Page 87 of To Kill a Badger (The Honey Badgers Chronicles #6)

T hey were on her. Wouldn’t let her get past. All of them huge and pissed. Of course, most of them were covered in ripening bruises and still-open wounds. But Nelle was fast. She dribbled under one bear, around a cheetah, and barely avoided a She-lion’s big hands.

Then she spotted Max all the way across the court.

Closest to the basket. Nelle faked a shot to her, sent it to Tock instead.

Tock dribbled forward, head-faked, then sent the ball to Streep.

Streep immediately shot it to Max. She caught it, but the other team was already on her.

So she bounced it between a She-bear’s incredibly long legs, and Mads got the ball.

With the timer ticking down, Mads took two big steps and went up in the air, one hand high, the ball in her palm . . .

She dunked that bitch into the basket as the final whistle blew!

And it was done.

They’d gotten that last basket in, and they’d beaten the other team by a mere two points after three overtimes.

Mads landed hard on the ground, dropped to her knees, and screamed. The entire team was off the bench and on the court, tackling her to the ground. A big pile of happy female predators cheering, screaming, and roaring. Except the cheetahs. They happily chirped instead.

The crowd roared along with them, and music began to play. People ran down to the court, and suddenly Keane was hugging her and lifting her up onto his shoulders. As proud of her as if it were an American football game and not a game he liked to call “stupid.”

It was actually quite wonderful. Shay and Finn were there to support Tock and Mads. Zé was there for Max, along with Max’s sisters. And Streep’s fiancée, Ashley, was there, and Max still didn’t seem to remember her despite knowing the female since high school!

In time, the entire team was all on the stage when the trophy was given out.

Well, first they got caps with the year and C HAMPIONS written on the front and white T-shirts with the same.

Then the trophy was awarded . . . to the team owners.

Millionaire hyena females that giggled and held up the trophy, even though Nelle didn’t think they’d spent a second playing on a court in their entire lives.

Then the MVP award was given out, and it went to Max MacKilligan, which made even Mads happy.

If that had been the end, it would have been perfect. But when Nelle saw her father politely applauding from the stands . . .

She jumped off the stage and ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him tight.

“What are you doing here?” she asked loudly, so as to be heard over the still-cheering crowd and the music.

“You made your sister’s wedding, only punched her in the face once, and didn’t make your mother tell me she wanted you disowned. So how could I miss this momentous occasion for my little girl?” He motioned to the court. “You were amazing out there, my little crested serpent eagle.”

“Daddy.”

He hugged her again.

“He’s very proud of you,” he said to her. “Your big kitty.”

Nelle knew that. Keane was still on the stage with the team, Dani on his shoulders, her little fists in the air, cheering louder than anyone.

“I’m glad,” her father continued. “I would never want you with a man who couldn’t handle your success.” He leaned in and whispered, “I hear his football team is not very good.”

“He’s whipping them into shape, though, Daddy.”

“Good.”

“Want to come with us to dinner?”

“No, no. Your mother is waiting. But a family dinner invite will be on its way soon. You and your tiger will come, yes?”

“Of course.”

“Good. And one other thing before I go . . .”

“Yes?”

“It’s being said that Paolo de Medici is dead. His remains found somewhere in Africa.”

Nelle stared at her father a moment before replying, “Good.”

“My feelings exactly . . . my little crested serpent eagle.”

“Daddy.”

* * *

Charlie watched her sister and her teammates head to Mads’s house for a late-night party.

Doing something at a club had been discussed, but no one was in the mood for that.

They wanted some time with just the team and their partners.

There’d be a barbeque the next day in Charlie’s yard for the entire team, the owners, and everyone’s family and friends. It would be huge.

And Charlie was actually looking forward to it, which was strange.

Usually parties made her anxious, but she was so proud of her sister and her friends, she couldn’t wait to host something for them.

Especially since Nelle would be doing most of the work.

That girl did love to organize and decorate.

Apparently a “staff” and “professional party planner” had already been hired and had been to her yard to “measure the space.”

Whatever. Charlie was sure it would all go fine.

She whistled, and her dogs came running, coming to a dead stop at her feet. They gazed up at her and fell in step as soon as she started walking. She forgot their leashes again. Not that she used them, but she liked to have them in her hand in case cops drove by.

It didn’t matter, though. She had no intention of going for a long walk with the dogs.

They just needed a break before she went in for the night.

Berg was waiting for her with cheese and wine and Chips Ahoys.

Her favorite chocolate chip cookies, much to his fascination, since his neighbors had been offering her money if she’d bake more of her from-scratch chocolate chip cookies.

As she and the dogs turned the corner, she realized she now had ten dogs instead of five, because five Belgian Malinois and Tracey Rutowski settled in next to her.

“People find sneaking up on me is not a wise move,” she reminded Rutowski.

“Well, Giuseppe de Medici learned that the hard way, didn’t he?”

Charlie stopped and faced the She-badger. She was in too good a mood to play games with Tracey Rutowski. So she cut right to it.

“What do ya want?”

“To hire you.”

“Forget it. I don’t steal for others, and I don’t care how great the take will be—”

“I’m not talking about stealing. I’m talking about an organization to protect honey badgers.

