Dog Warrior (15 page)

“I would think,” Ru said, “that he's a total dead end.”

Zheng's full mouth curved into her Mona Lisa smile and her eyes softened—there was warmth under that cool exterior. When not hard as steel, her gray eyes were surprisingly beautiful. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

Atticus realized his paranoia was slipping and hugged it a little closer. Until he knew more about Zheng, he had to keep in mind that they weren't necessarily on the same side. “So far, you've not given us much to go on.”

“Socket also gave us this list.” Zheng shuffled through
papers in her briefcase. What wasn't she showing them? Atticus controlled the urge to snatch up her briefcase and dump it out. “Through dummy corporations, the cult bought a good deal of property in New England. The only one they openly owned was a farm in New Hampshire, and they used it as a front for anyone investigating them.” Zheng found the paper she was looking for and laid it on the table between them. “The top addresses were the ones that Socket knew about. I had the records pulled on these sites, and then found other property bought from the same bank accounts.”

There were two dozen addresses listed scattered throughout New England. The first had notes after them:
Farm—sold? Warehouse. Safe house. Offices. Burn site.
Atticus compared the last with his photographic memory of the police report Kyle had found on the crime scenes of cremated bodies. Same place.

“So you think they might be at one of these locations?”

“One can hope,” Zheng said. “The turnpike basically splits the state in half. Your team can take north or south, and I'll cover the other.”

“By yourself?” Atticus said as Ru said, “Without backup?”

“I have backup.” Zheng didn't explain further. “Because you look like your brother, Atticus, you're going to have to approach the cult with caution. They hunt Ontongard—they have gotten ambushing someone with your talents down to an art.”

Atticus considered the list. Ascii had said that she and the other three cultists were taking Ukiah to Salem, which was north of Boston. None of the addresses were in the town famous for witch-hunts, not that that signified much. While the train station might have been a convenient meeting site, Ascii could have been lying about their destination, or the cult had a place that Zheng hadn't found, or Zheng herself was lying. Still, it was someplace to start. “We'll take north.”

“Then I'll take south.” Zheng glanced over what that left
her. “It will take the rest of the day to do these. We should meet tomorrow and compare what we find.” Zheng consulted her PDA. “I've arranged to meet with the NSA to discuss the cult at nine-thirty. What about eight?”

Mark up one basic difference between DEA and FBI: Atticus's team mostly worked evening and night hours. Drug dealers tended to be night owls.

Ru made a noise of disgust at the early hour. “Then it should involve coffee.”

“And real food,” Atticus added.

“Fine. Breakfast. Where?”

The trouble with two out-of-town teams: Neither knew of the good, cheap places to eat. At least it could be expensed.

“Our base—Boston Harbor Hotel.”

“Fine.” She made note of it in her PDA.

 

The rain had passed, leaving behind a gray sky filled with ominous clouds and bitter cold wind. They walked out together and paused beside Zheng's rental.

“Call me if you find anything.” Zheng handed Atticus her business card, lightly perfumed with her scent.

Atticus glanced at it and handed it to Ru. “The Pack killed my phone last night.”

“That sounds like them,” Zheng said as Ru offered up one of his own carefully worded cards that they used while they were undercover. She tucked it away without glancing at it.

They watched her drive away.

“Indigo Zheng,” Ru read off her card. “I wouldn't have guessed Indigo, but I don't know; it suits her.”

“She still creeps you out?”

“Oh, yeah.”

A sound like baying hounds made Atticus look up; Canada geese went overhead, flying in a ragged V formation, honking loudly. He wondered if they were the same ones they had seen earlier, resting on the prison's pond.

When he looked down, Ru was grinning at him from the other side of the Jaguar.

“What?”

“Gabble Ratchet.”

“What's that?”

“The sound of wild geese supposedly heralds the arrival of the archangel Gabriel.”

“I am not an angel—nor is my brother.”

“If you say so.”

He got in, started up the Jaguar, and dialed Kyle. “What did you find out about Agent Zheng?”

“Nothing,” Kyle said with disgust. “Sumpter pulled me off it to”—he paused to make a noise of irritation and tap something into his computer—“look into something else. Someone did a deep sweep on you and Ru. Credit history. Priors. The works.”

“We know.” Atticus growled. “Agent Zheng did.”

“Oooh, sexy woman,” Kyle said. “The first hit was on Ru's phone about nine o'clock last night, and went from there. I'm getting trip-wire reports off everything here. She probably knows how deep his belly-button lint is at this point.”

