Skin Trade (Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter 17)

Chapter 10

SHAW ESCORTED ME back to my weapons. They couldn't keep me from doing my job. They couldn't keep me from having more weapons than God, but they didn't have to like it. Fine with me. I'd gone in with fewer weapons showing to try not to rub their faces in my federal badge. Grimes had said they might see it as a weakness. Next time I'd wear the full gear, and the local cops could deal. I tried to be nice, since I'd had my share of being on the receiving end of federal attitude before they grandfathered us into a federal badge. Today I was beginning to understand what might make the Feds so grumpy. Be arrogant; they don't pick on you as much.

The backpack was new, since I'd gotten more lethal toys than I could carry easily. I'd had to have the straps tailored down to fit snug at my back, and I had to keep it tight so it didn't queer the draw from my shoulder holster with the Browning BDM. When I had to wear the vest, I carried the Browning on a thigh holster. The Smith amp; Wesson went in straps on the front of the vest. Without the vest, the S amp;W went at the small of my back. I'd given up on interpants holsters when women's jeans started having so many damn styles and waistlines. I kept holy water, extra crosses, and holy wafers in little slots that had originally been for ammo, but there were enough pockets for extra magazines and other useful things. The backpack was actually pretty useful but awkward once the vest went on, which was another reason I didn't care for the vest. I had to put the guns I was wearing on me before the backpack went on. I'd carry the vest and helmet back out in the big pack like they'd come in.

It was the big knife at the back, with its sheath connected to the shoulder holster, that made Shaw widen his eyes. I did my best to ignore him. There was room for an extra magazine on the other side of the holster for the Browning, which put me at fourteen rounds in the Browning and another fourteen in the extra magazine, plus the two extra magazines in the backpack. I put the Smith amp; Wesson at my waist, canted forward so it wouldn't get caught in the other straps. I had a thigh holster that I'd modified to hold extra magazines for the Browning and the MP5, which would go on a tactical sling across my body once everything else was in place. In the backpack there was a Bantam shotgun with extra shells strapped to its butt, and more shells in the backpack. When it was time to hunt vampires, I'd carry the shotgun and leave the MP5 for backup, but not everything would fit in the backpack, so the MP5 just stayed out in the sling.

"If I'd seen you pack your gear, there wouldn't have been an interrogation."

I glanced at Shaw, then went back to ignoring him while I made sure everything was where I wanted it. You did not want things to slide around, because you needed to know where things were when you went to grab them. Seconds counted.

"You going to give me the silent treatment?"

"You treated me like a perp, Shaw. What do you want me to say, that I'm happy you like the way I pack for work?"

"You pack like a soldier."

"She had a good teacher," a voice from the door said.

I stood up, tugging the straps into place, and smiled at Edward. "You can't take all the credit for me."

He wasn't very tall, five foot eight, so that Shaw had him by inches. He was muscular, but not muscled. He'd never have the shoulders that the bigger man had, but I knew that every ounce of him was more dangerous than any human being I'd ever known.

"You were still wet behind the ears when I met you," he said, and he grinned. It was a real smile that went all the way up to his eyes. I was one of the few people on the planet who got Edward's real smile. He had lots of fake ones. He made Detective Morgan look like an amateur at pretend. If Edward hadn't been so terribly blond and blue-eyed, he could have fit in anywhere, but he was just too damned WASP-looking to hide anywhere too ethnic.

"Where the hell have you been... Ted? I thought you said the plane ride from New Mexico was shorter than the one from St. Louis."

The smile vanished, and his eyes had that cold winter look to them. One minute happy, the next the real Edward looking out. He wasn't exactly a sociopath, but he had his moments.

"I was being entertained by the Vegas PD."

"They interrogated you, too?"

He nodded.

"You weren't in on the hunt for Vittorio. What could you tell them?"

"They didn't ask me about him." He looked at Shaw when he said the last. It was not a friendly look, and Edward did a better not-friendly look than anyone I knew.

