Flame's Dawn (5 page)

Even more concerning, someone in the DEA might have a finger in the pot, so to speak.

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right
, as the Stealers Wheel would say.

She lifted her foot over a tangle of two sets of feet and continued down the hall toward the front door of the run-down painted lady house. At a creak in the old wood floor, she froze. She fought back a flashback of rusty hinges squeaking in the humid air of Saigon.

For a split second, she could feel Barnaby's heated frame pressed against her body. She shivered at the memory of his hands on her skin and their desperate kisses in the dark.

But that had been a world away and a different Jane than the mildly intoxicated woman standing in the body-strewn madhouse. Her breath caught on a sob. She'd have given anything to have Barnaby's strong arms around her right about now. What a joke. That fantasy had been blown to bits on that roof in Saigon.

Pulling herself together, she tiptoed out the front door of the cult base and then hurried to a pay phone, two blocks away. She dialed the collect number and gave her security code.

“Larson?” the male voice barked on the other end of the line.

“Yeah.” At least the walk had worked the remnants of the 'ludes out of her system. She wasn't nearly as zoned out now.

“Report.” Her boss, Howard, had it in for her from day one and never spared more words than necessary on Jane.

Gulping, she plowed ahead. “I don't know how much longer my cover will hold, sir.”

“Christ almighty, you're not going to cry on me, are you, Larson?”

She totally wanted to tell this moron where to shove it. Instead, she sucked in a big drag of air and clamped down on her fried nerves. “No. But I'm close to getting solid information about the drug trafficking. Thompson's got ties to several cartels, who are bringing in tons of product to distribute here.”

“Good.” His voice got quieter, like he was about to hang up.

He couldn't do that. This was her only link to the real world. The normal world. A world without acid trips and hallucinations.

“There's more, sir.”

A pause. “Go on.”

“Not only is Thompson making lots of money off the drugs, but he's using the money to fund his ... sex trade.”

“What?” Her boss must have the phone pressed right up to his face.

“The money goes to purchase women. Some for Thompson, some for other members. Some are sold outside of the organization probably to some politicians, so he makes even more money.”

“You have proof?”

“I've heard them talking about it. They have sex houses in other areas of town. I'm close to getting concrete details. It looks like some folks outside of the People's Palace are involved.” A sense of ghost fingers closing around her neck distracted her.

“Christ, Larson. After all this time, you still don't know for certain?”

She reeled at the indictment. Not the praise she had expected. “I'm trying, sir. Thompson is starting to notice that I don't participate in some of the more ... intimate activities with group members. I have to try harder to gain his confidence.”

“Shit, I knew we shouldn't have sent a women in there. Nicaraguan drug lords? Sex slaves?”

Gritting her teeth, she managed to stay civil. “Pardon, sir?”

“Look, Larson, you're a good girl ...”

Girl? She was twenty-eight. Sure felt like fifty right about now. “But?”

“You're done.”

She gripped the phone like she could break it in two. “What?”

“DEA no longer needs your services.”

“No longer needs ...?”

An unimpressed grunt came through the phone. “You're done. Go get married and have some kids and a picket fence American dream.” His voice had changed. More pressured, less natural.

“Are you seriously firing me, sir?”

“Sorry, Larson. We'll take it from here.”

What the hell? “No, I can finish the mission!”

“You're done. The DEA will send you a nice severance package for the service you've done for our country.”

“But—”

“Take care now, Larson.”

She yelled her objection to the dial tone.

What just happened?

His speech was different than in previous conversations. More tense, the vowels shortened. Choppier. Her language pattern skills took over and analyzed his tight voice. Howard was hiding something.

Nicaraguan drug lords,
he'd said.

How did he know about Nicaragua? She had only discovered that connection a few days ago. She hadn't said anything about it to anyone.

The People's Palace was a massive business, and the promise of big bucks could turn anyone.

Even a DEA agent.

