Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(40)

“Well, Reginald?” King’s soothing baritone, sparkling with velvety harmonics, stroked Reggie’s nerve endings like silk. Reggie shuddered as emotions ripped through him. He steeled himself to be strong, to face the end with dignity. It was all that he could offer King now.

Even in failure and despair, one had to hold oneself to standards.

Reggie opened his dry mouth. “Ranieri and Parr fought off the team I sent to subdue them,” he said. “They’ve escaped.”

King’s eyes widened. His silence filled Reggie’s mind, widening, spreading with each second, like a pool of blood from an opened artery.

“And the team?” The sharp tone in King’s voice made Reggie jerk as if he’d been slapped. “Their status?”

“Martin, Cal, and Tom are dead,” Reggie said. “Nadia is still alive.” There was hardly any point in drawing in more oxygen, but his lungs did it anyway. His body was a dumb machine, grinding stupidly on.

“The bodies? You recovered them?” King’s eyes glittered.

Tears ran down Reggie’s face, but his programming did not allow him to blink in King’s presence. His pupils dilated automatically at the sight of his maker. “No,” he began. “There were eight witnesses. Police were arriving momentarily. I heard the sirens. I would have had to—”

“Do not presume to explain yourself to me.”

Reggie flinched as if stung by a flail.

“You know what happens now, Reggie?” King said. “Your poor decision making has lost us three operatives. Four, including yourself. It has exposed me. This is unacceptable. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Reggie’s voice cracked. “I understand.” Tears blinded his eyes. He dashed them away so that he could see that beloved face for the last few moments allowed to him. Even when King’s eyes blazed with disapproval, he could not look away. The cramps were so intense, they were tearing his muscles loose. Crushing his organs.

“Prepare yourself.” King’s stern voice was unrelenting. “Hold the phone up, so I can see you.”

Reggie did so. King began to recite. The text was in ancient Greek, a passage from the Iliad. Reggie’s body shook. Tension built with each phrase. The culminating line made something give way inside him.

He relaxed, thinking of nothing. A blank slate, awaiting orders.

“Pick up the gun, Reginald. Put it in your mouth.”

He did so without hesitation.

“Fire,” King said.

Reggie kept his eyes fixed on the beloved face as he pulled the trigg—





Detective Sam Petrie stared at the last of the bodies as the transport company guys hoisted it onto the gurney for its final journey to the medical examiner, and tried not to breathe. The combined effluvia of fermenting garbage and recent death was potent.

The criminalists were still busy collecting and logging evidence. His friend Trish was one of them. She was organizing for the blood-smeared batons to be taken to a drying locker, and filling out all the form 49’s to get the blood samples analyzed for DNA.

This was a weird one. Three big guys armed with knives and guns had inexplicably opted to use batons to defend themselves while an unknown assailant or assailants had beaten them to death, apparently using only bare hands. This pending forensic analysis, but Petrie had a feel for it. He was sure.

Two batons were bloodied. Blood was splattered over the asphalt. One man’s neck was snapped, one’s larynx was crushed and collapsed, and the third’s skull had been bashed in. No witnesses.

Whoever did it had to have been immensely strong, huge, and/or hopped up on a performance-enhancing drug. A drug deal gone bad?

One thing it probably wasn’t was a hardened professional. Not with vomit spattered everywhere. Vomit said raw beginner. But what raw beginner killed three big guys with his bare hands? Why hadn’t the three big guys defended themselves with the guns, or knives? Very X-Files. A pack of aliens? A suckermouthed sewer monster? Yeah. Right.

The team of criminalists were wrapping it up. Trish, a petite blonde with a thick tawny braid hanging down over her police jacket, ducked beneath the yellow tape and jerked her chin in the direction of the diner. “Coffee?” she asked. “Got called too early to get my caffeine fix.”

“Don’t you have to go back to the crime lab?” he asked.

“Nah, I’m not on the primary team today,” she replied. “They just needed some extra bodies.” Her eyes flicked to the gurney being rolled up into the transport company vehicle. “Warm bodies, that is to say. So? Coffee?”

“Yeah, sure.” He could use some coffee. He followed her around the corner and back into the diner, which was a mishmash of bright chrome, pink plastic, and weird art. Garish landscapes, strangely interspersed with austere, Japanesy pen-and-ink nature drawings.

Petrie had left his partner, J. D., to interview the employees of the diner, all of whom looked shaken. The cook, Julio, a grizzled Hispanic guy, was behind the counter, propped on his elbows. The waiters sat on counter stools; a big, balding blond guy hunched over his coffee and a thirtysomething redhead with Pocahontas braids, crying noisily while instinctively propping up her bulbous cleavage with her elbows.

Julio poured them coffee without being asked as they approached the counter, and shoved a plate of pastries their way with ill grace. Trish took a cruller and bit in, sighing with delight.