INVISIBLE POWER BOOK TWO: ALEX NOZIAK (INVISIBLE RECRUITS) (11 page)

CHAPTER 23

It was after midnight when the three men returned to Van’s cell. Another change of routine that had him curious as to what was up and why.

All he could do was wait. Not one of his favorite pastimes.

The footsteps sounded faster now. Impatient. Two of the men were breathing heavily as if they’d raced a long way. The human’s hands were clumsy as he fiddled with the cell door lock. Van could smell his fear from across the room.

“I want to know his status. Now!”  The one Van thought of as the power broker snapped. It sounded like he was finishing an ongoing conversation.

The doctor, Jean-Luc was it? No, Jean Claude, scuffled across the room, his nerves obvious by the pounding of his heart, the increase of his sweat, the shallowness of his breathing. Something was scaring these two. Something or someone.

The doctor was rough as he jerked Van’s head up, shining a penlight into his eyes.

“What the hell?” Van snarled, not having to work too hard to sound pissed.

“Ah, Mister Noziak, you do know how to speak,” the power broker murmured and yes, he was the same man from earlier. “Shall I share with you a little secret?”

Torment came in many forms. This man’s specialty, so far, seemed to be verbal torture. But if he felt chatty, and let something spill that Van could use, who was Van to let the opportunity pass.

He grunted an assent, knowing the other didn’t expect much more from him.

He was right, as the power broker nodded. “
Bonne
. I think you will like what I have to say.”

But the a-hole didn’t continue. Instead he waited.

The prick.

Van nudged him along with a taunt. “What makes you think I care about anything you have to say?”

It worked like a charm as the other cleared his throat. “Even if the news I have concerns your sister?”

The growl ripped from Van this time was not feigned as he tugged at his restraints.

The doctor jumped back. “Do not aggravate him, I implore you,” he said, clicking his teeth. “Not if you wish the experiment to go as planned.”

So the trial was now an experiment. But what did that have to do with Alex? Did they really know something or was this just more torture?

“
C’est la vie
.” The power broker’s tone showed he’d learned what he’d wanted from Van.

When Van broke free he’d make sure this guy didn’t die quick or easy. It was his turn to taunt. “Big man, aren’t you,” he said, his voice husky and low. “Only a coward goes after a man’s family. But then I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

“That is a shame, Mister Noziak,” came the quick reply. “That you think I am only, how do you say, poking at you. For I just saw your sister a few hours ago.”

Van held himself very still. No way was Alex in Paris. She was in prison. It sucked, but at least she was safe there. So why was this creep saying otherwise?

“Like I would believe anything you said,” Van spat out, ignoring the doctor as the man slipped a blood pressure cuff around his arm.

“A suspicious man, I see. Would you believe me if I told you her hair is still waist length?”

“A photo could tell you as much.”

“True.”

The blood pressure cuff tightened.

“This is not good.” The doctor shook his head, before glancing at the other over his shoulder. “I must insist that you cease.”

The power broker released a sigh, as if he was finished anyway. “The shifter will discover in due time whether I speak the truth or not.”  He stepped toward the door, waving the human forward. “Don’t forget the photo.”

Blinded by a flash of light, Van could do little more than scrunch his eyes closed to rid them of the dancing motes. “What the hell—“

“For your sister.” The power broker laughed. “A momento.”

For real? Or another way to undermine Van?

“Till tomorrow.” The man touched a hand to the brim of his hood before walking out of the cell, followed closely by the doctor and the human.

Van tugged at his restraints, knowing it was useless, and only earning the stench and pain of them burning deeper into his skin.

Whatever was going on he’d find out tomorrow. And if these people had involved Alex they’d rue the day they were created.

CHAPTER 24

Jeb Noziak was awakened by an insistent knock on the door. Philippe? With news of Van or Alex?

He threw off his bed clothes though it’d been less than an hour since he’d gone to bed. His attempts to reach either of his children on the astral level had failed. Something was blocking them from his awareness. Not a simple cloaking spell that any hedge witch could produce but more like a jammer. He’d never encountered anything like it before, which didn’t make him a happy man. Especially after what he’d learned from Pádraig’s files earlier.

Alex had a lot to explain to him once he found her. A whole lot.

The knocking became louder. More frantic.

“I’m coming,” he called out, grabbing a bathrobe and tightening the belt around him. He didn’t bother with turning on a light as he could see as well in the dark and the room was familiar enough.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice a near snarl as he recognized Pádraig standing in the hallway, his hair mussed, strain bracketing his face. “Where’s Philippe?”

”He’s dead,” came the abrupt reply. “The Tunisian has run off.”

What? Shock roared through Jeb. Not possible. Then he remembered Philippe’s earlier words, about the previous attempts on his life. But why?

The Tunisian? Oh, yes, the butler. But what did the butler have to do with Pádraig’s news?

“What happened?” he demanded, stepping into the hallway. “An accident?”

The younger man shook his head, his face looking pale beneath the glare of lighting. Every lamp in the house must be switched on as if to scare away the night threats. But if what Pádraig had said was true, the worst had already happened.

