Fox Hunt Read online

  “I don’t think so,” Bob said.

  “Hey, when we missed the mark in Chicago, remember how he lost his shit?” The driver said, turning to face Bob.

  I must have spent too much time with Buddy because I wanted to tell the driver to keep his eyes on the road. The number of cars and pedestrians around us was a little unnerving.

  “Yeah,” Bob said, not sounding entirely certain.

  “He said something about the bitch being on his case.”

  “The bitch?” Buddy asked.

  “He was muttering to himself. But it sounds like at least one lady is involved.”

  “Great. Add it to the notes.” I gestured to Bob’s phone.

  “But what good will that do us?” Bob looked from me the device in his hand.

  “Something I learned in my days on the school paper—write down everything, no matter how random. You never know when it might come in handy.”

  Bob shrugged. He squinted at the phone and tapped away at the screen.

  “Who’s your contact?”

  “Why?” Bob demanded, looking up from his phone. “Wait a minute, you should already know who it is if you’ve got the data.”

  Damn it. Despite his dreams of Boca Raton, he wasn’t completely stupid.

  “The data I have is encrypted. And everything is in code names. There are several individuals targeted. It’d be good to know who I’m dealing with specifically.”

  “There’s more than one?” The driver met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “You think more names will get us more money?”

  “Probably,” I said.

  “What are some of the names?”

  “Ah….” I licked my lips, racking my brain. “Hermione Danger. And, um, Little Grr Maid, and then there was, ah, Candi Crusher and Ellie Gator.”

  Buddy gaped at me. I flushed. I apparently couldn’t come up with anything clever on my own on short notice. Desperate times called for desperate measures, which I guessed called for roller derby names. It was either that or drag queen names, and I figured Avery Goodlay or Hedda Lettuce might be pushing it.

  “Yeah, that sounds about right,” the driver, who really needed to pay attention to his driving instead of me, looked vindicated. “El Gato Manchado fits right in.”

  Buddy cocked his head. “El Gato Manchado?”

  “The spotted cat,” I said quietly enough only Buddy would hear. Louder, I said, “Is that your guy? Yeah, add that to your list.” My voice broke over the words. I had to keep my head in the game. “So, that’s good. How about locations? You mentioned Wyoming. Is that where the Monroe group is located, or just your contact?”

  “Just my contact, as far as I know,” Bob said. He added that information to his phone as well.

  “How did you get paid?” I asked.

  “Anonymous wire transfer.”

  “So no way to narrow that down. I’m good, but I’m not sure I want to try and hack a bank. Pretty sure that’s a felony.”

  “We’re trying to find someone at the Monroe Institute, right? Not our contact.” Bob turned his phone off. He set the phone in the middle console between the seats; then his hand disappeared, only to reappear a second later with the Glock.

  Right. No more messing around.

  “You’re right, of course. Do you know anything pertinent about the Monroe people? You said scientists. Did you get any indication as to what kind?”

  “No. And I think that’s enough questions.”

  I wasn’t going to push my luck. I leaned back in my seat. I knew Buddy wanted me to keep enough distance between us that he could access his pocket if it became necessary. But he’d become my touchstone, someone to keep me grounded in times of stress. I needed some kind of contact. I reached over until the side of my hand grazed the outer edge of Buddy’s thigh.

  El Gato Manchado. The Spotted Cat. I had a horrible suspicion I knew who that was. And if I was right, the backlash was going to be immense. Both politically and personally.

  Traffic lessened, and I recognized a few of the landmarks. We were getting close to the parking garage. I somehow had to let Buddy in on my plan, if it could be called that.

  “It’s too bad about Columbia,” I told Buddy conversationally.

  He looked down at me.

  “But it might be for the best. I don’t really have what it takes to make it there.” I don’t have what they want.

  His eyes widened.

  “It’s time to go home, anyway. I can’t wait to tell my mom and her friends about our adventures.” Mom and the Shifter Council need to be informed.

