Ilona Andrews - Wildfire

“No.” He wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.

“Bug said there were survivors. Do you want us to chase them down?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

The four remaining ex-military badasses looked almost desperate.

“The Major was very specific.” Rivera’s face had the expression of a man walking across hot coals. “We’re supposed to render assistance and keep you safe. We weren’t here.”

Now it made sense. Rogan told them to guard me and they let me get attacked and got here after the fight was over. That’s why they were sweating bullets.

“When the Major returns, you can tell him that you did your job. There was an altercation, it’s over now, and I’m safe. If he asks about details, tell him to ask me.”

Rivera didn’t look convinced.

I sighed. “Would you like to render some assistance?”

“Yes.”

“What exactly did Rogan say you could help me with?”

“Anything you need.”

“Please gather the dead people and identify as many of them as possible. Someone teleported Frank in front of me, and it would be good to ID the teleporter mage. Please follow whatever protocol Rogan uses and notify the authorities that a violent confrontation took place between House Madero and Baylor family. If we could get Rogan’s legal department involved, it would be great, because I need to be home in the evening, and I can’t spend the rest of the day in the police station being interrogated. I also need phone numbers for the Madero family and Victoria Tremaine. I’d like new tires for the Vault. It’s worth two hundred and fifty grand and we’re going to take it home to my grandma. And once everything has been taken care of and the authorities release us, I would appreciate an escort home. That should keep the Major happy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

In less than a minute Bug texted the two phone numbers, one for House Madero, ruled by Peter Madero, and the other for Victoria Tremaine’s rented penthouse office suites at Landry Tower. I sat on the curb next to Leon and watched Rogan’s people move the corpses.

Madero or Tremaine first? Tackling Madero would be simpler. I’d looked them up after Dave’s attack. House Madero consisted of Peter Madero, the patriarch, who was in his seventies; his daughter-in-law Linda; and her sons David, Frank, Roger, and fourteen-year-old twins, Ethan and Evan. Roger was married and his wife was pregnant.

Judging by Dave and Frank, their grandpa Peter would be nasty and tough as nails. First, he sent his grandson after me and Rogan, then after Rogan made an origami crane out of Dave, he sent his other grandson. Peter didn’t give up easily, but he didn’t survive this long without some wisdom.

I dialed the number and put the call on speaker.

“House Madero,” a woman chirped into the phone.

“This is Nevada Baylor. Let me speak with the Head of the House.”

“And who the hell are you?”

“I’m the person who just put Frank into the ER. Put the call through.”

There was a pause, then a gruff male voice came on the line. “So you’re the bitch Tremaine wants.”

Aha. I’ve got your number. “Charming. Your family is short on brains, so I’ll say this slowly. Frank is in the Houston Memorial ER. I put him there. If he makes it, he’ll tell you that he brought twelve people with him against me and my sixteen-year-old cousin. Eight of your people are dead. Four ran off. I’m taking your fun wagon as spoils of war.”

“You fucking whore.”

“That will be Prime whore to you.”

Peter Madero choked on his own spit.

Rivera and Leon stared at me.

“I don’t know if Tremaine promised you money and you’re just greedy and stupid, or if she has something on you and you’re scared, but I’m her granddaughter. Flesh and blood. Think about it.”

“I ain’t scared of you or your memaw.”

“So far one of your grandsons has both arms in casts, and the other might be dying. I need to know if you’re going to drop the contract or try again. Because if you’re trying again, I’m going to let Mad Rogan’s people take custody of Frank.”

“I’ll tear your throat out and shit down your neck.”

“You didn’t survive to your seventies because you made bad business decisions. You send Roger after me, his baby will grow up without a father. You know it, and I know it. Who’s left? The twins?”

“I’ll do it myself.”

“No, you won’t. You had a triple bypass three months ago. Frank and Dave both could barely breathe three minutes into the fight. I won’t have to fight you, I’ll just run circles around you until your body gives out. And then where would the family be?”

“You stay out of my business!”

“I need a decision about Frank. I can’t sit here all day. Also, what do you want to do about your dead people?”

“You give me my bus back, and I’ll think about dropping the contract.”

“No, that’s my bus. I earned it fair and square.”

He swore.

“Just admit you’re beat, you cantankerous old bastard.”

“Fine. Leave our dead at the hospital; we’ll pick ’em up. And don’t let me find you there, or I’ll wring your scrawny neck.”

I hung up. Rivera was looking at me like he’d never seen me before.

“I had a client like that once,” I told him. “The only way to win his respect was to meet him on his playing field and give as good as you got.”

I stared at my grandmother’s number. Some sort of response had to be made. She attacked us for the second time. Do I call and issue an ultimatum? Do I call the Office of Records and complain? Would this make us look weak or would we look weaker by not complaining and just letting her continue to terrorize us?

Leon huddled next to me. Rivera studied him for a moment and spoke into his headset. “Kurt? Find me.”

A moment later a gruff-looking man walked up to us. He had a dense red beard and shoulders that wouldn’t fit through the door. He glanced at Leon and nodded. “Come with me.”

Leon got up and followed him.

“What’s going on?”

“Kurt is our PTSD specialist,” Rivera said. “He’s an ex–Navy SEAL, highly decorated.”

“And with a high kill count?” I guessed.

Rivera nodded. “Leon needs help, and Kurt will be able to help him. He knows the right things to say.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“He’s a talented kid,” Rivera said, and walked away.

I looked at my phone. I needed some advice. If Rogan was here, I might have gone to him, but even if I did, he could decide to go and have a personal chat with Victoria Tremaine. So far he had been almost painfully careful about not stepping on my toes, but he nearly lost it when I came to him to ask about how to handle Augustine. He came close to killing his friend—probably his only friend—for my sake.

No, I needed a neutral third party. Someone who had no trouble navigating House waters, but had no personal stake in the matter. I scrolled through my contacts. There it was, Linus Duncan. Once the most powerful man in Texas. He said to call if I needed any advice. Cornelius thought the world of him, and Rogan respected him.

I dialed the number.

“Hello, Ms. Baylor,” Linus Duncan said into the phone in his rich, slightly amused baritone. “How may I help?”

“I need some advice.”

“Is the matter urgent?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at Houston Memorial.”

“Are you injured?”

“No. But I just survived a second attack by Victoria Tremaine.”

There was a small pause.

“You’re right,” Linus said, a note of concern slipping into his voice. “The matter is urgent. As I recall, Houston Memorial has a quiet coffee shop. I will be there in forty minutes.”