In the Werewolf's Den (24 page)

Further out, lining the walls, single men lounged hungrily, occasionally making their moves when one of the women became separated from her group.

Danielle became one of those few separated women as she made her way to one of the many bars scattered around the club.

Unlike women, who thrived in packs, the men were solitary hunters. The women chatted continually, while men made occasional grunts as they jockeyed for position, squeezing back the less male, the less formidable, the unsuccessful. Losers retreated into womanless side rooms where the unfortunate and unhappy belted down drinks in an effort to regain their confidence before heading back to the battle.

Occasionally a desperate or criminally ignorant male made a rush at one of the tables, grabbing an empty chair if there was one, or simply crouching down near the women.

Anyone could see that this ploy would be unsuccessful, and it always was. The women would have to see their co-workers the next day. Anyone who let herself be picked up too quickly, without too much alcohol in her system, would be marked as easy, a failure.

Still, the men lined up—and were shot down.

Danielle caught the bartender's attention and ordered a tequila sunrise.

It wasn't her favorite drink. In fact, alcohol was low on Danielle's list of vices. The late-night raids at the Warder Academy weeded out those who enjoyed alcohol too much. But her purposes weren't to get drunk. She was intent on finding a lair—someplace she could escape the hunt she knew would be launched after her. The drink was protective coloration.

The bartender brought her drink, and moments later, another.

"I didn't order that."

"Gentleman sent it to you.” The bartender hitched a shoulder in the direction of a blond male who looked like he might have been captain of the SMU crew team a few years earlier but who was gradually letting his physique deteriorate.

He was probably younger than Carl, Danielle realized. But he lacked the male presence that made Carl stand out in a crowd.

She gave her SMU jock a smile.

He gave a hard elbow nudge to the man standing next to him and strutted over to Danielle.

"Haven't seen you here before,” he remarked. That remark had to be the soul of originality.

"My girlfriends will be getting here later."

"But why wait to party?"

She could have given him any number of reasons, starting with the fact that he wouldn't be on the top half of her party list. Instead, she nodded. “I guess."

"You from around here?"

"Los Angeles,” she told him, mostly truthfully.

His eyes lit up. “From out of town, are you? Well, us Texas men have an obligation to take care of beautiful women from out of state. Make sure they have a good time."

He was after a good time all right, but Danielle didn't think he would care much whether she had one.

"That's awful generous of you."

"Any red-blooded Texas male would do the same. Uh, how about another drink?"

He leaned forward, brushing his hand across the top of her glass as if gesturing at it. He was smooth. In the dusky light of the club, the trace of powder remaining at the top of the cocktail would have been invisible to someone not expecting it, not looking for it.

"I'm all right,” she told him. “Two drinks and I'll be flying high."

"No problem. Unlimited ceiling here."

She gave him points for that one—it was at least a little clever.

"Well, drink up.” He took a swig at his beer.

Danielle raised the doctored drink to her lips, pretended to swallow, then put it down.

"Was that your friend over there?"

"Where?"

She gestured and, when he looked away for a moment, switched to the undoctored drink.

"He's just a guy I met,” the blond told her.

Danielle didn't think so. Guys who were looking for a clean pickup didn't make buddies at the bar. These two were fishing together and she was their catch.

"I'm, uh, Leslie.

"Jeff,” the blond replied.

Danielle took a deep swallow. “So, you want to dance?"

"Sure. Better drink up first, though. That bartender will probably scoop up your glass when you step away."

She took a swallow, then wobbled to her feet.

"I feel a little funny. Maybe we could just—"

"It's okay, honey. I'll take good care of you."

The man Jeff had dismissed as just a guy appeared and the two men draped Danielle's arms around their necks and headed for the exit. Exactly as if she was a friend who'd drunk too much.

"You were right, that was easy,” the second man said.

"We're not home yet,” Jeff murmured.

They headed for a fire door, avoiding the bouncers lined up outside the front.

A sign indicated that an alarm would sound if the door was opened. The sign lied.

