The Down Home Zombie Blues (22 page)

“If they’re operating covertly in a nil environment, no. They’d adopt your mode of dress, as my agent did.”

“Dan Wayne.” He almost said Mr. Crunchy but caught himself in time. “So how will I know?”

She slanted him a glance, then pointed to her eye with her index finger. “The color of their eyes shimmers. Iridescent? You know this word?”

“Like a rainbow,” he said, taking her arm and pulling her into Greg’s empty driveway, catching a glimpse of the front of his house as he did so. All still appeared normal. Quiet. He hoped it wasn’t the quiet of death. “Blue, green, purple, yellow—”

“To me, sunbow. But Tresh eyes aren’t so bright. The colors are more muted, and they shift and change. It’s also why they cannot see in planetary daylight.”

“And that’s it? Nothing else?”

A slight shrug. “Only their beauty.”

He turned the corner and stopped at Greg’s back steps. “Beauty?” After seeing the zombies, her comment was unexpected.

“Beauty. They’re incredibly, flawlessly beautiful.” She tilted her face and looked up at him. “Does your world believe in angelic beings, Theo?”

“Angels? Yeah.” He’d been shooting at angels in Gulfview?

“The Tresh are a visual heaven. But in truth, they’re the living embodiment of hell.”

He headed for the tall oleander hedge that separated Greg’s property from his. It seemed illogical that an entire race or breed or whatever the Tresh were could be uniformly beautiful. But a lot of what Theo had long accepted as fact—or as impossible—had been blown out of the water when he’d stepped off that transporter platform and followed his one-woman war machine into that ready room with its view of the star-studded galaxy.

“I know they have weapons, lasers. But are they trained in hand-to-hand combat?” he asked, handing the double-barreled rifle back to her when they reached the wall of shrubbery. Maybe they had other handicaps besides limited day vision.

She glanced at the Hazer’s yellow lights, then looped the strap over her head. “They’re masters in the art of pain.”

And Jorie wanted to take them alive. Oh, Christ. For the second time in one hour, he wished he had his tac vest. He thrust the laser pistol into the waistband of his jeans and double-checked the Glock in his hip holster. That had only one setting, but he’d try real hard not to kill any Tresh unless he had to. Unless one threatened Jorie. Then all bets—and promises to try to capture one alive—would be off.

15

The street cop called Theo Petrakos wanted to be first through his kitchen door, gun out, clearing each room for Jorie. But Detective Sergeant Petrakos knew Jorie had a much better chance of recognizing her own people and assessing any potential Tresh threat than he did. So—with great reluctance—he shoved his ego into his back pocket, kept his Glock holstered, and agreed to let her take point. He’d follow and cover her with the laser pistol on stun.

They reached the corner of his house and stopped. She pulled her scanner out.

“Dead zone?” he whispered, not sure if a yes was good or bad news.

She shook her head. “Only my MOD-tech. Nothing from the ship. No response from my team’s transcomms.”

“And people?”

“Incomplete data.” She frowned, tapping the screen, then: “Tamlynne.” There was hope in her voice. “I’m reading Tamlynne!”

Tammy was in there but not answering. If she was singing in the shower and unaware anyone was trying to reach her, he’d gladly help Jorie bust her lieutenant down to ensign.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They flanked his back door for a moment, listening. No cursing, no crashing of furniture. But that was the way fights happened in his world, not hers. He remembered the soft, eerie hum of the laser fire as it split the air in Gulfview. It gave a whole new meaning to the term
deathly quiet.

At her nod he yanked the screen door open, then, as it bumped against his shoulder, twisted the doorknob and shoved. She inched in quickly, crouching, pistol out, eyes narrowed, focused.

He muffled the sound of the door closing with his foot and then was right behind her, swinging his laser pistol opposite to hers, looking left when she looked right. His kitchen was empty, a half-filled glass of water sitting on the drainboard by the sink. He saw her eyes widen as she stared at it. He didn’t know why, but it was important. And it troubled her.

She squatted down quickly on the right side of the doorway to his living room, motioning for him to follow suit.

He dropped down, one shoulder against the refrigerator, adrenaline surging.

And then he realized what else was wrong. It was too quiet. Every other time the space commandos had been in his back bedroom, he’d had to keep the kitchen radio on to mask their conversation.

There was no sound in his house. None at all. Not even the shower running.

