Don't Read After Dark: Keep the lights on while reading these! (A McCray Horror Collection) (20 page)

It was like a freaking revolving door of carnage. The guy’s clothes were shredded and soaked in red as he started flipping out, having a full-blown seizure. His body arched, straining hard enough to break the restraints. A paramedic sprawled over him, trying to pin him down.

“I need help over here!”

Blood spewed from the man’s mouth, spraying the paramedic and a nosy bystander. The paramedic tumbled backward as the guy bucked him off. The man’s head cracked against the pavement as his body crashed to the ground, giving one final lurch.

Jake leapt back from the curb as a police car skidded past. An older officer jumped out, hand braced on his holster. The cop scanned the scene, assessing the situation.

“Come on,” Drew said, indicating the cops, the reporters, and the blood. “Even you’ve got to admit that this can’t all be staged.”

But Jake shrugged. “Um … have you forgotten the launch of
Carte Blanche
? They closed the freaking airport in London, and commandos repelled into the Champagne Bar just to deliver the new Bond book.”

Before Drew could retort, the officer grabbed the arm of a younger cop.

“How many down?” the officer asked.

“I don’t know, at least six,” the younger officer panted, looking behind him toward the entrance to the building.

“Have they found the perp?”

“It weren’t no gunman, lieutenant,” the cop rushed on. “They’re all medical.”

“Medical?” The officer glanced around the scene, confusion sweeping his features. “What in the hell does that—?”

The younger officer cut him off, his eyes panicked. “The first one’s eyes just started bleeding, and this one’s seizing.” He gestured to the now-lifeless body on the ground. “Another went blind, one girl put her hand through a window, and another one fainted.”

Another gurney crashed through the doors. A paramedic, straddling a patient, counted each thrust that he applied to his chest.

“One ... two ... three ...”

“What about him?” the officer asked, tipping his head toward the gurney.

“Heart attack,” replied the younger officer.

“Heart attack?”

The young officer broke eye contact and glanced at the building. “From the damned movie.”

Jake looked at Drew, his eyes wide, with a grin plastered across his face.

“Holy crap!” they cried simultaneously.

Jake hopped over a puddle of blood and tapped the cop on the shoulder.

“How long until the next showing?”

CHAPTER 1

FBI agent Derek Boulder waited in line at his favorite hot dog stand with his younger partner, Fred Meyers, who happened not to be his favorite partner—at the moment.

Fred was texting or sexting, or whatever the hell twentysomethings fresh from the academy did when they weren’t whining about the lack of action they were getting. The kid still thought running was an exercise, not the necessity it was in undercover work.

Of course, Derek wasn’t exactly in his best fight-a-meth-head-off shape himself. Since transferring over to the White Collar division, his six-pack had melted into a bit of a two, or let’s be honest, “for individual sale only” pack.

Sucking in his gut a little, Derek watched as the elderly woman at the front of the line slowly counted pennies to pay for her hot dog and can of root beer. Her white hair was neatly pinned up in the back.

A warm breeze blew in off the Pacific Ocean. The temperature must be hovering in the mid-80s. Hot for late October. San Diego was experiencing a prolonged Indian summer, although he wasn’t sure whether that was the politically correct term anymore. Whatever it was called, Derek could feel sweat gathering under his holster. On days like these, he pined for his old undercover “uniform” of jeans and a T-shirt. Alas, he was relegated to a suit and tie now. Probably a fitting punishment for all that had gone down in D.C.

Restless, Derek shuffled from one foot to the other. He could feel his patience unraveling with each
clink
of the coins. He should be home by now. Pizza, beer, and the Chargers on TV. Now he had to put in overtime with Fred. Sitting in the car. Just the two of them. Perfect.

How many hours was Derek going to have Fred “pick his brain” on how to be an upwardly mobile agent? Derek was sure the kid had a five-year plan stashed in his underwear drawer at home—with a fifteen-year plan that had Fred as the director of the FBI. Wonder how that was going?

