Flame's Dawn (4 page)

“Larson, are you in there?”

Peeking out from under Barnaby's arm, she spied the general's furrowed brow. The air left her in a big whoosh, and she sagged against the wall.

“Yes sir.”

“What ... are you doing in there?” he asked.

“Hiding from Charlie, sir,” Barnaby growled, still staring at Jane. With the closet light streaming in from above and behind him, she still couldn't make out his expression.

After a full five seconds, he relaxed his rigid posture and held a steady hand out to her. When she took it, Barnaby guided her over the canvas bags and out of the closet. He briefly explained to the general how they had evaded the VC.

The older man rubbed his jowls. “I'm glad you two are safe. When I didn't see you in the bunker downstairs, I worried that both of you ...”

“Barnaby's quick thinking saved us,” she said, trying to smooth her hair into a semblance of regulation appropriate.

Chopper blades split the air in the distance. Pops of gunfire outside made her flinch.

“What happened?” Barnaby asked.

“VC breached the building. The marines finally flushed the VC out, sealed the breach, and swept the premises, but it wasn't without casualties.” He grimaced.

Men died defending the embassy while Jane had enjoyed a quickie with Barnaby. Guilt tasted sour on her tongue.

The general stared at her above the rims of his glasses, his tired eyes drooping. “You're out of here, Larson.”

“Pardon, sir?”

“You're leaving on the next transport.” He pointed upward.

“But I have to—”

“Intel says these attacks are going to get worse before they get better. Any nonessentials—”

“Nonessentials?”

“Okay, not really in your situation, but I refuse to put a woman in the line of fire. The world's gone mad out there, Larson, and I don't care how good you are at your job. I will not have your blood on my hands.”

“Thanks,” she bit out. Nothing like boiling down her value into a way to prevent someone's feelings of guilt.

He crossed his arms. “Other women and also children of staff are getting evac'ed tonight. You do good work, Larson, and we're going to miss that. But these orders come from your ... superiors.”

When she opened her mouth one more time, Barnaby cut her off. “I can't agree more, sir. Where does she need to go?”

What? Barnaby wanted her to leave, too?

“To the roof,” the general barked. The hum of the chopper had gotten louder. “Now.”

“Roger,” Barnaby said.

“Sir?” Jane asked his retreating back.

He spun on a heel. “You'll have a letter of recommendation from me when you get back stateside. I'll see to it.” He waved his hand. “Go on, now. I have work to do here.”

Nothing felt quite so awkward as the uncomfortable silence that filled the room. What could she do? There was no arguing with the general this time.

“So, we'd better ...” she said.

Barnaby gave a brief nod. “Right.”

After she collected a few things from the desk, he guided her up the stairs and onto the roof, where several American and South Vietnamese women and their family members stood.

On the horizon, soft flashes of light flickered in the night sky, followed a few seconds later by poofs of sound that made her shiver, despite the thick, humid air. Off in the distance, bursts of tapping echoed back to where she stood.

In a minute, she was going to leave all of this. For what? Would they call her back in-country after the fighting ended? Would she be relegated to the typing pool? Or worse, would she be discharged from the only work that had given her empty life a purpose?

More importantly, what about Barnaby?

Even now, he assumed a stance that partially blocked her from the debris blowing from the landing helicopter. Still protecting her.

As the soldier in the copter yelled for her to get aboard, she looked up at Barnaby. The stark pain on his face squeezed her heart.

“I want to see you again.” His shout cut through the rotor noise.

“What?”

“I'll find you.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so. Tell me where.”

Only a few steps away from the landing skid on the helicopter, she jerked toward him when he caught her by the upper arm. He kissed her until her head swam.

Cupping her face in his hands, he stared at her, as though to memorize her face. “Do you trust me?”

The question took her aback. She had no reason not to trust him, as a matter of fact.

He brushed her hair back. “Where should I look?” he asked next to her ear.

If she didn't get reassigned, she'd go to the closest thing she had to a home. “San Francisco.” No way could he find her there. And no time to give detailed instructions.

