Requiem: A Montague & Strong Detective Novel (Montague & Strong Case Files Book 13) Read online

  Requiem

  A Montague and Strong Detective Novel

  Orlando A. Sanchez

  Contents

  About the Story

  Quotation

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Author Notes

  Special Mentions

  About the Author

  Bitten Peaches Publishing

  Acknowledegements

  Contact Me

  ART SHREDDERS

  Thanks for Reading!

  About the Story

  No matter how fast you are, you can’t outrun your past.

  When Ramirez receives a call from Shadow Company, he uncovers secrets from Simon’s covert operative days and an instruction: contact Simon.

  An agent Simon thought dead, has resurfaced, looking for vengeance and his help.

  Now, together with Monty, Simon must stop this agent from exacting revenge before it’s too late and countless lives are lost. Will Simon succeed in keeping his past hidden? Will the past come to haunt his present and destroy his future?

  “I have long had the taste of death on my tongue.”

  -Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

  ONE

  I stepped into the lobby of Haven and did a double-take.

  I immediately noticed the heightened security strategically placed around the lobby, though they were working hard at trying to blend into the decor of the reception area. This only made them stand out more. I easily counted six security personnel spread out around the space.

  Whoever trained this group needed to brush up on the “hiding in plain sight” lesson of the curriculum. I stepped to the closest guard, who eyeballed me warily.

  I could tell from his energy signature that he wasn’t run-of-the-mill security. This was a group of high-level mages. Roxanne wasn’t relying on just wards and runes anymore—she had raised the stakes and she was betting it all on the house.

  “When did Roxanne hire your team?” I asked, looking around at the group of mages still trying desperately, and failing spectacularly, to blend in. “She expecting another attack?”

  Tall, muscular, and wary gave me the once-over, determined I wasn’t a threat, then looked down at my ever-friendly, super approachable hellhound, and paused.

  Peaches was giving him his best hellhound grin, and I struggled to keep a straight face. All this did was scare the security mage, who took a step back, letting his hand drift to his side, and to his weapon.

  “What kind of dog is that?” he asked, pointing at Peaches, who was doing a horrible impression of Fangs and Cuddles. “I’ve never seen that breed before. What’s wrong with his eyes?”

  “He’s not a dog, actually,” I answered, lowering my voice and leaning in conspiratorially. “He’s more of a hellhound. That’s why his eyes glow.”

  “Hellhound, right, sure,” the security mage said. “Pull the other one.”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t in the convincing mood, and he was just doing his job. He didn’t have to believe me and I didn’t have to make him. No harm, no foul.

  “Why the extra security? Is the hospital on lockdown?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, Mr.—?”

  “Strong, Simon Strong. I know Roxanne.”

  “Who?” he asked. “Do you have some ID, Mr. Strong?”

  “No need to get all Fort Knox on me, big guy,” I said, reaching for my wallet and stopping when I saw him tense. Things were not developing well. “I was just asking about all the extra security.”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss details, sir,” he said. “I don’t know a Roxanne. No one here does. Please remove the ID slowly from your pocket. Thank you.”

  “Seriously,” I said, handing him my license, “everyone knows Roxanne. I mean everyone.”

  I proceeded to grace him with my best Sting rendition of the classic. Clearly, he was dumbstruck by my virtuosity, because all he could do was stand there in shock.

  I had that effect on people.

  Then I realized there was a good chance he wasn’t on a first-name basis with the Director. It made sense. She may have just hired them. She would have made sure to keep it professional, after all. I paused my version of Roxanne, which was so amazing even Sting would weep tears of applause, and clarified my association with Roxanne—the Director, not the one who didn’t have to put on the red light.

  “Director DeMarco? She’s a good friend of mine,” I said, looking around. “Is she around?”

  I noticed the glance he gave his team. Subtle he was not. The glance was basically a message of, “harmless lunatic on the floor, escort out with minimum attention,” to the rest of the team. I saw them move. They were pretty good, and approached at oblique angles. No one had a weapon drawn.

  Smart move, kept things de-escalated…except that trying to box me in was the exact opposite of de-escalation. Trying to box in my hellhound—my very overprotective hellhound—was the opposite of a smart move. It bordered on suicidal, unless—of course—you had a large bowl of pastrami in your hands.

  However, I did appreciate the effort. It looked like they had paid attention during the “coordinated attack” lesson. It wasn’t their fault that they hadn’t trained for the possibility of encountering an offspring of Cerberus.

  It was hard to plan for every contingency—especially hellhounds.

  Two of the team, the ones furthest away from my location, resembled boxers as they slowly bounced on their toes. The other three were forming a cordon to make sure I had limited options of exit. Primarily, my options were limited to the exit they chose.

