Page 69 of Shadow Hunter

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An hour later Damon sat facing the rows of monitors in his home control room as Tiffany lingered outside the doorway, pacing. Sweat gathered on his palms, and a dry feeling filled his mouth. The last time he’d spoken with the Sergeant had been directly after Mark’s death. Headquarters designated all accidental deaths as “under investigation,” and Damon had been the Sergeant’s lead witness.

As one of the highest-ranking military officers in the Execution Underground’s recently formed chain of command, Sergeant James Winfield took shit from no one and commanded respect without even batting an eye. He was one of only a handful of men among the organization’s admin who Damon absolutely refused to spar with, because he was not about to embarrass himself by having his hind end handed to him on a platter by a man twice his age. With years of prior military experience, age was nothing but a number to the Sergeant and at fifty-six years old, he could still kick some serious field operative ass.

Aside from his salt-and-pepper hair, the gruff bastard didn’t look a day over forty, and he didn’t fight like an old man, either.

Though already there were rumors of a future buyout circulating. One which would privatize the organization, thus severing the Execution Underground’s military ties, and leaving the Sergeant and many of the organization’s founders, among others, empty-handed. The Sergeant may have ridden his ass on occasion, but Damon wasn’t a fan of the idea, but even as one of the Execution Underground’s founding hunters, it was out of his hands.

The green light on Damon’s switchboard flashed, and the alert alarm sounded throughout the apartment. Tiffany jumped at the sound. On first moving in, Damon had rigged the sound system to blare in case of emergencies, and the Sergeant calling him definitely qualified. With a deep breath, Damon pressed the button to accept the call.

A small beep sounded, and then the Sergeant’s stern face appeared on the nearest monitor, with Damon’s own image boxed in the lower left corner of the screen.

The Sergeant’s lips made a tight line, and he cast a frustrated glare at Damon. “What the hell sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into now, operative?” he barked. “Your city’s little vampire-turned-zombie video bullshit is raising holy hell. Do you know how much damage control that cost the security department?” When Damon didn’t respond, the Sergeant yelled, “Answer the damn question, operative!”

“No, sir. I don’t.”

The Sergeant eyed Damon up and down. “A hell of a lot. That’s how much. I don’t give a flying shit if the video had nothing to do with you. It originated from your division area, so therefore you’re responsible. Understood?”

Damon nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Damon refrained from pointing out that therewasno established division in his area, at least not yet, which is exactly why he’d chosen to come here. But The Sergeant was not thekind of man to parse hairs with. Not unless he wanted to drown in paperwork.

The Sergeant glanced down at a stack of papers lying in front of him. “Your nerdy tech tells me you believed you killed the son of a bitch who was injecting these bastards, but it appears you were wrong. Is that correct, operative?”

“Yes, sir,” Damon replied, gritting his teeth.

Sergeant James frowned. “You want to explain to me how the hell that happened, operative?”

Damon dug his fingers into the armrests of his chair. At the moment, there were very few things he wanted less to tell the Sergeant about than his failure to follow code and his misconceptions. He really hoped it was a rhetorical question.

No such luck.

The Sergeant banged his fist on his desk and glared at Damon. “Answer me, operative.”

Damon inhaled a deep breath. “I received misleading information, sir. I was under the impression that the vampire at large, Caius Argyros Dermokaites, was responsible for the spread of the virus, and as a result I sought his death. I was mistaken.” Damon didn’t regret Caius’s death, not for a second, and neither would The Sergeant, but “mistaken” was putting it lightly.

The Sergeant shook his head as if Damon blew it on a regular basis when it came to protocol. In truth, never once had Damon been admonished for a protocol infraction. Hence how he’d fucked up when it came to Mark. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was play by Headquarters’ rules. This is what he’d signed up for after all.

“From whom did you receive this faulty information, operative?”

Damon fought to keep his face impassive. “An outside informant, sir.”

“And who is this outside informant, operative?”

“A family member of a former E.U. operative who is highly knowledgeable about the current vampire situation in Rochester, sir.”

The Sergeant let out a long sigh. “Dear God, Brock. This doesn’t have anything to do with Operative Solow’s sister, the one you’re always daydreaming over whenever you have your damn head in the clouds, does it?”

Damon didn’t respond. There was no point. The Sergeant had busted him more than once for reading Tiffany’s letters over and over when he should have had his mind on his training.

Damon heard steps behind him.

Fuck.No. She was not about to—

Tiffany stood behind his chair, posture perfectly straight and confident as she smiled at the Sergeant through the screen. “That would be me you’re talking about, sir, and yes, Operative Solow was my older brother.”

Shit. Shit. Double shit.What did she think she was doing?

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