Demon Accords 10: Rogues (10 page)

“I’d put another weld here, here, and here,” Stacia said to the welder.  He was reinforcing the metal gate that was the second line of defense after the steel door of the vault.

“You really think that’s necessary?” he asked, a dubious expression expressing his own views.

Without a word, she stepped into the vault, shutting the gate behind her.  The knob was gone from this side, a heavy plate welded over the latch hole.

Gripping the gate bars in the middle of the door, she pulled with one hand while bracing her other against the doorframe.  The steel gate flexed in the middle, bending out of true until the metal door bolt slipped out of its matching hole.

Buck Thompson snorted.  “Jerry, just do what the lady suggests, alright?”

“Yeah, no problem,” Jerry, the county facilities manager, nodded, eyes wide.

He proceeded to reinforce the gate under her watchful eyes while Ken the werewolf sat in the corner of the vault, head turned away.

Satisfied the minor reconstruction was well in hand, Stacia turned and crouched down beside the other were.

“Have you reconsidered?” she asked Kenny.

He shook his head.  “He’ll kill me.  You won’t.”

“Kenny, what do you think happens to weres that kill and feed on regulars?  Do you think the other weres just wait around for regular humans to get scared and hunt us out of existence?”

“He says we’re the top of the food chain.  That humans are sheep,” Kenny said like a belligerent child.

“First, did you know the federal government has giant robots designed from the ground up to kill werewolves?  Have you seen the price of silver now that every ammo maker in the world is making some kind of silver bullet?  Did you know that bear spray manufacturers are making a variety with liquefied wolfsbane in it?  Those
sheep
have fangs, Kenny, and claws of silver.  Why else would your leader be forming a pack way the hell up here in the middle of nowhere?” she asked.

“He says it’s only till we’re up to strength.  Then we’ll go where we want, take what we want,” he said, trying to make his points.

“What’s his name, Kenny?” she asked.  “At least tell me that.”

“No.  Betrayal is unforgivable,” he said, making it sound like a quote.

“How about his first name?  So I know what to call him when I meet him,” she asked, her tone warm and reasonable.

He was silent, but she waited patiently.  Knowing she was still there, he squirmed a bit.  “He says we’re to call him Loki’s First,” he finally said, his hand coming up to absently touch the bone earring he wore in his left lobe.

She rocked back on her heels, shocked.  After a moment, she stood up and moved past the welder, who made sure to give her plenty of room in the crowded vault.

“Did you get anything?” Buck asked.

“He’s more afraid of his alpha than me.  But he said this guy insists they call him Loki’s First,” she said.

“And that means something to you?” he asked, reading the answer on her face.

“I was bitten by a rogue.  A poor guy who had, in turn, been bitten by a passing werewolf and left to change on his own, without help or supervision.  The guy that bit him was part of a gang of weres known as Loki’s Spawn,” she answered, looking troubled.

“And?” he asked.

“And Chris Gordon pretty much hunted them all out of existence,” she said.

He rocked back, digesting that.  “Were there many of them?”

“Well over eight hundred at their worst,” she answered.

“He hunted down eight hundred werewolves by himself?”

“Not completely, but he did take out over half by himself.  I suppose a few might have slipped away and gone into hiding.  But if so, why would this one let his pack members create this much highly visible trouble? He has to know that word will get out,” she said.

“It’s already out.  The media in Bangor already got tipped off. In the last hour, we’ve gotten calls from every major network and paper in the country.  By this evening, the town will be full of journalists,” Buck said.

“And DOAA will be here even sooner,” she said.

Forty minutes later, her prediction came true.  The first indication was a call from Chase airfield, warning the sheriff that a federal Blackhawk helicopter was inward bound and that a convoy of black SUVs with government plates had arrived to meet the chopper.  Twenty-seven minutes later, those same SUVs pulled up outside the sheriff’s office, which was housed in a two-story brick building right next to the much larger converted factory building that was currently holding Kenny Spitzer.

Three black GMC Tahoes with heavily tinted windows disgorged eight people, seven of them armed to the teeth.  The eighth was dressed in the same midnight blue paramilitary battledress, but was only packing a sidearm.  He was big enough, however, to look like he didn’t need firearms at all.

Stacia recognized him on sight, pulling back from the window as he glanced around outside.

“You know them?” Buck asked from beside her.  He had also pulled away from the window, but it was more to watch her reaction than to hide.

“One of them—the leader.  Name is Eric Adler.  He ran the strike team that hunted the rogue that bit me.  Nasty piece of work.  I’m going to hang back if possible.  Maybe we can avoid an incident,” she said.

The door to the station opened and a big man strode through.  Maybe six-five and thickly constructed, well over two hundred and fifty pounds, projecting arrogance.  Brown hair cut in a crew cut, and pale gray eyes that scanned the room like he was its new owner.

“Where’s Sheriff Grable?” he asked the first deputy to get in his way, still moving forward.

“I’m the sheriff,” Grable answered from the door of his office, where he’d been meeting with a Maine State Police Captain.

“Special Agent Eric Adler, Sheriff.  I’m here to fix your problem,” he stated.

To his credit, Sherman Grable didn’t appear the least bit intimidated.  “What problem and what agency?” he fired back in a gruff voice.