With a sinking feeling Theo realized they had come back too late. He was about to walk in on his second homicide crime scene in two days. But the killers would never be brought to justice.

Jorie switched her pistol to her left hand and brought the scanner up in her right. She balanced it on her thigh and tapped furiously at it, frowning, glancing up in the direction of his living room, then frowning again.

Finally she stopped and brought her hand and the pistol to her lips in a clumsy signal for silence. At least, that’s what he hoped she was signaling.

He nodded.

She tapped the scanner one more time, then let it fall back to her side. Quickly she switched her pistol to her right hand, raising her left, five fingers splayed. Then four, three, two…one.

A high-pitched squeal reverberated through his house, damned near—he was sure—cracking his windows. It hurt his ears like hell, but she was rising and so was he. Diversion tactics, he guessed. She swept into his living room, hugging the walls. Theo was on her heels, swinging around, pistol out, double-checking for anything in the shadows. For once, he was glad there was very little furniture for anyone to hide behind.

She flattened herself against the wall by the entrance to his short hallway. He sidled up next to her just as the squealing abruptly ceased. Just as something or someone moved like a blur past them into the living room.

Without hesitation, Jorie fired. The woman—Theo saw now that it was a woman—spun, twisting, raising a square black pistol in her hand. Theo pulled off two shots, center mass. The woman’s arm jerked up as she fell, gun tumbling from her fingers, platinum shoulder-length curls flaring out around one of the most incredibly beautiful faces Theo had ever seen.

This
was a Tresh?

“Watch her!” Jorie’s voice was a low rasp. She snatched the small black pistol from the floor, then hitched up her sweater and pushed it into her belt.

Theo stared at the Tresh woman lying motionless in front of his television. But breathing: he could see the rise and fall of her chest under her pink
Life’s a Beach
T-shirt. She looked like a Victoria’s Secret model lying there. No, she looked better than any Victoria’s Secret model he’d ever seen. Perfectly sculpted, classical features. Long legs encased in white jeans, slender waist, and one helluva rack.

Damn.

Then a noise in his hallway had him and Jorie flattening themselves against the wall again.

Next victim,
he thought, wondering how many more cover-model types were in his bedrooms. He and Jorie could simply stand here and pick them off one by one as they came out of the hallway.

But, of course, the Tresh had to realize that too. Then it would turn into a standoff until he and Jorie could force them out of the rooms. A smoke bomb or tear gas would come in real handy then. Or maybe a row of high-intensity UV lights. Unfortunately, he had none of those.

But this blonde had been stupid enough to come out. Maybe the others would too. Jorie had said they couldn’t beat the Tresh by outshooting them but rather by outthinking them. If this was any indication of Tresh thought processes, this wasn’t going to be difficult at all. All they had to do was wait.

Unless—
shit for brains
—they climbed out the windows, like the one in his bathroom, and came in through the front or back door. Jorie had said they could withstand sunlight for a minute or two. And that’s about all it would take.

Watch your six.

He spun back, heart pounding, pistol aimed at the kitchen doorway just as Jorie’s scanner emitted two short screeches from under her sweater.

She holstered her pistol and brought her rifle up in a smooth, practiced move.

But it was too late.

The Tresh didn’t need to use the windows.

A tanned, pale-haired man shimmered into existence in the far corner of Theo’s living room, just to the right of his leather sofa, looking like he stepped off the cover of
GQ
magazine. The man jerked his short rifle up, and a bright starburst flared from the muzzle.

Theo hit the floor, firing, as behind him a woman screamed in pain.

The first of Jorie’s shots missed as she dropped to the floor, partly shielded by Theo’s chair. Laser fire slashed overhead. But the second from her specially modified double-stack Hazer punched through the shields—L-1s, according to her rifle’s readouts—around the Tresh Devastator. A Devastator! She should have guessed that elite squad would be involved. In the back of her mind, she thought she recognized the male as he staggered, but it had been ten years. There wasn’t time to dig out a name or rank. Theo was on the floor off to her right, firing, and somewhere else in the structure a female was screaming.

Hell’s wrath. Tam.

Jorie thumbed the Hazer to hard-terminate as she came up on her knees next to the chair. She had one live Tresh—the unknown female. This one could be permitted to die. The male, stunned but still standing, swung around toward Theo. “Terminate!” she shouted, and put two blasts at his back, decimating his shield completely. Theo’s laser flared blue—and fatal—against the Tresh’s chest.

