his palms, and a dry feeling filled his mouth. The last time he’d spoken with the Sergeant had been directly after Mark’s death. Headquarters designated all accidental deaths as “under investigation,” and Damon had been the Sergeant’s lead witness.

As one of the highest-ranking military officers in the Execution Underground’s recently formed chain of command, Sergeant James Winfield took shit from no one and commanded respect without even batting an eye. He was one of only a handful of men among the organization’s admin who Damon absolutely refused to spar with, because he was not about to embarrass himself by having his hind end handed to him on a platter by a man twice his age. With years of prior military experience, age was nothing but a number to the Sergeant and at fifty-six years old, he could still kick some serious field operative ass.

Aside from his salt-and-pepper hair, the gruff bastard didn’t look a day over forty, and he didn’t fight like an old man, either.

Though already there were rumors of a future buyout circulating. One which would privatize the organization, thus severing the Execution Underground’s military ties, and leaving the Sergeant and many of the organization’s founders, among others, empty-handed. The Sergeant may have ridden his ass on occasion, but Damon wasn’t a fan of the idea, but even as one of the Execution Underground’s founding hunters, it was out of his hands.

The green light on Damon’s switchboard flashed, and the alert alarm sounded throughout the apartment. Tiffany jumped at the sound. On first moving in, Damon had rigged the sound system to blare in case of emergencies, and the Sergeant calling him definitely qualified. With a deep breath, Damon pressed the button to accept the call.

A small beep sounded, and then the Sergeant’s stern face appeared on the nearest monitor, with Damon’s own image boxed in the lower left corner of the screen.

The Sergeant’s lips made a tight line, and he cast a frustrated glare at Damon. “What the hell sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into now, operative?” he barked. “Your city’s little vampire-turned-zombie video bullshit is raising holy hell. Do you know how much damage control that cost the security department?” When Damon didn’t respond, the Sergeant yelled, “Answer the damn question, operative!”

“No, sir. I don’t.”

The Sergeant eyed Damon up and down. “A hell of a lot. That’s how much. I don’t give a flying shit if the video had nothing to do with you. It originated from your division area, so therefore you’re responsible. Understood?”

Damon nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Damon refrained from pointing out that there was no established division in his area, at least not yet, which is exactly why he’d chosen to come here. But The Sergeant was not the kind of man to parse hairs with. Not unless he wanted to drown in paperwork.

The Sergeant glanced down at a stack of papers lying in front of him. “Your nerdy tech tells me you believed you killed the son of a bitch who was injecting these bastards, but it appears you were wrong. Is that correct, operative?”

“Yes, sir,” Damon replied, gritting his teeth.

Sergeant James frowned. “You want to explain to me how the hell that happened, operative?”

Damon dug his fingers into the armrests of his chair. At the moment, there were very few things he wanted less to tell the Sergeant about than his failure to follow code and his misconceptions. He really hoped it was a rhetorical question.

No such luck.

The Sergeant banged his fist on his desk and glared at Damon. “Answer me, operative.”

Damon inhaled a deep breath. “I received misleading information, sir. I was under the impression that the vampire at large, Caius Argyros Dermokaites, was responsible for the spread of the virus, and as a result I sought his death. I was mistaken.” Damon didn’t regret Caius’s death, not for a second, and neither would The Sergeant, but “mistaken” was putting it lightly.

The Sergeant shook his head as if Damon blew it on a regular basis when it came to protocol. In truth, never once had Damon been admonished for a protocol infraction. Hence how he’d fucked up when it came to Mark. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was play by Headquarters’ rules. This is what he’d signed up for after all.

“From whom did you receive this faulty information, operative?”

Damon fought to keep his face impassive. “An outside informant, sir.”

“And who is this outside informant, operative?”

“A family member of a former E.U. operative who is highly knowledgeable about the current vampire situation in Rochester, sir.”

The Sergeant let out a long sigh. “Dear God, Brock. This doesn’t have anything to do with Operative Solow’s sister, the one you’re always daydreaming over whenever you have your damn head in the clouds, does it?”

Damon didn’t respond. There was no point. The Sergeant had busted him more than once for reading Tiffany’s letters over and over when he should have had his mind on his training.

Damon heard steps behind him.

Fuck. No. She was not about to—

Tiffany stood behind his chair, posture perfectly straight and confident as she smiled at the Sergeant through the screen. “That would be me you’re talking about, sir, and yes, Operative Solow was my older brother.”

Shit. Shit. Double shit. What did she think she was doing?

The Sergeant appraised Tiffany. “Your brother was a good hunter, Miss Solow, and from what I hear you seem to be quite the freelancer yourself. Perhaps if the Execution Underground ever allows women…” His voice trailed off.

