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  East Oakland, California, sometime after noon

  ZACH WALKED IN on the bloodbath that was Sanjeet Kamal’s rat-infested apartment. Every shred of patience, every fiber that was his conscience, and every cell in his body screamed injustice. The combination of the three shook him to the core. He’d never experienced a single one of them before.

  The minute he entered the dank putrid room he smelled the copper stink of blood so thick in the heavy air it was like breathing lead. Zach should have smelled trouble the instant he let his partner go up first.

  He looked hard at Mark Santos. “I’m not taking the fall for you, Santos,” Zach told his soon-to-be-ex partner.

  He’d never liked the way the guy had an excuse for every wrong turn, pointed the finger away from him-self, or the way bodies popped up behind him. And that was saying a lot considering Zach had done his fair share of skating under the Internal Affairs radar. He’d made his own very conscious choices throughout his personal and professional life. And the consequences that came with them were his alone to live with, but no fucking way was he going to be a consort to unadulterated murder.

  Mark looked up from the body, blood on his hands. Fresh blood. Warm blood. “The guy came at me.” Santos grinned, shrugged his shoulders, and slowly stood. “I was in fear for my life.”

  “Bullshit. He’s unarmed,” Zach said, looking down at the bloody body. There was nothing threatening about Sanjeet. For all that he was, he was a gentle man. He had a wife and two girls back in India he sent money to. The neat slice across his throat gaped open, the blood saturating his beige shirt and pooling on the linoleum floor beneath him. Zach felt like a piece of shit.

  His quest to save the world from rapists, pedophiles, and murderers had backfired. He glared at his partner. He was no better than Santos. He was a hypocrite. Only he’d justified it by killing only the bad guys. His anger swelled. Not only at Santos but at himself. It had to stop. Here. Now.

  It was past time Zach maneuvered his partner into an ironclad IA. The guy was lethal to citizens on both sides of the law, and Zach was tired of dodging his haphazard bullets.

  “Zach, the guy was nailing babies. I slit his throat. He deserved worse.”

  “Oh, really?” Zach sneered. He’d used the same lines to justify his own misdeeds to himself. He stepped up close to Santos. They were nose to nose, less than a foot separated them. “You stupid asshole, this guy was my CI, not the perp!”

  Santos shrugged, backed away, then squatted down next to the body again and casually wiped his bloody hands, then the six-inch knife in his hand on the white turban of the man who lay dead at his feet. “I guess next time you need to clarify.”

  “Don’t lay that shit on me. I told you we were looking for a two-hundred-pound five-foot-two Latino male. Not a seven-foot-tall Sikh with a damn turban!” Zach turned in disgust, wondering how the hell he would clean this mess up without getting dirty himself. He’d run his minor streak of luck with IA into the ground. They had his badge number on their target, smack-dab in the middle of it, a bull’s-eye. And everyone in the PD was taking their best shot.

  Before Zach could formulate more thoughts a shout outside the window caught his attention. “Let’s get the hell out of here before someone sees us.”

  He gave Santos a quick contemptuous glance over his shoulder to make sure the bone dick was following, then headed out of the suffocating heat of the apartment and down the infested carpet of the narrow stairwell. As crack houses went, this one was a five-star deal.

  Mark followed close on Zach’s heels. “So what? I made a mistake. That guy was a piece of shit like the rest of the addicts. I just saved the taxpayers of Oaktown a pretty penny by taking that guy out, and you know it. I should get a medal of valor for it.”

  Zach stopped and turned around; Mark’s shoulder hit him hard in the chest. Zach didn’t budge against the impact. His hands fisted and it took every bit of self-restraint he possessed not to send Santos to hell where he belonged.

  Where they both belonged.

  Instead he pushed back. His hands open, palms forward, he shoved Santos hard away from him. He could forgive a lot of things in a lot of people, including killing a dirt-bag piece of shit child molester by accident or on purpose. But he could not forgive sport killing. “I’m not going down for you.”

