To Catch a Vampire (20 page)

“Which of you is Special Agent Price?” Cowboy hat asks.

“I am,” Will says, extending his hand.

They shake. “I’m Chief Mitchell Montoya. We spoke on the phone.”

“Nice to meet you.” Another man sidles up to Montoya, about ten years older than him. He’s sweating buckets in a khaki polyester uniform with silver sheriff’s badge. “I’m Deputy Sheriff of Johnson County, Clyde Page.” He shakes Will’s hand too. “The sheriff’s in Austin, otherwise he’d be here.”

“Thank you both for being here, and for all your efforts in finding our suspects,” Will says as he starts leading us all back to the tent.

“They’re wanted in connection to kidnapped teens?” Montoya asks.

“Yes. We know for sure they’ve killed one girl and kidnapped two others. And there is evidence they’ve killed at least five others. We’ve contacted our Dallas field office, and they’re standing by to collect evidence after we clear the house. We’re fairly sure there are bodies in the field in the back.”

The police officers rally around us as we reach the table. Blueprints of a house sit on it. I’m enveloped by the smell of BO and bad cologne. I have no idea what I’m looking at but put on my studious face to match everyone else’s. “Once we spotted the cars from the BOLO, we pulled the blueprints from town hall,” Montoya explains. “Basement was a good catch. Definitely the Martingales’ house.”

“Who are they?” I ask.

“Lou and Roz Martingale. Lived here all their lives. Old timers. I haven’t seen either of them in months, only the granddaughter Kylie. They’ve always kept to themselves, though.”

“The granddaughter. Is she very pale? Sickly looking of late?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Montoya says. “She said they were all sick.”

I glance at Will. “This has got to be the place.”

“You didn’t make your presence known, did you?” Will asks Montoya.

“Clifford?”

A man my age, face and body chubby in his uniform, steps forward. “I was making my rounds when I spotted the BMW in the distance. I called it in, and then the sheriff’s department sent an undercover car by to make sure. The house, the cars—they all matched the eyewitness reports. We called the house, but there was no answer.”

“Tell me what you know about the layout,” Will says.

“Three levels,” Montoya says, pointing to the blueprints. “Basement covers the entire base of the house. Only one way in or out. First level, two ways in and seven windows. Kitchen door in the back, front door visible from the driveway. One closet, living room, bathroom, and kitchen. Second floor has four bedrooms, two baths, one closet not counting the ones in the bedrooms.”

“Okay,” Will says. “I want Irie, Rush, and Chandler to enter through the kitchen door. Wolfe, Alexander, and I will go through the front. The noise should bring the three guardians downstairs, where we take them down. Then we go down to the basement.”

“What do you want us to do?” Deputy Page asks.

“I need one man with necessary training to go in with us.”

“I’ll do it,” Montoya says. “I was a Ranger. I can handle it.”

“All I need for you to do is guard the people we bring out. Nothing more.”

“I can do that.”

“Everyone else, move the perimeter to fifty yards from the house the moment we move in. Keep it, and don’t move in unless we tell you to.”

“We have a SWAT unit standing by,” Page says.

“I understand your desire to go in with us,” Will says, “but we’ve dealt with these people before. They are the baddest of the bad. It would be irresponsible and downright dangerous for all of us if you went in. This is our raid. If we need you, we’ll call you in, okay? Carl?”

Carl Petrovsky, all five-foot-six of him, steps toward Will. If the others notice the surgical gloves he wears, they don’t let on. When he touches someone or something, he gets their whole history, emotions, the works. He’s always wearing those darn gloves, even when it’s a hundred degrees. Will and Carl step away from the group but I follow, nosy person that I am.

“Carl, I want you and the Doc to be in an ambulance when we go in, but the moment we do, I want you outside with a shotgun in case someone gets out. You’re our last line of defense. Can you handle that?”

“Of course.” Carl nods before running off toward Dr. Neill and the two paramedics.

“As for you,” Will says to me, “are you okay to do this?”

“I’m fine. The blood transfusion last night—”

“I didn’t mean that. I mean, will you be okay to do this?”

Why does he always ask me this before an op? I’m not three. I straighten my back. “These monsters killed six people. They terrorized two teenage girls. They kidnapped me. I’m ready.”

