Chapter 42

Exposure

Intro song: We're Gonna Win, Bryan Adams

Author's note: The 80s song vibe for this chapter wasn't planned - it just sort of happened. I hope you all are enjoying the ride so far…

"Dammit, they killed me again!

"I keep telling you, Beth, you can't multitask or be distracted by looking for a text from Mick and expect to live!" Logan smirked at his pupil. "Tell you what, I need to pour myself some dinner. Why don't you check in with our favorite P.I. so you can pay attention to the game when we start back up." And let me know if he's in trouble.

Beth admitted to herself that the waiting had finally gotten the best of her. When Logan got up, she had taken his advice and grabbed her phone, texting Mick for an update. His response was quick and had provided sketchy details about the disturbing visit he had just made to the morgue with Detective Davis. He'd added that they were heading out to the crime scene as their final stop, his text to her ending with…Uneventful trip. Home soon, let's have fun tonight. Love you.

Reading those words, Beth felt herself relax. She chided herself for her unreasonable apprehension over the trip. What was wrong with her these days? She saw boogeymen everywhere, it seemed. You are losing it. Get hold of yourself. This was one time, however, when she would be happy to be wrong. She smiled as she typed in her response. Love you too. Have some REALLY good ideas for tonight

When Logan returned, she updated him, then asked for some more coaching from the Warcraft expert. "I really think I've almost figured out how to protect myself. I promise, I won't let anything distract me from staying alive this time." She turned back to her computer screen, determined to keep herself from dying now that she knew Mick was safe.

Knowing the two men were heading out into the desert, Logan paid close attention to the almost inaudible murmurings from the police scanner, and the blip that represented the location of the tracking device anchored well underneath the Escalade Mick and the detective were using. He knew Ryder was also keeping track of them, but, somehow, he felt better watching over them himself.

"By the way, why'd you pull your piece?" Carl broke the silence that had been weighing on them since they left Hodad's parking lot.

Mick's mouth twitched. "Same reason you have yours, buddy. This is foreign territory, at least for me, and I don't trust it one bit." Not with vamp hunters running amok...

"Me neither," the detective admitted. "It's the Wild West out in some of these parts. They may be used to it, but I'm not." The weight of his firearm was reassuring in that moment. "Like they said, I'm not ruling anything out."

He thought about what he was saying. Mick was a civilian, albeit acting in an official capacity, even though, as he got to know the P.I. better, Mick felt more like a cop than many officers he knew. "But... let's remember we're just examining an existing crime. In fact," he added, with something almost like glee, "as soon as we're done here, we're doing ninety all the way back!"

Mick wished he could feel the same optimism, but a growing sense of wariness washed over him. It could be attributed to where he was headed, the very real probability of lurking vampire hunters, or the prolonged interaction with high-level law enforcement. Or I could just be jumping at shadows.

The private investigator surreptitiously reached behind him to touch the grip of his gun, holstered now at the small of his back. He fervently hoped there would be no need for it on a routine casing of a crime scene. Experience, however, had taught him that when you least expected to use your gun was usually when you needed it. "I'm with you."

Ahead of them, the road had opened up, stretching out in front of them in a straight ribbon through the desert, the landscape as stark and forbidding as that of an old-fashioned Western. The light brown ground, unbroken by trees, faded away to the San Ysidro mountains in the distance, their snow-capped tips a marked contrast to the hot, dry land they were traveling through. The sun was making its final descent in the horizon, the red-gold hues marking the end of daylight giving the already eerie terrain a hellish cast.

"Okay, we're crossing the 46-mile mark. We should be about there," Mick announced. He looked up to see the white border patrol jeep just ahead of them abruptly veer sharply to the right, stopping in a nondescript patch of dirt and vegetation, initially indistinguishable from the rest of the surrounding desert landscape. The SUV came to a stop parallel to the agency vehicle, a few feet separating them.

"I will say - officially - this place is creeping me out," Carl grumbled. "But that could just be because I hate the desert."

