Flameout (8 page)

I doubted he was getting the information from the sindicati, and I couldn't imagine the city wolf pack dealing with him given they already had a business relationship with the sindicati. But there again, if they deemed Heaton and whoever—whatever—was backing him stronger than the sindicati, then maybe they would. It wouldn't be the first time a wolf pack had placed bets on both sides of the field.

“To repeat an earlier question, how are we supposed to contact you when we have neither phone nor computer access right now?” We
could
actually contact him if we used one of the Wi-Fi apps that allowed free text and phone calls, but I wasn't about to admit that.

“There are such things as public phones,” he said mildly. “They are an outdated technology, granted, but still usable in this sort of situation. And they can't easily be traced. It's a win-win for us both.”

He pushed away from the door and pulled out a rather ornate silver card case from his jacket pocket. He flipped a card out and handed it to me.

It was totally black, with simple white writing that sat on the bottom right of the card. It said,
JOSEPH
RINALDO
,
MARKETING MANAGER
. Of what, it didn't say. Underneath that was a phone number.

I flipped it over but there was nothing on the other side. I handed it to Jackson, then said, “So is Rinaldo your real name, or just another pseudonym?”

“That is a question I'm disinclined to answer.” He smiled benignly, and if I'd had hackles, they would have raised. “I will expect a call between seven and eight every evening. Be late and people will start to die.”

“If people die, then I have no reason not to hunt you down and cinder your ass.” I said it no less pleasantly than him. “You might keep in mind that you really are playing with fire here.”

“Yes,” he said. “It is a somewhat exciting prospect, too. And please do not attempt to follow me from this building or harm me as I leave. Remember, I am well able to kill these two from a distance.”

He gave us a nod, then turned and walked away. His movements were casual, unconcerned, and flames flared across my body, eager for release. God, it was so,
so
tempting, but he'd judged me altogether too well. I wouldn't risk harming either Frank or Shona just to satisfy anger.

“It's hardly
just
anger,” Jackson growled. “The world would be a far better place without the likes of
that
bastard staining it.”

“Granted, but I don't see your flames chasing his ass, either.”

I stepped into the foyer and watched Heaton—Rinaldo—leave the building. The minute he stepped into darkness, he shadowed and disappeared. Frank stirred, unlocked the lift, then walked over to the security desk.
I followed, watching as he turned the security system back on.

A heartbeat later, life came back into his eyes. Behind me, Shona said, “What just happened? Why are you holding me?”

“Because you fainted,” Jackson said. “I figured you wouldn't appreciate hitting your head on the floor.”

“Damn right.” She straightened but didn't immediately step free from his grip. “Though I'm not sure why I would have fainted.”

“Maybe your blood sugar is low,” Frank said. “It used to happen to the ex when she was on one of her diets.”

Shona snorted. “The one thing I
don't
do is diet. I love food too much.”

“Pleased to hear it.” He sat down and scanned the monitors. There was no indication that he'd noticed a good chunk of time had passed. “This has certainly been a more interesting evening than usual.”

Jackson and I shared a glance. No memory of events, as Heaton had promised. “The short circuit upstairs wouldn't have affected anything down here, would it?”

“No, we're on a separate system here, and everything is up and running.” His sudden smile was warm, and aimed at Shona. “I'll report the problem, and we'll see you again very soon.”

“You will.” She glanced at her watch and frowned. “We'd better run, as I'm late for the next client. Thanks, Frank.”

We headed out. Jackson tossed me the car keys then escorted Shona over to her car. I jumped into ours and started it up.

“I've decided someone upstairs hates us right now,” he said as he climbed into the passenger seat. “Because they certainly seem intent on making our lives ever more difficult.”

“Yeah.” I pulled out of the parking spot and merged into the traffic. “The first thing we need to do is find out more about Heaton.”

“I doubt PIT will give us any information,” Jackson said. “Not that you can really risk asking Sam about him anyway. Not until we know if he has a source at PIT or not.”

“I can't imagine he has. Surely PIT would have taken measures against the possibility of agents being subverted or psychically invaded.”

“Probably, but where else could he be getting information from? They're probably the only ones who have a complete picture of what the various chess pieces are doing in this particular game.”

“We could ask the sindicati.” Heaton might not have much of an opinion of them, but I doubted they were oblivious to the fact that there was a new player in town. “It might also be worth contacting Baker.”

Scott Baker was the alpha of the werewolf pack who'd claimed Melbourne as their territory. Even if the sindicati didn't know about Heaton, the wolves surely would—especially if Heaton did plan to take over what the sindicati currently controlled. Any such action would fracture the black market operations deal the wolves apparently had with the sindicati.

“Baker might be the easier option,” Jackson mused. “He's certainly the less dangerous one.”

I snorted. “I wouldn't be so damn certain of that.”

“We saved his life. He owes us.” Jackson glanced at me, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “He may not like us, but he'll feel obliged to help us until he considers the debt paid. Wolves are weird like that.”

“There's nothing weird about being honorable.”

“I agree, but you have to admit, it's a rare commodity in this day and age.”

Actually, I didn't think it was any rarer now than at any other period of time. Maybe it simply said more about the people he generally associated with than anything else. And, as a PI, he certainly knew a lot more about society's underbelly than most “regular” people ever would.

“Where are we likely to find him?”

“The pack owns a building on Collins Street. Most of their business deals are handled there.”

“Will they be there at this hour of the morning?”

Jackson glanced at the clock on the dash. “Maybe. From what I understand of the deal between the pack and the vamps, the wolves run operations during the day, the vamps at night. But I can't imagine they wouldn't be monitoring what the vamps are up to twenty-four/seven. The sindicati have never been the most trustworthy lot.”

