Page 15 of Penny for Your Saints

“She’s on government issue suppressants,” tall, dark, and moody with the French accent grumbles—his maroon eyes setting on me almost pityingly. “Give it six to ten days and that shit will have completely left her system—not to mention once she’s in heat…” he sneers officiously. “Little red fox would probably gnaw off her own arm to get that remaining hand on our favorite hussy.”

“Uh guys? I hate to interrupt, but I think we have some bad news,” the buzz cut blond pipes up from his place at the back of the pack—a small tablet balanced in one of his hands.

The others turn to face him with looks of annoyance—like the cool, older siblings forced to endure the youngest of the bunch during a treasured hangout session.

“What is it this time, Cazzy?” Quentin sighs, the pad of his index finger traveling along the line of my jaw to tuck an errant lock of hair behind my ear.

“Uh well,” the so-called ‘Cazzy’ hiccups anxiously, as he approaches the pair of us—me on the couch, Quentin, squatting on the ground before me. “Unless I’m mistaken, our dear miss Penny is hiding a little bit,” he mumbles, his fingers flying over the touch screen in a series of complicated gestures—his boyish features twisted with fear.

“Quit burying the lead Caz, spit it out,” Bossman grunts, losing patience.

Caz fiddles with the smart watch with a shattered screen on his wrist—checking his tablet again before his hand shoots out over my right arm, my legs, the top of my head, the nape of my neck; his tablet is a mess of tiny nested windows I can’t quite make sense of.

He sweeps his hand over my shoulders and the front of my chest before working his way toward my left arm, handcuffed to the radiator pipe.

With nascent horror, I realize what this Caz is doing just as a loud machine beep issues from his tablet—his hand returning to the space beneath the hinge of my left elbow where my implant is.

“Fuck,” Bossman hisses under his breath.

“Yep—so uh, we better figure out uninstalling that bad boy, and a new safehouse ASAP,” the tech-wizard informs his bozo buddies—much to my chagrin.

“Well, isn’t she just our lucky Penny,” Frenchie grouses, grinding out his cigarette on the nearby windowsill beforerunning his hands back through his curls, Quentin already on his feet and in motion—no longer demanding my entire focus.

Before I can protest, or get a better handle on where we might be headed—Caz taps the screen of his tablet—eyeing me uneasily, almost apologetically, as he leans in.

“Sorry about this, but I doubt you’re gonna cooperate and we have a tight window for escape.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a long, skinny gray plastic cylinder with a bright red plastic button at one end.

I rise up onto my heels—free arm ready to swing, but his theta aura expands fast; poppy, dragon’s blood sap, and smoked vanilla pods threatening to pull me down beneath the current of sleep as he jabs the auto-injector into the meat of my thigh.

“Sorry about this, but I doubt you’re gonna cooperate and we have a tight window for escape.” I wince before carrying out my dreaded deed.

Those cinnamon eyes of hers look at me with such profound hatred as I shoot her full of the sleeping serum Seb concocted for just this purpose.

Thank goodness, the searing glare is short lived. As soon as I’ve injected her, Louise Penny’s eyes roll back into her head and all the fight leaves her posture as she slumps, boneless, into the couch.

“Alright, everybody start moving!” Frank barks, his alpha aura expanding with oppressive force as he rallies us into action.

“Caz—start torching the tech,” Frank commands me before moving down the line. “Q, figure out our next safehouse and travel arrangements.” He spins on his heel—grabbing a tall metal drum from the far wall and rolling it into the center of the room, dumping clothes, blankets, papers, and trash inside as he goes. “Seb, give our Lucky Penny a little something stronger than the sleep serum—and deal with that pesky tracker,” Frankgrunts, reaching into his pocket for his gentleman’s folder—tossing the closed blade to Seb, wooden inlay handle flashing in the light as it arcs through the air.

“Ah-ah-ah!” Seb catches the knife, but tosses it reluctantly from hand to hand like a hot potato. “You want me to cut that thing out of her!? I may allow it when you call me your ‘chemist,’ but I’m not a fucking doctor Frank!” he balks, Seb’s thick, dark brows pinched together with dismay.

“She don’t need a fuckin’ doctor Sebby, we just need that fucking chip out of her arm,” Frank spits disapprovingly—pulling a silver flask from his coat pocket and dribbling the clear liquid inside over the contents of the metal drum before he flicks his lit cigarette into the barrel; the crackle of orange flames flickering to life inside.

I feel a shiver crawl down my neck.

This is far from the most gruesome shit I’ve seen happen on a job with Frank Stone and the rest of his ragtag ‘Saints’—but I can’t shake the feeling of wrongness that creeps up my spine when this FBI chick comes to harm at one of our hands.

It’s bogus to concern myself with this kind of shit of course—she’s a fuckin cop and the kid of Landon and Margot Penny, genius scientists.

Even though she may really think that she’s ‘one of the good guys’ behind that tainted badge and she may not have been complicit in their work, she’s the best chance we have of getting some answers about what the Penny’s were up to. If that doesn’t work out? Well, she’ll make an excellent hostage-bargaining-chip.

“Seb—are you fuckin’ listening!? I said get that chip out now!” Frank uses his alpha bark this time, hurdling Seb into action.

I turn away as Seb launches himself down the hall, muttering under his breath, “Maudit cochon, you wanna cut her up to get the chip out—do it yourself, fucking charcuter.”

Before I can take off for my own room and my machines, Q finishes a hurried call in what sounds like it might be Brazilian Portuguese and tosses his burner phone at me. Frank follows suit—pushing past me to collect his go bag.

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