On Midnight Wings

1. James and Heather Wallace.

2. The SB, Bad Seed, and S—Dante Prejean.

3. The murder of Oscar Heyne and other FBI agents.

4. The mysterious events at Damascus, Oregon, and the SB’s subsequent cover-up.

5. How to give the SB a good, old-fashioned, prison yard–style shanking.

Before Monica Rutgers’s resignation from the Bureau five days before, she’d created a firestorm between the FBI and the SB when she’d defied joint orders and put a tail on Prejean, resulting in a bit of death and destruction in Damascus. But given the intensity of the SB’s reaction—severing all Bureau ties to project Bad Seed and Prejean, further straining already tenuous cooperation between the two agencies—Barry had suspected that Rutgers had done a helluva lot more than put a simple tail on Prejean.

She’d sent an assassin. One who’d missed. Unfortunately.

However it had gone down, the result was the same: the SB had claimed Prejean as theirs only, absolving the Bureau of any responsibility for the murdering bastard.

And now, with Heyne’s death the latest in a recent string, it seemed Prejean’s new fave habit was slaughtering FBI agents. One couldn’t help but wonder if he killed with the SB’s blessing.

Not that it mattered.

Barry and Beckett intended to end Prejean’s new habit. Permanently. Unofficially. And over a long discussion/argument over how—humans had failed before and vampire agents couldn’t be trusted to execute a True Blood, no matter how psychotic—they’d finally realized the answer was sitting in a room at the Strickland Deprogramming Institute, most likely looking for an escape route, unaware that it was too late. They were already coming for her.

Heather Wallace.

A second epiphany, this one on Barry’s part, was to use a new, powerful explosive that was now a deadly favorite of terrorists—N21. A few drops could level a house, a few more a city block. It could be transported inside the human body, implanted under the skin in a tiny disk of plastic much like a GPS tracker, and triggered by a remote.

It had been used on more than one occasion on airplanes with devastating results.

Instead of “helping” Heather Wallace into that tragic suicide the Bureau had planned for her, she would be transformed into a suicide bomber—albeit an unknowing one.

“Christ,” Beckett says, “that just might work.”

“We’ll just dope her up, implant the explosives and a GPS tracker. Once she’s recovered from the sedatives, we’ll do an intensive interrogation just as she’d expect, but—”

“Make sure she finds a way to escape afterward.”

Barry nods. “So she can run straight to Prejean.”

“A touch of a button and BOOM. Prejean, Wallace, and anyone near them won’t be coming back. Ever. And the SB won’t be able to do one damned thing about it.”

“Only sit and spin, sir. Sit and spin.”

“Good. Let’s see how they like it for a change.”

A team would fetch Heather Wallace from the institute in Dallas in the morning, spinning the first part of their plan into place. Nothing more to be done until tomorrow.

Barry drew in a deep breath and caught a whiff of green leaves and deep dark earth, a summer smell in the chilly beginnings of spring. Powering up the window, he grabbed his keys and briefcase and got out of the Prius.

As he stepped onto the sidewalk, Barry caught a shower of blue sparks from the corner of his eye. A glimpse quickly followed by an electric crackle and the thunderstorm scent of ozone.

All the parking lot lights went out.

The tide of darkness and shadows lapping at the edge of the sidewalk spilled over into the parking lot.

Barry’s pulse jumped in his throat. His fingers clenched around the handle of his briefcase. What the hell? Had to be some kind of massive surge or power failure or maybe a late-night squirrel having a fatal encounter with a transformer or . . .

From the heart of darkness flooding the yard and swirling around the Prius, Barry heard a soft, leathery rustle, as of wings. Big ones. Twin golden stars pricked the blackness, the gleam of glowing eyes. He froze, heart kicking against his chest, primal instincts whispering, Drop and curl up and maybe it will pass you by.

But Barry had a feeling it was much too late for that.

The darkness spoke in a deep rumble, like distant thunder, “I have a question for you, one I shall ask only once: Where is Heather Wallace?”

Barry’s legs gave out and he dropped to his knees.