  They approached carefully. I’d like to say it was because I was such an imposing figure, but I’d be lying. It was more likely due to the now alert hellhound by my side who sensed the team closing in on our position.

  Peaches gave off a low rumble, which stopped everyone in their tracks.

  In retrospect, mentioning Roxanne by name may have been a mistake. This team was especially twitchy. It could’ve had something to do with Haven being attacked by Evers not too long ago. Or having parts of the building blown to bits—none of which, I promise, was my fault. I may have been on the scene, but I was definitely not the cause of the scene.

  I moved my hands slowly into the air in a surrender pose as Peaches entered rend-and-maim mode.

  “Listen, we really don’t want any trouble,” I said. “Trust me on this. What’s your name?”

  “Everyone calls me Tank,” he said, putting his hand on his holster. I was glad I had kept my jacket closed. If he saw Grim Whisper, things would go sideways fast. “You can call me Mr. Tank.”

  “Okay, Tank,” I said, extending my hand as he examined my license. “I’m just here to see a close friend. No trouble and
no shenanigans. Just here to see a recovering friend.”

  “What are you?” Tank said, narrowing his eyes at me. “You’re reading all over the place, but I know for a fact that you’re no mage.”

  “No,” I said, “I’m a little more complicated than that.”

  There was nowhere that conversation could go, except south. I opted on the side of discretion and limited my response to the bare minimum.

  “I bet,” Tank answered slowly, blading his body away from me. “How about we take this conversation into the office? I’m sure we could find this Roxanne friend of yours. Get you all sorted out and on your way.”

  “You’re not paying attention, Tank,” I said, repeating his name deliberately to increase his focus. “Your team thinks they are dealing with a threat. I am not, in any way, shape, or form, a threat to you.”

  “See? That’s good,” Tank answered, as his team slowly closed in. “The last thing anyone needs today is a threat. I know you don’t need one, and I certainly don’t need one. Here you go.”

  He handed me my license, which I returned to my wallet, inadvertently causing my jacket to open. This in turn revealed my oversized holster which held Grim Whisper. This caused Tank to open his eyes, first in wonder, followed immediately by a look of suspicion, and lastly by a decision for overt violence…directed at me.

  “I have a perfectly good explanation for—”

  “Gun!” Tank yelled as he drew his weapon and aimed at my face. “Get on the floor…now!”

  I want to say that what happened next wasn’t my fault, but I’d be lying. Some of it was my fault.

  Most of the blame lay with Peaches.

  TWO

  Peaches didn’t even wait for the command.

  He blinked out and reappeared several feet higher, moving at speed and aimed at the now truly-shocked Tank. He crashed into Tank’s chest, unbalancing him. The next moment, Peaches’ massive jaws were clamped down so hard on the arm holding the gun, that I heard Tank gasp in pain.

  With a few head shakes, Tank was easily disarmed.

  Actually, it was incredibly impressive. I had no idea a hellhound could build up that much speed over such a short distance. Peaches slowly began applying pressure. I could tell this because the grunts of pain escaping Tank began increasing in volume.

  The jaw strength of a hellhound has not, to my knowledge, ever been measured. I would guess it had something to do with the fact that if a hellhound had you trapped in its jaws, the last thing you’d be thinking about—aside from the excruciating pain and imminent loss of whatever body part said hellhound was latched onto—was, How much jaw pressure is being exerted on my soft tissue and delicate bones?

  At this moment—from the look of surprise mixed with terror on Tank’s face—I would have to say things were not heading in a positive direction for any of us.

 

  “No!” I said out loud, hoping to assuage Tank. “That’s a good boy. But Tank needs his arm. No chewing.”

 

  Tank looked at me in confusion.

  “Did…did you just say he was a good boy?” Tank asked as he looked at Peaches and then back at me. “Really?”

  I held up a finger.

  “Give me a second,” I said, focusing on my exuberant hellhound. “Do not remove his arm. Or…no extra meat.”

 

  I don’t pretend to understand hellhound logic. Even when it seems to make some kind of sense.

 

  “Yes,” I answered, turning my focus back to the now pale Tank. “Is your arm still attached to your body?”

  “Yes,” Tank said as sweat started forming on his brow.

  “Then he’s being a good boy, trust me. Do you want your arm to remain attached?”

  “Yes. I’d really prefer my arm attached.”

  “Are you lead on this team?” I asked. “If not, who is?”

  “I’m lead,” Tank said with a nod. He was drenched in sweat now. I feared he would soon go into shock from the pain. “Can you tell him to ease up? I can’t feel my fingers.”