“Okay, then. You stay close to me at all times. You are my shadow in there. I move, you move. If I tell you to do something, no matter what, you do it. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes.”

I follow him back to the group. Irie is setting Montoya up with one of the hands-free com units we all have. I put my ear bud in and adjust the microphone. Montoya tightens his Kevlar vest. When they’re done, he grabs the nearest shotgun and unclips his 9mm. “Montoya,” Will says, “you ride with us. And you’re driving.”

“Coms check,” Irie says over the earpiece. “Sound off.”

Everyone says their last name.

“Deputy Page, are you on this frequency?” Will asks.

“Yes. We hear you.”

“Okay then. Let’s go to work,” Will says.

Irie and Agent Wolfe share another deep, lingering kiss before starting to their separate cars. Carl climbs into the back of the ambulance, looking like a child holding a toy gun bigger than he is. All the police officers rush to their squad cars, kicking up as much dust as their vehicles. Agent Wolfe and I pile into the back, Montoya and Will in the front. The butts of our shotguns rest on the floor with the barrels up toward the ceiling. This thing makes me nervous. I prefer my machete.

We pull out first, followed by the second SUV and ambulance. Agent Wolfe makes the sign of the cross. I just feel like puking. I can almost smell the tension and fear. Will stares out the window, deep in thought. I just keep my eyes on the shotgun. I can do this. I
can
do this.

“Stop the car,” Will says. Montoya and the rest of the caravan do as he says. Without another word, Will jumps out of the car. Everyone else seems to know what’s going on, so I follow. We gather around the back of the cars. “We run the rest of the way. Can’t risk them seeing the dust. Weapons check, everyone.”

Shotguns, knives, Mace are all examined. I pull Bette out of the back, fastening her black holster to my belt. Montoya’s brow furrows when he sees Bette. “Those aren’t standard.”

“Neither are our bad guys,” Irie replies with a smirk.

“Montoya, I need you to keep watch on the house as we approach. When we go in, bring the car to the front but do not enter the house. No matter what you hear.
No
matter what you hear,
do not
go in unless I call you in. No questions. Do you understand me, Ranger?”

“I do,” he answers without hesitation.

“Good.” Will hands him some binoculars. “Be our eyes. The rest of you, let’s go.”

Irie nods and starts running toward the house with Agents Chandler and Rushmore close behind. The rest of us tail Will at a nice trot. I hate running, especially in heavy Kevlar when it’s a hundred degrees out. The farmhouse quickly comes into view over the horizon. It’s just as Petra described it. Beige brown with cracking paint and blacked-out windows. I recognize the van and BMW from last night. I found you, you bastards.

“I don’t see anyone in the upstairs windows,” Montoya reports over the walkie. “Downstairs windows are blacked out. You’re all clear.”

Irie’s group veers to the left, but we continue straight toward the door at a crouch until we take cover behind the van. Irie and the men disappear around the house. We all take this time to catch our breath, or at least I do. Will peeks over the hood of the van to check for movement.

“Irie, tell me when you’re in position,” Will whispers into his microphone.

The shotgun starts shaking in my hands. Too much adrenaline, not enough food. I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe I’m doing this. If someone told me a year ago I’d ever storm a house full of vampires with a machete and shotgun instead of teaching fractions, I’d have called a psychiatrist for them.

“We’re at the back door,” Irie says over the earpiece. “Movement in the kitchen.”

Still crouching, Will starts toward the door again with me a foot behind him. As quietly as we can, we run up the steps to the front door. Will puts his ear to it. “One in the living room with the TV on,” he whispers. Gotta love werewolf hearing. “Get ready.”

I square my shoulders, grip the shotgun tight, and try not to throw up.

Here we go.

Will steps back. “On my mark. Three, two … one!” He kicks the door so hard it falls with the hinges still on. He’s through the door first, shouting, “FBI! Hands above your head!”

I’m next through the door, with Agent Wolfe a split-second behind. I swing the shotgun at the only moving thing in the living room. A girl resembling a living skeleton, who I assume is the granddaughter Kylie, lies on the couch, all eighty pounds of her. There are very few places on her arms that aren’t covered in bruises. She can barely lift them. Will is already pulling out the riot cuffs, a piece of adjustable plastic used to bind hands. As he yanks her off the sofa and cuffs her, the kitchen door swings open. I swerve my gun toward it on reflex, as does Agent Wolfe. A man in his late teens with spiky black hair, cargo pants, and T-shirt with a rainbow flag stumbles out. His hands are bound in the back. Irie pushes him out with the barrel of her shotgun.