The two men had an unmarked white van parked just outside the club in an alley. They bundled Danielle in, letting her collapse onto the carpeted back. So far so good. Now get a move on, she mentally commanded. She hoped that their base was far from downtown.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?” the second man asked, the truck's cargo door still open in his hand. “We never had to drug one before."

"Are you kidding, Fred? Check her out. None of the chicks we picked up had half the looks of this one. You see her chest? Those have to be D cups. With her in the video, we'll make a fortune."

"Well, I guess."

The two men climbed into the cab leaving Danielle sprawled across the back.

She faked unconsciousness as the two men drove her away from danger. She might be heading into more danger, of course. They'd spoken of a video. Which could mean more men. Possibly men with weapons. Still, what choice did she have? Staying with these men was a risk. Waiting around for the Warders to catch up to her was no risk at all—it was guaranteed disaster.

The men drove north, away from the dubious safety of the zone and toward the Dallas suburbs that had been showcases of wealth at the turn of the twenty-first century when telecom had been the future and Dallas had been the Telecom Corridor. Despite the economic depression that the return of magic had created, the north still held traces of the glamour of that lost era.

The men turned their radio to a call-in show that seemed targeted directly at them. The D.J. laughed uproariously at his own jokes, which lampooned stupid magics and slutty women.

A few minutes into the show, a public service announcement described Danielle as wanted for impersonating a Warder. The description was accurate, but it didn't match her current appearance. Oddly, she felt safer being taken to an unknown destination. If it was unknown to her, it would be unknown to the Warders as well. All of their profiling technology would be worthless.

The van shifted off the freeway onto a side street.

Once, the City of Plano had been home to broad boulevards, endless green lawns, shopping malls, and miles of luxury SUVs. Now, the kidnappers’ van lurched over swelling potholes and veered around vehicles that had been abandoned in the road and were too much trouble for the city to tow away.

Until she'd met Carl, Danielle had believed that the economic depression of the past decade was a side effect of the huge costs imposed on normal society by the maintenance of the zones and protection of the normals.

Her experience with Carl, first watching him transform the zone, and then watching the riots, had eliminated her certainty. Was the myth of magical responsibility for bad economic times just another of the lies that perpetuated the Warder system?

"Cuff her and carry her,” Jeff commanded.

Fred jingled an old-fashioned pair of handcuffs and opened the back door to the van. They'd parked in a garage and quickly lowered the automatic garage door.

Danielle considered letting Fred cuff her so that she could enter the building without suspicion but decided against it. Regardless of how flimsy the handcuffs might be, they would slow her down, especially if he was smart enough to cuff her hands behind her back. The delay wasn't worth the risk.

As Fred opened the door, she reached for his groin. Reached, grabbed, and pulled.

Fred's high-pitched screech cut off abruptly when she brought her free hand up and put a finger to her lips. “Quiet."

"What—"

"I say, you do. Understand?” She gave Fred a bonus squeeze to make sure he was paying attention.

He nodded abruptly.

"How many men in the house?” Squeeze.

"Two more.” He looked pained enough to be telling the truth.

"Fred. What's the holdup? Come on, we've got a movie to film. I'm hot to get started if you know what I mean."

"Tell him you're coming."

"Coming, Jeff,” Fred parroted.

"Hey, what's going on back there?"

Danielle didn't know whether Fred had signaled or Jeff just got suspicious, and she didn't wait around to figure it out. She yanked hard on Fred's scrotum and slammed a ridge-hand into his temple. He folded, giving her the opportunity to seize the handcuffs and cuff his hands. He had the keys somewhere—she wasn't about to search his pockets for them—but she didn't think he would be able to get free in time to be much help.

She'd just finished with Fred when Jeff rounded the van. He carried a police-style truncheon and, when he saw her rising from the semi-conscious Fred, he swung it at her awkwardly, like a baseball batter.

If he'd turned and run, Jeff might have been able to warn the others. Well, Danielle hadn't picked him for intelligence.

