Page 4 of Just Dare Me
Five painful minutes later, I’ve tucked, stuffed, and pinched my whole body into the rest of the wetsuit. I fish a small waterproof fanny pack from the duffle and clip it around my waist. After slinging a small air tank on my back, I shove a breathing mouthpiece between my duck lips and we’re ready to go.
To say that Nora is a fast swimmer is a major understatement. You’re better off saying she’s a slow dolphin. It takes all my strength to hold on to her shoulders as she speeds us up the river just below the surface. My fingers start to cramp from clutching so tightly. I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on feeling the directions we take. I’ve memorized the map of the river. I know exactly where we are, and I’m surprised to realize that we’ve already arrived at our destination. Nora must be amped up. She swam faster than any of our trial runs.
I squeeze her shoulders and she slows down. We dip down—almost to the riverbed—before she goes absolutely still, allowing our natural buoyancy to take us up. Silently, we raise our eyes just above the surface. We’re underneath a dock, which means we’ve just made a three-mile trip underwater, completely blind, and nailed a bull’s-eye. I’d smile if only I could move my lips.
Footsteps above us. A guard pacing up and down the dock. I’m relieved to hear that he’s alone. This should be no problem. We swim to the end of the dock and wait for his footsteps to approach. I feel the water beneath our feet begin to ripple and whirl. Nora is building up energy, summoning strength and purpose to the water.
Just as the guard reaches the end of the pier, Nora raises her fists. In response, we are both lifted by a powerful surge of water. It’s like taking an elevator that stops—ding!—on the level of the dock. Suddenly, we’re looking straight into the eyes of a startled demon. Stepping onto the dock, I punch him in the face. But the ice-cold water has frozen my fingers. The punch hurts me more than him. I grunt swear words through duck lips.
Just before the guard can shout into his radio, Nora grabs him by the lapels, and with a soft humming of a single musical note, like lulling a baby to sleep, she lays him back on the dock. He smiles in a giddy stupor.
I rip my headcap off. “Just like that? He’s yours now?”
“Nah, I only gave him enough juice for one or two racy dreams, is all. There, see that?” She points to the crotch of his pants, where there’s now an obvious, sharp bulge.
“Whoah, a big boy.”
Nora shrugs. “Meh.”
“Ew, no, no, no. I get that we’re close friends now, but don’t be trying to tell me stuff like how big Rook’s junk is.”
“I wasn’t talking about Rook, I was talking about Oliver.”
An uncontrollable shout is just about to escape my lips when Nora clamps a hand over my mouth. “Focus, Shayne. Get the earpiece. Let’s check in.”
After stealing one more glance at the bulge, I nod and she releases me. Opening the waterproof fanny pack, I find two earpieces—one for each of us—and a phone that is already live with a call. “We’re on-site,” I say.
Special Agent Danny Russo of the FBI Underworld Task Force answers with his booming voice. “There she is, ladies and gents! Welcome to the party, pal.”
“Cut the chatter,” Special Agent Hillerman snaps. “We’ve been scooped. This isn’t our fight anymore.”
I trade looks with Nora. “You’re shitting me!”
“She shits you not,” Russo says. “They beat us to the punch by a good minute. Move fast. It’s going down.”
As if on cue, automatic gunfire erupts from somewhere above us. We rush the length of the dock and up a flight of concrete steps to the shipping yard of a petroleum processing plant. A row of enormous steel silos tower over us, blocking the moon. A fierce gunfight breaks out—bright muzzle flashes strobing from a dozen different windows, roofs, and gangways. I see dark figures sprinting through the steam that belches from vents and pipes.
I pull a handgun from the fanny pack. “Where you guys at? I can’t tell who’s who.”
“Front entrance,” Hillerman says. “It’s too late. Best we can do is hold these positions and block their retreat. They can’t get to their cars without going through us, and they can’t take a boat without going through you.”
Her plan sounds logical, but my brain wants to buck any form of restraint, wants to rush into those buildings. It took us three weeks to plan this raid, and three weeks before that of gaining intel on this place, meticulously fitting puzzle pieces together. The picture formed by those puzzle pieces shows the East Side demon horde using this processing plant as a safe house in which they’ve been holding a priority asset—somebody damn important to their cause. Hillerman gave an 80 percent chance that this damn important somebody ismydamn important somebody.
“If Jay’s in there, I have to go!”
“Hold your positions,” Hillerman orders.
“This is our op! We’ve been planning it for weeks.”
Nora’s voice breaks in. “Is it the Windsor clan again?”
“Affirmative. Check your eight o’clock.”
We look to our left, where a bright green flare lights the yard. The calling card of the Windsor vampire clan. This is the third time our raid has been interrupted by those damn green flares. They keep piggybacking our operations, swooping in to clear the place out before we get anything.
Suddenly, a black silhouette rises in front of the flare. I recognize that shape, the twelve-foot wingspan and needle-sharp beak of a monstrous crow demon. “She’s here! It’s Beyona!” I shout, and I jerk the slide on my gun to cock it.
“Hold positions!”
