Dead Sexy (14 page)

He was cherry picking.

I frowned, had he cherry-picked George Fitzgerald? Was there something about the man that had made him particularly tempting? His height? His weight? Maybe, Mr. Bad Guy just liked the way George wore his hair.

Was that why he’d been slaughtered in front of his parents?

The thought sent a shiver down my spine.

D.S. was right. Mr. Bad Guy needed to be taken down a notch or ten. Forget turning him over to the cops or the DUA. I wanted to see him ripped apart by his own monsters. I wanted him dead in the river. “You called in the Detroit cops,” I told D.S. “Do you have any pull with the border patrol?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He reached out to pick up my hand, the movement quick and unthinking. With his fingers wrapped around my wrist, he seemed to relax a little. It wasn’t a smoking hot kiss, but it meant something. “Did we get what we came for? Or, do you want to flirt with the human some more?”

The last four days he’d been completely professional—it was driving me crazy—and now this.

He was jealous.

My head was pounding. I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “This isn’t fair. You need to figure out whether you want to be my boss or my boyfriend. If you’re my boss, you don’t get a say in my personal life.” There was a slight pause. “If you’re my boyfriend, we’re going to have to talk about this hot and cold thing you’ve got going. It’s not sexy.”

D.S. grinned and a zip of electricity buried itself deep in my belly. Hoo-boy. The man had a smile like nobody’s business. “I’m always sexy.”

“Fuck you.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s going to happen—as soon as the case is finished—but it’s not going to be in the morgue. At least, not the first time.”

Oh, god. I sucked in a breath, struggling to force down air.

The man’s voice was deathly serious.

It was really going to happen.

I was going to lose my virginity to a zombie
.

I probably should have been frightened, but D.S. wasn’t just any zombie. Tall, dead, and sexy as hell, he made my insides dance in ways  I couldn’t even begin to explain. I wanted him more than anything—more than air—but he was right. There was something we needed to do first.

Solve the case.

20.

Turns out the Border Patrol isn’t exactly eager to get into bed with the Department of Undead Americans. They’d spent so long worrying about keeping people out of the country, they weren’t used to keeping people in. They’d put a double guard on all the usual crossing points, but that was it.

The Coast Guard hadn’t been much better.

The DUA had agents staked out up and down the entire riverfront—from St. Clair Shores to Grosse Ille—but they were stretched thin. I’d ended up parked on Belle Isle, drinking coffee out of a paper cup, and fantasizing about my comfortable bed.

Belle Isle’s one of Detroit’s jewels. It’s a big park on the east side with wide driving lanes and lots of picnics. My dad used to take me out to the park when I was a kid. There’s a boathouse, a yacht club, a conservatory, an aquarium, and some big ass fountains, all stuck on an island in the middle of the Detroit River. Back in the day it was totally top notch.

Things have gone downhill since then.

Parts of the island are completely feral, just like the rest of the city.

I was parked looking out at the river and Windsor across the way. Every so often the wind would ripple through the tall grasses and I’d hold my breath, waiting to be attacked. Biters aren’t crazy about the water, but there’s a whole lot of Belle Isle that’s not water: lots of empty buildings, wild animals, and escaped dogs.

It’s a wild Biter’s paradise, and if there were any out there then, they’d strike at night.

Knock-knock. A fist rapped against the passenger side door. I jerked to the side in surprise then rolled down the window. “You scared the crap out of me,” I said. “Sneaking up on a person like that is a good way to get stun gunned.”

“I’ve heard that.” My mother waited for me to unlock the door before climbing into the passenger seat. Martina Matthews-Sinclair was looking good in a black jumpsuit with a fashionable red belt tied around her waist and a matching scarf wrapped around her blonde hair, like a 1970s superhero—or villain. She slammed the door shut and settled a paper bag full of barbecue onto her lap. “I figured we could eat while we talked.”

“Are we going to be talking? I thought you’d just invited yourself along on my hunt for no reason.”

“They’re paying a hundred and fifty dollars an hour.” She opened the bag carefully, pulling out containers of French fries and pulled pork. “I figured that bought two sets of eyes.”

I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t turn the food down either. It smelled good, damn good. “Bugsy’s?”