  Buddy nodded. “I’ll bet they get a real kick out of them.”

  Something tight in my gut loosened. Buddy got it. “They’ll love to hear about the kitty in the fox house,” I said. They need to know about the traitor.

  “I thought the phrase was ‘fox in the hen house,’” Bob said, squinting at me.

  “You’re so right. I always get that mixed up.” I tried to laugh airily, to show just how casual this all was, but I probably sounded a little manic.

  Buddy reached down to squeeze my knee. The touch only lasted a second, but it did much to ground me.

  “The garage is just ahead,” I said, pointing to the discreet sign advertising long-term parking.

  Nerves jumping like my veins were full of crickets instead of blood, I held my breath as we entered the garage. A barricade stopped our progress, and the driver had to roll down his window to take a ticket. I wondered wildly what the charge would be for a quick in-and-out trip. Would it be more or less if blood from an unlucky shifter got on the pavement? I noticed a small dome over the ticket machine. If anything happened, at least somebody’s face would be on record. If I made it out of this alive, I’d be able access the security system and get the image.

  “Which level?” The driver rolled up the window, then looked over his shoulder at me.

  My brain blanked.

  Bob glared at me. Unfortunately, my sharp senses meant I could see his expression clearly, despite the poor illumination in the parking garage.

  I lifted my hips to reach for the phone I usually kept in my pocket. Even as I remembered that my phone was dead in one of my suitcases in Manhattan, Bob brought the barrel of the gun up, fist tightening around the grip.

  I threw my hands up, palms out. “Shit. Sorry. I took a picture of the parking spot marker so I could find it again. I just forgot my phone was not with me.” In my periphery I vaguely noticed Buddy angle his body a smidge toward the center of the car.

  Bob relaxed marginally, but the further we went with this, the more keyed up he seemed to get.

  “If this works out for you, how soon can you retire to Boca?” Buddy asked.

  I could have kissed him. With the reminder of his retirement plans, the tightness in Bob’s shoulders eased. “Couple more years. Less if I can get a few more big jobs.”

  “I’ve heard good things about Boca Raton,” I said as the car went around the curve taking us from the fifth floor to the sixth. Actually, I hadn’t heard anything about Boca Raton. Thanks to the Spanish I took in middle school, I knew the name of the town translated into rat’s mouth, and I thought it was known for its densely packed retiree community. “Lot of golf,” I guessed.

  “My uncle’s the golfer. I’m into photography. The beaches there are great. And there’s a great Japanese garden.”

  “There we are,” the driver said as we went around another curve. There, squashed between an ancient minivan and a powder-blue Prius was my slightly the worse for wear Mini Cooper.

  I rounded my shoulders, preparing myself for the fallout. I still wasn’t sure if I was going to run and hide or try to wrestle the gun away from Bob. I also couldn’t forget that the driver had a gun too, so running was probably the best option. Worst-case scenario, I could shift into a fox and hide, but Buddy wouldn’t have that option.

  The driver parked the car perpendicular to my Mini, making sure we weren’t able to drive away.

  “Sta
y put,” Bob said, waving the Glock. “No funny business.”

  Bob and the driver stepped out, each with their handgun out.

  “This isn’t Chicago,” Buddy said quickly while we waited for our next instructions.

  “What?”

  The driver pulled on the handle to my door; Bob reached for the handle of Buddy’s.

  “You run. Don’t worry about me.”

  “But—”

  Both back seat doors opened. The driver reached in to grab my arm. Bob pulled at Buddy.

  I swung my legs out until my feet were planted on concrete.

  Almost faster than I could track, Buddy surged out of the car, swung one arm in my direction. A series of quick clicks filled the air, and the driver cried out, dropped his gun, and fell to the ground twitching.

  “What the fuck?” I jumped back, almost tripping over the driver’s prone body.

  The two electrodes attached the driver’s boring white button-down shirt helped me understand what happened.

  Buddy had Tasered the driver. But how?