"You do know L.A. is in a desert, right?" Mick tried to lighten the mood as Davis turned off the Escalade. Jumping lightly from the SUV, he tensed as, his vampire senses picked up brief glimmers of a violent fight amid a hail of gunfire. He could detect no signs or remnants of live vampires, however. The omission both puzzled and worried him.

One of the partially burned bodies - a male who had also been decapitated - had been a vampire. And, he had been able to detect the scent of at least two different vampires in the ashes bagged at the crime scene and brought back to the morgue. So, why was there no glimpse of what had happened to them here? Why was he only getting impressions from the human victims?

He froze as the pieces all suddenly fell into place. They were already dead when they were dumped here!

The realization that he was standing at what was effectively a disposal area for dead vampires, and not just a murder scene, hit him a split second before the first bullet. Searing pain in his shoulder sent Mick flying for cover behind the Escalade, faster than the human eye could track. He had no memory of pulling the gun already in his hand as he hit the sand, wincing as his injured shoulder made contact with the ground. His preternaturally keen senses quickly detected the presence of several attackers, but even his enhanced abilities couldn't explain why this was happening. What the hell is going on?

Mick looked frantically around for Davis, finally spotting him running for cover behind the border agents' car. He wasn't going to make it. Fuck this! He jumped up, the injury to his arm already healed over. I'll have to dig that damn bullet out later. His first jump catapulted him halfway across the sand toward the attacker; his second landed him next to the startled man.

Looking up into St. John's enraged face, the would-be assassin screamed and dropped his gun, his eyes riveted on the fangs poking out from the snarling vampire's mouth. Wind-milling his arms above him, he screamed, "Stay away from me, you monster!"

"Big mistake, buddy," Mick growled low in his throat, his blue eyes glowing eerily in the dim light of dusk. He dropped down to his knees and, in the same motion, reached out and broke the neck of the terrified man with one quick jerk. Springing back up, he cast around, searching for his companion.

When the gunfire started, Carl had pulled his firearm, instinctively turning to Anthony Yuen - only to realize that the agent was already a lifeless heap on the sands. "Mick! GET DOWN!" Davis shouted above the din of gunfire. Where was he? The P.I. was not in his line of sight and his concern for his civilian counterpart was suspended by another hail of bullets that seemed to streak right over his shoulder as the surviving border agent returned fire.

The detective fell back to synchronize with his fellow officer, squeezing his trigger with practiced precision despite the diminished vision caused by the lengthening shadows. He felt a savage satisfaction at the hole his bullet carved in the head of one of the attackers.

"MICK!" he roared between rounds. "ST. JOHN, WHERE ARE YOU?!"

The new volley of gunfire caused him to fall behind the Jeep for protection, ignoring the sickening feel of cranium and gray matter beneath his feet. Then... as suddenly as it had started, the shooting stopped. Carl chanced a peek around the side of the Jeep, using the side mirror to check for movement. Even in the waning light, his vision confirmed that, indeed, there were now only two men left near the enemy vehicle. But where was the private investigator?

At that moment, Mick, who was stalking those same remaining two attackers, suddenly froze as a familiar scent reached him - a scent that reeked of cheap cologne, fear... and hate. His icy blue eyes became slits... McGowan! I'm coming for you next, asshole! Even his enhanced vision could not find the man... but the red light that abruptly appeared, cutting through the gloom of the mesa, showed him not only David McGowan's location, far across the crime scene, but also where he was aiming.

Shit! "Carl, look out!" He would never make it to the gunman in time, but maybe he could get to Davis...

Carl froze when he heard Mick's urgent shout. He looked around wildly for the P.I. That split second of distraction was all the time needed for the red point of light to land on the officer's chest. Davis didn't realize he was in the scope's sight until too late - his head turned just in time to see the flash from the muzzle. In that instant, he realized he had only a split-second to make his peace before he shared the other agent's fate... a moment that felt like years. Then it was over and Carl lay on the sand, dazed. He knew he'd fallen... but... no pain... no wounds...