  Zach’s radio beeped three times in alert, then dispatch announced, “All units, four Charles thirty-two in pursuit southbound Bancroft, last cross Ninety-second Avenue, following black late-model Ford Taurus. Suspect vehicle wanted in Wells Fargo two-eleven. Shots fired at scene. Suspect is armed and dangerous.”

  “They’re headed our way,” Zach said, hurrying toward the unmarked car, and for the moment dismissing the fact his partner just slit a guy’s throat for sport and let him bleed to death.

  “All units available please switch to channel six.”

  “Let them know we’re around the corner!” Santos shouted to Zach over the roof of the Crown Vic. Zach hesitated only a moment before he pulled the radio off his belt and turned to channel six.

  “Detective seventeen, copy.”

  “Go ahead, seventeen.”

  “Detective seventeen in pursuit of suspect vehicle.” The minute the words left Zach’s mouth the wailing sound of the sirens crescendoed and a black Ford Taurus sped by.

  “What’s your Twenty, seventeen?”

  “Westbound on Ninety-sixth at Olive, directly behind suspect vehicle.”

  Santos hit the gas as Zach slammed the door shut. The cruiser sped up behind the Taurus. Zach tried to untangle the radio from the strap of his seat belt and put it on at the same time. He looked up just as the Taurus took a hard right into oncoming traffic. Santos made the cut behind the getaway car, the impact of the maneuver sending Zach slamming into the side of the door.

  “You son of a bitch!” Santos yelled at the getaway car. “You’re gonna wish you hadn’t done that.” He pushed his foot to the pedal and roared up behind the Taurus.

  Zach grabbed for the seat belt.

  Santos rammed the bumper of the suspect vehicle and whooped loudly as the Taurus fishtailed before quickly righting.

  Zach’s head hit the dashboard with a hard thud, pain speared to his temples. “Jesus, Santos, not on a crowded street.”

  Santos flashed him a malevolent smile. Shaking his head, Zach reached for his seat belt again, just as the premonition of what Santos’s intentions were hit him.

  His partner laughed, the sound demonic. He gunned the gas pedal again and slammed into the bumper of the Taurus just as it slammed on its brakes.

  Zach put his arms out to break the inevitable impact. Pain shot up his arms, he felt his elbows buckle and his body rush forward to meet the windshield, and the world went dark.

  • • •

  As Zach’s body bounced back from the shattered windshield with a hard thump from the impact of the hit, Santos stopped smiling. His brows crashed together and his jaw set. He turned the car sharply to the right and gunned it again, snagging the corner of the Taurus before hitting a parked car on the street. The Crown Vic shot into the air, and turned 180 degrees in the air, landing on its roof before sliding dozens of yards down the street to a hard stop against another parked car.

  Long seconds passed. Santos hung upside down in his seat belt. He shook his head and laughed, the triumphant sound reverberating against the damaged interior of the car. He resist
ed the urge to yell out a loud Whoop! His pain was minimal and lasted only a fraction of the time it had when in his mortal state. He laughed again. The sound deeper, richer, full of victory. Never once since his decision four years ago to give up his soul for immortality had he regretted it. On the contrary. He thrived. His strength and his senses heightened the moment his adrenaline quickened.

  He glanced at his partner, and his body surged with energy. He smiled at Zach’s crumpled form up against the shattered passenger window. Small shards of glass punctured his brow. Thin lines of blood dripped, giving him a bloody halo. Santos smiled. He would be rewarded handsomely for this kill. His stock continued to rise among the cell of Immortals assembling in the Bay Area, and his time for ascension was near.

  He reached to Zach’s neck and felt for a pulse. Despite the obvious injuries, it beat strong beneath his fingertips. Zach Garett had more lives than a damn cat.

  Easily fixed.

  In a quick chop, Santos struck Zach in the throat, the sound of crunching cartilage indicating his aim was dead-on. Zach moaned and coughed. Santos grinned in satisfaction when his soon-to-be-dead partner began to struggle for breath. His grin widened as he watched, transfixed as Zach’s unconscious body gasped for air that could not pass through his smashed larynx.

