Omega Force 01- Storm Force (20 page)

Kell
nailed the traffic situation. He cruised down I-45 South toward Galveston with
six lanes all to himself, while the northbound lanes bulged, bumper-to-bumper,
with people hoping to get out of Galveston and the coastal communities before
the evacuation order became mandatory. Then it would really get crowded.

At the noon
hurricane-hunter update, if the NOAA forecasters felt more confident that
Geneva wouldn’t take an eleventh-hour swerve to the east or west before
landfall, they’d make the evacuation mandatory. Riding out the storm would be a
dicier option then, especially after Ike had proven
how destructive even a Category 2 hurricane could be. If
Geneva strengthened to a Cat 3 or higher, Houston itself might be cleared out,
all 2.1 million residents. Talk about hell on wheels.

Even in
that case, Kell suspected he wouldn’t suffer. No sane
person would evacuate from one swampy, vulnerable spot to another. The roads
into South Louisiana should be deserted.

The water
had already begun chopping into whitecaps by the time Kell
crossed the bridge onto Galveston Island, exiting the freeway at its
termination point and cutting down to Seawall Boulevard. Little traffic was
moving on the island as near as Kell could see, and
even a glance down the historic Strand as he passed revealed unusually empty
streets and sidewalks.

Benedict’s
dark-blue Lexus was parked near the back entrance of the three-story faux-adobe
Tex-La building, and Kell parked Archer’s pickup two
spaces down. Across the boulevard, he could see past the building’s edge to
where the waves crashed against the rocky seawall, a steady, dry wind blowing
off the Gulf. The air smelled tropical, with an almost palpable gathering of
energy not yet released.

Definitely a storm coming.

Kell did a mental pat down of his weapons. The Beretta was
secured in a shoulder holster. He expected whomever Benedict had for security
to take that one. He’d tucked his personal weapon, a Smith & Wesson, in an
ankle holster that hugged tight to his skin and rested on the inside of his
leg. Not as handy from a quick-draw standpoint, but easy to miss in a
halfhearted pat down.

He had two
combat knives on him: one strapped to his other leg, one stashed in his right
pocket. The 75
^th
Ranger Regiment didn’t carry knives as standard
issue, but he’d found them useful in close situations. 

He hoped like hell he didn’t need any of those weapons
today, but the colonel’s plan made a couple of assumptions Kell
didn’t think were true. First, he viewed Michael Benedict as a rational
businessman who’d made some extremely bad errors in judgment. Second, he
thought the prospect of making a clean start would outweigh shape-shifter
politics.

The colonel
hadn’t seen Mori’s bruises or the letter branded into her back. He hadn’t seen
that contract or heard her tell her story. Kell
didn’t think Benedict regretted a single choice he’d made. He only regretted
that they hadn’t all succeeded.

Kell would do as he was told, however. He’d make the
colonel’s offer. If Benedict rejected it, well, Kell
was as prepared as he could be for whatever happened afterward. Mori might
prove to be right; he could be badly overmatched in a fight. But if he died
today, at least he was doing something he believed in, fighting for
someone
he believed in. Bullies and
tyrants couldn’t be beaten unless someone was willing to try.

The glass back door into Tex-La Shipping was unlocked.
Sandbags sat to either side of it, burlap-wrapped beacons of hope that whatever
this storm brought to shore, it would do it somewhere else and only send a
little water over the seawall.

The lobby was empty, and even with soft-soled shoes, Kell’s footfalls echoed. No sign of security. From his
visits to Tex-La, Nik had told him Benedict’s offices
took up most of the third floor, so Kell found a
stairwell and climbed. No point in having an elevator bell
announce his arrival. The building’s oppressive silence was eerie.

On the third-floor landing, Kell
paused and regrouped, letting his mind flip through the mantra of his training.
Breathing regulated. Muscles ready to move. Thoughts focused
and sharp. Hands loose, fingers relaxed.

He grasped the metal knob and pulled open the door into a
narrow hallway. Its lush carpet, a greenish-blue print in a subtle pattern of
swirls and curlicues, sank under the weight of his steps, absorbing the sounds.
A central lobby area sat empty, but as soon as he stepped in front of the
reception desk, a voice boomed from down the hall to his left.

