~*~*~*~*~
There were more unpleasant places to wake up than on a soft couch with one wrist tied to an angry Stringfellow Hawke. But right now, Archangel couldn't think of any.
What happened?
Helicopter, Eagle Lake, Marella-
She drugged me! She actually drugged me!
He could still feel the sting in his arm where she'd driven the needle home. A trick more commonly found in the Special Forces; load a hypo originally meant to deliver life-saving atropine in the event of nerve-gas exposure with enough sedative to put a man out for hours. Much more sure than the traditional blackjack to the back of the head, and safer for assailant and victim.
I think I'd rather have been struck. He could feel the vibration as String growled in the back of his throat. A growl with a very specific aim; Archangel fought the lingering haze to peer towards a whisper of silk.
Marella perched on a carved wood chair, glowing white in the candlelight. Tet was curled near her feet, tail thumping the floor, the blue-tick coonhound grinning the doggish grin of a hound whose ears have been well and thoroughly scratched behind. "Before we get into the usual accusations, Hawke, this wasn't Archangel's idea."
"Zeus?" Hawke bit out. Archangel didn't have to look to know the pilot's eyes were narrow slivers of blue fire.
"Dominic's, actually. Sort of." She shrugged, graceful as snowfall. "At least, I did contact him to make sure you'd be here. And he and Caitlin know I'm attempting to handle your problem."
Hawke growled. "Only problem I have is the Firm."
"Of course." Marella leaned back. "That's why you've been as safe to be around these past few weeks as a case full of sweating dynamite. And why Michael's been terrorizing the office staff."
"I am not-" Two voices chorused; biting off further words, the men glared at each other.
"Right," Archangel's second in command said dryly. "Sir, how do you feel? Really?"
How did he feel? He'd been drugged, restrained, all but coerced into flying here. How did she think he felt? Angry, woozy, spoiling for a verbal duel with the master of monosyllables....
Calm. Inexplicably. As if a soothing balm spread from the point of contact between plaid flannel and his white sleeve, working deeper with every familiar growl. A knot in his soul untied, whispering home. Safe.
Secondary link stabilizing. Relief, in that rush of fur and feathers. Pilot transmissions anger/irritation/need abating.
"Sorry, Angel." String's voice was soft, almost gentle. "Didn't know we were hurting you."
Pilot full link positive feedback, Airwolf AI.
Secondary link echoes in full link.
Secondary link disruption causes negative feedback. Undesirable phenomenon.
"Damn," Michael muttered, plucking at the knot tying him to String. This was an aspect of Airwolf he hadn't considered.
Marella cleared her throat. "Sir." She tapped the open laptop beside her, its display registering an open communications channel to a certain nosy helicopter. "You're going to stay there until Airwolf tells me you're clear." Her eyes flicked to Hawke. "Both of you."
Hawke's gaze snapped challenge. "And if we don't?"
Marella arched a dark brow. Tugged the top of a plastic packet out of her pocket, just far enough for them to register the red cross on it. "We go to plan B."
~*~*~*~*~
Secondary link stabilized.
PKE flow within normal parameters.
Psychic scan indicates pilots entering REM cycle.
Preliminary scans indicate high likelihood REM sleep rhythms re-established.
Airwolf monitored her drowsing pilots, breathing an electronic sigh of relief. There would be nightmares, now, echoing down her links from weary brains; but far, far easier to deal with those than with the growing disturbance she'd sensed in two minds. Irritability, irrationality....
"That was the problem?" came Marella's typed query. "They just weren't getting enough sleep?"
Pilots Hawke and Michael Archangel suffering from insufficient REM, Airwolf replied hesitantly. Marella Duval was a registered passenger, trusted by her pilots. Yet without a link, the AI had no insight into the spy's mind; only her pilots' judgement, and her own observations. Ultimate cause: Unknown. Proximal cause: Unknown. Possible proximal cause, emotional upset due to lack of contact between secondary link partners.
"Fretting themselves to pieces." A gap in transmitted words; applying former observations, Airwolf guessed the woman was pausing to think. "Any estimates on how often they'll need contact?"
Insufficient data.
Link files incomplete.
Time may be variable. Long-distance secondary link maintenance appears to require minor but constant PKE flow. PKE stores temporarily rerouted by Airwolf to defend pilots Hawke, Dominic, and Caitlin against possible pilot hazard from anomalous low-level PKE readings. Source: body, William Yates.
