Wildfire
Page 64
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.”
Sergeant Munoz peered at me. A stocky dark-haired man about twice my age, he looked like a cop, which is exactly what he was. Career cops had that odd air of ingrained authority and jaded world-weariness. They’d seen it all, they expected the worst-case scenario and crazy crap, and nothing surprised them anymore. If an alien landed in the parking lot and leveled a blaster at us, Sergeant Munoz wouldn’t bat an eye. He’d order it to raise its limbs and lie down on the ground, but he wouldn’t be surprised.
The parking lot had rapidly filled with cops. Sergeant Munoz took charge, and he clearly didn’t like what he saw.
“I know you. Longhorn Hotel, enerkinetic cheating on his wife.”
“Yes, sir.” It was a routine cheating spouse case until the wife showed up at the hotel to confront her husband against my explicit instructions. I had a strong feeling that if the cheating husband got his wife into the car, nobody would ever see her again, so I stepped in and got thrown into the wall for my trouble, before I managed to tase him.
“And now we have this.” He turned to the eight bodies laid out in a row. Each of them showed a single shot in the same exact spot.
“This is what we call a T-box kill. Do you know what a T-box is?”
“Yes.”
If you drew a vertical rectangle around the nose and a horizontal rectangle over the nose bridge that ended at the center of each pupil, you would get a T-shaped area. People thought that head shots were always lethal. They weren’t. Sometimes bullets bounced off a skull, or caused some brain damage but failed to kill the target. Sometimes they penetrated the skull but caused only a minor injury. But a shot to the T-box was always lethal. A bullet to the T-box scrambled the lower brain and brain stem, which control the automatic organ processes we require to live, such as breathing. Death was immediate. It was the surest and most merciful way to drop your target. The victim would never realize they were dying. Their last memory would be of a gun and then their brain would explode.
Leon had put one bullet into each of the eight people exactly between their eyes. Eight shots, eight instant kills.
A Harley-Davidson pulled into the adjacent parking lot. Its rider, in a black leather jacket and jeans, jumped off, pulled the helmet off her head, revealing a halo of black curly hair, and sprinted toward us. A black woman with medium brown skin, about thirty-five or so. A patrolman got in her way and she barked something at him and kept going.
“Did you line them up?” Sergeant Munoz asked. “Was this an execution?”
“No. This was self-defense. They were shot while running at us with their weapons out.”
Munoz looked at the corpses and back at me. “From how far away?”
“Don’t answer that!” the woman in leather snapped.
Munoz turned to her.
“Don’t answer anything.” She pulled an ID out and thrust it in front of Munoz. “My name is Sabrian Turner. I’m the legal counsel to House Rogan and future House Baylor.”
“We have multiple homicides. Your client needs to answer my questions.”
“You’re asking for information that’s privileged under the House Protection Act. And you’re doing it in the middle of the parking lot, where you can’t guarantee the information won’t be overheard. My client is under no obligation to disclose the exact extent and nature of her magic or the magic of her family members unless you can guarantee its confidentiality.”
Munoz clenched his jaw. “Your client isn’t a member of a House.”
“My client is registered to undergo the trials. Until she fails them, House protections and rights extend to her.”
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Under the same act, your client is supposed to offer full cooperation in cases where the safety of the public is in question.”
“What public? These people were hired by House Madero. This is House warfare.”
“Excuse me,” I said louder.
“I will be the judge of whether this is House warfare.”
Sabrian crossed her arms. “Oh really?”
“Hey!” I barked.
The two of them looked at me.
“There is a camera above us,” I said. “I’m sure it caught the whole thing.”
“We’ll get to that,” Munoz promised, and turned back to Sabrian. “Maybe I’ll just have to take your client somewhere more private.”
Sabrian narrowed her eyes. “My client will answer your questions when she chooses.”
“You should just get some swords and have it out,” I said.
“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, do you?” Linus Duncan said.
Munoz stepped aside, revealing Linus Duncan in a flawless black suit. A long blue scarf hung from his shoulders. He smiled, showing even white teeth against his dark beard, touched with silver. “After all, House Madero was involved, and we all know what that means. Excuse me.”
He stepped between Sabrian and Munoz and offered me his hand. I took it, and he helped me off the curb. “Ms. Baylor owes me a coffee. We’ll be in the hospital cafeteria if you need us.”
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Munoz said.
The coffee shop was small and intimate, furnished in rich brown and soothing beige, and only a third full. Linus and I stood in a short line. He ordered espresso and I settled on an herbal tea. My hands were trembling slightly, the aftereffect of adrenaline and nerves.