  The face women swooned over lost color, turning ashen. Zach’s chest heaved in a mighty effort for breath. Failing, it trembled, the wheezing echo of his laboring gasps turning to mere whispers of sound.

  Adrenaline surged through Mark’s veins with the knowledge Zach was on his way to hell. With each kill he became stronger. Possessing his victim’s life force. Soon there would be few who matched his strength. There certainly were no others like him who possessed his cunning.

  The overwhelming sound of booted feet stomping on asphalt mingled with the shrill sirens infiltrated the perfect moment of silence that was Zachary Garett’s death. Santos grunted in annoyance. His brothers in blue to the rescue. But too late for the one they called the Grave Digger.

  “Help! Garett’s crashing!” Santos screamed.

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  HE WAS FALLING—hard, fast, and headfirst. Heat scorched Zach’s skin, oppressive air clogged his lungs. He tried to spread his arms to slow his descent, but his limbs didn’t respond. He fought to open his eyes. They wouldn’t open. He wanted to call out to someone, anyone, but his throat was constricted, his body felt like stone. The heat intensified to unbearable. He couldn’t scream his agony.

  His spine snapped when a force took hold of his feet, halting the velocity of his wild descent. His body hung suspended, the heat suffocating, pain searing his lungs with each breath. Then by an unknown force his body turned upright and shot up. The heat cooled to warm as his body continued to rocket away from the incinerator below.

  To hurry his ascent his feet moved in a jerky scissor-kick motion. Just as suddenly as the pull began, all motion stopped. His eyes opened—to darkness.

  And silence.

  No, deeper than silence. Utter nothingness with just the distant roar of rumbling air engulfed him. He hung suspended, like a puppet floating in a pool without strings.

  A sharp force tugged at his foot, jerking him down-ward. A greater force from above yanked him free. A screech like a wild animal caught in a trap echoed through the dark, searing straight into his heart. Fear flashed into his consciousness. His body shuddered

  Then—nothing. His body grew heavy. His breaths slowed. He drifted . . .

  A sharp pull from below jerked him back into awareness. An equal pull from above pulled back. He felt like a bone in a tug of war between two pit bulls. He was powerless to stop it. He tried to blink his eyes but in his suspended state he could do nothing. Except listen. And feel the dark and light forces of energy swirl around him, battling for possession.

  In a forceful jerk, his body catapulted upward. The screech below resonated in his ears before it abruptly ended.

  He must be dreaming . . .

  Time stood still.

  Oddly, while conscious of his surroundings, he felt no emotion, no pain, just a sense of being. It occurred to him at that moment, he could not even feel the dull rhythmic thud of his heartbeat.

  The distant ring of a telephone shattered the moment.

  Where the hell am I?

  The phone continued to ring. Louder now. High, shrill rings. He envisioned an old-fashioned black dial phone, the same kind in the Perry Mason shows.

  His body lurched, an invisible force guiding it. He felt like a side of beef on a conveyer hook being led to the butcher.

  The ring increased in pitch.

  Far ahead the glow of light in the form of a rectangle illuminated the darkness. The ringing came from somewhere beyond it.

  Zach tried to move his head to look around, to get a sense of place. His sharp instincts failed him. He had no feeling of good or evil, safe or dangerous.

  How did he get here? Where was here?

  He swallowed.

  No pain from the collision.

  Collision!

  His recent memory flashed. Anger flared when he remembered Santos’s reckless driving and the last malevolent smile before he tried to kill him! Son of a bitch. He was going to let that fool have it when he got back. Zach’s skin flashed hot. He welcomed the sensation. The light became brighter and as he approached he saw that it came from behind a door. The shrill ring of the phone continued, demanding attention.

  A dull throb knocked on his temples.

  His feet touched a floor.

  He reached a hand to the handle illuminated by the bright light.

  Miraculously it obeyed his command. Sensation filled his limbs, the rush overloading his nerves. He shook it off.

