Lions prey, p.1
Lion's Prey, page 1
Table of Contents
LION’S PREY
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
LION’S PREY
The Chimera Chronicles IV
KARIN SHAH
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
LION’S PREY
Copyright©2016
KARIN SHAH
Cover Design by Rae Monet, Inc.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-68291-244-7
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
To Debby Gilbert.
You know why.
Acknowledgements
No book is created in a vacuum, so many thanks to my family (who probably wish books were created with vacuums), to Sarah Ha, beta reader extraordinaire, and to my fabulous editor, Debby Gilbert.
Prologue
“We’re live in downtown Leavenworth, Kansas, where a tense eight-hour hostage situation at the Cooperative Bank and Trust has just come to an end.” Zara Coventry smiled at the camera lens, hoping to convey a sense of compassionate authority, though she felt like something the cat dragged in. “Here’s what we know. Five men entered the bank on Fourth Street just after 9:00 a.m. At 5:00 p.m., after many hours of negotiation, shots were heard inside the bank and SWAT entered.” She glanced down at her hastily scrawled notes. “Suspects Gleeson Rainey, Demetrius Brown, Paul Cooper, and an unidentified accomplice have been apprehended due to the extraordinary bravery of FBI agent Embry Lane. We expect Agent Lane, who was trapped inside the bank when the robbery began, to exit any minute now. A full news conference is set for 6:45.”
She summoned a more serious tone. “Two other suspects, brothers, Connor and Tyler Gunn, are missing and believed to have eluded authorities. The men are former Army Rangers on parole from the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Leavenworth and are considered armed and extremely dangerous. Law enforcement officials ask citizens to be on the lookout for these men and call the number below if you see them. However, and I can’t stress this enough, do not approach them. I repeat, according to officials these men are expertly trained and extremely dangerous. Call the tip line if you see them, but do not approach.”
Zara finished her spiel and acknowledged the thanks of the anchor in the studio through her earpiece, then signed off.
As soon as the light on the camera faded, she turned toward the FBI mobile command vehicle she’d been using as a backdrop, combing her fingers through the wind-tossed hair that fell past her chin on one side in the reflection on the shiny black paint. “God, I hope that was OK. It’s been a hell of a day.” Her fingers found a smudge on the smooth brown curve of her jawbone and rubbed it away. Wonderful. Had that been visible on camera?
She usually lived for these situations, but her enthusiasm had waned somewhere around the six-hour mark. That’s when she’d switched her sweet four-inch heels for sneakers.
Her cameraman, Derek Landry, flashed a wide grin that lit up his dark face beneath his Royals cap and gave her a thumbs-up as he swung the camera off his shoulder. Behind him, throngs of reporters milled about. No doubt waiting to pounce on Agent Lane the second she exited the bank. “You’re telling me. No worries. You did great.”
Zara grinned wearily. Stealing her former intern-turned-cameraman from her old employers, KFEY in LA, was the best decision she’d made since she relocated to Kansas City. “Thanks.” Before she could say anything else, her skyphone vibrated. “What now?”
She fished her cell from her overcoat pocket and touched the screen to see the caller ID. “Oh, it’s my mom. I’d better take it.”
“Ooh.” Derek rubbed his stomach over his zipped retro-bomber jacket. “Tell her I still dream about that pork she made.” He kissed his fingers. “Mwah.”
Zara chuckled, shaking her head at his antics as she put the phone to her ear and tapped the answer icon.
Her mother’s warm contralto met her ear. “Aloha, Pepe.”
Zara half-laughed. “I’ll be thirty on my next birthday. When are you going to stop calling me ‘baby?’” It was a lament she’d been making since she was thirteen.
“Never.” Her mother answered as she always did.
Zara swallowed a grin, some of her exhaustion seeped away. She hadn’t known how much she’d needed to talk to her mother until that moment. “Happy Anniversary!” she said and triggered a face to face.
Her mother’s broad smile filled the screen. Zara could see the top of one of the flowing muumuus her mother favored despite living in California for twenty years. Her long, silvering black hair was in a knot at the back of her head. Though she only wore flowers in it for special occasions now, her given name, Leilani, meant “heavenly flower,” and even when she wasn’t wearing a blossom, her regal elegance gave the impression she did.
A sigh sneaked past Zara’s defenses. If only she had one tenth of her mother’s seemingly innate serenity. “Are you leaving now to fly to the ship?”
Her mother glanced away, presumably checking the time. “Soon. Mahalo again for the tickets.”
