Sins of the Undead Patriot (2 page)

“McKie grew up next door. Same age, school and class as Peter. Things got strained when McKie dated Leera. She was still in high school. But they broke up. She went away to study in Paris. She fell in love with a French man, and soon after, married the frog. While she was away, Peter and McKie buried the hatchet.” Barton handed him a photo.

On the glossy page, big almond eyes gazed right into him. The maple tone of her skin warmed her somber expression. She had an hourglass silhouette draped in a fitted beige gown that accentuated her curves. Vaihan could be sure McKie’s interest would renew if it hadn’t already. This woman had no idea the danger she was in. And if Vaihan turned Barton down, he could be sure he’d find someone else to get the job done who wouldn’t look out for her.

“From the wire we have on her phone, she’s going to be at Tuesday’s performance of Jean-Baptiste Lully’s
Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme
with Peter and his wife Meg. A perfect setup for you two to meet and
hook up
if you know what I mean.”

At least she had good taste in music. However, if he got this straight, the man wanted him to make advances on an acquaintance’s sister to use her to take down her brother. “You do get that I’m undead and this can be a hang up for simple conversation with human females?”

“Leera’s psychological profile indicates she has a high esteem for government officials. Her father was the late Senator Waltz, the first senator of the District of Columbia in eighty-two. I’m confident you can win her over with your charm, even without the good looks.” A broad smile spread his lips, revealing his gold-capped tooth. “You were
People’s Sexiest Undead
for the last three years. And weren’t you approached by the
Bachelor
?”

“
Tres drole
.” Using the whole Special Advisor to the President and founder of the International Network for Undead Rights–INUR–angle to pick up women didn’t get him much play. Besides, one night for a taste of poison wasn’t how most women built relationships. Not that he had time for women.

“I could send someone else in, but I don’t want this woman to be screwed over any more than need be. That’s why we need you to work her. Poster boy for decency and morality.” He slammed the briefcase shut.

The stench of bullshit outweighed the tantalizing aroma of the patrons. Barton knew he didn’t deal with human cases, unless it involved helping women. However, he had a lot on his plate, without the temptation of live flesh or an attractive female. The president and he were close to securing the support to draft the final version of the first Bill of Undead Rights in history to become legislation.

Already his moonlighting activities of shutting down sex dens and unruly Ancients could pose a danger to his position at the White House.

“We aren’t asking. We are calling in our favor. We aren’t prepared to let the Bill die amid increased terrorist activities, political bullying by right wing fanatics and threats to the president’s life.”

Nor would he.

“Look, we bury certain facts about the less savory sex dens to ensure all zombies seem reformed. We do for you and you have to do for us too.”

The point didn’t need stating. The government benefited from keeping the less desirable facts outside of the public eye too. They were the ones cloning entire humans for limbs and organs for the rich then claiming they only dealt in parts. Ancients provided them a way of discarding the leftovers.

“I rather like Jean-Baptiste Lully. His music is optimistic.” Best he saw this as an opportunity to help his fellow American. As Mandela would say,
a good head and a good heart are always a formidable combination
.

“I’m happy to hear you see things our way, Mr. Louchian.” Barton rose and held out his hand.

Vaihan glared at the offer. “I suggest you leave to ensure you can get back and report that we did have this conversation. Some of the other patrons are considering how long they could go without another meal after eating you.”

“Word is that the Conference Committee’s report will be approved by the senate this fall and ready for the commander-in-chief’s approval early next year.” Barton stood and buttoned his jacket.

“With any luck, it will.” As the president had assured him, the Bill was moving along as projected.

“I’ll be in contact. Enjoy your evening.” Barton picked up his briefcase and darted to the exit with hurried steps.

An undead sandwiched a brunette to the wall in the corner, her thighs wrapped around his waist. With quick motions, he pumped into her. The woman’s dark, hungry eyes met Vaihan’s. He read her lips; she said, “Harder, make me come.” The male’s sharp thrusts were followed by harsh moans from the brunette.

Sweat and sex wove into Vaihan’s nostrils as he reached the entrance, picture in hand. He grabbed matches from the bar, then struck one and lifted the flame to the bottom corner of the glossy sheet. The woman in the picture already knew loss. Pain was evident in her face, as well as strength. He couldn’t burn the image, and blew out the flame.

The bouncer, Don opened the door. “Have a good evening, Mr. Louchian.”

It couldn’t hurt for him to make sure the young blonde left. “Don, did you see an attractive Goldilocks in a purple minidress head out earlier?”

Lust glimmered in Don’s eyes. “She sure did. And in a hurry. Too bad, as I wouldn’t have minded tapping that ass.”

Good to know, he’d managed to scare some sense into her. He succeeded in avoiding checking on the blonde a third time. The self-help books weren’t a waste of time after all. Bonus points for him. He was making progress with his OCD.

This assignment didn’t bode well for him. If things got complicated with Ms. Waltz, it might jeopardize everything he’d worked for. The sooner he could get this over with, the better for the both of them. Vaihan folded the photo, tucked it inside his jacket pocket and stepped out into the cool night.

Chapter 2

As a siren chirped, blue-and-red lights flashed in Leera’s rearview mirror from the unmarked car tailing her. She hadn’t been speeding. Her car was new so the lights shouldn’t be out. She was within the demilitarized zone of Washington DC–a police state with no weapons. So what then? Two black armored vehicles with CPD on them–Check Point Defense–blocked both lanes ahead. She signaled to indicate she was pulling over, brought the vehicle to a complete stop and turned off the engine. What could the feds want with her? Growing up, she remembered her father being pulled over because of racial profiling, but compared to zombies, African Americans had nothing to worry about these days. And she’d certainly never had a run in with the authorities.

