Some Gave All (30 page)

“Which I suppose should explain the attack in the subway,” Catherine drawled. “But how did you
dream
you would get Vincent’s cooperation if you killed me?”

He stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

She told him about the attack on Mr. Riley’s house, and the firefight in the subway, and he gaped at her in astonishment.

“They said
I
sent them? No.”

“Then it was the group Lena Mueller and James Farris were working for,” Catherine said, sharing a grim look with Vincent.

“The Freedom Fighters of New York,” Mazursky filled in. “Howison was undercover with them. You know this, right?”

“They implicated you.”

He shook his head. “Misdirection. Trying to confuse and distract us. The
real
threat that stalks this city is out there and no one has control of it.”

When will you stop?
Vincent thought.
When will you human monsters stop twisting innocent people into beasts and putting the world at risk?

J
.T. was relieved to see everyone arrive at his house in one piece. The snow was like a beast itself, crazy and raging, and the mayor’s office was telling people to get off the streets; last night had only been a dress rehearsal.

Wilson had stayed home to watch over Aliyah, and she would not leave his side. Which was great, because no one particularly wanted him around. Team Beast was used to working under the radar by themselves, especially in a crisis. Wilson had yet to see Vincent beast out; he didn’t really know what he had gotten into. Now that he had Aliyah to tend to, maybe he would be benched permanently.

With the others keeping an eye on James Farris, J.T. got to work on the antidote. He kept the news streaming on his desktop in the background and, given the violence of the storm, was sure that this time an Emergency Snow Declaration would be called. There had been some backlash that the mayor hadn’t done it last night. Naysayers said it was more evidence that the city wasn’t looking out for the safety of its citizens.

“An ESD would be the best thing,” Vincent observed. “It would keep more people off the streets.”

“Yeah, it’s not like we’re going to be taking the subway,” Tess said. J.T. raised his head and looked at her. Really looked, at his brave, fierce woman.

I will do whatever it takes to make it right between us, if you will do whatever it takes to come back to me from this
, he thought. His throat tightened. His hands trembled on his keyboard.

Then he looked back down at the monitor. It was his silent act of courage, and as he felt eyes on him, he realized that Vincent had seen it. His oldest, best friend dipped his head and J.T. shrugged with mock resignation:
What are ya gonna do?

Time to get to work.

He was aware that he was missing two key ingredients, and that he was trying to figure out what they were without access to the sophisticated equipment at his university lab. As a trained biochemist, he had developed his own set of beast protocols over the years, and he got out his voluminous notes about Vincent’s physiology as he attacked the problem. Taking a sample of Catherine’s blood as well, he began to categorize the chemical reactions that had occurred in their bloodstreams in order to deduce the likely solution that had catalyzed the event.

It was guesswork, but scientifically based. He was as careful as he could be, running computer simulations rather than risking the precious droplets of chemicals in the vials.
I wish I had help
, he thought. He thought of Heidi Schwann, which made him think of Sara.

And his heart led him back to Tess.

As he worked, the weather report took a back seat to calls coming in on Mazursky’s phone. Fast, furious. The agent had a body to cover up and a beast to track down. J.T. strained to listen in but Mazursky kept pacing the hall and murmuring.

Vincent walked over to J.T. and said, “They’ve spotted it. The good news is that it’s left the city. The bad is that it’s in the forest.”

J.T. understood immediately what Vincent was implying. “It’s hard to use pheromones as a delivery system in the great outdoors.”

Coming from behind Vincent, Catherine said, “We need to find a cave.”

“Yes,” Vincent agreed.

“Wait,
what
?” J.T. cried. “You can’t do that. You can’t go
inside
a cave with that thing!”

“Let’s see,” Tess said from the sofa with a laptop on her knees. “Caves. Are there any abandoned structures out there?”

J.T. let out a slow exhale and propped his forehead on his hand. Then he felt pressure on the back of his head as Tess kissed him gently and laced her fingers through his.

“J.T., you know how cops are. We gotta pump it before we go in sometimes, get primed. But Cat and I are
smart.
We’re great cops.” She brushed a curly strand of hair away from his temple. “And we’ve both got a lot to live for.”