As she hurried back up the street to the People's Palace lair, she made her decision. No way would she back down from the mission now. With a little more time, luck, and snooping, she could shut down the People's Palace, help those women, and expose Howard and anyone else involved.

Jane would shove the results of this mission up every one of her lying superiors' asses. She might be low in the pecking order, but she could obtain the info to get them fired.

Actually, she wasn't in the pecking order anymore, was she?

Closing the front door behind her with a tiny click, she froze.

She had two choices: run away and forget that she ever joined the DEA or try for the information that would sink this psychedelic ship of drugs, sex, and government bribery.

Decision made.

She tiptoed around sprawled, sleeping bodies.

Glancing out the partially boarded front window, she spied a man striding up the opposite side of the street. Thick, light brown hair waved off his forehead in a flow that stopped at the nape of his muscled neck. Might not be the regulation cut from Vietnam, but she'd recognize that handsome face anywhere.

Her heart paused. She couldn't breathe.

Barnaby? Alive?

He'd died on that rooftop. She had seen bodies. No one could have survived that explosion.

She rubbed her eyes and looked again. She must be hallucinating. Every cell in her body wanted to find out for certain.

Every cell in her body knew. Him.

Her mission. Her cover. No. She couldn't blow it, not even for him.

A police cruiser slowed down outside of the building, and she ducked away from the window.

“You call the cops?” A rapid clomp of boots and Tim Thompson's harsh voice startled her as she spun around. His second-in-command and smaller, greasier carbon copy, Chuck, hovered at Thompson's shoulder. The two men sported matching grins.

“Wow, you snuck up on me,” she said, stalling for time.

Thompson narrowed his snaky eyes and then stared out the window. A flicker of pure evil creased his features as he studied Barnaby's retreating backside. A slow smile twisted his thin lips. He swung his cold gaze back to her. “Where'd you go?”

“Go?” Dude, she couldn't keep her voice calm.

Thompson grabbed her upper arm. “Spill your guts.”

“What?”

“You're a cop.” So strong was his grip, her hand was going numb.

Her laugh came out too high. “Not a chance.” A completely true statement, as of ten minutes ago. “You're in the ozone with ideas like that. You dig?”

His thumb scouring circles on her arm made her wish she'd worn a long-sleeved shirt, and she suppressed a shudder.

When he grinned, no light made it to his soulless stare. “I don't think so.” He shifted so the bulge in his tight green Sansabelt slacks couldn't be missed. “You know, I've had my eye on you.”

“Oh, well, that's nice.” Her attempt at an airy and casual tone failed miserably. Maybe she could still get Barnaby's attention. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught him walking away down the opposite side of the street. No go.

Thompson let go of her arm to push his thinning hair back over his forehead.

Things were going to hell at a rapid rate. The heat in this stifling house made sweat prickle on her scalp. Or was it Thompson's leer that made her sweat?

Her nerves jumped. He stood a few inches away. She had no room to run.

She stepped back and right into Chuck's torso. Damn henchman had blocked her only exit.

Thompson licked his meaty, gross lips. “I'd like to give you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Jane.”

“Oh, gosh ...” she managed.

“You're going to be my special companion.”

Her heart slammed in her chest. At what point did she think going rogue to complete her doomed DEA mission constituted a good idea? “That's not necessary. I'm fine with how things are now. I'm ... not good enough for you.”

With a grin, he drew a cold finger over her cheek.

She flinched but couldn't move, trapped between both men.

Thompson raised his eyebrows. “Things could be so much better, don't you think? Aren't we all on our path to enlightenment?”

“Of course, but—”

“Why would you be here if not to let me ... enlighten ... you?”

Her world tilted again, and it had nothing to do with residual drugs. A path that went in two directions lay before her. Compromise her soul and complete the mission. Compromise her mission and live with the guilt that she'd abandoned those women and let a drug lord slip through her fingers.

Failure was not an option. Not again.