She stepped outside his reach and gave his arm just a little extra momentum and a slight angle change—driving the club directly into his kneecap.

Jeff joined Fred on the floor. Danielle picked up the short club, judged its balance, and applied it to the back of his head. Good stick. She'd keep it.

The entire operation had barely taken fifty seconds. Just enough time for the men inside to start to worry why Fred and Jeff hadn't appeared.

Danielle tested the connecting door between the garage and the main portion of the building. Locked.

She launched a turning back kick into the door directly to the left of the latch.

The builders had obviously counted on the heavy garage door for security because they'd used a cheap hollow interior door here. The flimsy wood shattered under Danielle's kick.

She let her body spin through the kick and charged through the disintegrating portal.

The building was a three-story colonial-style brick monstrosity. It had probably been built as a Mc-mansion for one of the Dot-Com executives of turn-of-the-century Dallas. Repossessed by a bank and left empty, it had now been converted into a crude video studio.

She found the two men Fred had told her about sitting in a maze of computers, flat screen video monitors lining the walls. Images of naked and bound women writhed all too convincingly on several of the screens.

One of the men reached for a gun when she stepped into the video room.

He moved so slowly, she didn't even have to use the blur as she brushed Jeff's club against his hand and the gun, then caught the automatic pistol as it flew from his forcibly relaxed grip.

"Freeze, assholes,” she ordered.

"Jeez. What the heck did those losers bring home this time? Wonder Woman?” the second man, the one with his hands high in the air, demanded.

"Warder Agent Goodman. You're under arrest,” she stated. She flashed her I.D. card in their direction, then returned it to her pocket before they could get a good look.

"Hey, we heard about you on the web. You're wanted for impersonating an officer. Terrible description, though. They didn't say anything about purple hair. Or those big breasts. Gotta give Jeff credit for spotting those honkers."

It was unfortunate that they recognized her, but there wasn't anything she could do about that. She'd just improvise.

"All right, you two. Lead the way out to the garage. You're going to carry in Fred and Jeff. Then we're all going to sit down and talk about what happens next."

"Just forget about ever seeing us and we'll make it worth your while,” the man who'd gone for his gun offered.

"Shut up, Harry,” the other man ordered. “She may be a warder, but she's on the run. She isn't going to turn us in."

"Hey, great,” Harry started. “Why don't we—"

"She might kill us, though."

"Oh.” Harry thought about that. “Not so great."

The other man shook his head then turned his attention back to Danielle. “I'm guessing you're looking for a safe house, right? Someplace to lay low until the heat lets up."

Danielle glared at him. “I'd worry more about yourself than about me."

"I'm worried, all right. Because I figure the only thing keeping us alive right now is that you'd rather avoid the stink of four rotting bodies."

Harry started to laugh, took a good look at Danielle's face. He froze. “You serious?"

"Would you want the four of us hanging around with you if you were trying to hide?"

Sweat beaded on Harry's face. He turned a pale shade of green, turned, and quietly vomited in the corner.

"Don't mess on the equipment,” the second man ordered.

"Shit, Simon. We're going to die and you're worried about a lousy camera."

"Everybody's going to die someday. We just need to find a way to convince the warder that she'd be better off letting us live for a while, and then convincing her to keep letting us live once she leaves."

"And you can start by doing what I tell you,” Danielle ordered. “Now get out to the garage and carry in Fred and Jeff before they wake up. Because any trouble they cause is going to be big trouble for you two."

"Right, boss,” Simon said.

Fred was struggling a little when they made it out to the garage but he hadn't dislodged Jeff's unconscious form.

"Simon, you carry Jeff. Harry, get Fred."

Harry whined something about his sore arm but stopped complaining when Danielle chambered a bullet in the gun she'd taken from him. Danielle didn't especially want to kill these men. On the other hand, she wouldn't feel any terrible guilt about it if they pushed too hard. Even if she was the first woman they'd actually tried to drug, they'd been ready to drug, rape, and film their disgusting activities. Their business sickened her.