Penumbra (7 page)

His blunt-nosed profile sent shock crashing through her.

He was the man from her dream.

The evil man with the dead gray eyes.

S
AM PRESSED THE EAR STUD,
quickly activating it. “I want a search done on the man with the gray hair,” she murmured. “All details, ASAP.”

The man in question hesitated a bit longer, then climbed into the car. The chauffeur walked back to the driver's side and, within seconds, the car purred to life and was jockeying for position in the jam of other cars attempting to leave the theater district.

So much for Stephan's spectacular attack. What the hell was going to happen now? Without the attack, there was no reason for her to become one of Wetherton's bodyguards. No reason that wouldn't look suspicious, anyway.

And that, in turn, meant a return to the broom closet.

“There's never a vampire around when you bloody need one,” she muttered, as she stepped from the shadows, eyeing the car that now had its nose out into the street. “Someone had better contact me and tell me if this assignment is still a go.”

She touched the transmitter and switched it off. Then she resolutely turned away. A return to her hotel was her only option now.

She'd barely taken three steps when an explosion ripped through the night. As her heart leapt to the vicinity of her throat, a wave of heat hit, sending her staggering. She swore loudly, but the words were lost under the sound of screaming. She caught her balance and swung around.

What lay before her seemed more like a scene out of an action movie than something that could happen on a Melbourne street.

Wetherton's car was up on two wheels, skidding through the line of cars under the force of the explosion. It spun the two closest away, then crashed into a car parked on the right side of the road and thumped back down, the back wheels on fire and the flames spreading fast.

People were scattering—some running back inside the theater and others running down the street through the line of now-halted cars—most of them screaming and obviously terrified. The paparazzi were in a frenzy, cameras flashing as they jostled for the best position. Wetherton had finally gotten the attention he'd missed earlier.

Had he lived to bask in it?

The chauffeur scrambled from the car, blood pouring down his face from a cut above his eye. Then a line of blue light bit through the night and hit him in the chest, and he dropped like a stone out of her sight.

Laser fire.

He'd been hit with laser fire.

That
certainly wasn't a part of Stephan's plans. Sam drew her weapon and ran forward, using the cars as cover as her gaze swept the surrounding rooftops. The laser shot had come from the top of a building to the right of the theater, but the light glaring from the many signs prevented her from seeing if the shooter was still up there.

Only there was no reason to believe he wasn't.

She glanced at the limo. There were no movements from inside. Maybe the occupants had seen what had happened to the driver and were staying put, despite the dangerous fire. Or maybe they were unconscious.

Or dead.

The answers to those questions were something she had to find out—fast. But the closer she got to the car, the more the heat lashed at her skin. Oddly enough, the heat seemed to concentrate on one side of her face—it almost felt as if
she'd
been burned. The smell of burning rubber damn near choked her, and thick smoke spun through the night. If Wetherton and his people
were
alive and didn't get out soon, the fumes and the heat would kill them. Not to mention the growing danger of the gas tank exploding.

From across the road, a familiar voice yelled at people to get back, that everything was under control. She smiled grimly. Briggs—someone she'd worked with and trusted.

But she hoped like hell that Briggs wasn't the only one Stephan had sent in, because right now she had a feeling they were going to need every agent they could get.

Sam hesitated at the nose of the last car before the burning limo. A few feet of free space now separated her from the wreck. She blew out a breath, glanced up at the rooftop, then sprinted forward.

Blue light nipped at her heels, melting the asphalt before a secondary wave of kinetic energy sent jagged asphalt pieces exploding upward. Not a laser, but rather a plasma weapon, which ionized matter and projected it with sufficient force to cause secondary impact damage in addition to the initial high thermal damage. She swore and dove behind the burning car, ripping her jeans down to her skin. She swore again and rose on one knee, squinting against the smoke and the heat as she scanned the rooftops. She could see little through the thick, soupy haze.

Coughing as the smoke began to catch in her throat, she edged forward and knelt down by the chauffeur, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. Though with a hole the size of her fist burned through his chest, that wasn't too surprising.

She closed his eyes, then shifted position. Flames were beginning to lick at the underbelly of the limo, and, this close, the heat was intense, almost suffocating. Every breath burned and the sweat sliding down her forehead seemed to sizzle. She had to get out of here—had to get Wetherton and his people out—before they were either fried or suffocated or the gas tank exploded.

Sounds whispered through the crackling of flames—quick footsteps, approaching from the front of the limo. She swung and sighted her laser, only to recognize the blonde who approached. She lowered her weapon hastily and said, “What the hell is going on, Briggs?”

Briggs stepped over the chauffeur's body and squatted near her. “I don't know. The vamp was supposed to attack as Wetherton was coming out of the theater. This wasn't part of the plan, believe me.”

“Were you the only agent assigned?”

“Yeah. We're only talking about one vamp, and he's little more than a kid, at that.” Briggs hesitated, a grim smile touching her lips. “Dead easy. Or it should have been.”

Should
being the operative word. “Our first priority's getting Wetherton out.”

“You check, and I'll cover.”