A very long pause. "Angel... tell me about the body."
~*~*~*~*~
Santini Air, Ta'ra read off the Van Nuys hangar in the golden morning light. Antique aircraft. Helicopter rentals.
A thriving business, if its exterior were anything to go by. Neat, well-kept; not a lot of money spread around, but enough for even layers of asphalt leading to the runway and fresh coats of paint everywhere that needed painting. The star-spangled helicopter just outside the open hangar doors had the hot scent of a clean-burning engine, and the battered toolbox beside a stripped-down biplane carried barely a trace of grease.
Jack will be sorry he missed this, the med-tech thought, heading toward the clink of tools on steel. Right now Detective Breslin was still stuck in the station, no doubt listening to an odd tirade or two from Lieutenant Maldonado while he cleared up paperwork on a case they'd just closed and chased down leads in the half-dozen others they were working. William Yates, badly and oddly as he'd died, was one of innumerable other Earthlings who'd dropped dead under unnatural circumstances in Los Angeles, and there were limits to how much time they could give him.
But they would both be at the autopsy this afternoon. She'd found something rather... unusual in her analyses last night. Something that didn't quite fit a simple stabbing.
If I could only remember where I've seen that compound before....
Ta'ra shook off the vague chill. Right now even the LA County coroners would be hard-pressed to pick one body out of their pile of work. Best to wait until the autopsy and take fresh samples then.
"...And he almost smiled at me when I came in," a well-built blond shook his head, tinkering with the biplane engine. "Your brother hasn't been into anything I shouldn't know about, has he, Sinj?" Not that that would be hard, knowing String. Him and that white-clad weirdo.... An image of a lean blond in white; one lens of his glasses blacked out by dark leather, hand braced on an elegant cane that concealed the danger of sharp steel. Well, Archangel is a spy, they're all weird. Though Jason at least tries to act normal.
The tall, rugged blond passing tools shrugged. "Maybe he had a good night with the cello." Or maybe he was out flying. A darkness of hull and rotors, coupled with viciousness and regret. Another mission he won't talk about. Dammit, little brother, I know you. You don't belong in Archangel's world. Why won't you stop? "Miss?"
"Hello," the shorter blond grinned. I'm Mike, and I'm glad to see you... oh, am I ever...Got on my lucky boxers... She'd look great in my lucky boxers...
Damn, she is a looker, Sinj's thoughts were running at the same time. Oh god, Mike's drooling again. Heel, boy; check for white first. She might be one of Archangel's. Looks smart enough to be. Gray, denim, black - no white. Okay. No, not okay; could be undercover. Though that would be rude. Or an enemy agent. Which would be a lot more than rude, but... calm down. Act like she's an ordinary person. You remember ordinary people, right? "Can we help you?"
Ta'ra smiled. Handsome hands on both of them; strong and capable, muscled as a pilot's had to be. Though they lacked the nimble air she loved about Jack's, so evident when the detective picked a lock. Agents as well? Yet they've no link to any "Lady". Curious. "I'm looking for Mr. Dominic Santini?"
"You found him." The gruff voice she remembered; though the Italian had shed his blue jacket for a mechanic's overalls. "Somethin' we can-" Dominic stopped, scowled. "Ms. Andulon. There something we didn't cover yesterday?"
"That investigation is still continuing," she shrugged, setting the matter aside. "I've heard you grant helicopter lessons?"
Dark eyes sized her up. A professional assessment; though she did detect a warmth of appreciation for her appearance. Even a silent chuckle, at the assemblage of black leather and buckles that made up her jacket. "You want to learn to fly a chopper?"
"I have for quite some time." Ever since she and Jack had borrowed an LAPD Traffic Patrol helicopter and pilot to chase down the Xenomorph. It wasn't a shuttle, but their soaring sweep through the air had softened even the razor fear of chasing her worst nightmare. "It took a few months to build up my resources." Alien or not, she had bills like everyone else.
"It ain't cheap," Dominic acknowledged. "C'mon in."
Her again...
Trouble?...
...Pilot hazard?
A soft, subtle whisper; Ta'ra listened with every fiber of her being, feeling a sense of comfort at hearing even this much silent communication. Jack and Vic had done their best to make her comfortable on this planet, but sometimes she missed other telepaths so badly....
Then again, perhaps I should be grateful, Ta'ra thought, taking a pen to Dominic's pile of paperwork. At least I only have to hear Lieutenant Maldonado's lectures once.
