The Zero Dog War (7 page)

Tiffany had seemed to sense she was the object of everyone’s attention and she’d hated it. I’d almost convinced her to join me on the dance floor to lose ourselves in the pounding music when the sharks had circled in. And what a range of sharks—everything from just-turned-twenty-one college studdite to Mr. Comb-over who drove a Corvette. All of them hitting on her. The comb-over guy had been the worst. The second time he’d invaded her personal space I’d lit his knuckle hair on fire. But comb-over guy hadn’t been dissuaded. When the house DJ spun a slower dance number, Mr. Comb-over had come back up to Tiffany, put a hand on her hip and tried to urge her out onto the floor. That time I lit another batch of short and curlies on fire. Mr. Comb-over had squealed like a raccoon getting a rectal exam and dumped his White Russian on his crotch. And so ended our first ladies’ night out.

Like I said, good times.

Tiffany met my eyes and just as quickly glanced away. “I did like the music. And the dancing… We should go out again…sometime.”

“Count on it. We’ll find some smoking-hot guys…” I paused, thinking, “maybe a couple of firefighters, and we’ll drink too much, party too late, and wake up hung over.”

“Just so the firefighter doesn’t have a comb-over. And I don’t know about getting drunk—”

“Trust me, it makes dancing easier.” I cleared my throat. “Don’t be late for the briefing. Oh, and before I forget, you did good work last time out. I’m glad you’re on the team.”

“Thanks, Captain.” Real pleasure shone in her eyes. It made her look so damn innocent I wanted to find the nearest cherub and kick it in the balls, just because.

“All right then.” I pushed myself out of the chair and made my way over to the door, my mood gray-scaling down toward black. Wishing I could make her that happy more often. Wondering why I didn’t.

“Captain?” Her voice was hesitant, little more than a curious whisper. I glanced back with eyebrows raised in silent question.

“Your scent…” She lifted her nose, delicately sniffing the air. “There’s a man…a mage. You’re attracted to him.
Really
attracted. I can smell your—”

“Thank you, that’s enough, carry on, see you at eight thirty, or 2030 hours as we say in the business. Ha-ha.” I retreated out the door and pulled it closed before I could learn anything else I didn’t want to know. So much for tactful discretion. Thank God Rafe the werewolf had been too busy scarfing down a garlic-heavy chicken dish to scent anything off me when I’d told him about the meeting.

Still, if Tiffany didn’t keep that little secret quiet, I’d drag my prudish succubus kicking and screaming into a Victoria’s Secret buying binge as revenge. Or take her to the Thunder from Down Under male review. The image put a grin on my face, and I walked off down the hall with a new bounce in my step, decidedly not thinking of Special Forces Captain Sanders dancing on stage like an over-muscled idiot.

All right. Another lie. But the image amused the hell out of me and right about then I could use the yuks.

I double-timed it up the stairs off the foyer, thumping my way toward Gavin’s rooms. I wanted nothing more than to get this over with ASAP, and I’d just raced up to the second-floor landing when I rounded the banister and crashed right into Captain Sanders. For one moment all I could think about was muscles and the smell of gun oil…until I realized he held me steady, his large hands on my upper arms. I shoved back from him, and he let me go. I could feel my skin grow blazing hot.

“Excuse me.” I stepped farther away. He’d come early. I hadn’t expected him until tonight. Something else to deal with, and my list already floweth over.

He smiled, but he had a way of looking at me that made me feel as if I were the focal point of the universe, as if he waited for every word I might chose to speak. I didn’t like it. The word
disconcerting
sprang to mind.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve been more careful. I was looking for you.”

“I’ll let you know when I find me.”

He cocked an eyebrow, but his smile didn’t falter. I took a deep breath and willed my heart to airbrake back to a normal speed. A muscle in my cheek might’ve twitched with my effort to suppress my stupid schoolgirl-crush reactions. I clamped down even tighter. I had a job to do and a team to run. I sure as hell wouldn’t allow this distraction to endanger either.

“I wondered if we could sit down together and go over a few tactical scenarios before the briefing,” he said. “Make sure we’re on the same page.”

“I’m still tracking down my people.” I glanced at my watch. “And I’m scheduled out until about…eight twenty-five. And hey, that’s when your briefing starts. How unfortunate.”

His smile slipped a notch. “Maybe afterwards—”

“Look, Captain Sanders—”

“Call me Jake. Save syllables.”

“Fine.
Jake
. I’m busy running a team,
Jake
. Not a lot of time to attend your little
tête-à-tête
.” Hail, and all witness Captain Andrea Walker behaving like an ass—yet, I couldn’t stop now. Inertia was a horrible thing.

