On Midnight Wings

15 LIKE DISTANT THUNDER WASHINGTON, D.C. PLEASANTVIEW CONDOMINIUMS

BARRY LANG STEERED HIS Prius into his slot in the condo parking lot, switched off the engine, and barely resisted the urge to thump his head repeatedly against the steering wheel. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, the vinyl squeaking beneath him, and rubbed a hand over his face.

The news from Portland was bad.

No, worse than bad, unbelievable.

As if the mess dumped into his lap following Monica Rutgers’s abrupt resignation hadn’t been enough, the murder of an FBI agent at the satellite forensics lab—inside his own goddamned office, no less—was definitely the tasty cherry on top of the steaming shit sundae Barry’s life had become since he’d taken over Rutgers’s position as ADIC.

Sighing, Barry lowered his hand to his seat belt, his gaze focused on the night-draped greenery beyond his windshield. Normally, a soothing sight—the neat landscaping, the tranquil design of flower beds and trimmed hedges and blossoming cherry trees. But now he only saw darkness and shadows pooled beyond the sidewalk.

Someone had sauntered into the Portland lab, disabled the security cameras and audio equipment, then killed SAC Oscar Heyne. A vampire, for chrissakes. No one had seen anything, remembered anyone unusual. Heyne’s assistant couldn’t account for close to an hour of her time prior to the discovery of his body—or the various scattered parts of it, anyway. Simply drew a blank. Of course, after the discovery, she’d fainted dead away. A sample of her blood was currently being tested to see if she’d been drugged.

As for the manner of Heyne’s death, it had netted Barry a call from Deputy Director Phil Beckett himself.

“Heyne was torn limb from limb,” Beckett says, voice grim, “and his head was found perched in his outbox.”

“Christ. The killer couldn’t have been human, then. Another vamp?”

“Maybe, but that’s not all. When his heart was found, it had been turned to stone.”

“Stone? How the hell is that possible, sir?”

“I don’t know. It’s a new one on me.”

“Do vampires even have that kind of . . . of . . . power or magic or whatever you want to call it?”

“According to folks in the know, a True Blood vamp might.”

“Not does, but might?”

“The only other option I was offered by those same folks in the know was fallen angels.”

“Sir, I . . . no disrespect, but given the options, I think we can assume that Dante Prejean is still slaughtering FBI agents. And that the SB is allowing it. Maybe even sanctioning it.”

“So it seems. We need to talk. Somewhere private.”

And talk they had.

Barry powered the driver’s-side window down a quarter of the way, letting in cool air and the smells of cherry blossoms, bark mulch, and grass wet with dew.

He wouldn’t get out of the car and head for his condo until he’d filed away the day’s events—clearing his mental palate—so that when he walked through the front door, he was only Barry Lang, husband and father and golden retriever owner, and not Barry Lang, FBI ADIC.

The meeting with the deputy director had taken longer than Barry had expected, running well past the dinner hour, but DD Beckett had ordered food in—turkey, bacon, and avocado sandwiches and chips—from Subway.

Either the deputy director’s expense account had been slashed during the latest round of budget cuts, Barry had mused, or he was a frugal man—or he just liked Subway.

Barry ticked down the list of topics that had been discussed over Lay’s potato chips, Subway subs, and iced tea.

1. James and Heather Wallace.

2. The SB, Bad Seed, and S—Dante Prejean.

3. The murder of Oscar Heyne and other FBI agents.

4. The mysterious events at Damascus, Oregon, and the SB’s subsequent cover-up.

5. How to give the SB a good, old-fashioned, prison yard–style shanking.

Before Monica Rutgers’s resignation from the Bureau five days before, she’d created a firestorm between the FBI and the SB when she’d defied joint orders and put a tail on Prejean, resulting in a bit of death and destruction in Damascus. But given the intensity of the SB’s reaction—severing all Bureau ties to project Bad Seed and Prejean, further straining already tenuous cooperation between the two agencies—Barry had suspected that Rutgers had done a helluva lot more than put a simple tail on Prejean.

She’d sent an assassin. One who’d missed. Unfortunately.

However it had gone down, the result was the same: the SB had claimed Prejean as theirs only, absolving the Bureau of any responsibility for the murdering bastard.

And now, with Heyne’s death the latest in a recent string, it seemed Prejean’s new fave habit was slaughtering FBI agents. One couldn’t help but wonder if he killed with the SB’s blessing.

Not that it mattered.

Barry and Beckett intended to end Prejean’s new habit. Permanently. Unofficially. And over a long discussion/argument over how—humans had failed before and vampire agents couldn’t be trusted to execute a True Blood, no matter how psychotic—they’d finally realized the answer was sitting in a room at the Strickland Deprogramming Institute, most likely looking for an escape route, unaware that it was too late. They were already coming for her.

Heather Wallace.

A second epiphany, this one on Barry’s part, was to use a new, powerful explosive that was now a deadly favorite of terrorists—N21. A few drops could level a house, a few more a city block. It could be transported inside the human body, implanted under the skin in a tiny disk of plastic much like a GPS tracker, and triggered by a remote.

It had been used on more than one occasion on airplanes with devastating results.

Instead of “helping” Heather Wallace into that tragic suicide the Bureau had planned for her, she would be transformed into a suicide bomber—albeit an unknowing one.

“Christ,” Beckett says, “that just might work.”

“We’ll just dope her up, implant the explosives and a GPS tracker. Once she’s recovered from the sedatives, we’ll do an intensive interrogation just as she’d expect, but—”

“Make sure she finds a way to escape afterward.”

Barry nods. “So she can run straight to Prejean.”

“A touch of a button and BOOM. Prejean, Wallace, and anyone near them won’t be coming back. Ever. And the SB won’t be able to do one damned thing about it.”

“Only sit and spin, sir. Sit and spin.”

“Good. Let’s see how they like it for a change.”

A team would fetch Heather Wallace from the institute in Dallas in the morning, spinning the first part of their plan into place. Nothing more to be done until tomorrow.

Barry drew in a deep breath and caught a whiff of green leaves and deep dark earth, a summer smell in the chilly beginnings of spring. Powering up the window, he grabbed his keys and briefcase and got out of the Prius.

As he stepped onto the sidewalk, Barry caught a shower of blue sparks from the corner of his eye. A glimpse quickly followed by an electric crackle and the thunderstorm scent of ozone.

All the parking lot lights went out.

The tide of darkness and shadows lapping at the edge of the sidewalk spilled over into the parking lot.

Barry’s pulse jumped in his throat. His fingers clenched around the handle of his briefcase. What the hell? Had to be some kind of massive surge or power failure or maybe a late-night squirrel having a fatal encounter with a transformer or . . .

From the heart of darkness flooding the yard and swirling around the Prius, Barry heard a soft, leathery rustle, as of wings. Big ones. Twin golden stars pricked the blackness, the gleam of glowing eyes. He froze, heart kicking against his chest, primal instincts whispering, Drop and curl up and maybe it will pass you by.

But Barry had a feeling it was much too late for that.

The darkness spoke in a deep rumble, like distant thunder, “I have a question for you, one I shall ask only once: Where is Heather Wallace?”

Barry’s legs gave out and he dropped to his knees.