“Why go someplace else? I thought about picking up huevos from the Goose, but—this time of night—Jack might shoot me for interrupting his book.” My mom adjusted her scarf. “The man needs a life.”

“He needs a girlfriend.”

“Yeah.” She laughed. “That’ll happen, right after they let Biters play in the World Series.” She popped open her container of pork, leaned back in her seat, and dug in. “You know, my car’s parked right around the bend. It’s got heated seats.”

“I like the truck.”

“Right.”

We both ate some more pork. “I want you to know,” my mother said, “I’m proud of you. Doing this—working for the DUA—you’ve really stepped up.”

I didn’t laugh out loud, but it was a close thing. “I didn’t exactly volunteer.”

“You didn’t turn them down either. I’ve seen how hard you’re working.” Her head tilted to the side slightly and she smiled. “I’m proud. Your father would have been proud.”

Just what I needed: a heart to heart with my mother. No thanks.

I glanced around, hoping to see some kind of invading force. No such luck. The island was completely quiet except for the woman in the seat next to me.

“Seriously,” she said. “Your father always believed  Biters should have the same rights as everybody else. We both voted for the DUA—back when it was on the ballot.”

“He cared about Biters so much, he just didn’t want to be one.”

Instead, he’d died in a hospital bed gasping for air.

“He saw what happened to Donny. He did what he could—we all did what we could—but Donny lost something and he might never get it back. Your father didn’t want to lose that. He didn’t want to lose you.”

There was a certain logic to what she was saying, not that I cared. My father died slowly, wasting away. Becoming a Biter might not have been a good choice, but it had been the only choice available.

I sat quietly, eating my food and staring out at the dark river. The barbecue was the best in town, but it tasted like sawdust in my mouth. I ate it quickly, concentrating on my need for calories more than anything else.

When my mother finished her food, she tucked the empty containers back into the paper bag. She leaned back in the passenger seat, staring out at the water. “I wonder what Conroy’s lost.”

A wife… a son… and so many fellow soldiers on the way. Once upon a time, D.S. had been a man. What if I’d met him then? Would I have felt the same kind of connection? Like a zap of electricity every time, he looked at me? Or, would I have passed him by on the street without a second look?

What would he have thought about me?

I shrugged. “D.S. isn’t so bad.”

“He’s not human.”

“You think that matters?”

“You’re saying it doesn’t?” My mother shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He’s our employer.”

“The federal government’s our employer. D.S. is just a middleman.”

“The federal government would have hired Anderson Executive Death Projects. They’re listed first in the phone book, and Megan Anderson is dating a DUA agent from Toledo.” There was a slight pause. “Conroy hired us. Why?”

A stun gun to the ass.

I shrugged. “Maybe he knows we’re the best.”

There was a long pause. “We’re sitting in a truck that’s twenty years old and probably won’t make it through the winter.” My mother’s voice cracked, “We ate take out for dinner—we eat take out for dinner most nights—and I’m still trying to figure out how to pay down your father’s debts. We’re pretty damn good, but we’re not great.”

I blinked in surprise. This was the first I’d heard about debts. I wanted to ask more, but I didn’t have the nerve. “I didn’t know things were so bad.”

“They’re not.”

This was the first I’d heard about debt. I wanted to ask her some more questions, but I didn’t want to intrude. Instead, I sat there in silence for a long moment. “I don’t know why Conroy hired us. Right time, right place?” A stun gun to the ass and a too-short t-shirt, I swallowed hard. We’d been lucky, really lucky. “I guess I made an impression.”

“Right.”

The lights were flickering across the way, bright and shiny. I shrugged. “I like him—.”

“I know.” There was a slight pause. “I want you to be careful, Gemma. He’s not bad—for a Biter—but he’s not like us.”

A light flickered across the way. Once. Twice. Three times. Was it an accident? Or, was it a pattern?

“Do you see it?” I asked.

My mom’s head snapped around. Her gaze narrowed. I could hear her sucking in a breath. “Yeah,” she said. “I see it. You think that’s our zombie smuggler?”

“Maybe he’s smuggling candy canes.”

There was a short pause. “Probably not.”