I did a quick, illegal U-turn and headed back into the city. “How long has the deal between them been running?”

He shrugged. “For the ten years I've been working in Melbourne as a PI, at least.”

“You've been here ten years, and we didn't run into each other until a few months ago?” I said. “There's no justice in this world.”

“No,” he agreed, tone grave. “Because if there was, I'd be in bed loving you senseless right now.”

“There, there.” I reached across and patted his thigh. Once again his muscles jumped under my touch and heat stirred. I drew in a deep breath and let it fill me, tease me. “All good things come to those who wait.”

“Those who wait,” he growled, the amusement dancing in his at odds with the gravity in his voice, “will need to come more than thrice before their need is, in any way, slaked.”

“Only thrice?” I said, amused. “Need can't be all that severe if that's all it will take.”

He snorted. “Oh, trust me, it'll take more than that. But it is, at least, a good start.”

And I, for one, couldn't wait. But I wasn't about to start a fire until we had the time to
take
time, so I withdrew my hand and turned my attention back to the road. “Has the city pack always lived here in Melbourne? Or are their traditional lands elsewhere, and this is just where they do business?”

“This is their traditional home, though I believe they own vast tracts of land up past Macedon.”

“So why would they allow humans to develop the area so completely? Most packs I've come across have tended to keep traditional lands solely for pack use.”

“I suspect they did it for the same reason as they now deal with the vampires—money. Not all wolf packs need or want wild, free spaces in which to run. Some are more than happy with city life and the facilities it brings.”

I frowned. “But if they sold the land, they can't legally call it theirs.”

“Ownership has nothing to do with a title. It's more about place. A feeling of kinship and belonging.” He shrugged. “As for the deal with the vamps, nobody wins if the two parties go to war over the right of control. It is far better to reach a satisfactory compromise for them both.”

Except at least one of the sindicati factions had decided that the deal was no longer relevant. Maybe that was why Heaton was here—he was using the current uncertainty between the former allies to establish his own power base.

“Which end of Collins Street are the wolves?”

“Spencer Street end, just before King Street.”

It didn't take us long to get there. I found a parking spot just down the street then got out and studied the building. It was a gray slab-sided, modern building that lacked the charm of the older buildings in the area and had none of the polished finish of the newer ones. But each corner of the building was equipped with cameras, and I had no doubt there would be additional security measures inside.

“They're infrared cameras,” Jackson noted as I joined him on the sidewalk.

“It makes sense, given who they're dealing with.” I studied the nearest camera as we walked toward the main entrance. “How can you actually tell?”

“The shape of them. Infrareds tend to be more bulbous because of the extra technology they need.” He climbed the steps and opened the door, ushering me through with a sweep of his arm.

“You'd think that with a building bristling with
technology, they'd actually take the extra step and install auto doors,” I said. “It's not like they can't—”

The rest of the sentence was lost to a roar so loud it left my ears ringing. I half turned to see what was going on, and caught a brief glimpse of something that was half-man, half-wolf, and fucking huge.

He hit me with the force of a truck and sent me crashing back into a nearby wall. Pain bloomed and, for several seconds, I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, and all I could see was a mist of red. I wasn't sure if it was blood or fire, and didn't really care, because the air was screaming and the scent of wolf filled my nostrils. Flames rose, thick and hard, my body instinctively protecting itself even though I was half out of it.

But the approaching mass of fur and fury never hit. There was a grunt of pain; then the wall behind me shuddered as something big smashed into it.

I drew in a shuddery breath that hurt like hell, sucked my fire back in, and forced my eyes open. The furry man mountain was slumped, unconscious, at the foot of the wall ten feet away. Security guards were running toward us, their expressions of mix of wariness and surprise. I'm guessing it wasn't every day visitors were attacked before they'd stepped three feet into the foyer.

But then, it wasn't any old wolf who'd attacked me. It was Theodore Hunt, a hit man who'd promised to kill me because I'd apparently ruined his reputation by preventing him from murdering someone. Twice.

It was tempting, so
very
tempting, to unleash the fires that still burned within, and turn his ass to ashes.
But cindering someone as a precautionary measure wasn't exactly a civil thing to do, even when it came to someone like Hunt.

Several security guards unceremoniously picked him up and hauled him away, but no one approached us. Wolves were notoriously savage when it came to defending pack territory, so the mere fact they were keeping their distance and not even questioning us suggested they'd been ordered to do so.

Jackson squatted beside me, his expression anxious. “Are you okay?”

“Nope. I think I've bruised every muscle in my body.” And there was blood trickling down my face. I swiped it away and pushed upright, but my breath caught in my throat and pain rolled through me. I sucked in several breaths that hurt—although not as much as they would have had I broken something—and said, “What did you do to Hunt?”

“Picked up a planter and hit him with it.”

I glanced past him. The planters were almost as large as Hunt. Jackson certainly wasn't lacking in the muscle department, but that was still an impressive act.

“Yeah,” Jackson said, “but it's amazing what a body can do when adrenaline is racing.”

“Just our fucking luck to enter the building just as Hunt is leaving it.” I paused and winced again. Things were bad when even talking hurt.

Jackson glanced at the guards and said, “I don't suppose you boys have medical facilities in the building, do you?”

“Yes, we do.”

The voice was deep, cold, and it wasn't coming from any of the watching guards. As one, they parted, and Scott Baker, alpha of the pack, strode through. He was a big man with close-cropped brown hair and sharp brown eyes. And he didn't look pleased to see us.

He stopped several yards in front of his men and crossed his arms. It was an action that seriously tested the seam strength of his shirt. “Muscular” wasn't often a term used to describe wolves, because they tended to be lithe, but the city pack seemed to be the exception to the rule.