“I feel vaguely violated here,” Ru complained.

“Your Agent Zheng is versatile. She hammered on Ru until well past midnight, and this morning she chewed into Atticus. No hits on me, though.”

“You originally came on my radar screen as drug dealers. It wasn't until this morning that I learned you were actually undercover agents.”

“Kyle, check Ru's call log,” Atticus said.

“What am I looking for?”

“My brother had Ru's phone last night.” And most likely still had it.

“A couple unanswered calls in, and one outgoing call,” Kyle said, and then read out the number. It matched the cell phone number listed on Agent Zheng's business card.

“The bitch.” Atticus searched back through his memories and found Zheng's scent tainting the basement's air. “She was at the beach house with the Dog Warriors before we arrived. She's working with them.”

“She's dirty?” Kyle asked.

Unsure, Atticus glanced to Ru, who shrugged. “I don't know if it's that straight-forward. See what you can find on her, and anything you can dig up on a group called the Ontongard.”

“How do you spell that?”

“I have not a clue.”

“Ooooooookay. Do you have a first name yet for Miss Sexy Agent?”

Atticus found himself thinking of her Mona Lisa smile, her compact body, and the tantalizing flashes of camisole under the sheer white of her silk blouse. He shifted uneasily, slightly aroused by the memories.
Where the hell did that come from?

“Indigo, like the color blue,” Ru reported.

“And what do I tell Sumpter?” Kyle asked.

“Tell him that the FBI tripped over us.” Atticus saw no reason not to stick to the truth.

Cape Cod Campground, Massachusetts
Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Ukiah woke, naked and bundled against the cold. He lay under a lean-to, deep in rain-soaked woods of stunted oaks and maples, night cloaked tight around him. Beside the sturdily built shelter a small fire burned, hissing when water dripped from leaves overhead. The ocean was somewhere nearby, pounding on the earth, filling the air with salt and the faint aftertaste of fish. Harley motorcycles growled counter to the ocean's rumble, and headlights swept through trees. While Ukiah was alone by a small fire, he felt the Dog Warriors scattered in the darkness. He found Rennie's familiar presence, just beyond the shifting light thrown by the flames.
“Is it the Iron Horses?”

“Seems to be.”

Instead of tracking down the wanna-bes scattered to their mundane lives, Rennie had sent out word where the Dog Warriors would be camping instead. Judging by the weave of headlights, every member of the local chapter plus some had arrived.

Lambs to a slaughter.

“We won't hurt them if they tell us what we want to know.”
Rennie slipped through the shadows, staying hidden until the visitors' identity was fully known.

Ukiah sat up stiffly. All the bones of his left arm were
once again knitted whole but not yet sound. The massive scabs covering the bullet wounds on his chest and back were hot and itchy; his body was still healing at its furious rate. His stomach knotted up, emptied during his long sleep. Surrounded by the Pack in a womb of safety, he had most likely been awakened by hunger.

Tucked beside him where it would be safe from the rain was a stack of clean clothes. By her scent and the selection—his black T-shirt, his favorite blue jeans, and his “Property of FBI” boxers—it was obvious that Indigo had been the one who raided his closet at Max's. Sitting in the lean-to, Ukiah pulled on his boxers and pants as the bikers settled around him, drawn by the fire.

Daggit had been in the lead, and he eyed Ukiah suspiciously as he killed his engine. “You here alone, puppy?”

“No,” Rennie answered, drifting out of the darkness, his eyes gleaming from the reflected headlights. “He's not.”

“Shaw.” Daggit grunted. “So he is yours.”

“Yes.” Rennie paused beside Ukiah as he sat tying his boots and lightly touched the top of Ukiah's head. “This is our Cub.”

“Does he have another name?”

“Not for you.”

“What, you think we're going to cause trouble for him?”

“I think you're smarter than that.”

Daggit understood the implied threat with a flash of fear that he shrugged away. “Whatever. Cub it is.”

The bikers wandered into the campsite, loud and careless. They carried bottles of alcohol and offerings of food—they seemed to be expecting a party. Ukiah wondered what Rennie told his contact. Animal came into the light, carrying a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken and a bottle of expensive scotch.

While the Pack rarely drank, it made an exception for fine liquor, and the scotch qualified.

“Hey, Shaw, where have you been?” Animal shouted out
with alcohol-tainted breath. “You haven't been in this area for a coon's age.”