  “Sure. Call off your team…now,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Unless you want to go from Tank to Lefty.”

  Tank slowly raised a shaky hand and shook his head.

  “Stand down,” he said, his voice tight with pain. “I’ve got this under control.”

  The team stopped closing in on us.

  “Weren’t you briefed on—what would you call it—cleared visitors, or something like that?”

  “Just started…today,” Tank answered through a grimace. “This was my…first shift. Was just about to check the Vetted Visitor Log when you walked in.”

  “That’s it! The Vetted Visitors,” I said, relieved he had jogged my memory. “Where is it?”

  “Front desk and my phone.”

  “Where’s your phone?”

  “Front pocket.”

  I reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. I held it while he accessed the page of Vetted Visitors. The first name on the top was mine.

  “What’s that name at the top?” I asked. “Can you say it out loud?”

  “Simon Strong, vetted visitor authorized by Director DeMarco.”

  “See?” I said. “This has all been a misunderstanding.” I glanced at Peaches. “Maybe Monty was onto something with the whole diplomacy thing.”

  “Mr. Strong, I’m really sorry,” Tank said apologetically. “You started singing and acting strange—then I saw the gun, and my reflexes kicked in.”

  “No, no, I totally get it,” I said, returning the phone to his front pocket. “These things happen, believe me.”

  “Could you, you know, ask your dog, sorry, your hellhound to let go of my arm?” Tank asked. “I can’t feel anything now.”

  “Oh, shit, sorry,” I looked down at my awesome hellhound protector. “Let him go, boy.”

 

  “Excuse me?” I said, glancing behind me quickly. They still looked plenty twitchy. “Tank, you did tell them to stand down, right?”

  I didn’t sense any of the mages spooling energy, but by this point they could have had enough energy stored to blast me to bits several times over, if I recalled Rey’s analogy correctly: Mages have the capacity to store energy within, like the bucket heads they are, or something like that. It wasn’t an exact recollection, but I knew I was close.

  Tank didn’t immediately respond. His delay made me twitchy.

  “Tank? Did you tell your team to stand down?”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied quickly. “I’d like to keep my arm, sir.”

  “Good, because Roxanne would kill me if I did anything to destroy her—”

  I sensed the orb before it slammed into my back. I managed to rotate my body to avoid the brunt of the impact, and a broken back.

  Percussive blasts, how fun.

  Percussive blasts were low on the showy energy that Monty used, and high in the kinetic department. It was why I hadn’t sensed much of an energy signature. That explained the bouncing mages. I should’ve known something was up. Most mages don’t bounce; at least I’d never seen Monty bounce.

  Using percussive blasts only required kinetic energy by the user. (Yes, I had been studying.) The two mages in the back didn’t need runes to cast. Just moving their bodies was enough. It was similar to my magic missile, except instead of using life force, they used motion—and it hurt like hell.

  The blow punched me across the reception area and into a very solid wall which, rudely, had no give at all. Pandemonium ensued. The lobby, which was still fairly populated as Tank and I conversed, now lost its collective mind.

  As I slid down the wall and onto the floor, I wondered why this chaos was called pa
ndemonium. Pandas were slow-moving, gentle bamboo eaters. What was happening in the lobby presently was closer to hellhoundemonium.

  It’s never a good idea to attack the bondmate of a hellhound. Never.

  Peaches blinked in and out of sight as he pounced on and mangled the security personnel. In a few seconds, the entire security team was incapacitated and in serious need of medical attention. Luckily, we were in one of the best medical facilities on the eastern seaboard.

  He reappeared in front of Tank and gave off a low bark which spider-webbed all of the glass in the lobby. Someone had the presence of mind to hit an alarm which locked down the lobby. Klaxons went off and all the doors locked. Red emergency lights flooded the area in an eerie glow. Under the noise, I thought I heard the sound of metal grinding against metal, but, honestly, I couldn’t be sure.

  I walked over to the now scared shitless Tank and drew Grim Whisper.

  “That was not cool, Tank,” I said as Peaches growled in agreement. “Not cool at all.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Tank pleaded, holding up a hand. “It was the Knockers.”

  “The who?”

  “Knockers,” he explained. “That’s what we call percussives—Knockers.”

  “Your Knockers slammed me into a wall, and—you know what? I can’t even finish that sentence. You’re lead, your team, your responsibilty…your pain.”

  Peaches growled in agreement again—a little louder this time.

  “Wait a second, Mr. Strong,” Tank replied nervously. “This is all a misunderstanding, like you said. Remember diplomacy? Let’s try that—diplomacy. We can talk this out.”