When Pádraig didn’t respond, Jeb steered him toward the library, and once he’d been seated, slumping forward in the chair, his head in his hands, Jeb grabbed a bottle of Jameson’s and splashed a liberal amount in a crystal glass.

“Drink this,” he urged Pádraig. “Then we’ll talk.”

It took the younger man two gulps to down the whole glass. Jeb kept his surprise to himself. Shock did different things to different people.

“Tell me what happened?” he repeated, the minute Pádraig appeared stable.

“They think he was poisoned.” Pádraig’s eyes showed far too much white, like a spooked horse, but Jeb couldn’t wait.

“By who?”

The Pádraig shook his head, holding out his empty glass. Jeb rose to pour him some more, frustrated at the delay.

Only when Pádraig swallowed the next full glass did he continue. “There are names swirling around. Innuendos. Accusations. It’s a bloody arseways cockup.” His Irish accent as well as slang had increased. A sure sign of distress. He glanced up as if noticing Jeb for the first time. ”They’re on their way here. The
Guards
.”

At Jeb’s frown he added, “
Un policier
. The coppers.”

Jeb got the message, but still he pushed for details. “Now?”

“
Oui
.”

“But why?”

“Philippe was well connected, within the Council and outside of it.”  Pádraig ran a shaky hand through his hair. “He made a lot of enemies. Now everyone is a suspect.”

The man was distraught, speaking wildly. Surely the French police would have to search Philippe’s home, ask questions of his friends, but Pádraig was indicating more was at stake.

Jeb leaned forward to ask for more details when the front door knocker boomed through the house.

“They are here.” Pádraig jerked upright as if Nazi jackboots were beating down the entrance, looking for him.

“What are you afraid of?” Jeb wanted to shake him, seeing the flash of blue light cleaving the night outside the window. “Tell me now.”

“For all our sakes, say nothing about your daughter,” came the stunning response.

“What about Alex?”

The young man shook off Jeb’s hand and straightened his suit.

“Tell me about Alex.” Jeb pressed harder. “Now.”

“She’s the chief suspect.”

“For what?”

“Killing Philippe. That’s what.”

CHAPTER 25

I wasn’t sure where we were but Bran seemed to know what he was doing as he punched a key code into a discreet panel near a metal door. It looked like we were in an industrial area, or maybe a former industrial area, with rows of low brick buildings looking boxy against the skyline.

François
pushed open the well-oiled door. A scent of cement floors and damp wafted toward me but it didn’t smell old as much as empty.

When he went to reach for a light switch, Bran stopped him. “Wait till we’re all inside.”

I guess that meant I wasn’t moving fast enough.

Bite me.

My feet were shredded from who knew how many miles we’d trekked. I was freezing as the dress
François
had picked out for me—which worked fine in a packed crowd—was paper-thin against a Paris April night, and I had to wrap my arms around my upper body to keep from shivering.

Still I shuffled in after
François
, trying not to smack into him in the darkness that was worse than outside even as Bran left the door open. A small shaft of moonlight leaked into the room but it wasn’t enough to show me anything.

“Where are we?” I whispered. “If this is your place, won’t they be looking for us here?”

I knew which “they” I was most concerned about. The take-no-prisoners Council.

“Owned by a friend,” he mumbled as he trod past me. Leave it to a warlock to be able to see in the dark. And then his words struck me. A friend. As in blonde with mile long legs and a French accent?

Why I should care right then was beyond me, not with the other crap I was dealing with. Still it pricked. “She won’t be back soon will she?” I asked.

“Who said it was a she?” he said somewhere deep inside the stygian space. I could have sworn there was a smile beneath his words.

So I kept my mouth shut.

François
leaned closer to me, brushing my shoulder as he whispered, “Betrayed yourself that time, didn’t you luv?”

His accent was pure British right then. And all snark.

I didn’t have time to tell him where he could stuff it though as a whiff of something came my way. Familiar.

François
tensed beside me. This time I was the one leaning in close to him. “Were.”

There wasn’t time for more as a large shape came hurtling from the shadowed doorway and slammed into
François
and I like a bowling ball set on stun.

We both sprawled forward, in opposite directions.

Two things saved us. The first was the Were remained in human form, in spite of his preternatural scent. I was lucky as I could smell both Weres and shifters, even in their human forms. The second, he seemed to pause, as if he was hesitating. Or waiting for something.

Either way, as long as he remained human we might survive.

If Bran joined us we might stand a chance, but even as I was saying my thank yous for having a warlock along, a second shadow spend past me and toward the kitchen.

Now I know why the first one waited. Backup.

“Were,” I shouted, giving Bran as much advance warning as possible, which wasn’t much as I heard a hard wham, the sound of two solid masses colliding.

Not going to be a lot of help from that direction.

François
was a shifter, which could usually take on a Were of equal size and weight. But
François
in shifter form was a poodle. Not the kind bred in World War II as attack dogs, but the frou-frou kind, look-at-me-aren’t-I-something kind.