Rennie took the bucket of chicken, and flicked the lid into the fire. “We had Pack business.”

“Which means we'll never know,” Animal complained.

Rennie grunted at the truth of this and tilted the bucket to Ukiah.
“Don't touch the sides of the bucket.”
A few stray flecks of Invisible Red glittered on the red-and-white container. “Eat.”

Ukiah grabbed out a deep fried thigh and bit deep into the juicy dark meat.

“More,” Rennie commanded. After Ukiah took a breast, Rennie selected a drumstick and passed the bucket to Bear.

Animal gazed at Ukiah with an odd look on his face. “Where did he come from? I've never seen him at a Gathering.”

“Who he is,” Rennie growled, “and where he came from is Pack business.”

“You know, some of us have been loyal for years, waiting for our turn to be made . . .” Animal's complaint trailed off to slack-jawed drooling in a display of sexual desire that would have been cartoonish if Ukiah didn't know the strength of Invisible Red.

Ukiah glanced over his shoulder to follow Animal's gaze.

Hellena had stalked out of the woods, black leather pants clinging like a second skin, black silk camisole highlighting the shape of her breasts, long black hair spilling down over her shoulders in loose curls. She was lean, strong, and sexy.

“I-I-I've got an anniversary VRSCA V-Rod Harley.” Animal pointed to his bike. “It's only a year old. I've got less than a thousand miles on it. I'll trade you.”

Rennie frowned a moment, and then he too followed Animal's gaze.

“It's like being surrounded by rutting dachshunds,”
Hellena thought.

Rennie laughed at Hellena's silent comment, though
anger flashed through him. “We don't trade our women. You should know that.”

“Yeah,” Animal whimpered. “But I hoped if I made the pot rich enough . . . I can throw in a pair of Desert Eagle pistols and a dozen nickel bags of Pixie Dust.”

A growl rose from the Dogs. It was one of the differences between the Pack and the outlaw biker gangs that followed them; the humans treated women as objects to be traded and sold. Even if the Pack weren't morally against such debasement, there was the matter that the women of the Pack were physically equal to the men.

“Okay, okay, okay. I know ‘no' when I hear it.” Animal held up his hands.

Rennie tossed the bare drumstick toward the trash pit and hit it unerringly. “Where is the Temple of New Reason?”

“Those fairies?” Animal asked.

“Yes,” Rennie rumbled.

“They're—”

Daggit gave Animal an angry shove to silence him. “Is it Pixie Dust that you want?” Rennie's silent snarl made Daggit try for a lighter tone. “Look, you can buy through us. We'll give you a good price.”

Rennie struck Daggit with savage speed, catching him by the back of the head with a fistful of hair, and the other hand yanking him down to his knees until the leader of the Iron Horses crouched in the dirt in front of Ukiah. “Look at what the Temple has done to our Cub. They ran him down with a truck and shot him full of holes.”

Daggit hissed in pain, but managed. “So it's true what they say—you can't keep a good man down.”

“Where are they?” Rennie growled.

“I don't know,” Daggit's voice went sharp as Rennie put pressure on his arm.

“He knows,” Animal said quietly. “He won't tell you. But I can tell you everything I know.”

“You don't know shit!” Daggit snarled.

“Who did they contact first? You? No, me!” Animal thumped on his chest with his index finger. “Me!”

“You don't know where they are,” Daggit said.

“Yeah, but I know how to get ahold of them.”

“We don't want to talk,” Rennie said.

“I can set up a meeting.”

“Shut up, asshole!” Daggit snapped, and hissed as Rennie tightened his hold. “You know what they're going to do to those idiots.”

“I want to be Pack,” Animal said. “I want to be fast and strong and cool.”

“Dumb fuck,” Daggit muttered and squirmed in Rennie's hold. “You don't have to fuck them over, Shaw. Your Cub is fine.”

“Make me Pack, and I'll gift-wrap the bastards for you.”

“Do you have any idea what you're saying?” Ukiah pulled on his shirt.

“My cholesterol is through the roof,” Animal said. “I've got rheumatoid arthritis in my knees so bad I can barely sit on a bike, and all the men of my family die before they turn fifty. I figure I only have, like, ten years or so left. I'm willing to gamble.”

Ukiah sensed the direction of Rennie's thoughts.
“No. We can't make him a Get.”

“We need to be quick and dirty,”
Rennie thought.
“We need to find the cult before they can use that damn machine.”

