Page 22 of Penny for Your Saints

“Well, your majesty?” Frank sneers, his breath hot on my face, our noses nearly touching.

“If she isn’t talking, then perhaps it’s time for us to open up a little banter.” I lift my hands in the minimal space between us and sink the pads of my fingers into his chest—all ten digits pushing him backward as I expand my own aura, Frank’s right eyelid fluttering slightly as his nostrils flare.

He’s also been on protective suppressants, but he’s weeks out from his last dose—and a highly excitable alpha besides.

“That’s your brilliant fuckin’ idea?” Frank scoffs, incredulous.

“From what I understand—she doesn’t even know the full scope of her parents' dealings—nor does she have anyunderstanding that external players are involved.” I cross my arms over my chest—standing at my full height.

Desperate to be back in Frank’s good graces, and to a lesser extent, my own—Seb rises cautiously from the background, an angry red splotch rising on his cheek—a bruise beginning to stand apart from the rosy rawness caused by his impromptu hot-mint-tea-facial.

“Q is onto something here.” Sébastien nods, gently strafing around Frank to stand just slightly behind me. “She was talking about Bronson & Bronson like her parents were actually still working for them—and it didn’t seem like she was bullshitting.” He holds up his hands, palms out—as if preemptively warding off another of Frank’s blistering open hand strikes.

“She’s BSU, you dipshit,” Frank fumes, beginning his pacing again in earnest. “She knows what questions to ask to get what she wants. She knows how to control the flow of information,” he snaps.

“So—if she’s an impossible nut to crack, why the fuck did we take her in the first place!?” Caz blurts out, his classically short patience running out.

All eyes jump to Cazimer—chest puffed with fresh indignation.

“I didn’t say she’s impossible—I’m saying we can’t show up pulling this amateur hour bullshit when we’re dealing with a consummate professional here!” Frank retorts.

“So let’s be professional about it then!” Caz volleys back. “We decide how much we want to tell her. We set up a proper interrogation space now that we know we’re here for the duration—or at least for the foreseeable future.” He starts pacing himself now, counting off his plans for action on his fingers as he goes. “We fuck with her sleep and feeding schedules, we incentivize cooperation, and we punish the slightest whiff of non-compliance.”

Frank rolls his eyes. Both he and I know these tactics—we’ve used them before. It’s not a matter of academic interest and analysis like it is for wee ickle Cazzy. Though, for reasons I myself can’t quite put a finger on, we haven’t employed any of these tactics yet. Perhaps Frank, like me, is feeling slightly sheepish right now.

“It will benefit us to do a bit of the old ‘good cop, bad cop’ song and dance as well,” I sigh, reluctantly backing Caz up, eager to ease my wounded pride by getting back on the right track.

This piques Frank’s interest, redirecting the momentum of his anger into the spinning gears of malicious scheming.

“I call ‘bad cop’, obviously,” Frank beams with vicious glee.

“Naturally,” I sigh, sweeping a hand back through my hair. “I’ll slip into something… more comfortable before our lovely lady comes around,” I purr, Seb and Caz’s dire expressions shifting to impish delight.

“It’s going to be a long night.”

Even though we’re supposed to be on double lock down, I’m using any excuse I can—including but not limited to Seb’s earlier sojourn for groceries to get myself outside of the dank slat of a safehouse we’ve been holed up in, and clear my head before Quentin tags me in for my turn in the makeshift interrogation room we’ve cobbled together in an attempt to make progress where Louise Penny is concerned.

We converted the smallest of the bedrooms, a glorified walk-in closet, really; no windows, no tv—just four white walls, two metal folding chairs, a folding TV dinner table, and nothing but a bare LED bulb dangling from a single wire overhead.

Well, almost nothing. High atop the door frame, perched like a housefly on the wall, sits a web camera and microphone installed by Caz—so that others might watch from outside the chamber; each exchange recorded for our own review, or for potential use down the line—should any harm befall miss Penny before our mission is through.

About halfway through the camera installation, my fading suppressant meds in the face of Louise and Quentin’s scentingand aura expansion really start to amplify the usual noise in my head. Despite my best efforts, the din in my skull has become too loud. To turn the volume down, I need fresh air, a double of rye, and at least one more pack of cigarettes.

“If I want to make it through the next few hours, I need to take a walk. Now,” I tell Caz and Seb that I’m going out,and I go—Quentin, unable to dispute me since he’s off showering and preening before we begin the interrogation in earnest.

The miserable mixture of snow and sleet means I don’t get far. I manage to make it to a corner bodega to buy cigarettes and a travel sized bottle of aspirin before the hole-in-the-wall-dive-bar across the street from the corner folds me into its loving arms—a double of rye feels like an old friend returning home as the crusty old bartender slides the dirty tumbler into my hand.

“What, you didn’t get one for me too?” Michael’s dry, husky voice rises above the background noise of the bar jukebox and my own private thoughts.

“Uncle Sam still has you on the payroll—he can pay for you to drink on the job,” I grumble, tossing back half of the rye in a single gulp.

“So, is your lucky Penny cooperating?” Michael scoffs, knocking the bar twice to get the bartender’s attention.

“She’s been reluctant to share thus far.” I give a clipped, starchy answer as if we were both back at Quantico—haunting the halls of the basement.

“Imagine, not wanting to cooperate with a bunch of thugs who kidnapped you—who may or may not have had a handin your parent’s untimely death,” Michael sighs dramatically, taking his own tumbler of rye from the bartender with grace, and a three dollar tip.

“Well, Q and I are going to give her the ol’ ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine. I think I can manage to be sufficiently villainous to drive her into the arms of dear Tin-tin—especially if he rolls out the omega scent and aura like he was back in New York.” I pause to shudder with the memory of pleasure. “If he continued flexing on her like he was, I was about to have him right there on the floor in front of her—mission be damned.” Just thinking of the memory requires me to adjust my black jeans inconspicuously from my seat on the barstool.

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