He didn’t seem daunted as the wattage on his smile dialed back up to blazing. “May I call you Andrea? In private, of course.”

God. Damn. It. Men, you let them pick up the ball and they ran off the field with it, yelling how they’d won. “I’m more comfortable with Captain Walker,
Jake
, thank you.”

“All right, Captain Walker.”

We stood so close, with no one else around. My skin felt afire, flushed, and sweat dampened my armpits. The urge to drop my gaze from his eyes pulled at me like an iron chain, but I refused to look away. Dominance games? I could play them all week, and he’d soon find out if he didn’t stand down. I stepped back from him again, putting even more distance between us. Any farther and I’d fall down the stairs—but I still didn’t blink, so point to me.

He didn’t pursue. “I’m confident we can map out some strategies to maximize our team assets.”

“
Our
team assets? Look,
Jake
, those are my people. Mine. I’m responsible for them, for keeping them safe and getting them back here every night after we go out and bust our asses, blowing shit up. I call the shots. I’m the only Captain Ahab around here. You can dispense advice when I damn well decide I need the input of a magical Green Beret.”

Something flared in his eyes—either anger or respect—before the professional detachment slammed back down. Anger I could understand, but respect would only vex me more. I didn’t need his damn respect.

“I didn’t mean to violate protocols,” he said in a smooth, calm voice. “I just want to make certain we mesh together well. That our leadership styles are fully integrated to avoid any splintering of command.”

Mesh together well. That conjured up some distracting images. Oh, he did vex me something awful, the bastard. “We can fully integrate if you listen to my orders. When we’re hot, I’m calling the shots.”

“Understood. I’m here to support and advise. My only goal is to achieve our mission objectives.”

“Then I suggest you stay out of my way. I’m driving this truck.” I walked around him, careful not to touch him again, and continued up the next set of stairs, willing my fists to remain unclenched and my jaw muscles to cease and desist from grinding my teeth to powder.

He called after me. “One last thing, Captain Walker.”

I glanced down. He had his game face on—a hard-as-steel, raptor-eyed, chew-dynamite-and-spit-out-nitroglycerin look which appeared pretty damn impressive. “What?”

“I meant what I said about achieving mission objectives. I’ll do whatever I have to. There are lives to save.”

I swallowed my cheeky comment and gave him the benefit of a nod, despite my smoldering irritation. As if I didn’t know there were civvy lives at stake. Who’d he think he was dealing with? Backwater hicks?

I spun on my heel and took the stairs two at a time, eager to be away from him. God help me, this might just be the hardest damn job I’d ever done.

My skin still burned from my run-in with Captain Sanders—and no, I wouldn’t start calling him Jake—and my stomach still practiced sailor’s knots with my guts. I was so flustered I walked right past Gavin’s door before realizing it. Men. Problems. The lament of the double-X chromosome for half a million years.

Gavin Carter, driver, pilot and wannabe novelist. He was also technically an empath—or at least that’s what his file claimed. I’d never seen any evidence of it and figured he’d copied it from
Star Trek
to pad his resume.

I hammered on the door. Six months ago he’d had his music cranked so loud he couldn’t hear my knocks, and I’d made the mistake of opening the door and wandering inside, only to discover Gavin absorbed in some good old-fashioned naked web-cam cavorting. The kind that involves rapid motion of the right hand while staring at jerky web video, pun definitely intended. I still had nightmares.

“Come in, goddamn it!” Gavin yelled.

I took a deep breath, prayed for mercy to the gods of decency, and stepped inside.

His walls were covered with NASCAR posters and framed pictures of jet fighters and scantily clad women. The furniture reminded me of the mismatched junk from my stint in a college dorm. The place smelled of stale garlic and beer, and all the blinds were shut, which I took as an ominous sign.

I peeked around the corner into his office. Gavin sat slumped in his leather chair in front of a computer and focused on the screen. Oh God. Not again.

He heard me gasp and whipped around, then frowned when he recognized me. “For God’s sake, Captain. Let it go, will you? I’m writing. Totally innocent.”

I hazarded a few steps closer. “Mandatory briefing tonight at 2030 hours.”

“Mandatory? Somebody die or something? I have an epic mob guild raid scheduled for then.”

“This is real-world serious, not computer-game stuff. A new job, capping zombies. I expect your ass there and you on your best behavior.”

Most of the time I felt bad for Gavin. He wasn’t fugly or anything, but he appeared plain put up against someone like that bastard Captain
Jake
Sanders. Oh, and empathy or not, his people skills were about as finely developed as lead Play-Doh.