There was blood on him, though. Lots of it.

It took the shaking, bewildered detective several seconds to take stock and comprehend that he had not been shot. With dawning horror, his gaze fell on Mick St. John a few feet away, face down in the sand, unmoving. The sequence of events ran through Carl's mind, like the flickering images of a silent movie. He hadn't fallen - he'd been knocked out of the way of the gunfire. Somehow, Mick had gotten to him before the bullets had. Not my blood... Mick's!

Frantically, he crawled across the still-warm sand to the fallen man. As he moved, he fired off several shots in the general direction of the gunfire that had cut his companion down. There was no return volley; the remaining attackers seemed to have disappeared as quickly and mysteriously as they had shown up.

Panting, sand clinging to his sweating skin, he finally reached Mick, and carefully rolled him over.

"Oh my god."

Mick St. John's midsection had been shredded by the destructive force of the assault rifle in the hands of his assailant. As Carl turned him over, the injured man's hands instinctively grabbed at his abdomen. But even with his hands desperately pressed to the gaping wound, every breath he took seemed to force more blood and tissue through his fingers, all of it covered with sand.

Carefully, Carl cradled the man's head in his lap, fighting down the rising tide of nausea as he covered Mick's hands with his own, doing his best to force entrails back into position. He's so cold already.

"Mick, goddammit! Nobody told you to go all cowboy out here!"

Somehow, St. John managed to choke out what a might have been a laugh - followed immediately by gurgling sounds, blood running down from the corners of his mouth as he pushed out the words, "Bad idea... silver..."

Davis had no clue what he was talking about. "Mick, what? What about silver?" Before the injured man could summon the strength to speak again, the officer heard his name.

"Lieutenant Davis! Are you okay!?"

Carl felt a surge of relief at the sound of the border agent's voice. "Thompson! St. John's been shot! Get help, NOW!" he screamed. It'll be alright. It has to be. He told himself that when he heard the welcome sounds of a call going out for assistance and rescue - until he looked down at the wounded P.I. Mick was pale as a ghost in the dim light, his cracked lips tinged with red. His eyes, now an eerie shade of blue, scared the shit out of the detective. Oh please god, don't let him die on me here!

"Help's coming, Mick! Just hang on. It'll be all right!" Looking down at him and the blood still pouring from the ghastly wound, he no longer believed it.

"Beth..."

The lieutenant's eyes narrowed as he tried to make out what the injured man was saying. "What...? Don't try to talk, Mick." He bent over the grievously injured man, waiting helplessly as St. John tried several times to force words out without success. He finally managed to gasp out, "...Tell...Beth... I'm sorry. Love...her..."

"No! You're going to tell her yourself! Stay with me, Mick!" Carl raised his head to look wildly around for help. "THOMPSON! I need a first aid kit! AND WHERE'S THE DAMN RESCUE UNIT?!" They aren't going to get here in time…

"Okay, that's it. I'm dead."

Beth stood up and stretched, admitting defeat - at least for now - in the World of Warcraft universe. "I did better though, right? I finally killed somebody," she proudly bragged to her coach and mentor.

Logan grinned. "Yes, you did. Keep it up and you won't be a newbie much longer. You even 'tapped' a monster. How did your first taste of bloodshed feel?"

"Great!" she enthused. "I had no idea I was so bloodthirsty! I can't believe I've been here for three hours - I can see how people get hooked on this!" The time had, indeed, flown by. Logan had spent the last hour alternating between his laptop and Beth's screen view, coaching her on the nuances of surviving in the Warcraft universe.

She added slyly, "Thanks for being my 'care bear' tonight, Logan."

The vampire groaned. He had realized - too late - that he had committed a major tactical error by telling Beth that the term used for players who help other players attack monsters instead of killing their avatars, were called 'care bears' in the parlance of WoW. She had delighted in irritating him by using that term throughout the evening.

