Read Online Beneath the Skin by Adrian Phoenix - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Adrian Phoenix
Ads: Link
WA
March 25
GILLESPIE WALKED INTO HIS darkened living room, cell phone held tight against his ear. "Sounds like your coordinates are way off," he said, tossing his keys onto the mail-cluttered going-out table. He shut the front door and twisted both dead bolts into place. "Recheck your data. What you're saying's impossible." He switched on the lamp.
"I've triple-checked the coordinates, sir," the surveillance tech said, her words cool and precise.
"Check again. Run it until it's right. Then call me back."
"Yes, sir." A hint of frustration sharpened the tech's words.
Gillespie hit the END button, then tossed his cell onto the coffee table. The phone smeared a clean spot amid all the dust layering the oak table's lacquered surface. He hadn't cleaned once in the six months since Lynda had split, leaving him a note and a half-empty closet and a strange sense of unbalance. And, though he kept nagging at himself, he still hadn't gotten around to doing chores.
Maybe this weekend. Could even run the vacuum over the carpet while he was at it. Air the place out. It stank of mildew, musty carpet, and of something ripening in the kitchen trash.
Unzipping his jacket, he pulled it off, the Gore-Tex rustling, and draped it across an arm of the pale green sofa. Gillespie stood in the middle of the silent room, thoughts racing, his muscles kinked up so tight he felt like one touch would catapult him through the wall.
He smoothed a hand over his head, scrubbing beads of rain into his scalp. Thibodaux and Goodnight hadn't bought the enhanced vamp line. His lie hadn't taken root and he was pretty damned sure they'd known he was lying. He sighed. Dropping his hand to his side, he walked into the kitchen, Special Ops Director Underwood's words kiting through his mind.
The truth will distract them and possibly get them killed.
With all due respect, ma'am, so will a lie.
You'd know, Sam. Still blaming yourself? After all these years?
Yes, until the end of time. But those had been words he'd kept to himself.
His muscles kinked one notch tighter.
The white refrigerator was a pale ghost in the predawn gloom veiling the kitchen. Gillespie yanked the door open and surveyed the contents--a package of American cheese slices, a quart of milk past the expiration date, a Jell-O dark chocolate pudding cup, and two six-packs of Pacifico beer.
Maybe he'd add grocery shopping to that mythical household task list for that mythical weekend.
Gillespie pulled a beer free, shouldered the refrigerator door shut, then pried off the beer cap. Flipping the cap into the stinky, garbage-bag-lined can--tally another chore for the weekend--beside the refrigerator, he walked back into the living room.
He plopped onto the sofa. Tipped the cold bottle against his lips and took a long swallow. Chilled and sharp, the beer tasted like amber liquid heaven, but did nothing to sluice away the dark thoughts rampaging through his mind like a grizzly through a tent full of steaks.
Goodnight and Thibodaux weren't the only ones lied to.
He was pretty damned fucking sure he'd been lied to also.
We have no idea what went wrong, Gillespie, but we have a situation that needs immediate cleanup.
Not true. They'd known exactly what had gone wrong. Maybe they hadn't been expecting it, but what had happened had been no mystery.
An FBI agent had been murdered and two other feds--both with stellar careers, one a hero--seemed to be involved in that death. Prejean had been in town with his band, Inferno. According to Underwood, he and his band had spent the night before Rodriguez's murder at SA Wallace's place.
Prejean--a True Blood.
In Gillespie's twenty-one years of law enforcement, the last ten with the SB, he'd never encountered a True Blood. Of course, he hadn't even been aware of the existence of vampires until the SB had recruited him from the FBI. Then he'd learned that not only did vamps exist, but they were an active part of the country's infrastructure.
That fact had
March 25
GILLESPIE WALKED INTO HIS darkened living room, cell phone held tight against his ear. "Sounds like your coordinates are way off," he said, tossing his keys onto the mail-cluttered going-out table. He shut the front door and twisted both dead bolts into place. "Recheck your data. What you're saying's impossible." He switched on the lamp.
"I've triple-checked the coordinates, sir," the surveillance tech said, her words cool and precise.
"Check again. Run it until it's right. Then call me back."
"Yes, sir." A hint of frustration sharpened the tech's words.
Gillespie hit the END button, then tossed his cell onto the coffee table. The phone smeared a clean spot amid all the dust layering the oak table's lacquered surface. He hadn't cleaned once in the six months since Lynda had split, leaving him a note and a half-empty closet and a strange sense of unbalance. And, though he kept nagging at himself, he still hadn't gotten around to doing chores.
Maybe this weekend. Could even run the vacuum over the carpet while he was at it. Air the place out. It stank of mildew, musty carpet, and of something ripening in the kitchen trash.
Unzipping his jacket, he pulled it off, the Gore-Tex rustling, and draped it across an arm of the pale green sofa. Gillespie stood in the middle of the silent room, thoughts racing, his muscles kinked up so tight he felt like one touch would catapult him through the wall.
He smoothed a hand over his head, scrubbing beads of rain into his scalp. Thibodaux and Goodnight hadn't bought the enhanced vamp line. His lie hadn't taken root and he was pretty damned sure they'd known he was lying. He sighed. Dropping his hand to his side, he walked into the kitchen, Special Ops Director Underwood's words kiting through his mind.
The truth will distract them and possibly get them killed.
With all due respect, ma'am, so will a lie.
You'd know, Sam. Still blaming yourself? After all these years?
Yes, until the end of time. But those had been words he'd kept to himself.
His muscles kinked one notch tighter.
The white refrigerator was a pale ghost in the predawn gloom veiling the kitchen. Gillespie yanked the door open and surveyed the contents--a package of American cheese slices, a quart of milk past the expiration date, a Jell-O dark chocolate pudding cup, and two six-packs of Pacifico beer.
Maybe he'd add grocery shopping to that mythical household task list for that mythical weekend.
Gillespie pulled a beer free, shouldered the refrigerator door shut, then pried off the beer cap. Flipping the cap into the stinky, garbage-bag-lined can--tally another chore for the weekend--beside the refrigerator, he walked back into the living room.
He plopped onto the sofa. Tipped the cold bottle against his lips and took a long swallow. Chilled and sharp, the beer tasted like amber liquid heaven, but did nothing to sluice away the dark thoughts rampaging through his mind like a grizzly through a tent full of steaks.
Goodnight and Thibodaux weren't the only ones lied to.
He was pretty damned fucking sure he'd been lied to also.
We have no idea what went wrong, Gillespie, but we have a situation that needs immediate cleanup.
Not true. They'd known exactly what had gone wrong. Maybe they hadn't been expecting it, but what had happened had been no mystery.
An FBI agent had been murdered and two other feds--both with stellar careers, one a hero--seemed to be involved in that death. Prejean had been in town with his band, Inferno. According to Underwood, he and his band had spent the night before Rodriguez's murder at SA Wallace's place.
Prejean--a True Blood.
In Gillespie's twenty-one years of law enforcement, the last ten with the SB, he'd never encountered a True Blood. Of course, he hadn't even been aware of the existence of vampires until the SB had recruited him from the FBI. Then he'd learned that not only did vamps exist, but they were an active part of the country's infrastructure.
That fact had
Similar Books