“All right, I’ll be there. But you owe me.”

“Yeah, right. Send me a bill.” I glanced at his screen. “What are you writing?”

He covered the screen with his hands. “It’s not ready yet.”

“Give me a break, here,” I said. “For once I’m interested. Don’t play like you’re shy. I know you too well.”

“Fine. It’s probably just the best thing I’ve ever written. A novel about a shape-shifting Himalayan Long-Haired Bovine, commonly known as a yak. There’s some kung fu, a vampire samurai, some hot spanking monkey sex, true love and a happily ever after. Some ninja aliens too, as the bad guys. It’s gonna sell gazillions.” He grinned. “I’ll buy you a Porsche when I’m rich.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Big market for that kind of book?”

“There will be.”

I began to back out of the room. Slowly. So the crazy person wouldn’t attack me. Never show fear. Never let them smell your sweat. And never, ever, turn your back. “About that briefing. It’s required. So. See you at 2030 hours. Big job ahead, lots of money. Come early or Squeegee will steal your seat on the couch. That is all. Carry on.”

I exfiltrated out of there as fast as I could. Some days it just didn’t pay to crawl out of bed. Or skip the Thorazine.

Chapter Five: SNAFU Briefing, Baby

Mercenary Wing Rv6-4 “Zero Dogs”

The Zero Dog Compound

1st Floor Great Room

2031 Hours PST April 10th

Captain Sanders turned out to be more of a problem than I thought.

He stood at ease near the wall in our great room, next to the projected image of a grungy building. Problem was, my mind kept drifting off the mission-briefing details and onto stupid, inconsequential things. Like how warm his skin had been when I’d shaken his hand. Those intense eyes. How well he filled out his fatigues. Bankruptcy. Yeah. Bankruptcy tended to crush the desire like a boot heel on a cockroach. I was tired, but that was no damn excuse, and my unprofessional thoughts made me furious. I had responsibilities, and I couldn’t let my people down just because I felt a little horny. I wouldn’t shirk my duty for anyone, and especially not for some FNG Army eightball. Fucking New Guys, they should come with a product warning or something.

The projector hummed, connected by a USB to Sanders’s laptop. The rest of the Zero Dogs had gathered around in a wide semicircle, deployed as follows:

Rafe lounged on the couch, Squeegee on his lap—or rather Squeegee’s massive feline head on his lap, an ear idly turning to follow the sounds. Tiffany sat in a recliner, knees drawn up to her chin. Mai had ringed herself with small summoned creatures—things that resembled Guinea Pigs with glowing neon purple eyes and which probably had acid for blood. Hanzo, no matter how badly he might’ve wanted to sit next to her, didn’t risk getting too close to those furry little bastards, despite his legendary ninja skills.

Stefan slouched against the far wall, arms folded, his noble features set in a grim scowl. Nothing new there. The lazy vamp liked to tell people he was some kind of Romanian aristocrat who’d once hobnobbed with the king of Hungary, but I knew better. He was merely some rich kid from the Hamptons who’d been bitten at Woodstock during the age of peace and love, when he’d been rebelling against his parents. He didn’t sparkle, either. Only fairies sparkled, and mostly when you lit them on fire.

Gavin sat on the little bit of couch free of Squeegee’s limbs, toying with one of those maddening intelligence games—figure out how to detach these two twisted nails and win absolutely nothing.

Sarge stood in the doorway to the hall, hands in his pockets, massive shoulders almost filling the entry from wall to wall. The dim light made his skin appear a dusky eggplant purple. He’d also been quiet so far.

As for me, I’d claimed my leather recliner—the back of which hung in shredded tatters thanks to Squeegee’s claws—legs crossed, trying to watch the slideshow and not the presenter. Trying to convince myself Sanders didn’t present a threat. Not doing a very good job of it.

Our new Green Beret cut straight to the chase. “I’m Captain Sanders, US Army, Special Forces. I’ve been assigned as a Force Multiplier to the Zero Dogs for this operation.”

Nods all around. A good start, but I wondered how long it would last. We could go from zero to clusterfuck in less than five point two seconds.

Sanders raised the control for the projector. “Here’s what we know.” He flipped to a new PowerPoint slide. A color shot of a plain, unassuming man in his mid-thirties, close-shaven goatee, brown eyes, brown hair, fleshy face but not quite overweight. To me he looked more like a manager at a Blockbuster Video chain. “On March 4th, this man, Jeremiah Hansen, a necromancer of the Unrighteous Order of the Falling Dark, transported a group of between fifty and seventy-five RCTs to First Federal Bank in Beaverton—”

“Did you say the dude’s name is Jeremiah?” Gavin interrupted. “Talk about epic villain name fail.”

