Dark Vessel (COIL Book 4) by D.I. Telbat

Author:D.I. Telbat [Telbat, D.I.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: In Season Publications
Published: 2013-12-20T16:00:00+00:00

*~*

Chapter 27

I paused outside an unmarked federal building before I entered its metal doors. The place was four stories high and covered an entire block on the outskirts of Lincoln, Nebraska. It was built like a bunker—no windows, all cement, and no welcome mat.

"Chloe."

Brody called my name, but I continued to study the outside of the building, including a row of cottonwood trees with cameras in them, and the parking lot complete with guards. We had unknown enemies, and if they were about to ambush us, I wanted to keep my eyes peeled for the slightest hint before the trap closed. The worst flashed through my mind. What if our enemies were closer than I realized? I felt like I was fighting for Corban blindfolded.

Finally, I turned to Brody and Gail, both in suits, as I was, and both armed with sidearms to play the role of Homeland Security agents. Brody wore aviator sunglasses. Gail's hair was up in a tight, professional bun. Just the right makeup had turned her from Gail Benjamin, recognizable actress, to Gail Forest, complete with crooked nose and bulky cheekbones. I wore no disguise since I'd be acting as myself as lead agent and under the most scrutiny.

"Just in and out," I breathed to Brody who held the door for me. "We get Luigi and then we get Corban. Right?"

"Right." Brody's stone face was reassuring.

Inside, I led the way, a single file in my hand, with Brody behind me, and Gail following.

"Agent Azmaveth." I held up my identification to a camera until a crash-door clicked and buzzed.

Through this door, we approached a tall counter with two uniformed personnel behind it, and two armed guards against the wall on my left, all men. I picked out the superior present, a squinty man behind the desk, and stopped before him.

"Homeland Security. We're here for a prisoner. Transfer of custody. Someone should be expecting us."

"Which prisoner?" Squinty asked. He wore no nametag.

"Luigi Putelli." I studied his face. He didn't move—not to check a clipboard or his computer screen at his elbow. "You have a lot of Homeland Security prisoner transfers arranged from Washington today or something?"

The question was a statement meant for him to respond according to protocol. Now they knew that any stalling would be considered deliberate, and heads would roll. Though I'd never worked within the US bureaucracy machine, Israel had her own inter-agency conflicts.

"What's the Homeland Security want with that piece of garbage?" Squinty glanced at his desk partner and chuckled. "A dozen other folks have come in here, too—all for him. Some didn't even speak English."

"He's nothin' but trouble, lady," the other said. He had a Southern accent. "The news keeps sayin'—"

"My name is Agent Azmaveth, not lady or missus!" I stated louder than necessary. "I don't care about the news. I don't care about your opinion of the prisoner, politics, or your grandmother's potted plants. We're here for a dangerous criminal who will answer for his crimes. Other agencies can wait in line. We're Homeland Security.

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