  Slowly he turned the knob. It gave easily under the pressure of his fingers. He pushed slowly, and as it opened, bright light rained down on him. The warmth of it penetrated to his bones. Instantly he raised his face to it, like he had raised his face to the sun as a child. Sharp pain stabbed at his head as he remembered his childhood days. Memories he had pushed far and deep into his consciousness, too ugly to bear. Yet, here, they raged out of control like the screeching goblins from his childhood nightmares.

  Zach closed his eyes and shook his head. Demons from his past swirled and dove at him, snapping at him with sharp fangs. Their crazed laughter rising to a fevered pitch.

  He put his hands over his ears to drown out the sound, but the gesture only brought them closer. Just as quickly as the demons appeared, a sweet rose-scented breeze swept them away. Warmth filled his heart. He lowered his hands and smiled. She came for him?

  “Danica . . .” he whispered. He could feel her loving presence everywhere around him. It drew him up, gave him strength. His skin tingled, every hair on his body rose.

  He opened his eyes wanting with his entire being to see her face. The light dimmed to normal. He was greeted instead by the ringing phone sitting on a desk in the middle of the room with a single chair in front of it. He scoffed back a laugh. The phone was the old black desk type just like in Perry Mason.

  Tired of the incessant ring, he hurried across the white tile floor and picked it up. “Garett,” he said.

  “Take a seat,” a deep, authoritative voice commanded, “I’ll be right with you.”

  Zach opened his mouth to argue but the dial tone told him he had no audience. He replaced the handset in the cradle, looked beside him to the straight-backed wooden chair. His gaze traveled the perimeter of the room. Maybe fifteen by fifteen. In the corner to his right, another door. As he sat down the door opened.

  A man about his age stepped through. He wore black jeans and a black T-shirt, but Zach could see it was damp and there was a hole, like a gunshot to his chest. The man’s dark eyes swept across Zach’s face. He nodded imperceptibly, and said, “He’ll see you now,” then exited the door Zach had just walked through.

  Unhurried, Zach stood. He swallowed and for the first time felt the hard burn of his throa
t. He touched his fingers to it and winced. Pain exploded under the pressure. What the hell?

  He took a deep breath, the whistling sound of air fighting for passage through what he was sure was a crushed larynx.

  Zach didn’t bother to explore the depth of his injuries. The fact he was alive, standing and breathing, was good enough for him right now. He had worse things to consider. Like was this some new IA mumbo-jumbo tactic? Were they trying mind games to get him to cop to the dead CI? Or why the hell he’d totaled another city vehicle? Hell, why his partner had tried to kill him?

  Zach stepped into the room he was directed to. The man standing behind the white desk in the benign room was a stark contrast to it. He was taller than Zach’s six-three frame. He was dressed in black from his head to as far down as Zach could see from where he stood in front of the man’s desk. Dark blue eyes flashed beneath dark slashes of brow framing his face. Full lips, set in consternation, hovered over a square chin. Long wavy black hair flanked his broad shoulders.

  “Welcome, Detective Garett.” The man reached out a long arm, and pointed to the chair in front of his desk.

  Zach shook his head. “I’d rather stand if you don’t mind.”

  The tall one nodded. “I do mind. Have a seat so that we may begin.”

  “Begin what?”

  “Our chat. About what happened to you today.”

  “I’m not answering one question until my POA rep gets here and my attorney.”

  The man sat, the gesture slow and fluid. He reminded Zach of a jungle panther. Steely control and the ability to pounce on its prey and deliver a fatal strike in less time than it would to blink.

  “Who are you?” Zach demanded. He’d let his union rep know about this bullshit tactic. He turned to walk out the door. He gave the guy two seconds to come up with info. The man remained silent. “I’m outta here.”

  Zach strode toward the door and snatched it open. An enormous draft of hot air sucked him forward into raging flames just outside the threshold. Holy shit. Zach jumped back and slammed the door shut. What the hell? He turned, warily narrowing his eyes at the stranger.