“Kitchen clear,” Irie says. She forces the man down on the brown and red striped couch next to Kylie. Both captives seem too out of it to know what’s going on. Low blood volume does that—I speak from experience.

Out of nowhere, Will jerks his weapon toward the stairs, pulling the trigger at the same time. I hear the first shots before the shotgun blast overshadows them. An obese man in jeans and a white wife beater showing off every one of his tattoos runs down the stairs, revolver pointed at us. All gun barrels glide toward the man. His two shots hit Agent Wolfe square in the chest before Will’s round takes out a huge chunk of wall inches from the man. He stops moving. Agent Wolfe’s body jerks with each impact before he falls to the ground. “Do not move! Do not fucking move!” Will barks at the man. “Drop your weapon! Now! Now!”

The man does.

Irie slumps to the ground beside the groaning Agent Wolfe. They both fumble with his flak jacket. The two gold slugs lay on the outside, squished like two pennies. “Are you okay? Baby, are you okay?” Irie asks breathlessly.

Will runs to the man, cuffs ready. The man puts up no fight with three shotguns on him. The creep even chuckles. “That was stupid.
Really
stupid,” Will mutters as he tightens the cuffs. The man scoffs as Will pushes him down the stairs toward the couch. “You okay, Wolfe?”

Agent Wolfe nods as Irie fawns over him, kissing his cheeks. “Thank God, thank God,” Irie says, still kissing.

“He’s fine,” I answer.

“Everything okay in there?” Montoya asks over the walkie.

Will forces Fatty onto the couch next to the others. “Fine. We’re coming out with three.”

Irie pulls Wolfe off the floor. He winces and groans but stands without support.

“Agents Chandler, Rush, take them out to Montoya, and then rejoin us in the basement. Wolfe, get yourself checked out with the Doc. Everyone else, on me.”

Chandler pulls Fatty off the couch, and the two others are escorted out of the house as the rest of us walk to the basement door. Will tries the handle, but it doesn’t budge. With one swift kick it falls away, making enough noise to wake the dead as it tumbles down the stairs. I can’t see anything down there. We’re going in blind.

“Stay close,” Will says to me before stepping into the abyss with me one stair behind him. He leads with the shotgun, almost gliding down the steps. Werewolves have great night vision. Me, I almost fumble on the third step. My heart thumps triple time when I reach the bottom. None of us moves for a moment. It’s quiet. Nothing jumps out at us.
Thank you, Lord, they’re asleep
.

A light flicks on, one of those that hangs from the ceiling. Will lowers his hand and grips the shotgun again. With the light on, I notice the tiny windows near the ceiling are boarded up. We do a cursory check of the room but find nothing except six coffins lying on the concrete floor side-by-side. Two are onyx black, one is wood, and the rest are silver colored.

“There’s only six,” I whisper.

“Maybe two sleep together,” Irie whispers back.

Shotgun trained on the nearest casket, Will reaches down and attempts to lift the lid. It doesn’t budge. “Locked,” Will whispers. “Irie?”

Irie steps over to the coffin, putting her shotgun down. After rubbing her hands together, she places them on one of the hinges. The metal lights up poker red, then melts into nothing. She’s a pyrokinetic, so she can create fire at will. After picking up the shotgun again, she stands. “I’ll start on the rest.” She walks to the farthest coffin and does the same to it.

Will quietly lifts the top lid off the coffin while I keep my shotgun pointed on it. Serena, now nothing but waxy skin and bones, lies inside. She doesn’t move or breathe. “Do you recognize her?” Will asks.

“Yeah. She was there last night. Serena.”

“Get out your blade,” he orders.

I lean the shotgun against the wall to pull out Bette. Someone cleaned her up from last night. This is what killed Marianna, and now it’s doing the same to Serena. I don’t know how I feel about that. I kind of want to throw up. Will meets my eyes, and his turn soft. “I’ll do it. You cover me, okay?”

I nod. We exchange his shotgun for Bette. Our skin briefly touches and my hand goes hot, as does my face. Great, the perfect place for a hormone attack. His expression doesn’t change.