He caught her hand. His chest hurt. He said, “Yeah, we do.”

She favored him with one of her quirky grins. “Glad that’s settled.”

And it was.

It really was.

* * *

As they stood before the open door of Walker’s empty apartment—
not
a cold-water walkup, just a normal, basic apartment—Heather stared at J-Bag in utter frustration. “How can they have
left
? They did all this so they’d get big magazine jobs!”

Her words echoed in the barren space. J-Bag snickered. “Girl, you mentioned your sister was a cop, right? Figure they got all freaked out and bailed. Or for all you know, they’ve traded up to some fine place because they already have those magazine jobs in the hole.”

“Great,” she said.

He crooked a finger. “Come with me.”

“Why? So we can knock over a liquor store together?” she asked.

She followed him out of the building and back into his car. He smiled and moved into the traffic. It took her about five minutes to realize that he was driving her to the offices of
Couture Bleu
magazine. He gave his keys to a valet who pointedly looked him up and down—J-Bag had on a black hoodie with a red fist on it, a pair of baggy black jeans, high tops, and large leather wristbands on each wrist. J-Bag turned to Heather and said, “You’re good for the valet parking, right?”

As she sputtered in protest, he took her hand—
they were holding hands
—and walked through the revolving door head up, shoulders back, as if he owned the place. The receptionist looked startled.

“Yo, this designer is from Silverado and her Nude Look design was stolen from her by another—”

“
New
Look,” Heather corrected, smiling. “Really. It’s okay.”

J-Bag looked at her in horror. “
Okay?
My kitten woman is no wimp.” He turned back to the receptionist. “This is Heather Chandler, you know, and—”

“Oh. Right.” The receptionist smiled. “We received your submission. And the note from someone named Walker that there’d been a mixup when it was sent in. The wrong name was on it. Yes? Elaine something?”

Heather gaped at her. “Um, yes,” she said slowly.

“Oh. My. God,” said a voice. “
Look
at those cheekbones. Did the agency send you over, you luscious thing?”

Heather and J-Bag both turned. A man with a camera around his neck was slinking toward them. He held his hand out to J-Bag and said, “This time they got it
right
.”

J-Bag blinked, and then he grinned at Heather. He said, “So maybe a happy ending, eh, baby?”

Then the photographer said, “The mayor just called the Snow Emergency Declaration. We’re all going to be stuck in here together for a long time. Why don’t we get started? I love what you’re wearing. What’s your name?”

“J-Bag.”

“Let’s just start with working poses.” He looked over. “Janine,” he called. “Look at this hunk. I’m thinking cover?”

And Janine Deveraux, the editor-in-chief of
Couture Bleu
, glided over on her skinny high heels and her perfectly cut little black dress and beamed at J-Bag. “Move over Tyson Beckford,” she drawled. She grinned at J-Bag. “
Love
the look. We’ll have to build a wardrobe. Tux?”

“Tux,” the photographer agreed.

And Heather just started laughing as hard as she could.

* * *

“I have it,” J.T. announced, holding up the vial. It was clear, and somehow Vincent imagined it would be the color of blood. So much blood had been spilled to obtain it. “I don’t know if it’s going to work, though.”

“I don’t know if this is, either,” Vincent said, holding up his fighter pilot’s helmet.

Each of them was holding a helmet. The antidote would be mixed with oxygen and circulated through their systems. This had been the last thing that Major Howison had been trying to tell him: “Bone do” had been his attempt to say “bone dome,” the military term for helmets. “Oxygen” signaled that it was a fighter pilot helmet.

Ever since Howison had died in his arms, Vincent had wondered how Major Howison had withstood being in Shyam Badal’s proximity when the fear pheromones had been released. The clearest answer was that he had to have been given some version of the antidote. Mazursky claimed ignorance and of course he was believed. Why would he have ordered so many murders to get the vials if he already had the formula?

But mulling his words coupled with remembering the smell of the warehouse—like the flight deck of an aircraft carrier, or flight helmets that had been burned in the fire—had yielded this answer. He hoped it was the right one.