And I want you to run it. It’ll be my deal.

Me and my friends, I mean. We’ll make sure you get what you need, including money, papers, weapons, whatever.

We’ll bring in the assignments and make sure they’re legitimate.

You and whoever you hire make sure our kind stays safe. That’s the deal.”

“You want me in charge of protecting honey badgers . . . worldwide?”

“Yes. You. I can’t imagine anyone else. And everyone agrees with me.”

“Everyone? Who’s everyone?”

“The Santiagos, the Davises, the Von Sch?fer-Müllers, the Zhaos, the Mings. As well as the Akinyi from Kenya and the Osondu out of Nigeria. We’ve got their support and their financial backing.”

Charlie studied the She-badger in front of her. One of the Malinois went up on its hind legs and, while meeting Charlie’s gaze, Rutowski petted it on the neck and head. The dog nuzzled her arm with true affection, and the way she looked down at the canine . . .

“You tricky bitch,” Charlie said.

Rutowski blinked at her in feigned surprise. “What?”

“You weren’t trying to get the families together to fight the de Medicis. You were getting them together to back your little protection agency.”

“I knew you could have handled those lions without any help. But they were an excellent catalyst to prompt the others to get involved.”

“Over the years, we’ve had others try to wipe out our kind.

You’ve had more than enough catalysts. So .

. .” Charlie closed her eyes in exasperation and let out a long sigh.

“Oh, my God. You could have started a group like this at any time, but . . . you just didn’t want to pay for it yourself, did you? ”

She shrugged. “I never pay retail.”

“Wow . . . I see why Edgar Van Holtz hates you.”

“Ugggggh!” she said, head dropping back. “He is still such a whiny bitch!”

“And you are a cheap ass!”

“I am budget conscious !” She smirked. “Soon, you’ll appreciate that. When we’re working together.”

“After the way you used Nelle? And those badger families? What makes you think I’d ever trust you ?”

Tracey Rutowski took a step so they were close; face-to-face and, keeping her voice low, said, “Because, Charlie MacKilligan, what you’re about to learn about me . . . I never let down my friends.”

Sometime in the eighties . . .

“Leave us.”

There was the slightest of hesitation, but his men walked out. They were Stasi. If they knew anything, they knew to follow orders.

But the American, Manse, lingered. “What are you going to do?” he asked in German.

There was no reply, though, for such a stupid American question. Just waited for him to go, which he did.

Once alone with the prisoner, he stared down at her.

She was young. Maybe fifteen? But for someone so young, she had quite the history. And strength!

The little Russian still hadn’t given up her contacts in East Germany. He needed those names. And he was going to get them.

Standing in front of her, making sure she saw his size and scars, so she would understand exactly what she was dealing with, he began, “Now, my sweet—”

A strange sound had him turning, but before he could really look, he realized what he’d just seen right in front of him.

Snapping back around, he stared at her.

She was tied to the chair, arms locked behind her back and her ankles secured to the chair legs. He’d taken off her blindfold but had left her gagged so she could do nothing but scream and cry.

In other words, he’d made her as vulnerable as he could.

So why was she so calm?

“I can call my men back in,” he threatened her in Russian. “Would you like that, my sweet?” He smiled. “I think you would like that.”

He heard a thump from overhead and briefly glanced up, but saw nothing but the stone ceiling.

Returning his focus to the girl, he stared. Confused. Something had changed.

She still seemed so calm. Her gaze direct, almost bold. Her legs crossed at the knees . . .

Wait. Her legs had been secured to the chair, yes?

Another thump. This one under his feet.

He didn’t like this at all. He started to call out to his team, but that’s when he saw the girl scratch a spot on her face with a free hand and no gag blocking her finger.

“What the—”

Something landed on his back; a small hand wrapped around his mouth to silence him, while the other hand buried a blade into his shoulder muscle. He reached back, grabbed, and threw. A different girl from the prisoner spun across the room and slammed into the wall.

He reached for his gun, but the holster was empty. Then the gun was slammed into his face, and he stumbled to the side. A wooden stool slammed into his back and knocked him to the ground.

Three girls in denim jeans and T-shirts and American sneakers stood in front of him, staring down at him.

He didn’t understand. What was happening? How was this happening? How did they get in here?

“My friend,” his prisoner, no longer secured to the chair at all, said to a brown-haired girl. And she spoke English. Excellent English.

“Oksana. I am so glad to finally meet you!” An American? How did an American child get into East Germany, much less a secret Stasi facility?

How . . . when . . .

What was happening?

Knowing he needed to warn his superiors, he began to drag himself toward the door, but a small hand grabbed his foot, yanked him back.

“And where are you going, Mr. Pervy?” the American asked.

With those four girls staring down at him, the American handed the blood-covered blade she’d stabbed him with to the Russian.

“Would you like to do the honors, my friend?” the American asked.

“I would, comrade. Thank you.” His prisoner crouched so she was close to him and said, “Would you like that, my sweet?” She smiled, and that’s when he saw nothing but rows of small, white fangs. “I think you would like that . . .”