“No thanks are necessary from the world’s best parents.”
“Oh, and you aren’t biased at all.”
“Bias has nothing to do with it. I have that on highest authority.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes, the coffee mug I gave you when I was ten. If it’s written on a mug it must be true. Journalism rule number one-hundred and twenty-seven.”
Her mother chuckled.
“Give my love to the ohana when you arrive in Honolulu.” Zara lowered the phone to end the call, but her mother cut her off. “Actually, I called because I saw you on ANN.”
Zara savored the tiny thrill she got from having her story picked up by the national cable All News Network. “How did I sound?”
“Perfect as usual, but do you have to cover such dangerous assignments? I saw there was shooting earlier.”
Here we go again. “The police keep us well back.”
Her mother gave a decidedly inelegant snort. “Right.” She paused. “You know there are plenty of bank robberies in California.”
Zara didn’t bother to worry about releasing another sigh. She’d been hearing this same old song for seven months, but the lament hadn’t lost its ability to make her feel guilty. “Mom.”
“I know, but I still don’t see why you had to move.”
“You have to keep moving to advance in this industry.”
Her mother’s voice deepened with concern. “So you say, but you’re my only child. I know there’s something else.”
Zara grimaced. So much for her acting skills. The truth was there was another reason, but she couldn’t explain it to herself let alone her mother. “There isn’t,” Zara lied.
“Hmm.” It seemed her mother wasn’t buying it, but Zara’s phone beeped and she didn’t have to convince her.
“My producer’s calling, I’ve got to go. Hugs to Dad.” Heart heavy, she transferred to the new call before her mother could protest.
Zara closed her eyes for a second. She’d told her family and friends she needed to move for her career, but in reality she’d been feeling . . . off for a couple of years. She couldn’t call it depression exactly. More of an odd hollow feeling, as if something was missing. Given the increasing frequency of the hot dreams she’d been having, it was probably just her biological clock, but she’d never lacked for boyfriends in Cali and she d certainly never needed a man to be content. She’d always been almost too happy with her own company.
She put the phone to her ear. “Hey, Leslie.”
She couldn’t explain the choice of Kansas City either. She’d simply spread the map on a table, closed her eyes and run her fingers over the map. They’d stuck on Kansas City as if magnetized.
Leslie’s chipper voice rang over the airwaves. “Hi Zara, did you email Neal your notes?”
Zara swallowed a groan. “Sure did.”
“Listen, about your proposal.”
Zara held her breath. Since she’d arrived, she’d been fascinated, almost compelled, by the nearby prisons. Oddly, some of the urgency of the feeling had eased in the last couple days, but she’d spent weeks developing a story about the use of solitary confinement in the federal penitentiary at Leavenworth and the Disciplinary Barracks, making contacts, doing research. Damn it. She wanted that story.
“We like it—” Zara almost laughed with relief, but before she could speak, Leslie continued, “but we think it needs a more experienced correspondent. We’re giving it to Neal.”
A wave of anger zinged through Zara’s veins and heated her face. More experienced?
Bullshit.
Her producer and Neal were dating. Zara gritted her teeth to keep herself from saying something she’d regret, or get her fired.
Leslie cleared her throat. “Why don’t you take tomorrow off? We’ll discuss the matter further on Monday.”
Discuss? The decision had obviously already been made. Had Leslie even mentioned Zara had pitched the idea? Anything she said to the higher ups now would sound unprofessional. The aforementioned “discussion” would probably be nothing more than a demand for Zara’s hard-earned research. Neal couldn’t possibly do his own legwork, after all.
Leslie didn’t wait for Zara to respond. She simply concluded her call with “See you then.” And hung up.
Zara glanced down at the notes she’d held in her hand through the whole conversation. They were now just a crumpled wad of paper. She flattened them out, mostly for something to do with her shaking hands, then stalked over to a garbage can to throw them out. As they left her hand, the wind tugged at the papers, plastering the top sheet against the inside of the can for a moment. A pair of piercing eyes seared out from the color photograph beneath the stark black words “Wanted.”
Her stomach fluttered. Annoyingly, it had been doing that same thing every time she saw the picture all day. She clucked at herself in disgust, and wheeled away, but like some bizarre retina burn, her mind retained the image of those topaz eyes.
The FBI claimed they weren’t contact lenses, but they seemed more animal than human. A shiver rippled through her. Fear of course, her rational mind insisted and yet . . .