His eyes had gone jet black, probably a trick of the shadows. “I will find you.” The intensity in his promise made her shiver.

Then he boosted her into the aircraft and stepped back, a blank expression on his handsome face.

I'll find you.

A nice sentiment.

As the helicopter lifted off, an odd whistle caught her attention, right before an explosion obliterated the rooftop.

Waves of sound and light shoved the helicopter into a sick pendulum, threatening to dump her out of the open side door, until the pilot righted the vehicle and pushed the helicopter higher.

She searched the burning rooftop.

Barnaby?

Between flames and smoke, dark shapes littered the rooftop, some writhing, others still.

Barnaby?

Squinting in the smoky air, she scanned the carnage.

A body lay, unmoving, right where Barnaby had stood.

San Francisco, April 1974

The smooth organ and guitar of Santana's “Evil Ways” escaped from a beat-up radio propped outside a run-down café on Haight Street. Barnaby grimaced at the lyrics as he hurried past row after row of distressed properties.

Everything about this area pulled him down—the sagging porches, boarded windows, and burned out hippies begging on corners. He understood poverty. But this area didn't bother him because of the sad remnants of the Summer of Love from several years ago. He didn't even mind the wrecked buildings.

The entire area reeked of sadness. Even the spring sunshine got tangled up in the clouds overhead.

Maybe that oppressive sense of hopelessness was why he kept coming back here. This place hid criminals. Criminy, his knife loved the opportunities to obtain a kill. Barnaby had to feed those Indebted urges. Even better, criminals had come to this area to disappear from the world. His soul blade was only too happy to oblige.

What Barnaby hadn't obliged was his promise to search for Jane. Oddly, no one in the military seemed to know her whereabouts. All records of Jane stopped right after she returned to the United States.

So just like that, he'd given up, hadn't he?

Instead of looking for her, he had spent the last however many years biding his time until he could return safely to Vietnam and continue his search for those damned scrolls. Just because Indebted were difficult to kill didn't mean he could saunter into enemy territory and expect to survive. So he waited.

In the meantime, he slogged through the monotony of his existence: finding and killing corrupt souls, punctuated by the occasional tupping of a willing woman when the mood struck him. And when a specific mood struck, he drowned his recollection of one particular night with a certain woman in a certain closet with as much drink as possible. Anything to keep those haunting memories at bay.

So basically, nothing. He had nothing to show for the past six years.

Or the past 400, for that matter.

Adjusting his polyester vest over the stretchy paisley shirt, he squirmed. Whatever happened to wool, linen, and quilted material? Gone, along with doublets and codpieces. Only space-age fabrics like polyester, whatever sorcery that was, would do for this brave new world.

Speaking of the space age, he raised an eyebrow as a couple walked by. Both man and woman wore nothing but vinyl and aluminum foil and big, loose grins. The cloud of thick, sweet smoke they exhaled put Barnaby in the mood for a snack.

A movement out of the corner of his eye stopped him dead in his tracks.

That little sensation, his odd little extra instinct that he'd learned to trust over the years, caught his attention. Why? It wasn't his Indebted urges driving him, but his sixth sense. It kept him one step ahead of danger, and he'd had the ability long before becoming Indebted.

Unfortunately, the instinct wasn't specific. It didn't provide directions. It didn't solve anything. The itchy-scalp sensation only meant he should pay close attention.

But to what?

To whom?

He leaned against the solid brick of a storefront and scanned 180 degrees, trying to find anything that seemed unusual.

In this area of town, though, everything felt wrong.

Spying another flicker within a cracked window, Barnaby halted his perusal and studied the spot. Could be squatters. Could be anything. Dusting his hands on his flared jeans, he took a few steps toward the building.

A police cruiser pulled up, black, rectangular, and staffed with two no-nonsense officers with twin scowls. They had that look of men searching for anything out of place.

