The Supernatural Bounty Hunter Files: Special Edition Fantasy Bundle, Books 6 thru 10 (Smoke Special Edition Book 2)

by Craig Halloran

  There was something odd and unnatural about all the men in the picture. Their features were sharp, but their skin was pasty. Some of them had long black fingernails. They were an odd bunch.

  “Look at that one over there, on this guy.” Smoke pointed at the screen. “It says Guermo. What does that mean?”

  Typing in a new command, Sam did a search but apparently didn’t find anything meaningful. “I’ll send Russ a note. Maybe he’ll know.” She launched a text.

  Smoke and his crew had kept in touch with Russ Davenport. He’d been a solid resource, but he found the recent quiet odd. He’d made that clear. “When things are quiet like this, it means something big is happening,” he’d said.

  Smoke was inclined to agree. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it everywhere he went in DC. He refocused on the group picture. The image in the center. “Can you tell if this photo was digitally doctored?”

  “No, it wasn’t. At least I’m pretty confident it wasn’t. The thing is, the background behind our invisible man is blurred. It’s a storage room, and you can see the shelves and boxes behind him, but they’re blurred just a bit. Computers can fill that in, but the contrast is too smooth. I’m convinced we’re looking right through him. He’s invisible.”

  “Or a vampire,” Guppy said. “You can’t take pictures of vampires, can you?”

  “You watch too many movies.” Sam’s pretty face frowned. She shivered and rubbed her upper arms. “That thought just gave me the willies. Tell me, Smoke. Tell me there aren’t any vampires in DC.”

  “I thought you liked these supernatural creatures.”

  “I do, but I don’t know, that sent a chill through me. Look, I’ve got goosebumps up to my armpits.”

  Smoke tried to recall something that Adam Vaughn the Wolfman had said to him. He’d talked of vampires and called them Euro trash. There had been another incident too. At the mausoleum amid the gargoyles, an eerie man called Boss had mentioned vampires to Sid.

  Phat Sam’s phone buzzed. She eyed the text. “It’s from Russ. He says germo or guermo is old Spanish for The Many.” She stuck her tongue out. “Uck, that explains those eyeball tattoos. Man, I’m thinking you should kill those dudes if we cross them at The Guillotine. None of that sounds right at all.”

  Her phone buzzed again.

  “Russ wants to know what’s up. What do I tell him?”

  “Nothing. We need to get ready.”

  Buzzzzzzzzz.

  Sam checked her phone screen. “Yuck, it’s a pic of that eyeball thing.” She showed it to Smoke. “Look.”

  It was graffiti spray-painted on a wall, a cluster of eyes with wavy tentacles encircling it. Below, it read Guermo—in what looked like smeared blood.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Well, this is it,” Guppy said, pulling the SUV into the parking lot of The Guillotine Club. It was late night, and the moon was still full. He shut off the engine of the 1979 blacked-out custom Ford Bronco and peered over the wheel. “I think we have the only American wheels on the lot.”

  Sitting in the passenger seat and wearing a black dress that would make Elvira proud, Sam added, “You can say that again. Is that a Bugatti?”

  Smoke, in dark glasses, sat in the back seat, snacking on some pretzels and finishing off a chocolate shake. Like Guppy, he was in a dark dress shirt and nice dark dress slacks. His cuff links and tie had a little goth look to them. He sucked every last bit of shake out of his straw.

  In an agitated voice, Sam said, “Will you stop doing that, Smoke? You aren’t five anymore. Oh never mind that. The last time I was at the movies, some thirty-year-old was sucking out every bit of his Slurpee.” She shook her head. “People these days.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that guy ever coming to the movies again,” Guppy said with a chuckle. “You scared the Slurpee right out of him.”

  With smiling eyes, she said to Guppy, “I sure did, didn’t I?”

  Smoke stuck the cup in a holder. “Sorry Sis, but I’ve got to have my energy shakes. Let’s go.”

  The Guillotine was in an industrial graveyard along the Potomac River. Dark neon colors glowed in gothic designs on the face of a tall building covered in metal sheeting. The parking lot was full of exotic cars. Most were European, but there were a few classic American muscle machines as well. A few people lingered by their cars—smoking, snorting, and chatting. Their hair, skin, and clothing all had a bizarre dark look to them. Techno, punk, gothic, it was a smattering of darker enriched society.

  “Oh man, I hope they don’t allow smoking in there,” Sam said. “I hate going into places where I come out smelling like a chimney.”

  Guppy looked at the cigar he’d just taken out of his shirt pocket. “I was counting on it.”

  “Well maybe you should make some new friends and hang out by the Bronco.” She reached for the cigar.

  Guppy deftly put it away. “I just want to blend in.”

  Smoke looked at the entrance. “Let’s get inside and see what’s happening. If you meet anyone, let me know. If any crap goes down, meet at the car.”

  There was a line to get in, fronted by a couple of bouncers who looked like they hadn’t stopped their cycle of steroids since the turn of the century.

  Smoke said to Sam, “This is your arena. Lead the way.”

  Sam sashayed right up in front of the bouncers behind the velvet robe. “Good evening.”