Tiffany grinned from ear to ear. “Thank you, sir.”

“Brock!” the Sergeant barked. “What is this lovely young woman doing with your sorry ass?”

Damon opened his mouth to explain, but Tiffany spoke first. “With all due respect, sir, the misconception was my mistake. I overheard Caius speaking on the phone about something spreading throughout the vampires in Washington State and how it was following suit here. I assumed it to be the virus.”

The Sergeant paused and looked over his paperwork. “From what we’ve heard from our division in Seattle, there appears to be some sort of vampire organization forming, a whole separate can of worms from this viral issue. The shit is about to hit the fan with these bloodsuckers. We need to get this under control as soon as possible.”

He folded his hands and leaned toward the camera. “This is what’s going to happen, Operative Brock. With her consent, and since her place in Caius Argyros Dermokaites’s inner circle means that she will be expected to maintain contact with his subordinates, Miss Solow will wear a tracking device that will lead us to the local vampire coven’s meeting location. Our best plan of action is to learn from the inside who is responsible for the spread of this virus, destroy as many of these monsters as we can and scatter their organization. I’m rushing in a team of hunters who will be under your command in this mission. Is that understood?”

Damon shook his head. He would not be responsible for placing Tiffany in harm’s way. Not again. She still wasn’t properly trained. “Sir, with all due respect, I’m concerned—”

“I didn’t ask you to think, Operative. I asked you to follow orders,” the Sergeant said, his gaze cutting daggers at Damon through the screen. “I said, is that understood?”

Damon glanced between The Sergeant and Tiffany. It didn’t matter that the Sergeant could make his life a living hell, Damon would fight anyone and everyone if that’s what it took to protect her, but as soon as he caught the hopeful look in Tiffany’s gaze, he swallowed his opposition down quickly. He didn’t like the idea of Tiffany being put at risk again. Not for a second. She was too important to him for that, but it was also clear that she wanted to be involved, wanted to be properly trained, and it was her choice to make. It always would be. Maybe this was her chance to create that opportunity for herself, to pave a way for women in the organization. Damon would never stand in the way of that.

Instead, he’d be by her side. Do whatever it took to protect her as his equal. Always.

“Yes, sir. I understand.” Damon nodded, his eyes darting toward Tiffany. “You may be a Shortcake, but you’re tougher than you look, Tiffany Solow,” he whispered to her.

Tiffany beamed, the pride in her smile washing his concerns away.

“Good.” The Sergeant looked at Tiffany. “Miss Solow, do you agree to act as an extension of the Execution Underground on this occasion and uphold our oaths, including putting your life on the line to save those of innocent civilians?”

“I do,” she replied.

The Sergeant gave a single nod. “That is all, then. Operative Brock, your team will be there in three hours.” He pointed a finger at Damon. “Don’t fuck this up, Brock. And hurry up and build your permanent division. I want to get the request in before the shit hits the fan with all these supernaturals crawling around your city. If anything goes wrong with this vampire raid, H.Q will blow it off until these damn bloodsuckers are taken care of, and I don’t want to risk innocent lives because you didn’t do your job. Choose your permanent team and then prep for the raid.” Without another word, the Sergeant logged off.

Damon released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and slumped into his chair. Really? Pick his team now? A video had gone viral—bringing way too much attention to his city—somewhere out there a rogue vampire was hell-bent on spreading an infectious bloodsucker disease, he was expected to use Tiffany as a means of locating said psycho vamp, and yet the Sergeant wanted him to waste valuable time scanning resumes?

He let out a groan. Whether it made sense to him or not, an order was an order.

Tiffany placed her hands on his shoulders. “Are they all like that?”

Damon shook his head. “No, that’s just the Sergeant. He’s an ex-Navy SEAL commander turned E.U. hunter after his granddaughter got killed by werewolves.”

“Oh, wow.” Tiffany released him and stepped toward the door. She paused. “And what’s this about you daydreaming of me?”

Leaning his elbows onto his knees, Damon rested his face in his hands, trying to cover the fact that for the first time in his goddamn life, he was blushing. “Did he say that? I don’t recall,” he grumbled. God, the Sergeant really knew how to knock a man down a peg.

Tiffany laughed as she leaned against the door frame. “Well, since you have very little time before a group of vampire hunters starts knocking on your door...” She stood as straight as possible and pointed an accusing finger at Damon. Twisting her face into a scowl, she mimicked the Sergeant. “I suggest you get your worthless behind to work, operative!” she yelled.

Damon leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, chuckling a little at her impression. “Fine. But I’ll never get any work done with you in here taunting me.”

Tiffany crossed her arms over her chest and shrugged. “All right. I can take a hint, but get to work.”