“We’ll be back soon,” Tess said, wrapping her arms around J.T. “You know we will, right?”

He swallowed hard. Vincent watched him struggle to remain upbeat. He knew it was bothering him that he was “babysitting.” But surely he had to comprehend that his creation of the antidote was nothing short of miraculous. There had been no way to test it. Like so much else, they would have to chance it in the field—daring to give all if it didn’t.

“Be careful,” J.T. ground out, and he walked through to the door.

The snow cascaded like supernaturally thick rain. New York was under siege, and there was no one on the streets. Mazursky had ordered Humvees, and as Catherine, Vincent, and Tess joined him inside the lead vehicle, Vincent sensed deep, palpable fear tugging at every nerve ending in his body. They all put on their masks. They had on body armor and heavy boots. They buckled in and trundled off in a world of pure white. Vincent and Catherine held hands and took deep breaths of the mixture.

Mazursky said through his microphone, “The Bureau won’t forget this.”

And Catherine retorted, “It escapes me why we should care.”

They drove, Vincent eavesdropping on every call Mazursky sent or received on his radiophone.

Before he regained his composure, Vincent suffered a moment of panic.
They’re coming for me. To take me from Catherine.

No. That’s over.

They went on a winding road that Vincent had never been on before, despite innumerable trips to these woods. He and his brothers had cross-country skied here. He had brought Catherine here for picnics in the spring.

Suddenly, birds billowed into the air and scores of wild animals darted in front of the Humvee. The driver slammed on his brakes, slowing, swerving, as the terrified animals panicked and fled. Deer, raccoons, possums, wild turkeys shot across the road.

The fear spread more deeply into his bones. Catherine held his hand tightly and took heavy, rattling breaths. He tapped her forearm, asking after her status.

“I’m losing it,” she said.

“It’s not real,” he replied. “Catherine, you know it’s just chemical. It’s not real.”

But it was real. It was monstrous; they came across the eviscerated carcass of a deer, and then of a man, and then of another man… and then of twenty men, one of Mazursky’s scouting parties. Their deaths were so recent that blood steamed from the snow. Thick and richly red, there was so much of it, so much.

More dead.

The Humvee driver started screaming. Catherine sagged, and Tess and Mazursky were gripping each other by the shoulders as the miasma of horror invaded them.

Vincent said, “Stop the vehicle. Here.”

Doubled over, Catherine said, “No, Vincent. It will kill you. I will die if it kills you. I won’t be able to live.”

“You’re okay,” he insisted. “It’s just the pheromones.”

But inside he was agreeing with every word she uttered.

It would kill him.

The plan had been for them to get as close to the fear beast as they could, and then Vincent would get out of the Humvee and lope through the snow, inviting it to track him. Over his shoulder, he had slung a rocket launcher, and in the payload, there was a hollowed-out projectile filled with the antidote in gaseous form. When the rocket was aimed at the fear beast and launched, it would burst open and deliver the pheromone ammunition. Or so it was hoped. Mazursky had supervised the engineering of the device, as, he conceded, the United States military had used similar devices against other enemies.

There were more rocket launchers in the Humvees, but all of the vehicles had stopped in their tracks, their occupants too terrified to proceed. Their weapons, therefore, were useless.

Soon the snow was blinding, and Vincent directed his circulatory system to feed his thermal imaging capabilities. Trees glowed orange; more animals bounded out of the forest, some colliding with him. He stayed on target, focused, one leg following the other through the blizzard.

One leg…

One…

Afghanistan. Guns shooting. Men shooting. Beasts perishing. Death, death. Destroy. Retaliate. Fight back. Rend. Dismember.

He had to find the cave. Get to the cave. Draw the fear beast inside. If only it would come.

It can’t come after me. It will kill me.

Vincent shook as his jaw clacked against the bottom of the helmet. Rage coursed through him. Rage was better than fear. Let others fear him. Let them quail and quake. He would tear them apart with his teeth. He would…

Muirfield. Hunting him down. Years. Years waking up in the dead of night in a cold sweat: Is it them? Are they here? Do I hear soldiers? Choppers?