“That you, Kellison? Last door on the right.”

As he crossed the length of the hallway, Kell expected one of Benedict’s security staff to block his
way and search him. If he forgot for one wrong instant that Benedict and any of
his employees could be shifters — sharper hearing, keener sense of smell, greater
physical power — he could pay for it with his life.

He paused in the doorway of the oversized corner office
at the end of the hall. The windows showed a turbulent sea and, in the far
distance, a looming mass of clouds. The outer bands of the storm would be here before long.

A small seating area had been placed to the left, but Kell’s focus riveted on the big oak desk and the man
lounging behind it, his hands clasped behind his head, a big smile on his
face — and a simmering of rage behind his brown eyes. There had been no sign of
any security, so either they were hiding until needed or Benedict had
underestimated Kell. If so, he’d regret it. He might
not be as strong as the shifter, but he could guarantee he was more stubborn.

“I meet the competition for Emory’s affections at last.” Benedict
stood up, and Kell was glad Mori had warned him about
how big the guy was. At six foot one, with a muscular frame, Kell hadn’t found many guys that dwarfed him. Michael
Benedict made him feel like a scrawny teenager, but since they both knew it, there
was no point in getting his jockstrap in a bunch.

Benedict didn’t offer to shake hands, robbing Kell of the chance to refuse him. He pointed to the chair
facing his desk, an expensive-looking armchair of tufted beige leather. “Have a
seat, after you rid yourself of the gun, please. I’m curious to hear about this
generous offer
of yours.” He stressed
the words as if they were a joke, and Kell suspected
that’s exactly how he’d treat the colonel’s proposal.

Kell paused, recalling the
colonel’s admonition to be cordial, serious, and not insulting. Undersell the
fuckup Benedict had made of things. Be Mr. Cooperation.

He
unsnapped the Beretta holster, emptied the gun of ammo, and laid it on the
table. He stuck the clip in his left pocket and mentally took a deep breath as
he settled into the chair. Time to start an all-star performance.

“I think
you’d agree that the events since the Zemurray
bombing have unfolded in a way that’ll be hard to untangle.”

Benedict leaned back in his chair, steepling
his fingers in front of his chin. “Maybe. Although, that unfortunate tragedy did have some positive
outcomes.”

Kell’s vision washed red, but
again, he took a mental step back. “Possibly. The
industrial expansion plans are down the drain, so your goal of protecting the
native habitat was a success. But the loss of lives was a big price to pay.”
A damn big price.

At the mention of habitat, Benedict’s expression changed
from cheerful arrogance to wariness. “I suppose.”

Interesting. Benedict seemed
genuinely surprised they understood the environmental benefits. Did he really
think Mori would keep his secrets after what he’d done to her?

Kell continued. “Another upside for you — you found a way to
potentially control environmental policy from the governor’s office, although
the thing with Felderman and the jaguarundis
didn’t work out very well. Clever piece of work to use them
to make a controllable hybrid, by the way. Kept your hands clean.”

As Kell talked, Benedict slowly
leaned forward, propping his elbows on the smooth, polished wood of his desk.
His arrogant smile had left the building. “I have no idea what you’re talking
about.”

“Course not. I have a tendency to ramble.” Kell smiled and leaned back in his chair, mimicking
Benedict’s earlier posture. “Then there was the whole screwup
in New Orleans. The bombs have been cleared, by the way, and we’re a step away
from identifying the Tex-La employees who planted them.” Or they would be as
soon as Nik did his psychic vision act.

Benedict said nothing, so Kell pretended to examine his cuff and kept talking.
“Here’s the way I see it, Mr. Benedict. More important, here’s the way the
people I work for see it.”

Benedict
had gone perfectly still, and it was fucking creepy. Not so much as a muscle
twitch while several seconds ticked by. Finally, he broke the silence. “And who
do
you work for, exactly?”

“People in
very high places, Mr. Benedict, and here’s how they see your situation.” Kell ticked off offenses on his fingers. “You have
committed one act of terrorism and have plotted a second. Very
serious federal crimes, by the way. You have directly or indirectly cost
more than two hundred lives, including the governor of Texas. A capital murder
charge in each case, and Texas does love its death
penalty.