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.”
Sergeant Munoz peered at me. A stocky dark-haired man about twice my age, he looked like a cop, which is exactly what he was. Career cops had that odd air of ingrained authority and jaded world-weariness. They’d seen it all, they expected the worst-case scenario and crazy crap, and nothing surprised them anymore. If an alien landed in the parking lot and leveled a blaster at us, Sergeant Munoz wouldn’t bat an eye. He’d order it to raise its limbs and lie down on the ground, but he wouldn’t be surprised.
The parking lot had rapidly filled with cops. Sergeant Munoz took charge, and he clearly didn’t like what he saw.
“I know you. Longhorn Hotel, enerkinetic cheating on his wife.”
“Yes, sir.” It was a routine cheating spouse case until the wife showed up at the hotel to confront her husband against my explicit instructions. I had a strong feeling that if the cheating husband got his wife into the car, nobody would ever see her again, so I stepped in and got thrown into the wall for my trouble, before I managed to tase him.
“And now we have this.” He turned to the eight bodies laid out in a row. Each of them showed a single shot in the same exact spot.
“This is what we call a T-box kill. Do you know what a T-box is?”
“Yes.”
If you drew a vertical rectangle around the nose and a horizontal rectangle over the nose bridge that ended at the center of each pupil, you would get a T-shaped area. People thought that head shots were always lethal. They weren’t. Sometimes bullets bounced off a skull, or caused some brain damage but failed to kill the target. Sometimes they penetrated the skull but caused only a minor injury. But a shot to the T-box was always lethal. A bullet to the T-box scrambled the lower brain and brain stem, which control the automatic organ processes we require to live, such as breathing. Death was immediate. It was the surest and most merciful way to drop your target. The victim would never realize they were dying. Their last memory would be of a gun and then their brain would explode.
Leon had put one bullet into each of the eight people exactly between their eyes. Eight shots, eight instant kills.
A Harley-Davidson pulled into the adjacent parking lot. Its rider, in a black leather jacket and jeans, jumped off, pulled the helmet off her head, revealing a halo of black curly hair, and sprinted toward us. A black woman with medium brown skin, about thirty-five or so. A patrolman got in her way and she barked something at him and kept going.
“Did you line them up?” Sergeant Munoz asked. “Was this an execution?”
“No. This was self-defense. They were shot while running at us with their weapons out.”
Munoz looked at the corpses and back at me. “From how far away?”
“Don’t answer that!” the woman in leather snapped.
Munoz turned to her.
“Don’t answer anything.” She pulled an ID out and thrust it in front of Munoz. “My name is Sabrian Turner. I’m the legal counsel to House Rogan and future House Baylor.”
“We have multiple homicides. Your client needs to answer my questions.”
“You’re asking for information that’s privileged under the House Protection Act. And you’re doing it in the middle of the parking lot, where you can’t guarantee the information won’t be overheard. My client is under no obligation to disclose the exact extent and nature of her magic or the magic of her family members unless you can guarantee its confidentiality.”
Munoz clenched his jaw. “Your client isn’t a member of a House.”
“My client is registered to undergo the trials. Until she fails them, House protections and rights extend to her.”
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Under the same act, your client is supposed to offer full cooperation in cases where the safety of the public is in question.”
“What public? These people were hired by House Madero. This is House warfare.”
“Excuse me,” I said louder.
“I will be the judge of whether this is House warfare.”
Sabrian crossed her arms. “Oh really?”
“Hey!” I barked.
The two of them looked at me.
“There is a camera above us,” I said. “I’m sure it caught the whole thing.”
“We’ll get to that,” Munoz promised, and turned back to Sabrian. “Maybe I’ll just have to take your client somewhere more private.”
Sabrian narrowed her eyes. “My client will answer your questions when she chooses.”
“You should just get some swords and have it out,” I said.
“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, do you?” Linus Duncan said.
Munoz stepped aside, revealing Linus Duncan in a flawless black suit. A long blue scarf hung from his shoulders. He smiled, showing even white teeth against his dark beard, touched with silver. “After all, House Madero was involved, and we all know what that means. Excuse me.”
He stepped between Sabrian and Munoz and offered me his hand. I took it, and he helped me off the curb. “Ms. Baylor owes me a coffee. We’ll be in the hospital cafeteria if you need us.”
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Munoz said.
The coffee shop was small and intimate, furnished in rich brown and soothing beige, and only a third full. Linus and I stood in a short line. He ordered espresso and I settled on an herbal tea. My hands were trembling slightly, the aftereffect of adrenaline and nerves.