  The silver Acura rocked, drawing my attention to the fight happening on the other side of the vehicle. I was halfway around the SUV when the driver groaned. He’d stopped twitching, and his arm splayed out, reaching for something.

  “The gun!” I sprinted back to the driver, just in time to kick the gun away from his fingertips. Then scurried after it. I had no idea how long someone would be incapacitated after being stunned, but it would be better if I had the weapon before the driver regained use of his limbs. I fumbled the unfamiliar weapon, trying to make sense of the pieces. I’d shot a rifle before, but never a handgun.

  I pointed the Beretta toward the driver. “Stay.”

  Buddy roared. A shot echoed in the parking garage. My heart stopped.

  I couldn’t see either Buddy or Bob over the top of the SUV. It wasn’t a tall vehicle, and time stopped in the sudden silence.

  “Buddy!” I screamed.

  That’s when I realized I couldn’t hear anything because the gunshot, amplified by the parking garage’s structure, had been too much for my eardrums. A slight buzzing, like hollow static, was all I heard.

  I shook my head, but it only made me dizzy.

  The rich, metallic odor of fresh blood hit my senses like a smack in the face.

  Buddy.

  I raced around the Acura, to find Buddy leaning against the passenger door, with his right hand cradling his left wrist. My heart stopped and I stumbled to a halt. He wasn’t dying in a pool of his own blood.

  “Are you okay?” The pressure on my vocal cords told me I was probably shouting, though the words sounded distant and soft to my ears.

  He shook his head, tilting his head and working his jaw in a way that told me his hearing had been impaired as well.

  I looked around. Where was the blood?

  Bob lay in a heap by the front fender.

  Holy shit. Had Buddy killed him? Horror washed through me. I’d never forgive myself if Buddy—nurturing, yoga-practicing, wants-to-be-a-teacher—had been forced to kill someone because I’d been too stubborn to listen to my family’s warnings.

  The beige fabric of his HVAC technician’s uniform rose. I wilted in relief. I sent words of gratitude to whatever deities might be listening.

  But still, where was the blood?

  I caught a movement from the corner of my eye. Jerking my head, I saw the driver hurrying away, albeit awkwardly, like his body was struggling to come back online fully after tens of thousands of volts of electricity had been forced into it.

  “Let him go,” Buddy’s gruff voice was music to my ears. It was distant and hollow, but I could actually hear him.

  He stood, and that’s when I saw the blood. There, right where the accent on the E in the Buddy’s Café logo was, a crimson stain spread.

  A normal person would rush to his side to analyze the damage.

  A normal person would note that the bloody patch was no bigger than a deck of cards.

  A normal person wouldn’t freak out and do the stupidest thing in the world where security cameras were silently recording the premises.

  But I was clearly not a normal person. My body imploded. One second I stood gawking at the injured man I’d fallen irrevocably in love with. The next, I was a fox, leaping into Buddy’s arms with a whimper.

  He cuddled me close, whispering that it would be okay.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I STOLE Bob’s phone before we bundled the unconscious man into the back seat of the Acura, which Buddy then parked in an empty spot in a deserted corner of the garage. We didn’t hurt Bob further, but we did gag and hogtie him. We couldn’t afford to draw too much attention to him until I made a couple of calls.

  We didn’t go back to the hotel to pick up our luggage.

  We didn’t drive to Washington DC.

  No, we hit the road, heading west.

  There was a spotted cat in the fox house, and I needed to get back to Cody, ASAP.

  I waited until we’d driven for an hour—enough time to make sure we weren’t being followed—before using Bob’s phone. I dialed Aiden. As much as I sometimes resented him and his pedantic nature, he was the best man for the job.

  “Aiden Sherman,” he said when he picked up the call. Yes, he was the kind of person who eschewed hello, announcing his name instead.

  “Aiden, it’s me.”

  “David? Why are you calling me from this number? What happened to your phone?”

  “There’s no time. I need your help.”

  As many times as my brother had stepped in to help me, I think this was the first time I’d actually asked for it.

