Savor Me Slowly (Alien Huntress #3)(66)
Author: Gena Showalter

Jaxon scowled. Estap would soon be hurting. The bastard’s fate had been sealed years ago when he’d decided to use Mishka. Only the little details had been in question: how quickly, how painfully, and when death would come.

During the flight, Jaxon had had time to think. How quickly—a few weeks hovering on the edge of death wouldn’t be enough. How painfully—there would soon be a new definition for the word suffer. The senator’s screams would echo long into eternity. When—the sooner the better.

“We’re here.”

Jaxon’s scowl faded and his lips curled in a slow smile.

One of the human guards beside him saw the smile and frowned, brow furrowing in confusion. “What are you so happy about?”

“Future’s looking good, that’s all.”

They stepped from the warm morning light illuminating the sidewalk and into an abandoned alley, past a door painted to look like a wall, and inside the building. He soon found himself inside an empty, narrow corridor, blocked by another door.

He didn’t think this had been their original destination. The two men had been driving north when they’d gotten a call. A terse exchange and a “Yes, sir” later, and the car had been reprogrammed and turned south.

“Your prints aren’t loaded into the ID, so don’t think you can come back without permission,” guard number one said as he slapped his hand against an etched box. A light scanned his prints.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

A door slid open, revealing yet another corridor.

“Plus, we’ve got cameras all over the place,” number two proclaimed. “You’d never get in undetected.”

Wanna bet? “Am I here to chat with you or the senator?”

The men shared an irritated look before stomping forward, a silent command for him to follow. As he strode behind them, he studied the walls. Bare, silver, and made from the same material as a pyre-gun, a nearly indestructible alien metal. At the back, front, and middle were tiny holes. The cameras, he was sure.

Public places weren’t allowed cameras without a license. Too many images had been spliced and doctored, and too many people had been incriminated for misdeeds they hadn’t committed. Government officials automatically received a license for their “protection.” Too bad for Estap that Jaxon had learned long ago how to disable them, since many criminals used them without permission.

A left, right, left, and short elevator ride later, one of the guards muttered, “Good luck,” and pressed his thumb to the ID pad. The elevator opened into yet another hallway.

Jaxon’s shoulder was given a little push. Quick as a snap, he grabbed the guard’s hand and twisted one of the fingers before the man could rip away. There was a pained gasp, a howl.

“No touching,” he said calmly. “Understand?”

“Yes, yes.”

He released the man and maneuvered his way past the only door, into a spacious, well-furnished office. Plush blue carpet and real wood shelves greeted him. The scent was amazing, very woodsy. Behind him, he could hear the other guard drawing a gun.

“Put that away,” an irritated voice said. “For God’s sakes, he’s my guest and the broken finger was deserved. You do not push my guests.”

Camera in the elevator, too, then. The door closed, blocking the guards from view.

Silence.

Jaxon studied his host. Estap sat behind a massive oak desk. An expensive antique that probably cost more than most people earned in a year. Average height, lean build. Thick brown hair, not a strand out of place. Intelligent hazel eyes, smooth, sun-kissed skin. Black suit. Red tie. He recognized the sense of entitlement radiating from the senator, as if the world owed him. As if citizens were beneath him and laws were not meant for him. That was me at one time.

“Have a seat. Please.” Estap waved to the chair just in front of him.

Jaxon sat, gaze roving over the rest of the office. Plaques and certificates of achievement adorned the walls. Family photos were scattered in between. Thirtysomething wife with bright red hair, freckles, and a happy smile.

Was Mishka’s control panel hidden in here?

“You had a smooth flight, I hope.”

“Yes.” He said nothing else, hating the senator more with every breath he took.

A sigh. “You’re probably wondering why I brought you here,” Estap said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his middle.

“Not really.”

Estap blinked in surprise.

“Le’Ace or the Schön. Or both.”

A tense pause, then, “You are correct.” Estap leaned forward, pinched a folder and tossed it to Jaxon. “We found a male victim. I wanted you to question him, find out who he’d had contact with, but he decided to eat his doctor’s heart for breakfast and kill himself after.”

Though Estap spoke of murder and suicide, his tone was dry, slightly amused.

“We tried to remove the virus from his system. No luck. We tried to kill the virus. Again, no luck. It was like the damned thing anticipated our every move and worked to prevent it.”

“Have any of the victim’s family members exhibited any signs of the virus?”

“He wasn’t married, but no, his male lover has not.”

Jaxon flipped open the folder. Pictures of the now dead man stared up at him. Familiar graying skin as the disease rotted him from the inside out, patches of missing hair, sunken eyes. “Did you check him for recent sexual activity?”

“Yes.”

“And was he active?”

“Yes.”

“And did you ask the lover for an exact date for the last time they’d had sex?”

Estap shifted, crossing one leg over the other. “Yes. He refused to answer. Said it was personal.”

“Nothing is personal during an investigation. Have someone ask again and again until he answers. If it wasn’t recently, you can conclude that the vic cheated. And if he cheated, it’s safe to bet it was with a Schön. What about your doctors?” Jaxon asked, looking up. “Have they exhibited any signs?”

Estap licked his lips nervously. “Two. Having seen the other victims, however, they chose to kill themselves immediately rather than suffer.”

Or had they been murdered?

“What do you know about the virus?”

“We suspect it’s alive. An alien being with a separate consciousness from the Schön, searching for a host. We believe that taking blood from a victim is like signing your own death warrant.”