Thompson smiled, his teeth yellow and crooked. “Let's go somewhere more comfortable, shall we?”

She swallowed and gave her best eyelash flutter. “What's in it for me?” Her heart battered against her ribs, a terrified animal trying to get free of its cage.

At that moment, Karen Carpenter's cruel lyrics from “Top of the World” drifted past Jane. Yeah, that Carpenter chick could go blow it out her left nostril.

“I'm in need of a wife to help me maintain peace and harmony around here. As you recall, Linda, my late wife, passed away from a tragic accident a few months ago.” His voice sounded off, too sweet and metallic, like the aftertaste from a Tab soda.

And I'm a flying monkey
. When not hopped up on drugs, most folks here knew that the circumstances of Thompson's last wife's death were more than suspicious. Did Jane really want to sign up to be next in line?

“How did she help you?” Jane managed.

Chuck snickered.

Thompson rubbed his chin. “Well, she helped me chill when I was strung out. And she managed some business affairs so I had more time to be with my flock.”

Slime on top of garbage smelled better than this pile of scum.

But business affairs? That had promise.

If Jane could survive for a little while, she'd have all the intel needed to shut down this organization and maybe take out the mole in the DEA to boot.

Her information could free those poor women being used as sex slaves.

Sacrifice or failure? Which would it be? Didn't look as though she had much of a choice.

Thompson fished out a keychain from his back pocket and nodded toward the stairs. At the top of three flights would be his rooms, his lair.

“Why don't you let me interview you for the position?” He leered.

Those damned Dingo boots preceded her up the stairs and into hell.

San Francisco, July 1974

Barnaby released his hold from a scumbag's collar and let the body slide down the brick wall to crumple on alley pavement. A wave of hope nailed him in the solar plexus as he wiped the cursed blade clean. Was this his Meaningful Kill? An Indebted man could hope.

He didn't normally kill in the daytime, but such a nasty criminal couldn't be missed. This bastard, in the face of his impending death, had blabbed about brokered trades of naive young women in exchange for money or drugs. Good riddance.

At least the knife's lust for corrupt souls had been sated, so one less thing to worry about for a week or so. But no Meaningful Kill. No conclusion to the Indebted contract. Would his boss, Jerahmeel, ever release him?

If Barnaby could get his hands on those damned scrolls, but no, they were hidden in the current most godforsaken place on the planet. He couldn't travel to central Vietnam yet with the war still going on. Maybe soon it would be safer there. Perhaps then he could find a way to stop this macabre merry-go-round his life had become.

Always searching for the next kill.

And criminy, Barnaby couldn't stop returning to the Haight neighborhood.

Had to be some reason for it. He'd stopped doubting his instincts years ago, after he got on the RMS
Titanic
despite the warning bells clanging around in his head.

Four days later, boom, splash. And a lot of treading water and pretending to be hypothermic. On the upside, Barnaby had gotten some good kills for his Indebted quota while waiting for the
Carpathia
to scoop up survivors. So, not a total loss.

Strolling past St. Mary's Hospital, he stopped, riveted, and spun toward the building, like a dowsing rod drawn to water.

Yes sirree, something here. Might not be what he wanted to find, but his sixth sense obviously felt there was something he
needed
to find. Soon.

He stepped into a phone booth and sank a dime into the slot. Squinting at the midday sun, he banked on the fact that his friend, Dante, spent most evenings partying and most days relaxing.

“Yo!” the deep voice blasted through the earpiece.

“Hello, Dante.”

“Hi, Barnaby! What's shakin', baby?”

Groaning at his friend's overzealous assimilation of contemporary slang, Barnaby said, “Where are you?”

“San Diego. Sun and babes galore. It's a real love-in. Pretty groovy.”

“Got some free time to help me with a project?”

“I'm intrigued. Sure, bro. I was getting bored with the same old lately.”

“Ever wanted to work in the medical field?”

“Like a doctor? Can I be a gynecologist?”