Rafe shook his head. “Yeah, it’s even worse than Gavin.”

“Fuck you, fleabag.”

“I don’t do guys. Call Sarge over. Gotta warn you though, I suspect he’s got better taste.”

“Leave me out of this, Rafe,” Sarge rumbled. “Or I’ll kick your mangy ass.”

Mai raised her slender hand as if she were in school. She’d worn blue and yellow summoner’s robes, with a pattern of falling leaves down the sides. All her demon Guinea Pigs cocked their heads up at her in adoration when she started to speak. “Captain Sanders, I’m not familiar with the term RCT.”

“Noobcake City, here,” Gavin said with disgust. “RCT is an acronym for Reanimated Corpse Threat.”

Hanzo stood up slowly, staring at Gavin with narrowed eyes. “Apologize to Ms. Tanaka before I decide to NKYITF. An acronym for Ninja Kick You in the Face.”

“Big talk from a sawbones Band-Aid pusher. Newsflash, otaku head. You’re no Bruce Lee. You’re not even Asian. Now, shut the fuck up before I go crunchy on your ass and run you down with the Bradley.”

“You
will
rue this day the next time you bleed,
kono yarou
.”

Sarge’s voice snarled out of the back. “Shut your fucking holes,
both
of you. I’ve got some goddamned acronyms for you, you fucking POG POS REMFs.”

Roughly translated: Person Other than Grunt, Piece of Shit, Rear-Echelon Motherfuckers. Ah,
esprit de corps
. We had it in such abundance it leaked down our legs. Still, I couldn’t help but yawn for Jake’s benefit, feigning boredom, flaunting my acting skills, eager to see the Green Beret squirm.

Poor Captain Sanders watched as his briefing died a premature goat-rope death, glancing from speaker to speaker like a tennis match attendee, with his face a mask of dismay. Finally, he looked at me. I shrugged and tried to hide my smile, but didn’t do a very good job of it. Hell, he
wanted
to be here. Even asked me to attack him for the honor of joining up. Could I help it if I’d found a more effective way to plant my foot in his ass?

After all, these were mercs, not toe-the-line, into-the-breach-without-a-bitch, salute-and-keep-your-mouth-shut soldiers. Free of hot zones, opinions were like assholes, they all stank, and mercs loved to show them off. Only in firefights did we maintain professional-soldier status. Well, other merc wings maintained that status. I just did the best I could with what God had seen fit to torment me. Still…I’d made my point. Time to get down to business, get this done so I could go drink something with high alcohol content. I cleared my throat to get everyone’s attention.

Rafe, the very soul of helpfulness, said, “You guys are making the captain cough up a lung.”

I ignored him. “I suggest we all pay better attention to Captain Sanders. Less collateral damage when you guys actually comprehend our mission objectives.”

“Thank you, Andrea.” Sanders nodded at me, and I went very still, feeling as if my skin had turned to ice and started to crack. Did that bastard just call me by my first name in front of my team? Sonuva
bitch
. But before I could channel my outrage, Sanders pushed on with his briefing and I had to bite my tongue. Oh shit we were gonna have such a talk later.

“Jeremiah Hansen,” he said, “controlling his RCTs, advanced in force through the Beaverton bank’s front doors.” He clicked through several stills from the bank cameras showing a diverse menagerie of zombies swarming into the lobby. He clicked on a video file and four different views of the bank interior came up, a long string of numbers counting off on the screen bottom. No sound, but I watched the bank tellers and a few customers react with terror as the undead tide swarmed toward them.

Sanders continued. “Luckily, a quick-thinking bank teller rallied the customers and her coworkers and locked everyone in the bank vault, where they remained safe until rescued by SWAT.”

On the screen, the teller in question sprayed a zombie with mace. The zombie sneezed and one of its eyeballs fell out. The zombie grabbed at her, and she slammed one of those chain-connected pens into its other eye socket. Needless to say, the chain broke too.
You go, girl
. It was like watching Wonder Woman without the star-spangled panties.

“Despite the teller’s heroics, the bank and depositors suffered monetary losses of about fifty thousand dollars, judging by FDIC and insurance records.”