She left the room, and Damon watched as her deliciously curved hips swayed down the hall. A moment later, he got up and closed the door so he wouldn’t go chasing after her. He needed to focus. Clenching his hands on the desk, he thought about what lay ahead of him. Another raid with him as leader? Was he prepared to do that again, so soon after Mark’s death?

So many things could backfire. Though they did have one advantage this time, which they hadn’t had previously: an informant inside the coven.

He didn’t like the idea of Tiffany going into the coven’s meeting alone. Not one bit, but what other choice did they have? There was no other way for them to track the location, and the vamps weren’t stupid enough to allow her to bring an outsider with her. Not when they’d be on high alert already. It was the only way.

As much as he could, he pushed his worries aside. There were too many things he needed to do, and he’d heard the Sergeant’s order. As much as he wished otherwise, he couldn’t stop the Sergeant from utilizing Tiffany as a local resource. No matter how much he opposed it.

He typed in his security codes, and within seconds Chris’s face greeted him from the monitor. “That bad, huh?”

Damon met Chris’s eyes, as if to say ‘not now’. “Could you send me the resumes the Sergeant asked me to go over?”

Chris spoke while he typed nonstop on his keyboard, the quiet clicking sound of the keys forming a strange robotic rhythm. He paused and emphatically jabbed the Enter key. “Done.”

Damon’s side monitor flashed as dozens of images loaded. The faces of the finest hunters the Execution Underground offered filled the screen. “You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s even more than I expected.” With everything else on his plate, narrowing down this list was going to demand hours of work he couldn’t afford to spare.

Chris cleared his throat. “And lucky for you, you have a contact at HQ who, despite your often grouchy demeanor, has taken the liberty of assembling a program for you, so you can refine the search and avoid having to read every single profile. What would normally be two-or three-hours’ work has been narrowed down to less than an hour.” He pointed at himself. “And to be clear, that amazing contact to whom you owe your undying gratitude is me.”

Damon glared at Chris. “Remind me the next time I see you in person your drink is on me.”

“Considering the mood you’re in, I’ll take that as a thank you.” Chris reached forward to press the off button on their video call. “Get to work.”

In seconds the monitor transitioned to black.

Utilizing his touch screen, Damon slid the images onto his main monitor and started his search. It appeared his best option was to organize the candidates by hunting specialty first, before narrowing his search in each category. He glanced over the list of supernatural groups in Rochester and their current status. He needed a lot of manpower.

With the E.U. efforts intensely focused on N.Y.C. for years, Rochester had slipped under the radar. But now, with the N.Y.C. division finally gaining control of all their unruly boroughs, focus was shifting. Damon’s division would not only secure the city, it would do it quickly.

He would make certain of it.

First things first. Unrest in the wolf shifter community due to a possible change in packmaster. He typed “werewolf” into the search box and roughly twenty profiles surfaced. He started mentally listing the attributes he wanted on his team. Young, able-bodied men, either fresh out of the academy but with lots of field training or only several years seasoned.

Though older hunters held the advantage of being wiser and more precise, he wanted to assemble a team that wouldn’t disband any time soon. Men near his age who possessed a drive, a fire, that too often faded over the years.

He typed in an age range and came up with three profiles, complete with photos. The emerald eyes of the hunter in the middle photo stared back at him with intensity.

He pulled up the man’s stats, skimming for the important information.

Name: Jace McCannon

Hometown: Honeoye Falls, New York

Specialty: Wolf shifters

Experience: Three years field training. Current location: Atlantic City, Jersey.

Interesting. Honeyoe Falls sat right outside the city limits. McCannon was practically a Rochester native. Damon’s index finger hovered over the mouse. The hunter’s burning eyes made him wonder if he’d be resistant to following orders. Much like the creatures they hunted, wolf hunters were known hot heads.

After an extended moment of debate, he clicked the button to add the hunter to his roster. If he was unruly, Damon would whip him into shape. After all, he’d dealt with countless unruly trainees while he led raids during his field training. McCannon would listen, or Damon would send him straight back to HQ

Next up: demonic possession. There were two types of demon hunters: those who could kill demons and those who could exorcise the demon from a human’s body, saving the innocent civilian. Looking at the numbers of possession reports on his sheet, he wanted somebody who could do both. He typed “Demon Hunter/Exorcist” into the system and prayed he would get a hit.

Bingo.

Name: David Aronowitz

Hometown: Rochester, New York

Current location: Brooklyn, New York *Requesting transfer near hometown for family issues*

Perfect. Damon clicked the “add to roster” button without a second thought. No way would he pass up having a guy like that on his team. True exorcists were rarity.

Damon glanced down at his notes once more. Next in line: newly discovered occult activity and the possible formation of a witch coven.