“You fabricated
a report to Homeland Security, resulting in wasted dollars and man-hours
investigating a false lead.” Kell looked Benedict in
the eye. “You’ve committed two incidents of kidnapping and torture, and a
possible case could be made for engaging in human trafficking by your purchase
of an infant twenty-five years ago. An exchange, by the way,
for which you arrogantly signed a written contract that is currently on its way
to Washington.”

OK, so he might have been exaggerating. The contract was
on its way to Iberia Parish, Louisiana.

Were the stakes lower, Kell might have laughed at the range of emotions that ran
over Benedict’s face as he talked. From shock to outrage, back to shock, then
all the way to fury. With this guy, it always ended in anger.

“I think our mutual friend Emory has
been talking too much, which doesn’t speak well for the future of either one of
you.” Benedict’s hands lay on his desk, his clenched fists the size of small
hams.

Kell had
one more piece of info to share. “I should add that I know you’re the alpha of
the Dire Wolves. I know what started this whole fiasco. I know what you’d
planned to do before we took Mori out of that ice-cold palace in River Oaks you
call a home.”

Benedict raised an eyebrow at Kell’s blunt words. “That little bitch has a lot to answer
for. Did she also tell you that revealing our existence to humans, especially
human authorities, is a mortal crime?”

Before Kell
could answer, Benedict stood up and began to pace back and forth behind the
desk. Kell crossed his legs and kept his hand within
easy reach of the Smith & Wesson.

Benedict didn’t notice. “You’re
seeing only one side of this situation, Sergeant Kellison.
The only thing — the only person — who has a chance of keeping our species alive
for another generation is Emory Chastaine. Did she
ask for that burden? Of course not. Believe me, I wish
it had fallen to anyone but Gus Chastaine’s spoiled
little granddaughter, but the responsibility is hers nonetheless.”

Kell knew
he was going off script and warned himself to stay calm. But Benedict was so
full of shit it should have been running from his eye sockets. “Mori is more
than willing to do her part in continuing the species.”

On some possessive, asshole level,
the idea of Mori carrying another man’s child made him want to shoot something,
but he understood why she needed to do it.

“She’s even offered to have
your
children, as the Dire Wolves’
alpha,” Kell said. “It’s your refusal to compromise
that’s brought us to this state of fuckery. So don’t
blow off my offer before you’ve heard it.”

Benedict stopped pacing and stared
out the window at the roiling gray Gulf. “And what is this offer?”

“A way out.
Obviously, we realize you can’t be brought to trial without revealing the
existence of your people. No one wants that.” Kell
got to the part that really ate at him. “Walk away from this obsession, keep
your hands clean, and the people above me will make it disappear. You won’t be
tied to it, Mori and the Co-Op will be cleared, and everyone goes on with their
lives.”

As Kell
talked, Benedict turned to look at him with naked surprise. “Who do you work
for?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Like Kell even knew. Who had enough power to make an offer like
that? Not a semi-retired Army colonel from Georgia. “The stipulation is that
your comings and goings are monitored for the rest of your life, with a zero tolerance
for anything remotely illegal. You’ll have no contact with Mori Chastaine without her permission, although whatever
arrangement you mutually agree on regarding children is up to the two of you.”

“That is quite an offer.” Benedict
turned back to the window. “It’s also the biggest bunch of bullshit I’ve ever
heard. Do you think for one minute” — he turned back to Kell
and slammed his office chair against the desk hard enough to send a
Texas-shaped paperweight tumbling off the end — “that I would agree to let human
bureaucrats dictate where I go and who I fuck and what business plans I make?
Or that I’d let that selfish little girl dictate whether or how our entire
species continues?”

Kell
slipped the Smith & Wesson out of its holster as he uncrossed his legs and
stood. He needed to stem Benedict’s growing agitation before this got any uglier.
The man was as coiled as that storm sitting two hundred miles offshore,
gathering fury.

“Just think about it, Benedict.” A last appeal to reason. “It’s a good deal for everyone. Especially you.”