~*~*~*~*~
Apartment 3-C. Jack laid a hand against a tan-painted door that had seen better days, carefully standing out of range of Enrika Dion's peephole. Held his breathing quiet as possible as he listened. Man, I wish I were tuning out one of Vic's speeches right now.
And he would be, too, if he hadn't been re-reading his notes on the Yates case and put his finger on something - off.
Shoes. Why did it have to be shoes?
Turned out there'd been a lot of people wandering around the set barefoot yesterday. L.A., after all; between the broiling hot weather and the general weirdness level, shoes were a state of mind.
A state Dion had apparently changed two or three times yesterday, depending on whom you asked. If they'd noticed anything at all, beside the buxom blonde's - ah - attributes.
You know, Ta'ra's not here. You don't have to squash that thought.
True. He'd just gotten used to thinking more... well, politely. So to speak. Bad enough what Ta'ra had to put up with working with the rest of the guys in Robbery/Homicide. Or worse, the guys in Vice. She didn't need it from him, too.
Vibrations in painted wood; nothing that couldn't be explained by the radio tuned to the Top Forty inside. No sound or smell that shouldn't be in a cheap L.A. apartment.
But his nerves wouldn't quit. Something about that woman wasn't right.
If the suspect passed her heading into that alley... why didn't anybody else see him?
Light shifted behind him; Jack glanced back, noted the elevator was on its way up.
But footsteps inside the apartment were heading for the door, and he had to turn away. He knocked. "Ms. Dion?"
Footfalls stopped. "Yes?"
Jack held his ID in view of the peephole. "Detective Breslin. I was wondering if we could go over a few things from yesterday? Should only take a few minutes."
A few seconds of silence. Behind him, Jack heard the creak as the ancient elevator neared this floor. "All right." Locks clicked open; the blonde actress opened the door with a coy smile. "Come on in."
Said the spider to the fly... Jack shook it off, stepped inside. Sneezed, at the thick scent of room deodorizer wreathing everything.
"Not much, but we've got a pool downstairs," she shrugged, heading for the kitchen. "And that's what's really important, right?"
"Sure." Tinseltown, definitely, Jack thought, dialing his cell phone. He'd rather have his underground garage and a lease that didn't squawk about Norton. Not every building manager would put up with a cockatoo that danced to 80's rock and quoted The Honeymooners.
Which was a shame. Norton had better manners than a lot of his fellow tenants.
"Jack?" Ta'ra's voice over the line, with an odd white-water noise in the background.
"Just checking in." 'Cause I've got a bad feeling, and it's hanging on like the headache that ate Manhattan.
Then again, maybe that was just the room deodorizer.
"Know this sounds strange, Ms. Dion, but I'd just like to ask you about a pair of shoes...." Jack's words trailed off, as every instinct a cop had went off at once.
No TV. No refrigerator. No cooking utensils in the dusty kitchenette.
This apartment wasn't lived in. It was laired in, like an ant lion's pit, men's and women's clothing discarded around its edges like empty husks.
And there was something under the cloying scent of cinnamon and chemicals. Something off. Something foul.
Spoiled meat?
He swallowed dryly. "Ta'ra, I-"
"Well, what do you know." Dion's voice dropped, all pretense of charm gone. "You are a smart one."
Crimson flashed at the corner of his vision; Jack ducked, blocked, felt something burn across his left arm. Burn into his arm; something pulled and snapped against his flesh as he sidestepped the next blow. Holy - that's not a hand-
But Jack knew what it was to dodge creatures shedding human shape, and the nest of blood-red tendrils Dion's arm unraveled into caught his cell phone instead of his face, shattering plastic into gray shards. She hissed, tan skin flowing into blood-red suppleness. "Stay still!"
Like heck, lady! Jack dove for the door, yanked open the locks-
Tried to open the locks. His left hand got the deadbolt - then dropped, limp and lifeless.
No time to think. Only time to pull gun and trigger, 9mm rounds slamming into a once-lovely form. Dion shrieked, fell.
Jack sagged back against the doorframe, shaking and sick. His left arm was on fire, he could barely feel his fingertips, and Dion's body was melting into a ruby puddle on the carpet. Gray lumps fell to red-stained ivory plush, rolled free in a dull rattle of spent lead.
A weak grin stretched the detective's face. Finally, something bullets could handle. Ballistics is going to have a ball with those.