The male bucked, writhing. Jorie sprang to her feet, but Theo was faster, knocking the rifle from the male’s grip and pointing his laser at his head.

Only as the male lay sprawled—unmoving—on the floor did his name come to her: Cordo Sem. A Tresh Devastator she’d sworn she’d kill if she ever saw him again.

She’d just gotten her wish. But if Sem was here, that meant…

She bolted into the hallway, heart in her throat. She knew who had Tam.

The back bedroom was empty, her MOD-tech shattered in pieces. She swiveled around, searching for clues. She didn’t know who’d destroyed the equipment: Kip and Tam, picking up the Tresh emissions and not wanting to lead them to the
Sakanah
and Jorie; or the Tresh, spiteful and angry. It didn’t matter. The deed was done.

The
Sakanah
was no longer there to render aid, anyway.

So that left only Theo’s personal bedroom. They wouldn’t have transported Tam or Kip back to their ship. She realized something she should have already figured out, something that hit her the moment she recognized Cordo Sem. Old scores had not been settled. They’d tracked her down. They wanted revenge.

Another scream.

Hell’s fire. These monsters stopped at nothing.

Jorie stepped quickly but cautiously into the hallway just as Theo did. Sem’s rifle strap was draped over Theo’s shoulder, his laser pistol at the ready, chest heaving. She held up one hand.

“My game.” She wasn’t sure he understood.

“Jorie—”

Stars, the worry on his face pulled at her heart. “Mine,” she repeated, her voice shaking. “They have Tam.” She hoped to find Kip Rordan in the room too. Hoped her scanner was malfunctioning and just not picking up his readings. “They want me. This is mine to do. Watch the Tresh female. Stun her again if necessary.” She moved toward his bedroom door, knowing full well what lay behind it.

It was time. In fact, it was ten years overdue.

“Jorie—”

“No,” she said firmly, pointing to the female on the floor. “Watch her. We need her alive.” Then she kicked in the door to Theo’s bedroom, her double-stack raised and ready.

Devastator Senior Agent Davin Prow filled her sights, his angelic smile beaming from where he stood over Tamlynne Herryck, a restrainer field pinning her to the floor. Another shield glistened around him. The readout on her Hazer’s tiny screen showed it to be a Level-2 Defensive, stronger than the one around Sem. Gritting her teeth, she checked fire—he was too close to Tam, the two fields intertwining. A familiar Devastator maneuver, where an attack on the Tresh agent kills the hostage.

“Lieutenant—no, forgive me,
Commander
Mikkalah.” Davin Prow gave a slight nod of his darkly handsome, square-jawed face. “A pleasure to see you again.”

Jorie took her eyes off Prow—and the small laser pistol in his hand—only to glance down for a few seconds. Tam was alive. Bruised but alive. There was no sign of Rordan or Trenat. She couldn’t think about them now. She had to concentrate on getting Tam out of here without getting them both killed by Prow.

She’d done it before.

Though where’d they go—
no, don’t think about that. Don’t think about the ship. Just get Tam and get out alive.

“What do you want?” she asked him, her finger lightly on the trigger button of her rifle. Prow was a top agent, but she doubted he could tell by looking at her Hazer that it had been modified and could punch holes in damned near any shielding he erected—even an L-2, though it would take several shots. But until he moved away from Tam, she was forced to hold back. “I’d say I’m flattered you came all this way, after all this time, just because of me. But I very much doubt that’s why you’re here.”

“Judging from the tech you’ve transported down to this structure, I’d guess you know very well why we’re here. Your being here, however, is the added honeyfroth on the pudding. It makes my mission that much sweeter.”

She watched him, assessing him while he spoke. She’d always been fast with her pistol. So had he. It had been ten years, but she was willing to bet his reflexes hadn’t slowed any more than hers had.

So why hadn’t he fired on her when she kicked in the door? She was unshielded. Then she saw why. His pistol—a newer configuration of the powerful Slayer 6-1—would create too much backwash if fired through a Level-2 personal defensive shield. He’d have to drop the L-2 to fire.

So he wasn’t here as an assassin, like Cordo Sem. He hadn’t drawn her in here to kill her. Yet.

Interesting.

“What do you want?” she repeated, only then realizing they’d been conversing entirely in Vekran—a language the Tresh were rarely integrated for.