I rummaged through my pockets until I found my cell phone. I hit speed dial and put the phone to my head. “We’ve got something.”

“Yeah?” D.S. said. “Are you sure?”

The light was getting closer now. “Definitely.”

“Alright,” he said. “I will be there in a couple of minutes.” There was a slight pause. “This guy could be dangerous, Gemma. You should take your mother and get out of there.”

Zombie hunting isn’t exactly for the faint of heart. If I let myself get scared off by danger, I wouldn’t be able to do my job. I considered D.S.’s suggestion for half a second.

“I can’t hear you,” I lied. “We’re going in.”

He was shouting his objections as I hung up the phone and reached for my stun gun. “Let’s get this guy.”

21.

Sneaking around an island park with my mother isn’t exactly my idea of a good time. I’m usually a solo practitioner of the great art of zombie hunting. When I work a job, I like to break down walls, bust a few heads, and turn the remains over to the cops.

Of course, under normal circumstances I’m only facing a bunch of bloated corpses, not a criminal mastermind who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.

I palmed my stun gun and crept across the riverfront. My boots scuffed loudly against the rocks. Breaking down walls isn’t usually a stealth maneuver. Slow and sneaky isn’t my style. I glanced back at my mom. Her bandana was pulled low over her head, black tennis shoes padded noiselessly in the dark. She might look like a middle-aged ninja, but at least she was quiet.

“You need my knife?” I asked.

“Don’t worry, I’m armed.”

There was a flash of metal in the darkness. My double entry loving, A-line skirt wearing, mother was toting a gun.

Bad ass.

I kept my head down—sneaking further along the coast—it was still summer in Detroit and the humidity rolled off the river like a wild animal sneaking through the city streets. It brushed against my legs and rubbed against my body. I just wanted to get this over with and go home, back to the cool security of the morgue or the fake Tudor in Palmer Park where I’d grown up.

The lights were flickering from across the river, growing bigger by the minute. I scrambled across the sand, choosing my position quickly. A bramble on the shoreline provided all the cover I needed. My mother picked another place further down the coast, crouching down at the corner of one of the abandoned warming stations. I could see her gun flickering in the distance.

Oh, shit. What the hell were we doing? I should have listened to D.S. I should have waited. We were just two women. Mom’s not exactly large, and I got her bone structure. Between the two of us, she was the only one who was armed with a long distance weapon. If the bad guy had backup—if any Biters showed up—then we were going to be in big trouble.

Nothing happened.

For one long moment the entire beach held still, and then the bad guys finally drifted in. Two men got off the boat; humans with caps pulled down low on their heads. They had to be human.

Biters had better fashion sense.

They wouldn’t be caught dead wearing khaki shorts and orange safety vests. 

The forward human checked some kind of fancy phone then glanced up the beach. “This is the last time,” his words echoed easily off the water, loud enough that it sounded like he was sitting right next to me. “I swear. The big man can suck hind tit if he thinks I’m going to do this again.”

“The big man says jump, we ask ‘how high?’” The other human shrugged, he was shorter than his buddy with a day-glow safety rope hanging off his waist. These guys were very safety conscience. So, why were they dealing in zombies? “That’s the way it works.”

“He’s an asshole.”

“Sure, but the pay’s good.” There was a slight pause. “You’ve got kids, man. Think about your kids.”

“I am thinking about my kids,” He groused. “How are they going to feel if I get eaten in the middle of the river?” 

“Come on, Arlo. How old are they? Two and six? They probably won’t even remember. Besides, if the things attack then we just throw ‘em in the drink. No muss, no fuss.” The short man shrugged. “The delivery here yet?”

The forward man checked his phone a second time. “They just crossed the bridge. Any minute now.”

Hell. If I were sensible, I’d grab my phone and run. Of course, if I were sensible then I wouldn’t have gotten into this situation in the first place. I glanced down the beach, searching for any kind of signal from my mother.

She was looking at me. She wanted to see what I was going to do next.

There was a rumble on the road behind us. A big box truck pulled down the Belle Isle drive and stopped less than a quarter of a mile down the way. I held my breath, hoping that the driver wouldn’t notice us.