Kim Harrison - Hotter Than Hell

Vincent let out an agitated breath. He’d been undercover in Miami, not under a rock. Who hadn’t heard about the kooks who were abducting CEOs of major mining and lumber firms without a trace and simply leaving dead stags shot up with bronze arrows? From Wall Street to the Amazon, work sites had been disrupted and dead stags had been left everywhere.

It was a seriously vexing puzzle—who could get a twelve-point stag into Wall Street office buildings, past security cameras, without a trace, and then butcher it? To his way of thinking, that ruled out environmentalists. They wouldn’t sacrifice the animal. Had to be terrorists trying to leave some coded message.

But he took grave offense at the assumption that, because the perpetrators worked with arrows as their calling card, he should have some insider knowledge. Vincent stared at the unfamiliar shape that was a three-dimensional cone that was designed to leave a gaping hole in the victim, as well as briefly studied the strange etchings on the sides, then took a slow sip of his bourbon, considering how he would answer.

“You run the markings by the foreign languages boys?” he asked, looking at the arrowhead again but not touching it. Vincent glanced up into his CO’s impassive blue eyes. “Or the guys that specialize in antiquities—or did you think the Owiqwidicciat would have some special Native American insight through his maternal DNA about freakin’ arrows?” He narrowed his glare on the major, becoming more pissed off as he thought about it. “Or, maybe, it would be because my father was French Haitian…perhaps I could check with a voodoo priest and get back to you?”

Major Harcourt sighed and took a swig of beer to wet his dry throat. “Gimme a break, D’Jardin, and drop the chip on your shoulder while you’re at it. I know you’re pissed off about us recalling you so soon for another job, but it doesn’t have anything to do with heritage. You’re the best man for the situation, given where these Artemis bastards are tracking.” He leaned in closer. “Yeah, we decoded it off the arrowheads, and it’s ancient Greek—so we’ve got some Mediterranean assassins, go figure.”

“I’d rather not,” Vincent said, coolly assessing his CO. “I’m on leave, remember? You promised me a month.”

Dismissing the comment, Harcourt pressed on. “You ever heard of this terrorist group, D’Jardin? We can’t figure out if they’re a splinter cell, an individual cell, a gang, bandits just out for financial gain by kidnapping the wealthy, or what. But they’re cutting a swath through Yukon country, crossing international boundaries from the U.S. to Canada and back again using the wilderness as camouflage, and headed—we think—toward pipeline outposts up in Alaska. It hasn’t been publicized yet for obvious reasons, and we were able to cite the Wall Street incident as an isolated, possibly organized-crime-related event…just like we could clean up the other situations that happened on foreign soil, keeping certain details out of the media and on a need-to-know basis. However, they’ve abducted an oil baron…that got presidential attention. Now the powers that be, who are much higher than you or I, want this problem to go away very quickly and very quietly, with a good group to pin it on. No matter what, terrorists did it. That’s the only reason I came to you. We clear?”

Vincent looked at the major and clenched his jaw with a nod. “Clear. Just as long as I don’t have to cut my hair.”

The major smiled and accepted Vincent’s surly peace offering in good humor. “No, you can leave the mane—will probably help you blend in on the job up there, anyway.” He took another swig of his beer and stared at the French barmaids with appreciation. “I’d be mad at me, too, you ornery SOB. But duty calls.”

“It’s not a mane, they’re dreadlocks,” Vincent corrected with a mutter, but the major’s attention was slow to return.

What else was there to say? The man had always been fair and wasn’t a bigot he’d give him that. But after living underground, hustling through the damned Everglades after drug dealers, the last thing he felt like was a wilderness job. His nerves were raw and the accusation leapt from disappointment. Not to mention, oil fat cats, mining and logging robber barons were the antithesis of victims to his mind’s eye. They had been the enemy as far as he was concerned. The things they did to the environment, and their ever-present threat to it, made him sick to his stomach. As it was, he’d come home to help vote on the proposed water quality standards for Neah Bay for submission to the Environmental Protection Agency. But now he couldn’t even do that and he’d have to chuck his personal philosophies to get the job done.

“What do you need in terms of resources, Vince?” The major finally looked at him, the tension relaxing from his weathered, bronze face as he put the arrow tip back in his pants pocket.

“Top squad, Bravo commandos,” Vincent grumbled, his gaze on his drink. “Five men.”

All his dreams of going back home to the Makah Nation where he grew up were evaporating as he sat, his mood darkening by the second. All he wanted was a few weeks to return to the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State…the small town of Neah Bay was calling his name…so was home cooking, and the beaches flanked with red cedar and pristine wildlife. He wanted to find a place of solitude that the people who lived by the rocks and sea gulls had known for thousands of years before invasion…to sit in the wilderness to stare across the Straight of Juan de Fuca to Vancouver Island. All he’d wanted to do when he walked in this bar was to relax, finally tie one on, and get laid—now this. “And a brunette.”

The major gave a start and then caught the joke and laughed. He downed his beer and slapped Vincent on the back. “You always get me, D’Jardin. I can never tell when your surly ass is serious or not. I’ll see you at o-eight-hundred in Anchorage. There’s a Black Hawk waiting for you at the military hangars here.” He shook his head and ran his fingers through his close cut hair as he slapped down a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and stood to leave. “You kill me, D’Jardin—I swear.”

Vincent watched his CO thread his way through the bar toward the exit. “Who was joking?” he said, polishing off his drink as he stood.

At least he didn’t have to go through a bunch of crap with rookies. The squad that assembled were familiar faces, and slow smiles crept across each one as recognition was made.

Lou, short for Lu Chen, everybody respected as a fighting machine despite his wiry, compact size. It was good to have him on the team, and his explosives expertise was undeniable. He offered Vince a slow, confident nod and Vince nodded back, feeling much improved as he quickly assessed the group. Dutch, the crazy Swede, was six feet, six inches, of blond destroyer. Having a solid artillery man was a must. Good. Jermaine, an insane brother from Brooklyn who was an unparalleled communications whiz, stood with sinew-cut arms folded over his cinder-block chest, attitude raw, and cornrows glistening. Cool.

Vincent laughed to himself as Donovan walked up and gave him a Cuban brotherhood embrace. Like him, Rodriguez could track anybody and find the wings of a fly in the middle of a hurricane, if he had to. They’d both survived Miami.

Jesse, one of the best snipers in the unit, stood back, chewing on a toothpick, his shock of red hair blowing from the force of the chopper blades as he pushed his lanky frame off the side of the craft. “Howdy, all,” he said with a wide grin and a distinctive Midwest drawl. “Good day for huntin’, ain’t it?”

Indeed it was.

SHE SPIED THEM FROM THE TOWERING TREE TOPS, she and her nymphs blending into the thick canopy watching, their eyes keened like hawks to each male form that walked through the wilderness. These hunters carried weapons that no animal would stand a chance of survival against. Even their method of hunting was unbalanced, unfair. They made war against the innocent—her forests.