Sins of the Undead Patriot. a.c. Mason

      As a siren chirped, blue-and-red lights flashed in Leera’s rearview mirror from the unmarked car tailing her. She hadn’t been speeding. Her car was new so the lights shouldn’t be out. She was within the demilitarized zone of Washington DC–a police state with no weapons. So what then? Two black armored vehicles with CPD on them–Check Point Defense–blocked both lanes ahead. She signaled to indicate she was pulling over, brought the vehicle to a complete stop and turned off the engine. What could the feds want with her? Growing up, she remembered her father being pulled over because of racial profiling, but compared to zombies, African Americans had nothing to worry about these days. And she’d certainly never had a run in with the authorities.

      A tall black man in a charcoal-gray suit stepped out of the car and strode toward her. He tapped on her window with his knuckles. Credentials flashed–Homeland Security. She didn’t catch the name, as he flipped it closed. Good-looking, young, professional. His skin was quite a few shades darker than hers. Reflective sunglasses covered his eyes.

      Leera pressed the button, lowering her car window.

      “Step out of the vehicle, Ms. Waltz.” His tone was smooth with a hint of a British accent. One of his upper front teeth had a gold cap at the edge. He stepped back.

      After unfastening her seatbelt, she opened the door and rose. The frosty air chilled her exposed legs. She pressed her thighs together for warmth and held her jacket closed.

      He had broad shoulders and a few inches on her, and the man had something sweet, even innocent, about his smile. Those were the men a woman had to be wary of...much like her father.

      “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” His mirror-shaded gaze traveled up her figure. The corner of his mouth quirked upward. He licked his full lips.

      What? He was going to arrest her. On what grounds? “Have I done something illegal, sir?”

      He grabbed her forearm and twisted.

      “Ouch.” Pain shot up her arm, causing her to flip around. If he was trying to scare her, he’d succeeded. Cold metal snapped onto her wrist and pinched her skin. “That hurt.” She jerked back, right into him.

      “Resisting arrest?” He forced her against the vehicle, crushing her.

      “No, sir.” She wasn’t about to give him legal grounds to arrest her if he didn’t have any yet.

      He cuffed her other hand, opened the door, pulled the key out and locked her car. “You and I are going to take a ride together.”

      A ride? That didn’t sound official. “Am I under arrest?”

      He pressed his lips to her ear. “Maybe. Depends on my mood when I’m done with you.”

      After he’d done what with her? There was nothing more that could be done to her. Losing her husband had already killed her.

      The hatch of the armored vehicles opened. A blond man in a CPD uniform with a crew cut and light eyes popped up from the one closest to them. A real military jarhead. “Feisty little thing. Need a hand?” He signaled to his twin in the other vehicle.

      “Thanks, Reid, but I can take it from here.” The man who’d cuffed her tilted his face toward her, eyes fixed on the soldier. “You don’t want to find out what he’d do to a pretty thing like you.”

      Wasn’t he the one taking her for some type of ride?

      With a roar, the military rovers rotated and headed in the opposite direction.

      What on earth was going on? Just wait until she called Peter. “I have rights. My brother is a lawyer.”

      “I’m aware, Ms. Waltz.” His eyebrows shot up. A deep rumble rose from him as he grabbed her arm and shoved her toward his vehicle.

      Taking side streets didn’t seem as clever now, did it? Not a car or civilian in sight to witness her mistreatment.

      “You had rights. You see, when national security is at risk, the rights of the many outweigh the rights of the individual.”

      National security? “You must have me confused with someone else.” She was a chef, for crying out loud. Her skills were in the kitchen where she could make a mean souffle, creme brulee and coq au vin.

      “I definitely do not. You are Leera Waltz, widow of Jean Denoix. Daughter of Jerome and Eliza Waltz. The late senator, your father, managed to become the first elected official to the senate from DC and maintain the only area not under martial law. His wife, your mother suffered a great deal of depression, bouts of emotional breakdowns, hospitalization, all written up as mental illness. I suspect it was all the lying your father did, or was it the beatings? I heard he was a vile man with a stern hand, but what do I know.” He smirked. “Poor little Leera didn’t do much better. You were diagnosed with depersonalization disorder. Who do you blame for that? Your father’s rampages or your mother’s inability to protect you?” His hand pressed on her head, then his body forced her into the car on the passenger side.

      He had access to her medical records. The only legal option was a subpoena on the grounds she was a threat to national security. As long as he didn’t arrest her, he didn’t have to give her Miranda rights, which meant she was screwed.

      He marched around the front with his hand on his gun. The man was prepared to shoot her. My God, for what reason?

      “Well, is Mommy dearest or Daddy to blame for your inability to connect with others?” He sat in the driver’s seat, turned the key and peeled onto the road.

      Her parents had done the best they could. “Neither.”

      “Oh, come now...kids aren’t born as screwed up as you turned out.” A grin parted his lips. “Or was your smarts the issue? An IQ of 131 could make you a difficult know-it-all. None of the other kids wanted anything to do with you. What a disappointment you must be to your late father.”

      Nothing she had ever done measured up in her father’s eyes, so why bother trying? She had left that for Peter.

      “And yet, I feel sorry for you,” he said, trailing the back of his index finger up her cheek.

      She jerked away. The last thing she wanted was for people to feel sorry for her. Not that he appeared to mean it.

      “Your husband dies, and you can’t even mourn him. Pathetic. Wouldn’t you say?”

      In her own strange way, disconnecting from her emotions was her way of showing how deep the wound of losing him ran. Coldness was all she had.

      He turned off the road and pulled up next to a warehouse. The red aluminum siding had a thick coating of dust. On the horizon, the sun grew orange in the distance. He yanked her out of the vehicle.

      “Ouch.” For all she knew he wasn’t even a Fed. She couldn’t really picture CPD helping him if he wasn’t, though. “What do you want with me?”

      “Are you offering me something?” He leaned in, breathed deep and let out a misty exhalation of stale coffee.

      Yuck.

      He unlocked the door at the side of the building and pushed her in.

      She stumbled forward. At the center of the room was a table with a chair on each side. Four bulletin boards with glossy photos reflecting light thumbtacked in groupings were pressed on the walls.

      “You will be by the time I’m done with you tonight.” He shut the door behind him.

      Not