“No.”

“Do we beat the information out of them instead? Torture them? Men can stay amazingly silent for lots of money.”

Ukiah thought of the bundles of twenties that Kyle and Atticus had stashed away.

“The drug is killing him,”
Rennie pressed on.
“The only way he's going to live is by becoming a Get.”

“If he survives the process.”

“There is that.”

Ukiah studied the bikers, their clothes glittering with motes of Invisible Red. The concentration of it on their groins puzzled him until he noticed that they absently rubbed themselves, the lingering effects of the drug still stimulating them. There was not one unmarked by the shimmering dust—doomed by the exposure to Invisible Red. Rennie was right. They had to shut down Hu-ae and get Loo-ae back as soon as possible.
“Okay.”

Rennie shoved Daggit away and drifted back into the darkness. “Come.” He motioned to Animal. “Walk with us.”

“Animal!” Daggit tried to catch Animal's arm, but Smack blocked him. “Mike! Shit, man, think about this.”

“I've thought about this for twenty years.” Animal followed Rennie into the woods.

 

A half mile from the campsite, they stopped in a marshy clearing. While there was no house in sight, a knee-high stone wall meandered along the edge of the woods. The night sky overhead had cleared, but fog drifted through the trees, as if the clouds had sunk down out of the sky to hide. Some of the Dogs—Stein, Heathyr, and Smack—had stayed behind to keep an eye on the bikers. The rest ranged through the darkness, grim with the knowledge of what was about to happen.

“Okay!” Animal threw open his arms, welcoming the experience. “Make me Pack!”

“Tell us about the cult first,” Rennie commanded. “Who's your contact? Where are they now? Everything you know, and then we'll do the mauling.”

“Ahhh.” Animal raked his hand through his wild red hair. “My sister has a boy, a stepson actually, Eddie.” He shrugged his lean shoulder as if the boy were nothing of consequence. The lack of blood connection equaled lack of affection. “The kid gave her a lot of lip when she first got married, and his real mom didn't want to deal with him, so
they shipped him off to military school. They brainwashed him on that God-and-country shit.”

Animal took out a pack of cigarettes, tapped one out. His hands were shaking, and he laughed nervously as he fumbled with lighting it. “Look at me. Shaking like a virgin with his first whore.” He took a deep drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing angry red in the darkness.

“What about Eddie?” Ukiah pushed Animal back to the cult.

“After graduation, Eddie joined the army or marines or one of those but got kicked out. He moved back with my sister for a few months, and then dropped out of sight completely. Didn't even show up for his father's funeral. It turns out he'd joined this cult—Temple of New Reason.”

“Do you know his cult name?”

“Ice.” Animal laughed, shaking his head. “I've met some of the others and they've got the shit-stupidest names: Mouse, Link, Ether, Ascii, and Io. What a bunch of dweebs. Though Socket and Ping are hot babes.”

“Eddie what?” Ukiah tried to fit “Eddie” to the ruthless Ice.

“Eddie Howard,” Animal said. “He got hold of me at the end of last year. He knew that I sold reefer and speed and sometimes handled cocaine, that I know people like Jay Lasker. He wanted me to sell this new shit. He gave me a free sample. After my first hit, I knew it was pure gold.”

“Where is the cult?”

Animal shook his head again. “Eddie got really paranoid. He wanted everything set up without anything that could be traced back to him. Like it was some fucking
French Connection
.”

“So you don't know where he is.” Shaw glanced back to where Daggit was being detained.

“I know how to get ahold of him! We'd use the personals on the Internet.” Animal named the Web site they used, an
online dating service. “I'd post under the name Pokey102 and he posted under Gumby666.”

Ukiah did not recognize the references for either one. “Why those names?”

“You don't use ‘drug runner' and ‘drug lord' as handles and expect to stay hidden from the narcs,” Animal said. “You don't mention drugs or money or city or anything like that in the message. Usually I say something like, ‘Drop me a hundred' and he'd post back, ‘Cam noon Sunday.' ”

“That was your last buy?” Rennie asked.

“Cambridge.” Animal nodded. “I hadn't set up the next buy yet.”

“You have preset places to meet? Cambridge sounds too general.”

“Cambridge is the Cambridge Bridge. For the drugs, the buy is always on the bridge, and the drop weighted, so if the narcs try to bust us, we'd throw the bag over the side of the river, and it sinks. No evidence, no conviction.”