Out of place defined Barnaby. Out of time, too. As good as his counterfeit IDs might be, he never wanted to push his luck. Best to remain inconspicuous. Ignoring his sixth sense, he shifted to his left and strolled away to the east, back to his studio apartment several miles away in the Tenderloin District.

An Indebted like Barnaby didn't care that he lived in the worst neighborhood of San Francisco. He was nearly indestructible and stronger than any mortal.

Nowadays, there wasn't much that scared him.

• • •

Jane's world tilted sideways as she clung to the grimy toilet and barfed the booze and Quaaludes out of her burning stomach. She'd taken them dutifully, but as soon as the opportunity presented itself, she lurched to the bathroom, hoping, praying, she could get them out of her system fast enough. She didn't know how many more drug trips she could handle here at the San Francisco branch of the People's Palace.

If she never heard the late Jimi Hendrix's screaming metal acid trip song, “Machine Gun” again, it would be too soon. But in the People's Palace, Hendrix's postmortem magnum opus had become the national anthem of Nutsville, California.

At least someone had changed the album. Now “Hooked on a Feeling” by Blue Swede tormented her, along with the ridiculous “ooga chocka” lyrics that fit perfectly with her retching pattern.

God, if she had thought her exit from Vietnam and entry into the newly created Drug Enforcement Agency indicated an upwardly mobile career, the vile mixture of pills, alcohol, and bile swirling into the grungy porcelain abyss told another tale. Joining the DEA had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, alone and undercover with nonexistent support, her career teetered on the edge of oblivion.

Her supervisor had warned her that the suits were about to yank her ass out of this operation if she couldn't produce the goods, but Jane smelled something fishy. Why would the DEA send their most inexperienced operative into a well-known cult where the stakes were sky high only to have her fail? It made no sense. Unless someone at the DEA wanted her to fail.

Damn it, time was running out. She had to get more information and fast. But how?

Nausea returned in another vicious wave, and she focused on ejecting the rest of the drugs into the bowl.

She wouldn't get more intel by drinking Alice's potion or eating Alice's damned cake. And this sure as hell wasn't Wonderland.

As her stomach settled, Jane took a big breath.

When she stood, the world spun again. Oh man, despite her attempts to get rid of the drugs, they'd still hit her brain. She'd waited too long. Damn it, she needed to veg out for a few minutes.

In an effort to clear her foggy vision, she turned the dull sink handle and splashed tepid water on her face. Anything to sober up. Blinking hard, she managed to restore her equilibrium enough to remain upright and concentrate on the world around her. The image looking back at her in the mirror made her want to throw up again. With bloodshot eyes and long, stringy hair, she'd transformed into the perfect junkie.

Talk about lack of credibility.

With a few deep breaths to clear her head, she took time to wait for her fellow adherents to pass out. They'd all consumed God-knows-what drugs during the rousing conclusion to the “homily” delivered by loony tunes cult leader Tim Thompson.

Good news and bad news: Thompson had taken a liking to her. If only she could fend off his propositions long enough to get concrete intel on his organization. She walked a tightrope, suspended hundreds of feet in midair, trying to get close—but not too close—to the disgusting leader. But she had a mission to accomplish, and she would succeed, damn it.

Minutes later, when she cracked the bathroom door, the main sounds were of some hallucinating couples making sloppy love. Other noises of light breathing and snores drifted back to her. Shadows shifted as lava climbed lamps. But no other movement. Good.

Easing into the hall, she stepped carefully, rolling her bare feet as she'd been taught in the DEA's too-brief training. Truth be told, those uptight Washington suits had no idea what to do with women in their cadre, much less how to run an undercover drug trafficking investigation where morality was painted in shades of gray.

And being a woman? The DEA folks taught women grudgingly at best. So she'd done this assignment as on-the-job training.

What the DEA wanted was a mole who could keep herself alive and deliver enough info for the DEA to make a high-profile bust. Anything to justify its existence as a new government organization.

However, no one realized that this particular mole had infiltrated an outfit a million times more dangerous than anyone had ever guessed. Drugs only scratched the surface of the goings on in the People's Palace.