  Both bouncers slowly eyed her generous curves.

  The biggest one—with a chewed-up ear and a gold rope necklace—removed the velvet rope and stepped aside. “And a very good evening to you.”

  The bouncers patted the three of them down first, but they were in.

  The inside of The Guillotine didn’t disappoint: neon lights and a long bar with countless glass shelves of alcohol behind it. The men and women danced wildly and cavorted to techno music that pumped so loud it shook the tiny high glass windows.

  Smoke and company squeezed through the hard bodies on the dancefloor and cut toward the tables on the other side. A pair of women showing more skin than clothes rubbed up against Smoke’s limbs and urged him to dance. Feeling the beat, he started to shake his head and wiggle his shoulder. The women’s decorated eyes lit up with sultry fever.

  A hard shove from Sam righted his course when she yelled, “Get moving. You’re engaged, remember.”

  Stuffing his body into the nearest empty seat, Smoke took note of Sam’s word, engaged. He had no idea where he stood with Sid. He’d asked her to marry him and then everything had turned to disaster. Engaged or not, he was determined to find her.

  “See any big shots?” Smoke said to Guppy.

  “Tables up top,” Guppy replied. “Those dudes up there are packing some concealed hardware. Want me to check it out?”

  Getting up, Sam said to Guppy, “I’ll check it out. You stay put.”

  Smoke got up, and Guppy said, “Where are you going?”

  “You stay here. You’re the check point.”

  Guppy got out his cigar. “Fine by me.”

  Smoke cut through the cigarette vapors and sauntered through the club. He tuned into the voices. There were a lot of Europeans, which wasn’t anything uncommon in DC. He just wasn’t used to seeing so many clustered together in the same spot. Thick in their accents, their brash talk and laughter caught his ears. He didn’t understand most of it, but could pick up bits and pieces. He’d always enjoyed straight-talking people.

  They might smoke too much, but they’re kind of fun.

  Glasses still on, he scanned the many faces and didn’t see anything familiar. So far as he could tell, The Guillotine was just another club where the rich and spoiled liked to hang out. In the darkness, hands shuffled small bits of contraband back and forth. Others more brazenly huddled over white lines on the table.

  Making his rounds, Smoke was stopped by one of the bouncers, who gave a shove to his shoulder. He wore a T-shirt with The Guillotine’s logo on it.

 
The bouncer spoke with an English accent. “Are you lost?”

  “Where’s the bathroom?” Smoke replied.

  The man eyed him and pointed. “Downstairs. Be careful. All sorts linger in those shadows. They’ll probably take to you, though.”

  “Thanks.” Smoke made a beeline for the stairwell, where he now saw neon signs that read Ladies’ and Gents’. On his way down, he passed some people wobbling on the steps. One woman in a scanty red sequined dress was gripping the railing saying, “I don’t want to ride the roller coaster.”

  When Smoke pushed his way inside the black door of the men’s room, the smells and smoke about knocked him over. It was a big bathroom, along the lines of something in a football stadium, with big metal troughs, industrial steel stalls, and freestanding porcelain sinks from the 1950s. The walls were covered in graffiti, and plenty of men, mostly young, moseyed in and out. He slipped into one of the stalls and closed the door.

  This place should be on an episode of Dirty Jobs.

  He took a leak, turned to leave, and then saw the image on the inside of the door stall like a slap in the face. Guermo was spray-painted over a collage of eyes with tentacles. He headed for the sink. Given the clientele, he’d expected the furnishings to be richer. There wasn’t even a washroom attendant. With his hands dripping with water, he discovered the paper towel dispenser was empty. He was headed for the one on the other side of the room when a man with a slender face and broad nose wearing a grey turtleneck shoved in front of him.

  “You’ll have to wait, heh.”

  Smoke eyed him.

  The man’s distinct features popped. It was one of the men from the picture, the one with dark-red hair. He had a Guermo tattoo on his forearm. His skin was more grey than white, almost clammy.

  After drying off his hands, the man pulled his sleeves down over his corded forearms. “You’re American.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Nah, not really, we just don’t get a lot of Americans around here.”

  “Is that so? You aren’t used to seeing many Americans in America?”

  The man tossed his paper towel in the overfilled waste basket and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Something like that. But don’t get all riled up. I know how patriotic you Americans tend to be. I’m just making small talk, as you people say. You look like a veteran? Are you a veteran?”

  “I am.”

  The bathroom was empty aside from them until two men entered and blocked the door. It was a pair of gothic goons. Tattooed faces and several piercings. The sleeves were torn from their tuxedoes.

  “Well, that’s good to know. I respect America and what it’s done, so I promise to see to it that you get a proper funeral.” He pulled out a switchblade. “I just hope you have ID on you.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Smoke looked down at the pasty-faced man. “So you’re going to try to kill me with a knife?”

  “Oh no, I am going to kill you, and those two uglies at the door are going to clean the mess up.” He shrugged. “Nothing personal, just orders.”

  “So your boss doesn’t like Americans?”

  “No, my boss doesn’t like spies. Especially spies for The Drake.”

  Crap! Sam and Guppy are in trouble.