The red pool gathered in on itself, reforming into tentacles and furred skin. A wolf with Dion's hair looked at him, eyes pits of crimson flame. "Idiot human...."
Jack gulped, dropped the useless pistol into his jacket pocket to scrabble at the last lock. Where's a pulse rifle when you need one?
Wood exploded inward, rammed in by a booted foot just below a face Jack had last seen as a sketch on an APB. "Unheimlich creature!" Silver flashed, and Dion snarled. "Die - aiiie!"
Scrambling out the door, Jack ducked as his former suspect went hurtling overhead. Man, that's got to hurt.
But the guy had hurt Dion; the wolf-creature leaned in the doorway, one hand pressed to a bleeding breast. Hurt, but not out.
Chest wound, Jack thought, pulling his suspect-turned-rescuer to unsteady feet. Heading for the stairs as Dion leapt for the elevator. Like he did to Yates... if I had my cell-
No good. Dion was too fast, coiling across the steps behind them in a flow of furred muscle. They couldn't pull themselves up the stairwell fast enough.
Ta'ra, help!
~*~*~*~*~
Known police associate on premises. Pilot hazard?
Don't know yet, Lady. Caitlin leaned against the hangar wall, watching Ms. Andulon sign off on Dom's paperwork. The analyst's classic features seemed to soften, as if she'd walked out of winter chill into a sudden patch of spring.
The ex-patrol officer hid a smile. Dominic had that effect on people. Hard to say if he was interested because Ta'ra was pretty, or because Marella had bent their ears earlier this morning for every detail on the late Yates. Who might not be Yates at all. Just another day with the Firm, Caitlin thought wryly.
Just as well String was out with Jo on a company charter for the morning. The man did his best not to scare off paying customers, but even on a good day he brought whole new meaning to the term disgruntled.
Psychic scan detected. Frequencies examined overlap edge of link bandwidth.
Caitlin stifled a gasp. You mean she's... listening? The way you listen?
High probability psychic scan falls under category "telepathy", Airwolf informed her. Unlikely subject Ta'ra Andulon can tap full links.
So she can't read our minds. But what about- Caitlin's gaze fell on the two blonds still tinkering with the biplane. Tinkering very slowly, concentrating on the parts that let them get the best possible view of the lovely crime scene analyst. Uh-oh.
Pilot dependants St. John Hawke and Mike Rivers possess natural shields only. Vulnerability to psychic scan: High.
Sinj and Mike are pilots, Lady, Caitlin pointed out, heading toward Dominic's desk as he waved a beckoning hand. Acknowledging the wary glint in Dom's eye with a tiny nod; yes, Airwolf had warned her, too.
Not mine. And that, as far as Airwolf was concerned, was that.
Caitlin kept a friendly smile on her face as they did a first walk-around of a JetRanger, pointing out blade clearance, wind direction, the kind of surface skids had to touch down on to make a safe landing. It wasn't hard, Ta'ra seemed like a good person. Good an' dangerous. "You been up before?"
"As a passenger only." Ta'ra glanced around the airport, noting the roar of engines taking off, the distance that should put them out of hearing range of ordinary people. Her eyes narrowed, taking in St. John's back to them. "Is there somewhere we might speak in private?"
Sinj can hear us from here. And she knows it. "Have to do with your homicide?" Caitlin asked bluntly.
"Not precisely." Frustration in that glance; a silent plea for forbearance.
What the heck. "C'mon." Climbing into the JetRanger, Caitlin dug a small device out of the emergency repair kit. Waited until the analyst had closed the door after her, then pulled pitch and lifted them into the air.
A hundred feet above the airport she switched on the drumbeat of static and rain. Didn't think I'd have to use this so soon.
"A white noise generator," Ta'ra said thoughtfully. "Your agents are prepared."
"Agents?" Play innocent. "Don't know what you're talking about, ma'am. We're just a bunch of pilots for hire."
"You're covert operatives, and neither Jack nor I care who you work for," Ta'ra replied bluntly. "We don't want to pry into your secrets. All we wish is to find Yates' killer-" Her eyes widened. "Cellular matrix shift proteins!"
Now there was a mouthful. "What?"
"In Yates' blood... but they were Earth-native compounds," the analyst protested, touching her arm as if to reinforce her point. "There was no trace of any foreign chemical marker-"
Her cell phone buzzed; Ta'ra grimaced, pulled it out. "Jack?"
"Just checking in."