A tall black man in a charcoal-gray suit stepped out of the car and strode toward her. He tapped on her window with his knuckles. Credentials flashed–Homeland Security. She didn’t catch the name, as he flipped it closed. Good-looking, young, professional. His skin was quite a few shades darker than hers. Reflective sunglasses covered his eyes.

Leera pressed the button, lowering her car window.

“Step out of the vehicle, Ms. Waltz.” His tone was smooth with a hint of a British accent. One of his upper front teeth had a gold cap at the edge. He stepped back.

After unfastening her seatbelt, she opened the door and rose. The frosty air chilled her exposed legs. She pressed her thighs together for warmth and held her jacket closed.

He had broad shoulders and a few inches on her, and the man had something sweet, even innocent, about his smile. Those were the men a woman had to be wary of...much like her father.

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” His mirror-shaded gaze traveled up her figure. The corner of his mouth quirked upward. He licked his full lips.

What? He was going to arrest her. On what grounds? “Have I done something illegal, sir?”

He grabbed her forearm and twisted.

“Ouch.” Pain shot up her arm, causing her to flip around. If he was trying to scare her, he’d succeeded. Cold metal snapped onto her wrist and pinched her skin. “That hurt.” She jerked back, right into him.

“Resisting arrest?” He forced her against the vehicle, crushing her.

“No, sir.” She wasn’t about to give him legal grounds to arrest her if he didn’t have any yet.

He cuffed her other hand, opened the door, pulled the key out and locked her car. “You and I are going to take a ride together.”

A ride? That didn’t sound official. “Am I under arrest?”

He pressed his lips to her ear. “Maybe. Depends on my mood when I’m done with you.”

After he’d done
what
with her? There was nothing more that could be done to her. Losing her husband had already killed her.

The hatch of the armored vehicles opened. A blond man in a CPD uniform with a crew cut and light eyes popped up from the one closest to them. A real military jarhead. “Feisty little thing. Need a hand?” He signaled to his twin in the other vehicle.

“Thanks, Reid, but I can take it from here.” The man who’d cuffed her tilted his face toward her, eyes fixed on the soldier. “You don’t want to find out what he’d do to a pretty thing like you.”

Wasn’t he the one taking her for some type of
ride
?

With a roar, the military rovers rotated and headed in the opposite direction.

What on earth was going on? Just wait until she called Peter. “I have rights. My brother is a lawyer.”

“I’m aware, Ms. Waltz.” His eyebrows shot up. A deep rumble rose from him as he grabbed her arm and shoved her toward his vehicle.

Taking side streets didn’t seem as clever now, did it? Not a car or civilian in sight to witness her mistreatment.

“You had rights. You see, when national security is at risk, the rights of the many outweigh the rights of the individual.”

National security? “You must have me confused with someone else.” She was a chef, for crying out loud. Her skills were in the kitchen where she could make a mean souffle, creme brulee and coq au vin.

“I definitely do not. You are Leera Waltz, widow of Jean Denoix. Daughter of Jerome and Eliza Waltz. The late senator, your father, managed to become the first elected official to the senate from DC and maintain the only area not under martial law. His wife, your mother suffered a great deal of depression, bouts of emotional breakdowns, hospitalization, all written up as mental illness. I suspect it was all the lying your father did, or was it the beatings? I heard he was a vile man with a stern hand, but what do I know.” He smirked. “Poor little Leera didn’t do much better. You were diagnosed with depersonalization disorder. Who do you blame for that? Your father’s rampages or your mother’s inability to protect you?” His hand pressed on her head, then his body forced her into the car on the passenger side.

He had access to her medical records. The only legal option was a subpoena on the grounds she was a threat to national security. As long as he didn’t arrest her, he didn’t have to give her Miranda rights, which meant she was screwed.

He marched around the front with his hand on his gun. The man was prepared to shoot her. My God, for what reason?

“Well, is Mommy dearest or Daddy to blame for your inability to connect with others?” He sat in the driver’s seat, turned the key and peeled onto the road.

Her parents had done the best they could. “Neither.”

“Oh, come now...kids aren’t born as screwed up as you turned out.” A grin parted his lips. “Or was your smarts the issue? An IQ of 131 could make you a difficult know-it-all. None of the other kids wanted anything to do with you. What a disappointment you must be to your late father.”

Nothing she had ever done measured up in her father’s eyes, so why bother trying? She had left that for Peter.

“And yet, I feel sorry for you,” he said, trailing the back of his index finger up her cheek.

She jerked away. The last thing she wanted was for people to feel sorry for her. Not that he appeared to mean it.

“Your husband dies, and you can’t even mourn him. Pathetic. Wouldn’t you say?”

In her own strange way, disconnecting from her emotions was her way of showing how deep the wound of losing him ran. Coldness was all she had.

He turned off the road and pulled up next to a warehouse. The red aluminum siding had a thick coating of dust. On the horizon, the sun grew orange in the distance. He yanked her out of the vehicle.

“Ouch.” For all she knew he wasn’t even a Fed. She couldn’t really picture CPD helping him if he wasn’t, though. “What do you want with me?”

“Are you offering me something?” He leaned in, breathed deep and let out a misty exhalation of stale coffee.

Yuck.

He unlocked the door at the side of the building and pushed her in.

She stumbled forward. At the center of the room was a table with a chair on each side. Four bulletin boards with glossy photos reflecting light thumbtacked in groupings were pressed on the walls.

“You will be by the time I’m done with you tonight.” He shut the door behind him.

Not a chance in hell. She was in the industrial park. Not a soul around, in an abandoned building.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been with a man hasn’t it, Leera?”

The way he said her name caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise.