Sanguinary (Night Shift Book 1) Read online

  “We’ll get you in and back out, no extraction from your current cover necessary.” I could picture him ticking items off on his blunt, square fingers. “We need someone who doesn’t look like a cop, someone Garrett trusts. Andre Perricone’s going in as a patient. We need you to pose as his sister when he checks in, help place some bugs, give us an overview.”

  “This is a bad idea,” I said.

  “Agreed. But it’s the best we’ve got.”

  “Did you know the Feds are nosing around?” I asked.

  He sighed. “Chandler hit you up too? I’ll talk to the local office, see if I can get his associate deputy director to rein him in.” He paused. “In the meantime, though, I’m sending Iverson to pick you up.”

  It took a couple of hours to get everything ready. Iverson met me at a convenience store a few blocks from my apartment. He said his surveillance team hadn’t picked up anyone following me—I wasn’t sure the vamps had eyes on me, but it wouldn’t have surprised me. Anyway, Iverson’s guys said I was clean, so I did my best to tamp down any anxiety. Once I was in the van, I used a new phone—complete, I was assured, with an appropriate background ID—to call Westlake, posing as Andre’s sister, and set up an appointment for Andre that afternoon. I was hoping I’d get a glimpse of Garrett while I was in the clinic, if only to let him know we hadn’t abandoned him.

  Andre’s brown eyes regarded me steadily from the front seat. He was the newest, and youngest, member of the team. I didn’t know him very well, but I’d seen him flirt with the secretaries—he’d been flirting with Stacy the day I learned that the vamps were winning this secret war. He had a sweet smile. Captain James was right: Andre didn’t look like a cop. His eyes weren’t hard enough.

  I suspected they’d get that way soon enough.

  “I’ll make sure Garrett’s okay,” Andre said quietly.

  “Thanks.” I smiled at him, blinking to hold back tears. I wasn’t sure if they were for Garrett, Andre, me…or maybe all of us.

  Chapter 8

  Our appointment was at four. Westlake was right outside of Highland Park, and although it’s less than twenty minutes away by car, it’s about a million miles away from my part of Dallas in every other aspect. At mid-afternoon on a beautiful fall day, women with strollers walked up and down the street. Most of them were obviously nannies, but a few others were equally as clearly stay-at-home mothers, the sorts of women whose husbands made enough money to allow them to live in this posh Dallas neighborhood and still stay home.

  As we got out of the car at the clinic, I grabbed Andre’s hand and gave it a squeeze—it was the closest I could come to saying thank you without speaking aloud. I hoped if anyone saw it, they would assume I was trying to give reassurance to my brother as he got ready to check into rehab.

  We walked up the short walkway. The front door was opened by a uniformed guard. I looked around surreptitiously, trying to spot the cameras that had alerted him to our presence.

  There.

  One was in a tree to my left, one to my right. And now that I was looking, I saw the glint of a video-camera lens at the top of the door lintel. With only those three, one guard could monitor the entire entrance. And I was guessing there were more unseen cameras. And guards.

  This guard didn’t say anything, but he nodded to us as he ushered us in. The entryway opened up into a waiting room furnished to look like an old-fashioned sitting room. The couches were long and Victorian-looking and the chairs were wingbacks. A wooden mantel clock sat on an entryway table under an ornate gilt mirror. Everything was upholstered in florals. In a smaller room, it would have been overpowering. Here, it seemed appropriate.

  The only giveaway that this was anything other than your rich great-aunt’s house was the receptionist sitting at a Queen Anne-style desk in the back corner of the room.

  “May I help you?” she asked in a soft but professional voice.

  “Yes,” I said. “I have an appointment with Dr. Richards. My name is Deborah Carlson.”

  “Just a moment,” the receptionist replied, and picked up the phone. She spoke into it quietly and then hung up. “Please have a seat. The doctor will be with you shortly.” She went back to working on something at her computer.

  Andre and I sat down on one of the long couches. The cushion was hard and unyielding—nothing that would make you want to linger in this room very long.

  We didn’t speak, and the only sounds in the room came from the ticking of the clock and the clacking of the receptionist’s keyboard. I sat clutching my large black handbag—a Prada knockoff—to my chest, acutely aware of the Ziploc bag full of electronic gear that Iverson had stowed in it earlier. He had given me instructions on possible places to hide it. Looking around the waiting room, I realized that we had been a bit naïve. There wasn’t anywhere in this room to hide anything. The chairs all cleared the floor—no flaps of fabric hanging down to conceal anything underneath them. The backs of the couches weren’t against walls. There weren’t any bookshelves. The rugs were nice and flat.

  This room wouldn’t work.

  A door on the wall opposite the entrance opened and a tall woman stepped through it. She wore a white lab coat over a black pants suit with high-heeled pumps. Real Prada shoes.

  “Ms. Carlson, Mr. Carlson. Nice to meet you.” She held out her hand for us to shake. “If you’ll follow me.” She turned back toward what I assumed was her office. “Please hold any calls, Mary,” she said to the receptionist as she held the door open.

  Dr. Richards had dark, curly hair pulled into a short ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her glasses perched at the end of her nose as she peered over them at us.

  “Please, have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the two chairs in front of her desk.

  She flipped through a file folder. “So, Mr. Carlson, I see that you are planning to enroll for the two-week treatment plan.”

  Andre rubbed his hands on his blue jeans and stared down at his legs, looking for all the world like a nervous junkie, despite his muscular torso. It was pretty impressive acting. “Yes, ma’am,” he muttered.

  “And are you enrolling of your own free will?” Dr. Richards asked.

  “Yes.” He sounded like a sullen teenager. Perfect.

  “Okay, then. I have a few papers for you to sign.” She went through the paperwork and “Bill Carlson” admitted himself to the Westlake Clinic for Drug and Alcohol Addiction.

  “Good,” said Dr. Richards. “I’ll have someone show you to your room so you can begin unpacking.” She was professional but kind sounding. I was having a hard time believing that this woman was in league with the vampires.

  “Does he have to go now?” I asked. “Could you show us around the clinic first?”

  “I’ll be happy to give you a brief tour. You’ll have a chance to see your brother again before you leave,” Dr. Richards assured me.

  She picked up her phone and murmured into the receiver. A moment later a young woman in nurse’s scrubs opened the door.

  “Bill? You can come with me now.”

  Andre stood up and walked out of the room behind her.

  Dr. Richards stood as well. “Shall we?” she asked. I followed her back out the door and into the reception area again.

  “As you can see, there is always a guard at the front door. This is for both our safety and our patients’ well-being.” She moved to a large window and gestured at the green expanse of lawn outside. “We also have an electric fence surrounding the property.”

  “I didn’t see one when we drove up.” I peered out the window.

  “It’s connected to the bracelets we require all our patients to wear. If they attempt to leave the premises, an invisible laser boundary administers an electric shock and sets off a warning alarm inside the building. It’s not enough of a jolt to seriously hurt them, but it certainly keeps them from wanting to try to leave again.”

  “Kind of like an invisible dog fence.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted them back
—not because of what I’d said, really, but because of the tone I’d used: a little too sarcastic.

  She frowned. “We prefer to think of it as a protective measure. We also have a laser alarm system that allows our security officers to monitor any unauthorized attempts to exit or enter the premises.”

  I needed to change the subject. “I’m glad to hear it. Tell me about the rest of your staff,” I said, dropping into the role of concerned sister who wanted to know everything about her brother’s rehab center.

  “We have psychiatrists, psychologists, MDs, RNs, and nurses’ aides on our staff here, along with several volunteers from the local community—at any given time we have at least two fully qualified medical and psychological specialists to help our patients. This means that your brother will always have access to any sort of medical assistance he needs.”

  While she spoke, we walked down the hall. I watched for Garrett, but so far, I hadn’t seen any of the clinic’s residents. I was hoping to make sure he was okay.

  I shouldn’t have counted on him to get himself out of the blood house alone. I should have at least checked on him.

  If I couldn’t find Garrett, I could at least examine my surroundings for a place to ditch the baggie of bugs in my purse. Nothing. All the doorways lining the hall were closed.

  “Excuse me,” I said, not quite interrupting, but clearly breaking into her carefully rehearsed spiel. “Do you have a ladies’ room I could use?”

  “Of course. Down that hall, last door on the right.” She pointed to a hall opposite the one we had come in on. That hall had a metal door at the end of it, as well. “We can finish the tour when you get back,” she said.

  “Thanks.” I smiled at her and scurried into the bathroom. It was depressingly institutional: five stalls with dark blue dividers between them and a double sink along the opposite wall. Some effort had been made to cheer the room up—it had a floral wallpaper border along the top of the wall with big blue peonies that matched the stall dividers.

  I ducked into one of the stalls and lifted the lid off the toilet tank. Thank God the toilets were the normal kind with tanks, and not the sort that often gets installed in airports and schools—the sort with the automatic flush and no back tank. I flushed the toilet and watched the water drain out of the tank while I fished the Ziploc out of my purse.

  I slipped the bag inside the tank and watched the water cover it. Then I replaced the lid, washed and dried my hands, and walked back out of the bathroom and down the hall.

  “Sorry about that,” I apologized when I got back to Dr. Richards.

  “That’s fine,” she replied. “Do you have any further questions about Westlake?”

  “No, not really,” I said. “Can I call you if I think of any?”

  “Absolutely.” She smiled at me. “Let’s take you to say good-bye to your brother.”

  We walked back down into the first hall and Richards knocked gently on a door in the middle. She opened it without waiting for a reply. Andre was standing by one of the two single beds in the room, moving the last stack of T-shirts from his suitcase to the dresser. At my urging, he had packed clothing that he wouldn’t particularly mind leaving behind—just in case we didn’t have time for him to repack before we left.

  “Hey, sis,” he said as I walked in behind Richards.

  “Hey.” I spoke softly. I looked at Richards, hoping she would leave so that I could tell Andre where I’d left the equipment. She smiled at me blandly.

  I didn’t know what else to do, so I reached out and awkwardly hugged him. Then it hit me.

  “Oh, no.” I grabbed my pinky with my other hand and stared at it. “I think I might have left my ring by the washbasin in the ladies’ room. I’ll be right back.” I spun around and headed back to the bathroom, hoping Andre would catch the hint.

  I stayed in the restroom long enough to give credence to the thought that I might be looking for a piece of lost jewelry. Then I walked back down to Andre’s room.

  “Find it?” Richards asked as I came in.

  “No,” I said, knitting my brows. “I must not have put it on this morning. I was in a bit of a rush. But could you keep an eye out for it, just in case?”

  “Of course,” she said smoothly. “If we’re done here?” Her voice trailed off, clearly an indication that Andre and I should finish saying our good-byes.

  I hugged him one more time, and then followed Richards down the hall to the front entrance.

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Carlson.” She held open the door for me.

  Back outside, I slid into the seat of the sports car and took a deep breath. Hands shaking, I started the engine and drove back to the coffee shop where Iverson and Jeanie were waiting. When they saw me enter, they left. I ordered a latte and followed them down the block a few minutes later. Someone from the department would be by to pick up the sports car later.

  “So?” asked Iverson when I climbed into the van. “How’d it go?”

  “Fine, I think,” I said. “I wasn’t able to tell him where I’d hidden the equipment, but I think he picked up on the hints I dropped.”

  Iverson, Jeanie, and I were crowded into the van with two of Iverson’s tech guys, who looked remarkably alike in their black jeans and polo shirts, short brown haircuts, and glasses. Mentally, I labeled them Tech One and Tech Two.

  “How’s the security?” Jeanie asked.

  “Pretty tight. Even the low-security wing has some high-tech stuff.” I told them about the invisible fence, the cameras, the guards, the alarm.

  “Good job,” Iverson said. “Let’s figure out the rest of it.”

  He had me sketch out a rough blueprint of the part of the clinic that I had seen, matching it up to the plans on file with the city.

  “This is Andre’s room.” I pointed to one of the squares on the sheet. “I don’t know if the rest of the doors lead to patients’ rooms—they were all closed—but it’s a pretty good bet.”

  Jeanie nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Not really. There are people stationed at every visible entry point in the place, and probably some other places too. And it sounds like they’ve got a huge medical staff.”

  “Okay.” Jeanie climbed into the driver’s seat and headed back toward the clinic. The next property looked like a private home, but the one after that had been converted to a dentist’s office. Closed. Perfect. Jeanie killed the lights as we pulled into the driveway and around to the back, to what looked like the old servants’ entrance. This was definitely old-money Dallas. With any luck, the dark blue of the van would be virtually invisible at night.

  Tech One and Tech Two started fiddling with the controls on their gear. I leaned around the front seat and watched them.

  Nothing but static.

  It took about another two hours, and then it was only one short burst of a message.

  We’d been sitting in the back playing gin rummy with an old deck of cards Jeanie had scrounged from the glove box. We had gotten so used to the white noise of the static in the background that when it suddenly squealed and squelched, Jeanie and I jumped—but not Iverson. He watched, narrow-eyed, as Tech Two clarified the sound.

  At first I thought it was more static, but then I realized it was the scratchy sound of hoarse sobbing.

  “God. Oh God.” It was Andre’s voice, harsh and ragged. “Cami,” he rasped. “Oh, God, Cami. If you can hear this, come get us. Jesus. Please get us out of here.”

  Then the receiver went silent.

  Chapter 9

  We all stared blankly at one another for a long, silent moment. Then our heads swiveled simultaneously to stare out the front windshield, toward Westlake.

  Jeanie was the first to break the spell.

  “Dammit!” She scrambled for the long black bag she kept most of her weapons in. The zipper stuck halfway, and Jeanie cursed some more.

  “Wait!” I said. “Wait. We need to think.”

  “We don’t have time to wait, Cami. You heard him. Andre’s i
n trouble and it’s up to us to get him out of that place.” She snarled as she tried to yank the zipper down again.

  “Andre’s also a trained fighter, Jeanie. If it’s as bad as it sounded, what makes you think that going screaming in there is going to make any difference at all? We might get ourselves captured.”

  “He was crying, Cami.” Jeanie’s voice was tinged with horror. “Andre doesn’t cry.”

  “So that means it’s really bad. I know.” I tried to sound calm.

  Iverson nodded. “She’s right, Jeanie. We need backup.” He gestured for Tech One to put a call in to Captain James.

  I could taste the metallic tinge of adrenaline in the back of my throat as I waited, trying to find some way to prepare myself to go in. This was going to suck. In an especially creepy vampire way, I suspected.

  “Backup’s on the way,” Tech One announced.

  My shoulders slumped in relief.

  So, of course, that’s when the receiver crackled back to life.

  Andre’s whispery voice came through the speakers. “Guys. Hey. I don’t know if you can hear me. God, I hope you can. We’re alone right now. I don’t know for how long. This place is full of— They’re coming back. Come get us!”

  “Full of what? Come on, man, talk to us!” Jeanie leaned in toward the receiver.

  “Vampires,” Andre whispered hoarsely, as if in answer to Jeanie’s question. Jeanie jerked back, eyes wide.

  “This is a one-way bug, right?” she asked.

  “He must have realized he hadn’t finished his sentence,” Iverson said.

  “I’m not waiting.” Jeanie pulled a crossbow out of the weapons bag. “You guys coming with me?”

  Wordlessly, Iverson reached out for the bow. Jeanie handed it to him and pulled out a handful of bolts.

  I sighed. “I guess this means we’re not waiting for Captain James.” I reached into the bag and started pulling out stakes, slipping them into all the usual spots: two down each boot, one in each pants pocket, two in each jacket pocket. I wound my shoulder-length dark hair into a knot at the nape of my neck, secured it with a ponytail holder, and slid a Bowie knife into a sheath down the small of my back, the hilt sticking out above my waistband, an additional stake in a special holster right next to it.