“All right,” Fred announced as his thumbs flew across the phone’s itty-bitty keyboard. “It looks like we’ve got the address for tonight’s bust.”

As the little old lady clunked down a pile of pennies and started separating them, Derek turned to Fred. “Refresh my memory on why we’re chasing after the lone copy of some stupid horror movie.”

Still texting, Fred replied, “Some moron hijacked the reels to
Terror in the Trees
while it was en route to LA. We think that they are trying to smuggle it across the border to get it duplicated.”

Derek tried to contain his frustration with the little old lady and Fred. “Yeah, I got that part. My question was, why are
we
involved? Sounds like something the locals should be handling.”

Derek resisted the urge to count the money for the old lady as she lost her place and started over. Heavy sighs and agitated mumblings began behind him. Derek glanced over his shoulder, giving them his best “shut the hell up” stare. Yeah, he had other things he’d rather be doing, too, but bullying an old lady wasn’t one of them.

“Video piracy. It’s our jurisdiction,” Fred stated as he fiddled with his phone. “Don’t you read the warning labels at the beginning of your DVDs? There will be no rerecording or ...”

“Fantastic. Now we’re the Netflix Police. Next, we’ll be shaking down perps for illegal downloading.”

This was not the kind of case that inspired Derek to join the White Collar Crime Division. He liked his nice, boring cases where the perps hung out in high-rises, ensconced in their well air-conditioned offices. Then, after an arduous day of wagging a finger at Harvard grads, you went back to the office, feet propped up and keyboard on your lap. The most dangerous situation in White Collar was a pencil-necked executive giving you a paper cut with his lawyer’s card.

Derek really, really, really did not want to go back out into the world of syringe-laden alleys and crack hos. Especially not with Fred. Had the kid even drawn his weapon in the line of duty? Everyone thought they were cut out for fieldwork. Hadn’t Derek thought himself more than ready? Then … Well, then fieldwork took a cut out of you.

“Ma’am, you’re still thirteen cents short,” stated the owner of the hot dog stand. Traffic whizzed by, horns blared. Everyone was in a rush, except ...

“Oh, dear ...” the old woman replied softly.

For the love of .... Derek shifted his coat and put his hand into his jacket pocket. His fingertips grazed the velvet box inside. Derek jerked his hand back as if he had been stung. Crap. He’d nearly forgotten about that. Derek quickly pulled out a quarter, placing it on the cart next to the woman’s change.

Surprised, the woman looked up at Derek, a slow smile spreading across her face. She clutched her age-spotted hands to her chest.

“Oh thank you! You are the kindest, sweetest man! You are a true gentleman,” the old woman exclaimed as she leaned in, placing a papery kiss on Derek’s cheek.

She quickly collected her hot dog and soda, as well as Derek’s change, and hobbled toward a nearby bench.

Derek’s face burned as he adjusted his tie. It was just a quarter. A jab to the ribs from Fred rudely interrupted his attempt to satisfy his hunger.

“You only did that to hurry up the line,” Fred chided, giving Derek a lopsided grin.

“Yeah, well, I'm starving.” It wasn’t so much a lie. He
was
starving. But the woman and her frailty reminded him of his own grandmother. He watched under hooded eyes as the old woman sat on the bench sipping her soda. Guilt tightened his throat. If only he hadn’t been on that damn case in Washington, D.C. He didn’t even know about the funeral until he came off the assignment three weeks later. Fucking undercover work.

“Don’t they have any Tofu Pups?” Fred asked, peering around the side of the metal cart. “Anything vegetarian at all?”

The cart owner looked from Fred to Derek. But the kid seemed oblivious. “Hummus? A nice artichoke and spinach would be lovely.”

Fred looked up as the cart owner frowned. “What?”

“It’s a hot dog cart,” the owner grumbled, already looking past Fred to the next customer in line.

“Hummus. You know, ground-up chickpeas,” Fred explained, making the hand motion.

Yep, Derek was going to be stuck in the car with this guy all night.