Witches were extremely intelligent and cunning, their relationships between covens immensely complex. Handling the occult wasn’t black and white. It required someone with a level head, quick thinking. Figuring out the complex dichotomies of the witching world demanded patience. He tapped his fingers on the desk. He needed someone smart.

He narrowed the search to people with Masters degrees or higher. The highest on the list was Shane Grey, Ph.D, former Vegas resident. Damon nodded. A Ph.D was more than enough to prove the man’s intellect if you asked him, even if he was on the younger side.

Three down, two more to go.

He checked his sheet. An increase in hauntings.

For the most part ghosts, while terrifying to humans, weren’t confrontational. But an angry poltergeist wreaked havoc and terror. Damon wagered that the many abandoned asylums of Rochester contained a shit-ton of pissed-off polters.

He typed in “ghosts and poltergeists.”

A lone profile popped onto the screen. The haunted gray eyes of the hunter stared at him from the monitor. Damon could tell that some seriously traumatizing shit had passed in front of that man’s eyes. A small red flag flashed near the profile picture.

He clicked on the flag and the screen flashed “Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder.” Damon raised a brow. Why the hell were there so few ghost hunters? He widened the search.

Damn. Many of them were already assigned to Florida Keyes and Saint Augustine.

He hit the return button to the single profile.

Name: Ashley (Ash) Devereaux

Current location: New Orleans, Louisiana

*Transfer required (P.T.S.D)

New Orleans? Now there was a city with one hell of a ghost population. He hit the add button, and hoped he wouldn’t regret it. If he was still listed after a PTSD diagnosis, then the E.U. saw something in Ash Devereaux that went beyond his stats.

Last one.

Several new species of non-werewolf shapeshifters reported.

After entering “non-were shifters” into the search engine, he pulled up roughly ten profiles. His gaze shot to the profile of one hunter immediately. Two different colored eyes, not a common trait in anyone. Intrigued, he opened the stats.

Name: Trent Garrison

Experience: One year field training, two years full time off-site operative

Current Location: Jersey City, New Jersey

*Transfer requested (Post-facial injury)

He eyed the man’s features. The E.U. had yet to update his profile shot, but it must have been pretty serious to be listed in the report. He respected someone who fought post injury, or post-trauma of any kind for that matter, and since non-werewolf shifters had been rising in population over the past two years, this man had been a pioneer in the field.

A muffled knocking sounded from the other side of the door.

“Damon?” Tiffany called.

He punched in the door code, and the latch clicked open.

Tiffany stepped inside. “You’d better get a move on. We have to prepare.”

In his mind, the walls he erected during every hunt snapped into place. A level head would be the key to the success of this raid. He would not have a repeat of Mark’s death. Come hell or high water, every member of the team the E.U. provided him with would come home safe. But his main concern, far and away more important than anything else, was ensuring Tiffany’s safety.

He nodded. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Her eyes darted to the main monitor. “Are these the hunters you’re picking for your team?”

He didn’t respond. Was that really what was sitting in front of him? His future division that he’d handpicked? A surreal feeling washed over him. He should have felt honored to lead an entire division, but instead, the knotted feeling in his gut refused to subside. After what had happened with Mark, did he deserve to lead?

A low whistle escaped Tiffany’s lips. “Daaanng. Are all the guys in the Execution Underground hot or what? Is that a requirement? Every single one of these dudes is gorgeous.”

Damon grumbled in response. What was so fantastic about the men pictured on the screen? He didn’t see it.

Tiffany grinned as if she were picking out her favorite Mr. February calendar pin-up. “They’re all easy on the eyes, though I’m kind of partial to that one. He has awesome hair.” She pointed at the golden blonde from Louisiana with the haunting eyes, and then to the wolf hunter. “But he’s definitely my favorite.”

He scratched his head and looked away, trying to ignore her teasing comments.

“Jace McCannon,” Tiffany read from the hunter’s statistics. She bit her lower lip. “He is one fine piece of—”

Damon hit power-off on the monitor, the men’s faces were gone in a second.

Tiffany hmphed, but a small grin crossed her face. “Jealous, much?”

Damn right he was jealous. He was jealous of any man she found attractive, and he would shove his fist straight down the throat of anyone, hunter or otherwise, who made a move on her.

“We’d better prepare for the raid,” he said.

He stood to leave. Before the other hunters arrived, she needed to arrange the meet-up with the vampires, and he needed to prep his weapons. Preparing their plan of entry would have to wait until she led them to the location via the tracking device.

She crossed her arms over her chest and smiled. “If it’s any consolation, I think you’re sexier than all of them. You’ve got the whole tortured soul thing going on. It’s in your eyes. Women love that.” Without another word, she brushed past him and walked out of the control room.

He raised a single brow. Tortured soul?