“On March 12th, Hansen struck again at a Chasing bank in the Northwest District. His forces engaged just as the bank opened for business, and there were no customers inside. However, the bank manager, Felix Fisk, was eaten by the RTCs.” The slideshow displayed grim pictures of a Very Mustachioed Rich Man (or VMRM because acronyms are as addicting as popping bubble wrap) in a perfectly cut suit flailing around as a circle of zombies closed around him. Blood spray doused the zombies when they ripped into him, but the blood appeared more like maple syrup on the black-and-white camera feeds. I winced. How long before
that
clip showed up on the internet?

“The zombies didn’t touch the three tellers, who barricaded themselves in a break room, but on this occasion they compromised the vault despite a time lock. This engagement netted him over a hundred thousand dollars. The newest attack took place today at around thirteen hundred hours. I was just briefed on it. The necromancer hit an armored car at one of its scheduled ATM refill stops.”

“Small-time stuff,” Sarge said. “This guy’s not causing much mayhem.”

“Not yet. His real goal is this.” Captain Sanders clicked forward to a slide featuring an industrial building. “We have information he’s now incorporated and ramping up operations.”

“Manufacturing bio weapons?” Mia asked. Her pet demon Guinea Pig-things had curled up around her like drifts of furry snowballs.

“Gelatin.”

Silence.

“I thought I heard gelatin,” Gavin said. “But that can’t be right, because that’s what I’d expect to hear if I was smoking weed, and I’m clearly not smoking weed.”

“Gelatin is correct. His factory focuses on the manufacture of powdered gelatin products. He’s using the living dead as a labor force, allowing him to run operations for twenty-four hours a day and skirt all OSHA regulations and labor laws, destabilizing the market.”

Hanzo frowned. “I believe in the sanctity of the free market. In Japan, business is war. As Sun Tzu said, ‘All war is deception.’ Deception is the ninja way.”

“Sun Tzu was Chinese, you fucking poseur,” Gavin said.

Rafe scratched at his chin. “Free markets? I only believe in free porn.”

I could see Captain Sanders’s jaws tightening, could almost hear his teeth grinding together from across the room. If he hadn’t just called me by my first name, I’d have felt some amount of chagrin at how my people behaved. Now I just wanted to yank his chain. Smear off some of that military spit and polish. Show him how we did it merc-style.

But two seconds later I did a hard mental one-eighty turn. This wasn’t about a pissing contest with Jake. If we lost this client, we’d be screwed. I’d pushed things far enough. Time to grow up and get back on track.

“Zombie containment and destruction is standard protocol,” I said. “But I get the impression the government’s even more concerned about the economic angle to this.”

Sanders nodded. “Leaving aside implications of widespread zombie infection, the Zombeconomy, as it’s sometimes called—”

“I’m not sure I can say Zombeconomy with a straight face,” Mai warned, and Rafe snorted laughter. Squeegee the mutant cat rolled on her back, furry belly up, and farted. All Mai’s pets scrambled to their feet and squeaked in outrage.

“God, that smells like lighter fluid,” Gavin said.

Captain Sanders scanned the room with his best Special Forces hard-ass stare. I also made scary faces at my troops. God, what had I started, letting them off their leashes? I swallowed and my throat made a dry click. Visions of vanishing government money danced through my head.

“Zombification has grim implications for workers in Mexico and China,” Captain Sanders said. “A Harvard business analyst predicts it could collapse the low-wage, high-hour labor market. If the concept of using a zombie work force spreads, the garment industry could be wiped out. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that the phenomenon known as zombie creep will bleed into the US marketplace. First with low-pay, low-prestige jobs, and then working its way up to higher-pay, low-prestige jobs such as used-car salesmen.” He paused, his face grim. “If his business model succeeds, we’re looking at the collapse of current free-market capitalism for all non-zombie entities.”

“What, no credit-default swaps?” Gavin said. “No hedge-fund implosion? No sub-prime mortgages offered in an orgy of greed and predatory lending?” He glanced at Rafe and whispered, “The Mayans predicted all of this. Here’s a hint: buy gold and stock up on toilet paper.”

Captain Sanders cleared his throat. “This threat, viewed in the long term, may be more serious than any of those. While Wall Street investors might view zombie creep and the resulting free labor in a positive light, I’m afraid our analysts predict long-term consequences for the American electorate, including widespread unemployment, being eaten, the breakdown of society, the decay of traditional family values and an exponentially expanding zombie apocalypse. To name just a few.”

“This is interesting and all.” Rafe made a spectacular show of yawning. “But we’ve done zombies before. Just airdrop me into that plant and I’ll sort out your RCT problem.” He grinned and winked. “Maybe afterwards you can hook me up with some hot Army tank girls.”