The smell of sauerkraut, mustard, and beef made Derek’s stomach growl. Where did Fred think they were, Westwood? Tofu Pups in
this
part of town? Right.

Derek stepped in. “Hey, Phil! Give me two brats. Loaded.”

“What? I don’t want—”

Derek gave Fred the same look he gave the people in line earlier—the one he used on pimps back in D.C. Fred opened his mouth, and then shut it again as Phil pushed two brats heaping with pickles, sauerkraut, grilled peppers, and onions toward Derek.

He put a ten down on the counter. “Keep the change,” Derek added as he grabbed the enormous buns. Stepping out of line, with Fred trailing behind like a scolded puppy, Derek stopped at the car. He tugged the brat out from one bun and put it on top of the other. Extending his hand, he offered the now-meatless bun to Fred.

Face scrunched in disgust, Fred stared at the sandwich.

“What’s the problem?” Derek asked. “You wanted veggies, so I gave you veggies.”

With what looked like a mixture of horror and intrigue, Fred accepted the bun.

Maybe tonight wouldn’t suck quite so bad, after all.

* * *

Fred watched Derek open his mouth to the max to stuff in his brat. Or should Fred say two brats? Loaded with saturated fat and nitrates, Fred could feel his cholesterol elevate just by sitting in the car next to him. Fred glanced down at the menagerie of greasy, so-called vegetables. What the hell did Derek see in this coronary-waiting-to-happen food? Not even a sprout in sight. But Fred was hungry, and he seriously doubted that Derek was going to agree to a run to Whole Foods.

Oh, what the hell? Fred bit down into the bun, juices popping in his mouth. Hmm. This was no Tofu Pup, but it wasn’t bad, either. He took another bite. Okay. Maybe there
was
something to be said for properly sautéed onions.

“Hey,” Fred asked in between bites. “I thought we had to stop by the pawnshop?”

Derek shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He actually stopped chowing down to answer. “I can do it tomorrow.”

“What?” Fred asked, trying to engage Derek in some kind of dialogue. “You got some old eight-tracks you’re trying to unload?”

Derek turned his head and glared. Whoa. Fred knew that look, and knew when to back off.

Pronto.

Fred guessed that this stakeout wouldn’t be quite the bonding experience that he had hoped. Would it be too much to ask to have a case that might actually boost his career? Would it be asking too much to stumble onto a video piracy ring? Now,
that
would look good on his résumé.

As Derek turned his full attention back to his brat, releasing Fred from his “Eye of Sauron” glare, Fred looked out the windshield. The neighborhood had seen better days. Most of the buildings were condemned. And the one they were staking out?

Broken windows scarred the face of the crumbling brick structure.

Fred pulled out his phone and scrolled down the texts. Yep, 501Vermont Street was the correct address. Derek wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Glad to see the man had some manners.

“This is the place, right?”

Fred slipped his phone back in his pocket. “Yeah, the informant said there was gonna be a sneak preview for potential buyers tonight.”

“But here?” Derek asked, frowning.

Fred had to agree with his reluctant partner on that. The building looked like it was held together with duct tape and paper clips. He could only guess at the clientele that would set foot in this neighborhood. He knew crack whores with higher standards.

Derek did not want to let on that the darkened building, with its multitude of shadows, made his stomach tie up in knots. Or was it the brat grease? Sure, it was the slime left over from the brat.

“And we’re sure that the showing is at 8:00 p.m.?”

“Look,” Fred answered, “the next time you want all these questions answered, you return the text from the junkie snitch.”

“Hey, all I’m saying is that if this thing is scheduled to go down after eleven, then whoever is on call for swing should take it.” “Really?” was all Fred could think to say. Really? This was the Derek Boulder of legend? The same Derek Boulder who singlehandedly brought down the Venezuelan Cartel? The same agent with the highest conviction rate in the Bureau three years running? The ATF, CIA, and Homeland Security all had wanted a piece of this guy.