How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back (White Trash Zombie 4)

“Well, for starters, Pietro’s been kidnapped, and Saberton’s behind it.”

Shock swept over her features. “Kidnapped? When? Why? What are the authorities doing about it?”

“Wednesday. Three days ago,” I said, “and we can’t call the authorities.”

“Why on earth not? Does this have something to do with the defense contract?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is that what the Sabers wanted?”

“Huh? No.” I shook my head, though now that she’d said it I wondered if maybe there was more going on here. “It has to do with a . . .” What the hell, I’d try the same approach I used with Randy. “A medical condition he has. And I have. Brian and a bunch of others too.”

That caught her off guard. “Medical condition?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is it related to the blotch that appeared on your face?” She peered at my jawline, clever eyes noting that it was still there beneath the makeup.

I automatically lifted my hand to my jaw, grimacing. “It’s related. Kind of. Saberton wants to, er, find out more about how the condition works, and I think they wanted to kidnap you earlier today in order to put pressure on Pietro.” My thoughts returned to her comment about the contract. “But I might have been wrong,” I confessed. “I think maybe they might also want to pressure Pietro and, in turn, you, to get them that defense contract they want so damn badly.” I considered it for another couple of seconds then blew out my breath. “Yeah, that actually makes a lot more sense, though I’m still glad I got you away from them.”

“So am I, to be honest,” Jane said. “But what could they possibly want to pressure Pietro about?” Her gaze remained steady upon me, and I had to fight not to squirm beneath it.

“Um, about the medical condition. And his organization, I guess.”

She leaned closer. “And why aren’t the authorities involved?”

Damn it, I was utterly out of my depth. I felt my shoulders hunching. “The medical condition is . . . it’s pretty weird.”

She straightened and pressed her lips together in obvious annoyance. “Angel Crawford,” she said, snapping the name out with more authority than my third grade teacher ever had, “that is the second time you’ve used t

he word ‘weird.’ This is Pietro,” and the unspoken My came through with that. “I need to understand, because right now I want to pick up the phone and call the FBI.”

I groaned. “Okay. Shit. Shit.” Damn it, Brian would kill me but at this point what the hell choice did I have? I stood and moved to the little kitchen area of the suite, and a couple of seconds of digging in the drawers produced a small knife. I tested the edge with my thumb. It would be sharp enough for what I needed to do. Good thing I had a little packet of emergency brains in the side pocket of my cargo pants.

Knife in hand, I began to move back toward Jane. She stood up in alarm, even as I registered a blur of motion to my left.

In the next instant my face met carpet, with Victor on top of me and my breath somewhere in the Hudson River. In less than a second he had the knife out of my hand and secured somewhere on his person. My face was squished against the floor, but I managed to squawk out, “I wsnt ging to hrt her!”

“Angel!” I saw Jane—or rather, from my angle, Jane’s shoes and lower legs—take a few hesitant steps toward me. “What were you going to do with that knife? Victor, let her up, please.”

Victor shifted off me and gave me some not-very-gentle help getting to my feet. I narrowed my eyes at him, but not because he’d pissed me off. Hell, he’d done exactly what he was supposed to do, and I’d been a fucktard for coming at Jane with a knife, or at least looking as if I was about to.

Yes, Victor had done his job very well. Very well, and the speed with which he’d made it from the bedroom to me had been pretty darn impressive. He met my gaze with an expressionless one of his own. I took a slow step toward him, pleased when he didn’t retreat—not that I expected him to flinch. But even better, he didn’t pull back when I leaned close, inches from the side of his face, and sniiifffffffed.

“What the hell is going on?” Jane demanded, baffled frustration heavy in her voice. Okay, I totally understood how the part where I sniffed her bodyguard was the final straw.

A muscle in Victor’s jaw twitched as I straightened, but when he met my eyes he gave me a very tiny confirming-though-grudging nod.

“I’m about to show you,” I said to Jane, then shifted my attention to Victor. “If I stand ten feet away from her, will you let me have the stupid knife?”

He clearly knew what I wanted to do, and he gave Jane a measuring look first, no doubt considering whether he should protect her from the knowledge I was about to give her. Apparently he came down on the side of Jane can handle it. He produced the knife from a pocket within his jacket, handed it to me, then stepped back.

It wasn’t until I gripped the knife and stuck out my left arm that I remembered this sort of thing really hurt. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I almost asked Victor if he’d do it for me, but one glance at him and the look in his eyes told me it might not be such a great idea to ask him to cut me.

“Okay, Jane,” I said. “I’m about to give you a crash course on my weird medical condition.” I lifted the knife, looked down at the carpet, then backed up a few feet until I was on the tile of the kitchenette, all while Jane watched me as if I was insane. She probably wasn’t far from wrong.

Before I could chicken out, I stuck the point into my forearm, then pulled it down and across to slice a deep gash. “Fucking shitballs,” I gasped as the pain shot up my arm in a burning wave.

Jane sucked in a sharp breath. “My god! Angel!”

Thankfully the pain dulled after only a couple of seconds. I dropped the knife and grabbed a towel off the counter to catch the worst of the blood, then pulled it aside to make sure Jane could see the gash was real and not some sort of sleight of hand special effects bullshit. Yet I also didn’t want her to freak too hard at the sight of me standing here bleeding in the kitchen. Besides, that wasn’t the point of this. With my other hand I yanked the little baggie out of my pocket, opened it with my teeth, then gulped down the contents. Within seconds the gash began to close at the edges. I wiped the blood away with the towel again so that she could see it continue to close. Within half a minute the gash was only a red line, and after a dozen more seconds even that was gone.

I looked up at Jane with more than a little trepidation, silently praying I wouldn’t see disgust on her face. Wasn’t sure I could handle that from her. But she simply stared, utterly dumbfounded. As I watched, a realization spread across her face.

“That’s how . . .” She trailed off and sat heavily.