Shaw didn't blanch under the gaze, but he didn't look comfortable either. "We're doing our job, Forrester."

"No, you're trying to scapegoat Anita."

"What did they ask you about me?" I asked.

"They wanted to know how long we'd been fucking."

I gave wide eyes to that. "What!"

He kept looking at Shaw. "Yeah, according to the rumor mill, you're sleeping with me, Otto Jeffries, and a cop in New Mexico, oh, and a few others. Apparently, you've been a very busy U.S. Marshal."

"How're Donna and the kids?" I asked. One, I did want to know; two, I didn't want to talk about the rumors any more in front of Shaw.

"Donna sends her love, and so do Becca and Peter."

"When does Peter take his black belt test?"

"Two weeks."

"He'll get it," I said.

"I know."

"How'd Becca's dance recital go?"

He gave that real smile again. "She's really good. Her teacher says she has real talent."

"Are you trying to shame me by doing the whole domestic thing?" Shaw asked.

"No," I said, "we're ignoring you."

"I guess I deserved that. But look at it from our side..."

I held up a hand. "I'm tired of being treated like one of the bad guys by you, just because I'm better at my job than the rest of the men."

Edward cleared his throat sharply.

"Present company excepted," I said.

He nodded.

"But that's part of the problem. I am better than the rest of the executioners. I've got more kills, and I'm a girl. They can't stand it, Shaw. They can't believe that I'm just that good at my job. It has to be because I'm fucking my way to the top. Or that I'm some sort of freak myself."

"You can't be that good," he said.

"Why, because I'm a girl?"

He had the grace to look embarrassed. "You have to have training to be that good."

"She is that good," Edward said, in that empty voice he could do-the one that made the hairs at the back of your neck stand up if you knew what you were listening to.

"You're ex-special forces. She doesn't have that kind of training."

"I didn't say she was a good soldier."

"What then, a good cop?"

"No."

Shaw frowned at him. "What then? What is she that good at? And if you say fucking, I'm going to be pissed."

"Killing," Edward said.

"What?" Shaw said.

"You asked what she's good at. I answered the question."

Shaw looked at me up and down, not in a sexual way but like he was trying to see what Edward was talking about. "You really that good at killing?"

"I try to be a good cop. I try to be a good little soldier and follow orders up to a point. But in the end I'm not really a cop, or a soldier. I am a legally sanctioned murderer. I am the Executioner."

"I've never heard another marshal admit that they were a murderer."

"Technically, it's legal, but I hunt citizens of these United States with the intent of killing them. I have decapitated and torn the hearts out of more people than most serial killers. You want to pretty it up, give me a warrant, great, but I know what I do for a living, Sheriff. I know what I am, and I'm really, really good at it."

"Anyone better?" he asked.

I glanced at Edward. "Only one."

Shaw glanced at Edward and back to me. "I guess I'm lucky to have you both, then," though his voice made sure he was thick on the sarcasm.

"You are lucky to have us," I said, and I went for the door. Edward trailed me and held keys out. "I got us a car, so we'll have some privacy."

"Good," I said.

"Oh, and I didn't mention Olaf just for kicks."

I stopped in the hallway and looked at him. "You don't mean..."

"Marshal Otto Jeffries is one of the western state marshals. He was on the ground when I got here."

Olaf was a real serial killer. But he, like the BTK killer, could control his urges to a point. He'd never done his worst in this country, to my or Edward's knowledge. We couldn't prove anything, but I knew what he was, and he knew I knew it, and he liked that I knew it.

It was hunting vampires with me that had given Olaf the idea that he could become a marshal and do his little serial killer routine legally. There's no set way to take the heart and head of a vampire. You're just supposed to do it. Once the killing starts, there are no rules to protect the vampire. None. They are at the mercy of their executioner. One of my goals in life was never, ever, to be at Olaf's mercy.