Derek had finished stowing his camera and he broke into her reverie. “The evening crew are here.” He studied her face. “What happened?”
Good friend or not, she could hardly tell him everything, so she ran down her conversation with Leslie.
He tutted and put his hand on her shoulder. “At least you got a long weekend.”
She growled and scuffed her rubber sole on the pavement. “She only gave me that because she’s worried I’ll go postal.”
Derek laughed. “You going to be OK?” He glanced at his phone. “I’ve gotta run. I’ve got a date.”
“Ah!” Zara rubbed the back of her neck. “It’s not the first time I’ve been screwed over. Hell, it’s the most action I’ve gotten since I moved here.” Probably the reason for her weird reaction to the photo of an escaped criminal.
She grimaced, thrusting such thoughts away. “I’ll leave in a few minutes. I may be off now, but I’m dying to hear what Agent Lane has to say.”
Derek turned toward the news van, his gaze still locked on her as he started to walk. “Well, you know what they say, ‘curiosity killed the cat.’”
Zara shook her head at his retreating figure and headed toward where the FBI would address the crowd, unable to resist a muttered. “And satisfaction brought her back.”
A tall blond woman, huddled in a metallic thermal blanket, appeared at the door of the bank. Agent Lane from the way the Special Agent in Charge, an imperious black woman named Hendricks, waved her over. The younger agent jogged down the steps and the crowd of shouting reporters immediately swallowed her. She didn’t stop moving until she reached the other FBI agents across the street, who stood in a V-shaped area formed between two squad cars.
At first, the throng flowed around Zara like a river, then she found herself being buffeted on all sides, inexorably shoved further and further back until she would need a megaphone for the agents to hear her.
She stumbled as she was deposited in the middle of the street, several yards from the steps of the bank. Straining to see over the heads of the reporters, she caught sight of Neal only feet from the assembled agents. The pall that had settled over her since her mother’s call deepened.
And the hits just keep on coming. If this were a movie, a rooster-tail of dirty water was about to drench her.
Could this day get any worse?
Chapter 1
Reluctant bank robber Tyler Gunn’s inner lion jolted into full-on panic mode. Not that it’d been what you’d call calm since the bank robbery had begun that morning. But as he stepped off the curb in front of the bank and headed in the direction of the heavily-armed Leavenworth Kansas police officer manning the barricade about fifty feet away, the urge to shift slammed into high gear.
Ty gritted the teeth aching to morph into fangs. Shit.
Escaping the cordoned-off, police-infested perimeter around the bank was hard enough without wrestling with the shift, but he couldn’t ignore it either. His lion roared inside him, warning of an imminent threat.
In a millisecond, he took in the scene around him. A woman stood nearby, facing away. Her shadow snaked away from her like a stretched charcoal-colored twin. Her attention was riveted on a crowd who’d been shouting questions at a handsome black woman wearing a vest emblazoned with FBI. Embry hovered beside the feeb, her short, curly blonde waves tinged red by the blushing sun.
The hairs on his nape pickled. His human side couldn’t have labeled the danger, but his lion instantly recognized whatever the hell it was and identified a course of action. “Get the fuck down.”
Instinct vaulted him forward. He scooped the petite woman into his arms, ignoring her startled squeak of “What the—” and dove to the pavement, shielding her.
Boom. The ground shook beneath them.
A wave of heat seared his back through the T-shirt, hoodie, and water worker’s neon neoprene vest he wore, then a rolling cloud of dust and debris rained over them.
Screams assaulted his sensitive ears. For a moment, past and present collided. He no longer crouched on a street outside a Kansas bank in the evening, but in a mudbrick ruin in a dusty Afghani village late at night, taking sniper fire. A shout bubbled in his throat, but he caught it, reaching for his carbine and meeting instead a thin suit coat covering a trim, blue-jeaned hip.
The present reasserted itself. Ty absorbed his still-human field of vision and closed his eyes. He’d suppressed the urge to shift during his flashback, thank God, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet. He panted into his sleeve, coughing to clear his clogged lungs. Grit crunched under his grinding molars. He wrestled his lion into tighter control.
As the fog of particulates rained with an almost inaudible hiss onto his yellow hardhat and no more explosions ruptured the air, he became aware of the rounded backside wedged against his groin and the sweet smell of spring honeysuckle emanating from the woman’s short, unevenly-cropped black hair. The cut probably had a name, a bob or some shit like that, but all he knew was that it smelled like heaven and bared her vulnerable nape, making him long to take a nibble.