Which left me and my scant training as a fighting agent. Since we were barely into our second month of Krav Maga at the Agency that wasn’t saying much. But I held one advantage; being raised with four brothers who thought street fighting was a basic form of communication.

They were right.

I rolled to my side then paused, as if hurt. I was winded, but only a fool gave up before the real fight ever began. My eyes adjusting to the darkness, could see the Were’s shape come after me again.

A quick twist and sweep of my lower body tripped him. This time he was the one splatting across the floor. I was on my feet again before he scrambled to his knees. Unlike him I wasn’t going to give him the chance of getting close enough to do serious damage.

I rocked from foot to foot, wishing I’d had my anathema dagger, my ritual knife with me, but the cocktail dress I was wearing didn’t have a scrap of fabric to hide it. Go figure.

Behind me I could hear
François
shifting. Changing body shapes was a lot like changing complicated clothes with Velcro and zippers; there was always some noise in the process. Maybe he could snap at the Were, and between us we could contain him. No way were we going to take him down. Not alone.

But the thumps and crashes in the other room indicated Bran wasn’t going to be free for a while.

The Were stood, arrogance riding his stance. He was a good foot taller than me, wide across the shoulders, and a good thirty pounds heavier if his shadow was anything to go by.

Double crap.

Stone had better be right about what he’d taught us so far about Krav Maga.

I hopped back as if on the defense before shifting direction and springing toward the Were, one foot extended to hit him in the family jewels followed by a quick elbow jab as he doubled over and grunted.

Linking both hands together as a battering ram I followed with a hard chop to the back of his neck. But even as he fell he lashed out at my knees and gave them a solid thwack.

I crumpled. Now we were eye to eye, or more my eyes reached his shoulders but I was close enough I could smell his fetid breath and hear his growls.

Only a quick feint to the right saved my shoulder from his next swing and off balanced him. Now he was toppling forward, across the top of me.

My twist was useless as he used his weight to bench press me into the cement floor, one arm across my windpipe, choking me.

Couldn’t. Breathe.

Where was
François
? Even a doggy lick would help!

Time to get down and dirty, Noziak style.

My arms were free so I snapped them up, using thumbs to gouge his eyes. He rocked back with a howl of rage, which allowed air to rush into my lungs. Thank the Great Spirits.

But I was only getting started.

Pulling myself forward as if doing a crunch I curled my hands into fists and pounded his eardrums. When he pulled his hands from his face to cover his ears I used the old palm of the hand as a battering ram to his nose.

Blood geysered over me
. I wanted to gag but there was no time.

He was off balance enough for me to rock back and forth, dislodging him enough for me to crabwalk backwards.

Were’s were strong fighters but they relied too much on their size and power. They also relied on turning from human to animal form. Which meant when remaining human if they didn’t take out an opponent right away, they started flagging.

Plus I was quick. To survive in the Noziak household agility and speed were ingrained into me.

I wasn’t sure why the Were hadn’t changed into his animal self. Once he did I was toast and getting a Were pissed was a sure fire way to make him morph.

I rolled to my knees, looking for the next attack when I heard a low growl rumble beside me.

Not another.

Bracing I reared to my feet and scrambled backwards, away from both bulky shadows until my back and shoulders hit a wall. Not pleasant but at least there was one avenue of attack cut off.

The growls increased but all I could see was a huge animal, at least as tall as my waist, casting greater darkness as it moved between me and the Were.

Wiping the sweat stinging my eyes I froze in a standing position. Not that it was going to save me, but between the instinctual response of freeze, flight or fight, the last two seemed like really bad options.

The animal wasn’t charging me. Instead the Were beyond the growl was suddenly scampering backwards.

Bad idea. I could have told it that running only ratcheted up the aggression of an enraged animal. But I was chugging too much air to have any left over to save someone who just tried to kill me.

Hands braced against my knees, I watched as the growl shifted into a mastiff, the biggest damned dog I’d ever seen in my life.

A quick look around didn’t show me
François,
but no way was this animal the MI-6 agent. He’d been a poodle last I’d seen him and shifters couldn’t shift into more than one animal. Could they?

Not that I’d ever heard of and I grew up with a shifter father and four shifter brothers.

Maybe the dog just wanted to take out the biggest threat before finishing me off as dessert. Or Bran could have conjured it, though the sounds from the other room made that less likely.

Either way, silently cheering on Fido, I slowly shuffled toward the door, trying not to bring attention to my movement. But it seemed like the Were had other ideas.

He started changing, too. His high-pitched scream stopped me in my tracks. He sounded like a cougar.

One of the bad things about Weres is that their animal forms are not normal-sized, they are super-sized, as if big, scary, bad ass Weres need any extra fighting mojo.

The mastiff stood at least three feet at its shoulders and weighed maybe a hundred and fifty, two hundred pounds. His growl echoed down my spine one low octave at a time.

Now this was officially a dog and cat fight.

I swallowed but my throat was too dry, and too clenched to help.

What now?