Blood in the Ozarks

32. The Shed

Unnerving dial-tone continued to ring my ear as I tried to call Cian again. I knew Cian was mad at me, but he wasn't the type to ignore an emergency call. Cian was the kind of guy who would show up no matter who you were or how he felt about you. He was the golden retriever of federal agents. And the fact that he wasn't answering me was like a lead ball hanging deep in the pit of my stomach.

The tone paused as the phone clicked over to voicemail. Cian's pre-recorded voice was the sound of defeat.

"Cian, I know this is my third message--" and my twelfth call and probably my 86th text "--but..." My mouth was suddenly dry. I licked my bottom lips and sucked in a breath. "I need you. You were right. I can't do everything alone. And I won't lie and say Ortega's not here. He is. But I can't do this without both of you. I need you."

The phone beeped letting me know I'd run out of time.

I checked my text messages one last time. Nothing from Cian. The only new message was one from Yvonne that said, Sis says hook left! with no other context. I didn't reply and instead sent my final message to Cian before pocketing my phone.

Ortega leaned against the seat of his bike pretending not to listen as he stared down at his own phone. When I was done with my call, he pocketed his phone and flipped open one of the saddlebags on the bike.

Like a deranged Mary Poppins, he began pulling an arsenal out of the bag. He'd take out a gun, open the chamber, inspect the weapon then put it back. Then he pulled out a knife and did a similar ritual. After a few minutes he reached in and pulled out a machete.

I watched in horror as he unsheathed the blade, looked over the sharp steel, then gave a couple of swipes through the air.

"That's the one," he said to the large knife.

He slid the blade back into its sheath and then began attaching the absurd weapon to his side.

"You can't bring a machete into a bar," I told him.

Continuing to yank on the straps, he retorted, "But you can bring several guns?"

I turned and headed for the entrance. "Two is not several," I muttered to myself. I didn't mention any of the other items I'd gone back to the hotel to grab.

A couple of department vehicles told me the deputies were back at the bar for another round. Otherwise the bar seemed less busy based off of the lot. There were a few cars to bob and weave through, but not nearly as many as the first night I'd gone there.

All I needed was to find Daryl Blackwood or someone high up with the fiends so I could tell them about the wolf. I didn't want to start a war, but I didn't want people to keep dying--fiend or not. They deserved to know what had been targeting their Pack. Once I talked to them we could figure out the next step for catching the son of a bitch.

Ortega caught up to me and stuck close to my back as we entered the rundown bar. Once again the air was filled with the tension of power. I silently wondered if at this point the building itself held mystic energy from housing the supernatural for so long.

As promised by the parking lot, the bar was less lively when I walked through the door. The deputies were there, but they weren't playing a game of darts or pool. And the hair on the back of my neck rose when I realized not a single one of 'em had a drink. No beer in hand. No glass nearby. The few that were there sat as if waiting for a cue.

Across from them, I spotted Sheriff Dinah sitting at the bar. With a less than welcoming aura, she sat poised on the bar stool with her legs crossed. Although her appearance was Dinah as usual--a beige sheriff's uniform, hiking boots, and her gray streaked tresses tied back into a ponytail--something about her had shifted. Her dopey smile was gone and a darkness sat behind her usually bright eyes.

The lack of Lynda's bedazzled bartending was already unsettling, but the way Dinah was commanding the rows of empty seats made the bar top appear even more grim.

"Hello, agents. You made quite the time getting here." Dinah paused and glanced down as if she wore a watch. "That couldn't have been more than half an hour since you left the hotel."

I didn't like that she knew what time I'd left the hotel.

"Considering the pit stop, I'd say that's pretty impressive."

Ortega scowled, but held back his tongue.

"Dinah," I started with caution. "What's going on? Where's Daryl?"

Where were any of the fiends? The deputies were the only patrons in the bar, and I was beginning to feel they weren't there to blow off some steam after work.

"I'll be honest with you," she said. "I haven't got a clue. But if he were here, he'd be fucking dead."