Adler took his time answering.  “Hear you have a bit of werewolf problem, Sheriff.  And according to the Supernatural Crimes and Rights Enforcement Act, the Directorate of Anomalous Activity has jurisdiction over felony crimes committed by supernatural beings,” he said, squaring his chest so that the DOAA tag over his right pectoral was abundantly evident.

“I see.  So where the hell have you been?” Grable asked.  “Where were you this morning when my department arrested a werewolf suspect, Agent Adler?  What exactly do you bring to the party?”

Adler visibly bit back his reflexive response, his eyes moving around the crowded sheriff’s station.  At least two local reporters, who had been gathering prepared media release packets, were now blatantly recording the interaction with cell phones.  Adler certainly noticed
them.

“You’re to be commended, Sheriff.  Taking down a werewolf… er… suspect is no light matter.  How many men were injured?” Adler asked, eyes now locked back on the sheriff.

“One has a sprained arm,” the sheriff said, nodding his head at the deputy that Spitzer had thrown, who now had his arm in a sling but otherwise seemed productive.

Adler frowned.  “And your suspect?  How are you holding him?”

“In a cell, Agent Adler. In a cell,” the sheriff responded, patiently, like Adler was a slow student.

“Normal cells can’t hold a lycanthrope, Sheriff, but we’re here now,” Adler said, turning to the muscular battle-dressed agent behind him.

“Did I say it was a normal cell, Agent?  Do you think the residents of Maine are stupid?” the sheriff asked, his voice cold.

Stacia had already appraised the sheriff as an intelligent man who listened well and adapted quickly, but she now realized he was also a skilled political operator who understood how to act in front of cameras.  Which made sense.  Sheriffs are elected; Special Agents are just appointed.

Adler turned back forward, his frown deepening, and Stacia could hardly wait to hear his response.  She was betting on the sheriff winning this exchange.  Before Adler could respond, the door to the station opened and another blue-fatigue-wearing agent appeared, this one incongruously holding a Jack Russell terrier.  Almost instantly, the dog sniffed the air and then growled, squirming in its handler’s arms until the young man set it down.  Then it ran helter skelter through the office until it planted itself in front of Stacia and began to growl.

When she looked up, she was the center of attention.  Adler was focused on her and both reporters were still recording.

“You’ve been infiltrated, Sheriff,” Adler said, rushing forward and drawing his sidearm.  Both of his fellow agents unslung their M4 carbines and drew down on Stacia at the same time that Adler did. 

Almost as fast, another dozen weapons cleared leather, and Adler and his men found themselves staring down the barrels of most of the department’s weapons.

“Agent Adler, if you don’t holster those weapons immediately, I’ll arrest you for assault with a deadly weapon,” the sheriff said.

“You have a werewolf standing right there,” Adler said through clenched teeth, glancing sideways at the sheriff.

“Yes, Agent Adler, Miss Reynolds is obviously a werewolf.  Didn’t you see any of the footage from Washington?  I would think you people would have reviewed that sort of thing,” the sheriff said tightly.  “Miss Reynolds came here to consult with us and help us with the investigation.  You’ll note that she stayed incognito to avoid hindering the investigation with her celebrity status. Now holster those weapons!”

Adler’s pale eyes were locked on hers, his body frozen in place.  She moved her gaze to the trigger finger on that extra long Glock.  Some weird model she didn’t know.  Chris would know.  Declan… probably not.  He wasn’t as into firearms as his mentor was. 
Weird thoughts, Stacia
, she said to herself,
especially when you’re staring down the barrels of what are most certainly silver-loaded weapons
.

Only a few seconds had ticked by when she saw the scarred finger slip out of the trigger guard and index on the frame of the pistol.  Then Adler was holstering his weapon and signaling his men to do the same.  He turned to the sheriff.  “You should have told me you had a lycanthropic consultant on staff.”

“We barely met, Agent Adler, and if I recall, you were trying to demonstrate how stupid we were.  Not a whole lot of time to introduce you to the whole room,” the sheriff said.

“Miss Reynolds is the result of using amateur consultants.  Isn’t that right, Miss Reynolds?” Adler asked, turning to her.  The two reporters were visibly delighted with the opportunity to turn their cameras on a known supernatural celebrity.

“Exactly, Agent.  If Chris Gordon hadn’t been there, myself and my friend would have been torn to pieces by the rogue that you couldn’t seem to track.  So instead of death, I got one little bite before he pulled that poor twisted man off me.  And then got me the help I needed to adjust to my new condition.  Does someone want to do something about that?” she asked, pointing at the Jack Russell that was still growling and bouncing on both front feet.  “If it bites me, I’m gonna bite it back.”

At a nod from Adler, the dog’s handler moved forward, keeping his eyes on Stacia while picking up the dog and backing away.

“Cute,” she said, not meaning it.

“Why not a Rottweiler or a German Shepard?” Buck asked suddenly.

Adler frowned at him, but Buck just kept an interested look on his face.  “Most of the big dogs get too submissive.  The little terriers don’t know enough to be afraid,” he admitted.  “Now, enough of this crap.  Where’s the prisoner?”