Sam nodded. Smoke and flames enveloped almost every part of the car now. The paint had begun to peel, tearing away like sunburned skin. She pulled the sleeve of her jacket over her hand and opened the back door. Smoke boiled out, pungent and black. Inside the car, someone coughed. At least one of them was alive, though how, she had no idea.

Another blue beam bit through the night and the rear window of the car shattered, spraying bright shards of glass everywhere. Briggs rose and fired several shots at the rooftop of a café to the left of the theater.

Heat itched across Sam's skin—heat that whispered secrets and had nothing to do with the flames. It wasn't a vampire up there firing at them, but a shifter. Obviously, the vamp had done a runner, and others were in control here tonight. But who? Still, if there was one thing she'd learned over her years as a cop, it was that things rarely went the way they were planned. Mainly because all the various players were usually following a different script.

“SIU,” she said, in between coughs. “Is anyone seriously hurt in there?”

“Wetherton's unconscious. His girlfriend has serious facial lacerations. The rest of us have minor cuts and scrapes.”

The voice was cold, efficient. Familiar. She knew without looking that it belonged to the man with the dead eyes.

“We're going to lay covering fire so everyone can get out. One of you will have to drag Wetherton clear.” She hesitated, coughing again as the thick smoke and heat caught in her throat. “Make for the foyer of the theater.”

At least there, Wetherton and his companions should be relatively safe from the laser fire. Unless, of course, the shooter moved.

Or there was more than one shooter.

“Say when,” Gray Eyes said.

Sam checked the charge on the laser, then glanced at Briggs and nodded. As one, they rose and began firing.

“Go!” she screamed.

The twin lasers seared through the night, spraying the darkness with bright beams of light that danced across the metal rooftop with deadly force.

The car lurched. A woman scrambled out, followed quickly by a man who turned, reached back and hauled Wetherton out of the vehicle. Gray Eyes appeared, blood pouring down the left side of his face as he wedged a shoulder under the minister and hoisted him up, then quickly moved away from the limo with Wetherton on his back. The other man and two women followed, the second looking dazed and with blood flowing freely down her face.

“Go with them, Briggs,” Sam ordered, and she continued firing until Briggs and the others had reached the theater doorway, even though the shadow on the roof had disappeared as soon as they'd returned fire.

If he moved too far, they'd lose him. And with him would go any chance of understanding what the hell was going on. Sam pressed the transmitter as she rose and ran back across the road.

“The attacker is a shifter, not a vampire. I'm in pursuit. Cleanup team and ambulance required.”

Sirens were already screaming in the distance and people milled on the sidewalk, drawn like moths to the flame. Though the paparazzi feasted on it all, several of them ran in her wake, as if in anticipation of a scoop. She dug out her badge and flashed it in their direction.

“SIU, gentlemen. Get the hell back!”

With reluctance, they complied. At least initially. She had no doubt they'd follow—just a lot less obviously. That was another thing she'd learned over the years—the press and a good story weren't easily separated.

And there was a hell of a good story here—one she wanted uncovered as much as they did.

She ran onto Little Bourke Street, heading for the alley behind the cafés. The nearby streetlight flickered off and on, briefly illuminating the broken asphalt and grimy puddles of water that littered the alley's mouth. She slowed. The perfume of rotting rubbish, urine and water long gone stale rose to greet her, and she wrinkled her nose. So much for the hope that she'd left places like this behind when she'd become a spook.

The alley ran behind half a dozen shops, and rubbish bins lined the rear fences, most of them either overflowing or overturned. At the far end, huddled in the rear entrance of a building, was a sticklike mass of gray hair and stained clothing. He whispered obscenities to the wind, his voice harsh, strained, as he gestured wildly at the night.

A drunk, not the shifter who'd attacked Wetherton.

She holstered the laser and climbed the old wooden fence. Once on the other side, she hesitated, listening. Lights glowed from the back windows of the café. People talked, a distant sound of confusion and concern that meshed perfectly with her emotions.

She looked up. The shifter was still up on the roof. His evil rode the air as easily as the wind stirred her hair.

Why hadn't he run? What was he waiting for?

Her.

A chill raced down her spine. It was ludicrous, it truly was, and yet the thought—or rather, the certainty—that it was true was absolute.

And yet, she was here by chance, by whim. How could anyone be so certain of her actions that he would know where she'd be at any given moment? It was impossible.

Though not, perhaps, for the man who shared her dreams and her thoughts.

And perhaps it wasn't even beyond the capacity of her makers, whoever they might be. Who really knew? Not her, that was for sure.

She rubbed her arms, but it did little to erase the cold sensation of dread running through her.

One problem at a time,
she thought, and headed resolutely for the fire escape. Her footsteps echoed on the old metal stairs as she began to climb—a loud warning of her approach. Yet no sound greeted her appearance on the roof. No movement. She frowned, not liking the feel of it.

A billboard dominated the concrete expanse. Spotlights lined its base, their brightness aimed upward, leaving the rest of the rooftop a wasteland of shadows. A big old air-con unit rattled to her left. The awareness trembling across her skin suggested that the shifter hid behind it.