Caitlin lifted a skeptical brow. Didn't sound like just checking in. Somebody thinks they're walking on a tar pit.
Footsteps over the line. "Know this sounds strange, Ms. Dion, but I'd just like to ask you about a pair of shoes...."
Caitlin's throat seized up. She'd heard that silence before; that shock of realization when a fellow cop knew they were alone, without backup, with a killer.
"Ta'ra, I-"
"Well, what do you know." The woman's voice dropped, became less than human. "You are a smart one."
A crash. The buzzing of an empty line.
Fear swept by, a whispering ghost; a shivering chill at the edge of Caitlin's mind. Fear, and pain, and loathing of the alien.
"Jack!"
~*~*~*~*~
"Come out, come out, wherever you are," the creature with Dion's face sang, mincing out onto the roof.
What, hunt-me-hunt-you through ten floors of stairwell wasn't enough? Jack thought wryly, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his arm as he crouched behind the metallic rattle of the roof air conditioner. Just a slow trickle, but... man, he was tired....
But they'd had to head up. Down would've put this thing on the street. Put this creature that wanted to kill smack in the middle of the cops somebody must've called by this time. Cops who wouldn't stand a chance against something bullets barely slowed down.
Dion's voice dropped to a menacing growl. "You can't hide, little meat. I smell you."
"We should die now," Jack's suspect said in a cold German accent. A bright edge touched veins in his wrist, silvery contrast to the wet red bubbling down the side of his ribs. Retreated. "It would be the more merciful death."
Feeling the acid seep of red fluid from the burning tentacle-slash, the unthinkable squirm as some bit of alien flesh burrowed deeper in his arm, Jack almost agreed with him. No. Damn it, no! Ta'ra will think of something.
Dion chuckled; a wet, ugly sound. "No, I don't think she will."
She's reading-
"Your minds? Oh, yeah. Neat, huh? I'd explain it, if I thought a dumb cop would understand foreign cross-neuronal interactions and intertwined neural nets...." The furred creature cocked her head to one side, tentacles rippling in the place of fingers as she eyed their hiding place. "But you would, wouldn't you?" Teeth gleamed, longer and sharper than a wolf's fangs could be. "Guess it's true what they say; in Hollywood, nothing's what it seems."
Silver was a bright gleam in the German's grip. "Do not fear." His breathing was harsh, labored. Jack flinched back from the wet gleam of ribs in the man's growing wound. "It will be swift... and God will forgive us the taint."
"Are you crazy?!" Jack hissed, blocking the man's thrust with his whole arm. Swallowing back a wave of nausea as the tendril wormed ever deeper. Got to stay alive... long enough for Ta'ra to know what she's up against.... "She's trying to kill both of us!"
"But I already have killed you, Jack." Dion snarled, prowling over the rooftop in an inhumanly smooth flow of muscle and fur. "Just as poor Franz tried to kill my mate-to-be."
Tried to kill? That was a dead body down in the morgue, last Jack had looked-
"Verdamment! So... those tales... are true as well," Franz cursed weakly. "Slay the Werwolf... and he will only rise, as the Wampir...."
Werewolf? Vampire? Oh, hell. A shape-shifter!
"Swift, Detective. Though I don't know why you think I'm some kind of alien. My kin have been here far longer than yours." A red gleam of teeth rounded the A/C. "And now, it doesn't matter-"
A roar of wind and turbines out-blasted the air conditioner. The creature flinched back, threw up tendrils against the gale-
Howled, mowed down by one well-aimed white skid as steel blades powered over the roof.
Ouch, Jack thought, hearing a faint, squishy thud a few seconds later. Wonder if she went splat.... He shook his head, trying to dislodge the sudden grayness that seemed to have settled in his vision. Now his whole left side was on fire; he could barely hear whimpered German beside him.
Flickering blades rose over them, wafting a red-striped hull and a tail full of stars. Red, white and blue, the detective grinned. Pretty.
"Jack!" The familiar blonde head ducked back into the chopper. "Put us down! Now! We've got to call Emergency-"
"No way, lady," an oddly familiar voice called over the turbines. What was O'Shannessy doing here, Jack wondered. "Get 'em in. Now."
"But we must-"
"Those ain't gunshot wounds!" the redhead bit out, freckled face wavering in gray shadows. "You need a hospital that's not gonna ask questions. And somebody that speaks German before this guy ain't around to ask-"
Darkness swooped down.