  “Of course. What’s wrong?”

  Relief and gratitude swept through me, and I relaxed into the seat. Part of me had wondered if Aidan would say no or even put strings on his assistance. Hold it over me to emphasize that, once again, I’d ended up in hot water and needed his rescue. The honest worry in his voice, and his immediate offer to help, made me want to hug him.

  “I need you to hack into the security feeds for a long-term parking garage called Jackson Street Parking.” I gave him the address. “I need you to erase everything that happened on the sixth level between this morning and now.”

  I heard the scratch of pencil on paper. “What am I deleting? What’s the risk?”

  “There was a fight. I shifted.” I waited for his recriminations. They didn’t come.

  “Are you hurt? Are you safe? Where’s Buddy?”

  “I’m fine. Buddy got shot.”

  “What?”

  “A graze,” Buddy said, knowing Aiden would hear him.

  “But we need to pull the feed. We left one of the assailants tied up in their car. Eventually someone will find him and check the video. We need to make sure there’s nothing to find.”

  “Got it. Is the guy in the car alive? Do I need to have Mom send a cleanup crew?”

  He said it so casually, like it wouldn’t be a big deal if I killed some dude in a parking garage. “Yes. Jesus, yeah, we didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Good.” More scratching of his pencil.

  “You know what? You should copy the camera feed before you scrap it. We need to find out who these two guys were. Get them off the street.”

  “Two guys?”

  “Yeah. There were two of them. Human. One ran away after Buddy stunned him.”

  “Stunned?” Aiden asked.

  “Taser,” I said. Then I looked at Buddy. “Speaking of which, where did you get the Taser?”

  “Stole it from the guard at the school.”

  I raised my eyebrows, both shocked and impressed. “I never took you for a pickpocket.”

  He shrugged. “What can I say? We needed a weapon.”

  “You’re going to have to tell me the whole story.” The plastic clacking of computer keys came through the speaker. “I feel like I’m missing great quantities of information.”

  “There’s something else too, if you can swing
it,” Buddy said.

  “Shoot.” From the muffled sound of Aiden’s voice, I guessed he had the phone pressed between his shoulder and ear. Probably needed to keep his hands free to man the keyboard.

  “We left our luggage at the hotel. We’ll need to arrange for it to be shipped home.”

  A long pause, then, “Okay.”

  “Aiden?” I said, not sure how to say the next bit.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you not tell anyone? Not even Mom.”

  A longer pause, then, “Explain.”

  “There’s a traitor shifter feeding information to the Moreau Initiative. And he’s local.”

  “What? Who?”

  “You can’t tell Mom. Not until we get proof.”

  “Bullshit. If we tell her, she’ll be able to investigate. We need to stop them.”

  “But, Aiden, without proof, no one will believe it’s him.”

  “Damn it, David. Who is it?”

  “It’s Darren. Our future stepfather is selling information to our enemy.”

  THIRTY-NINE hours and forty-five minutes after hightailing it out of the parking garage in New York, we pulled up behind Buddy’s house on the outskirts of Cody. We couldn’t risk heading straight to my mom’s place, since she and Darren both thought I was on my way to North Carolina. We had some preparations to make before announcing my presence.

  After a quick shower and a quicker meal, a knock sounded at the front door. Buddy grabbed a baseball bat from the hall closet, holding it loosely in his hand as he peeked through the judas-hole. He relaxed only marginally when he swung the door open to reveal Aiden wearing ratty jeans and with a ball cap pulled low over his eyes. He held a box of computer equipment in his arms, and the open trunk of his Volvo displayed another similarly sized box.

  “Any chance you can grab the other box?” Aiden asked Buddy, hitching his grip on the carton he carried. “It’s a heavy one.”

  “He’s not a servant,” I snapped.

  Buddy and Aiden turned toward me with equally astonished expressions.

  I cleared my throat. “Sorry. Ah, I just don’t like seeing Buddy being used for his size. He’s more than his muscles.”