Robin Bielman: Veiled Target

As her body hit the air, she whooped, releasing the uneasiness shredding her insides. The black sky swallowed her. Her shadow, cast by a full moon, kept her company and brought a smile to her face. The freefall rush lasted until the lights of civilization came into closer view, and she tugged on the chute.

She set foot back in the City of Angels—at least she thought it was somewhere in the city, her lucky ass having landed in a deserted industrial area surrounded by chain link fence—and winced. The reality of another botched job hit her with unwelcome force. Would Christian let her off as easy as he had the last time?

Gathering the parachute, she surveyed the abandoned area. She rid her body of the harness and goggles and threw the equipment into a nearby dumpster. The pebbled ground kicked up dust, and the stench of rotten eggs, combined with something fishy, invaded her nostrils as she headed toward the fence. Picking up her pace, she jumped over the barrier and took the deserted sidewalk in the direction of traffic noise and city lights.

Up ahead, cars whisked by. In this area of Los Angeles, she didn’t know the likelihood of finding a taxi, but she could always use her cell phone to call for pickup. Or walk.

And keep walking.

That way she wouldn’t have to deal with her boss.

Her decision was made for her when she rounded a street corner and found a long, white stretch limousine sitting curbside. She recognized the license plate, gulped and forced her shoulders back. How the hell? As much as she wanted to run in the opposite direction, she couldn’t. She reached the front end of the luxury vehicle as the back door opened.

She clutched her bag against her chest as if it were a shield, and ducked into the limousine. She took the seat for a backwards ride, gathered every ounce of her practiced charm and plastered a fake smile across her face. “Hey, boss. What brings you here?”

“You, unfortunately.” Christian brought a glass filled with gold liquid to his mouth and took a slow sip, all the while keeping his eyes trained on her. The movement of the limo did nothing to interrupt his smooth swallow.

“Me? You know I would have been in to see you first thing in the morning.” Maybe. Probably.

“Really? Considering your failure this evening, I’m not so sure.” The ice clinked in his glass as he lowered the tumbler to his lap.

The man never blinked. He just stared—winning the contest every time. Tess looked away. “How’d you find me?” And I didn’t fail entirely.

“I’ve been tracking you.”

“You’ve got me bugged?” Crap. What else did he know that she thought she’d kept hidden?

“After the fiasco last month, I thought you might need some backup.” His words stung. Deep. She did not need backup. Not now. Not ever.

As an eliminator for Private Investigations and Elimination, or P.I.E.—the clandestine government-sanctioned organization that investigated and removed dangerous non-humans, or Veilers—Tess always worked alone.

“I don’t need backup. The thing last month was a fluke. I’m the best eliminator you’ve got and you bug me?” She’d discover where the hell he’d placed it before night’s end.

With a blank expression, he raised his hand to silence her. “I will not have your failures ruin the impeccable reputation of P.I.E.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’ve got one last chance. One. Last. Chance. If you are unsuccessful, your services will no longer be required.”

Her nose twitched. She couldn’t help it. She hated that he made her nervous. He’d made threats like that before with other eliminators, but she never thought he’d do it with her.

“Here’s the information on your newest target.”

Tess caught the folder he tossed and opened it without a word. Anything she might say would only hurt her more. She’d survived on her fearless live-for-the-chase mentality for a long time, but she shivered, realizing the man who had saved her from delinquency when she was sixteen now threatened her life.

A wolfen. Finally. She’d hoped for an opportunity to get close to this species of shifter for years. A quick glance at the dossier told her the target was a pilot and lived in L.A. There was a name—Hugh Langston—but no picture.

“The information we’ve got is sketchy, and our client would like a detailed report on his business and personal dealings before he’s eliminated.”

No problem. She enjoyed putting her PI skills to work. “Got it.”

Lifting her head, she met Christian’s unflinching death-ray stare. “Last chance,” he reminded her.

As if she’d forget. His veiled threat didn’t mean she’d be fired. It meant she’d be eliminated. And she couldn’t die. Not yet, anyway.

She had something to do first. For the past five years she’d been searching for the wolfen responsible for her fiancé’s death. Just before he’d died, she’d vowed to find the beast. No way in hell would she leave this earth before settling that score.

“Consider it done.”

Hugh Langston exited the chopper, thinking if he didn’t get his ass on an airplane and to the Canadian Rockies soon, there was a good chance he’d lose his edge. His night vision didn’t normally play tricks on him, but tonight his weary eyes had almost mistaken a mountain lion for a hiker. Good thing he planned to leave for a long overdue vacation in a couple of days.

Police Lieutenant Andrews came around the helicopter and delivered a firm handshake. “Thanks, Hugh. As usual, your help was invaluable.”

“No problem. I just hope the kid makes it,” he said, releasing the officer’s hand. Lately, it seemed not a week went by where Hugh wasn’t helping to rescue a hiker, rock climber or lost mountain biker. September’s warm evening temperatures lured too many novices out at night.

“Thanks to you, he’s got a chance. I don’t know how you spot them, but we’re glad you do. I don’t think he would’ve lasted much longer on the side of that mountain.”

They walked side by side toward the hangar and office, and Hugh thanked his lucky stars he’d eventually spotted the young guy. The mountain rescue team on the ground never would have gotten a visual. “Say, how’s your son doing?”

“He’s good. Promises me he’ll carry a compass from now on.”

“That’s a wise idea.”

“My wife hopes he won’t venture out again. I say he’s got to. When you fall down, you get right back up. Otherwise you’re giving in to your fears.”

Hugh squeezed his eyes shut. He pushed back the human-sentient part of himself that could hear the Lieutenant’s true feelings. Most days, Hugh didn’t have to keep that skill at bay. He’d mastered hiding it, preferring to be as human as possible. But he was tired, and the policeman’s fear of losing his son flashed like a beacon.

“I’ll second that. Take care.” Hugh continued into the hangar while the lieutenant made his way to a waiting patrol car.

The bright office lights made him squint as he passed the empty reception area. He slapped the closed office door to his left, and then turned right into his private, orderly workspace. He sat behind his mahogany desk and took a moment to stretch his legs before beginning his post-flight paperwork.

“How’s the hero?” Gavin asked, taking a seat in one of the two leather armchairs on the other side of the desk.

“Tired. In need of a fucking vacation.”

He and Gavin Rhoades were partners in Langston Aviation, the helicopter company Hugh had started on his own a decade ago. Gavin had joined five years ago to boost onshore charter services for business clients. His excellent communication skills—charm, if you asked him—kept the company much busier than Hugh’s offshore and emergency response flights.