"Beth–" Logan had just opened his mouth to deliver a blistering comeback when a sound caught his attention. He lunged to the speaker to turn up the volume, catching the frantic message coming over the police frequency through the hiss and static.

"...repeat. Taking fire. Officers down. Request immediate assistance! Location is Campo..."

Logan swore under his breath as he took down the information and moved to compare it to the position showing for the transmitter under the Escalade.

"Fuck!"

"What is it, Logan? What's wrong?!" Beth dropped her bag on the ground and grabbed the scrap of paper out of Griffen's hand while he punched a button to speed-dial a number.

"Josef, it's on. Yeah– right now." Logan disconnected the call, glancing guiltily at Beth.

She stared at him, open-mouthed. "What's on, Logan?" Looking down, she frantically tried to decipher his scrawl. Her eyes widened as she processed what she was reading, the hand holding the notes beginning to tremble. "Oh my god!" She grabbed his arm. "This is Mick, isn't it? Isn't it, Logan?! You were waiting for this the whole time I've been here!"

"Not...waiting...exactly." Logan shifted his feet uneasily. "Josef just wanted us to– "

"Josef! He set this up and didn't tell me?!"

Crap! "No, he, um... Well, he just didn't want you to worry needlessly, Beth! Listen, I gotta call Guillermo and Ryder." He punched buttons on his cell, dialing Gasol's number.

The coroner's assistant picked up on the first ring. "What's going on, Logan?"

"We need you, Guillermo. You're with the chopper, right? Lemme get Ryder on the call too just to reconfirm the coordinates." Logan frantically tapped in another number & waited impatiently for his phone to go through the process of merging the calls.

Beth eavesdropped openly, her mind reeling, as the vampires conferred and the emergency plan was set in motion. Clearly, Josef had taken the dangers of this ill-advised trip into the desert much more seriously than Mick had. Oh god. Mick! She grabbed her bag and headed for the stairs with no clear direction in mind other than to get to him.

"Beth, wait!" Griffen sprinted over and grabbed her arm. "Look–"

"Let go of me, Logan!" Her eyes were wild as she jerked out of his grasp. "You knew all this and you let me sit here, playing mindless computer games with you, while you waited for something to happen to Mick!" She clenched her fists in anger as she hissed, " How could you?!"

"Beth, it wasn't like that. Honestly, it wasn't!" As she started up the stairs, he tried again, pleading with her. "Beth, wait! Listen to me, please. I can take you to him!"

She halted, one foot on the top step. Pivoting around, her eyes blazed at him. "How can I trust you?"

"This wasn't a conspiracy, I swear to you."

His senses picked up on her panic, her heart rate and breathing accelerating as she stood there, poised for flight. "Look, none of us thought anything would happen – and I'm sure nothing really has. Mick is okay. Josef just wanted a contingency plan for a way to get Mick away from the cops quickly. He didn't want Mick vamping or healing right in front of those detectives if he got hurt somehow! That's all there was to it, I promise! I'm sure, by the time we get there, he'll be fine."

"Get where, Logan?!"

"Josef's getaway. He's got a place in Temecula - secluded, lots of acres, a vineyard actually. That's where Mick was supposed to go if there was trouble. Josef is there now." Griffen jumped up the stairs to land beside her. Gently, he added, "I'll get you to him, Beth. You can trust me, I promise."

Her eyes frantic, the distraught young woman nodded. The two hit the door to Logan's lair at the same time, racing from his basement to her car.

"Let me drive, Beth." Logan was afraid that she'd get them both killed in her panic and haste.

"Fine! Just get me to Mick." She tossed him the keys and climbed into the passenger seat, throwing her bag impatiently in the back seat.

Logan eased behind the steering wheel and sat there for a moment, his eyes dancing over the dashboard of the unfamiliar hybrid car.

"LOGAN! GET MOVING!"

He jumped. "Okay, okay, Beth! We're going!"

With a roar of engine and squeal of tires, the small car took off into the night.

End Song: I'm Alright, Kenny Logins