  Mind racing, Smoke filed through his options: Keep the man talking. Deny his affiliations. Perhaps they were just testing him. He wanted to say he didn’t work for The Drake, but he’d taken their money, so in plain fact he did work for them. He wanted to lie, but he prided himself on being truthful.

  Options, options, options.

  “You look like the type of man who enjoys a challenge, and I’m unarmed, you know.”

  “Well, as one of America’s favorite cowboys once said, ‘You should have armed yourself.’” Quick like a snake, the man lunged at Smoke’s throat.

  Smoke slid to the side and punched the man square in the jaw. The blow should have dropped the man like a bad sparring partner, but it didn’t.

  Great Dane.

  Staggering back with wide eyes, the man looked at Smoke anew. “Clever, American.”

  The goons crept closer.

  The man said, “Stay back. I can handle this one. It’s been some time since I’ve had a challenge.” He withdrew another switchblade and attacked with both hands.

  Smoke slapped the strikes away. His arms were long, but the man’s blades cut the distance, taking away his advantage. He countered the strikes with punches of his own. He punched the man in the chest and kicked his legs out from under him. Dancing like a boxer, he said, “So, you like American movies? Did you ever see Rocky?”

  With a scowl on his face, the man rose again. There was fury in his eyes. “A survivor, I see. You won’t last, though. No one ever lasts. Now your hope will die just like Apollo Creed’s in those boorish Rocky films.” He pounced.

  Smoke saw it coming. He saw everything coming. It was a gift. Seizing the momentum, he rammed the man’s head into the wall and bent the man’s wrist behind his back, dislocating his shoulder.

  The man screamed, “I’ll kill you! You can’t kill me, but I’ll kill you!”

  With the man’s wrist still locked up, Smoke checked his pulse. There wasn’t one.

  That’s what I thought!

  The man was some kind of a deader, but more functional, much like the Ratson brothers.

  I wonder how this one dies.

  Smoke wrenched the switchblade from the man’s dead grip. “You know, you really aren’t a very good fighter.”

  Spitting through his teeth, the man said, “You don’t have to be good when you’ll live forever!” The man was strong like an animal, but his struggles were in vain.

  Smoke had him under control. “No one is going to live on this world forever, especially not you.”

  The man laughed. “Why, because you think you’re Rocky?”

  Smoke shoved the deader’s head down on the sink and said in a throaty voice, “No, because I’m Batman.”

  “Will you two fools stop standing there and shoot this man!”

  On order, the other deaders took out their pistols and blasted away.

  Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!

  Smoke shielded himself behind the one deader, who screamed, “Stop shooting me!”

  The firing stopped.

  Smoke let the one deader collapse to the floor and seized the pause between the hail of bullets to catch the goons flatfooted. He kicked one in the gut and doubled him over. He punched the other one in the jaw and dropped him. Grabbing a gun and not taking any chances, he clocked the one holding his gut in the back of the head, knocking him out.

  “You’ll die for this,” said a raggedy voice. The red-haired deader on the floor was chewed up with bullet holes. One bullet had clipped his throat, but he didn’t bleed. “Vormus will have your guts for dinner.”

  “Thanks for sharing.” With the music still thumping above, Smoke emptied the magazine on him, then tossed the gun away and raced up the steps. At the top, the bouncer who had pointed out the restroom signs to him started to turn. Before he could see that Smoke was still alive and raise an alarm, Smoke punched the deader in the throat and shoved him down the steps.

  He needed to get Sam and Guppy to safety. He couldn’t have been happier when he saw both of them sitting together at the table. Sam was pale faced. Gesturing for them to follow, Smoke headed into the kitchen behind one of the bars.

  “We need to go.”

  There was an exit in the back, and he led them to it. He pushed his way out and found himself standing on the backside of the building. There was a handful of people that didn’t even glance at him. He motioned for Sam and Guppy to come out, and then they casually made their way around the building, through the parking lot, and into the Bronco.

  Guppy fired the engine up.

  “Thank God,” Sam said, holding her head.

  “Are you okay?” Guppy said.

  “Yes, just go, go, go!”

  “Yeah, you really need to get rolling
, Guppy. I left some new friends in bad shape back there.”

  The Bronco’s engine rumbled, the back tire grinded on loose stones, and then straight out of the parking lot they went.

  Sam was buckled in her seat, her face ashen. Her fingers were locked on the seatbelt.

  Smoke spoke to her gently. “What happened, Sam? What did you see?”

  “She saw him,” Guppy said. Sweat beaded on his head. He wiped it off with his sleeve. “Never seen her like this.”

  “Saw who?” Smoke fought the urge to look back at the club.

  Sam rolled down her window all the way and leaned out. “I need some air.”

  “She thinks she saw the man who wasn’t in the picture,” Guppy added. “It made the hair stand up on my arms when she told me. She said his white eyes were like hypnotic moons, or something like that.”

  Sam was sitting normally in her seat now, but her chest was heaving. “Smoke, I went up there, and the minute I did, I felt cold. Something drew me in deeper, and the next thing I knew, I was eye to eye with that man who was invisible. He was surrounded by people, just like in that picture. At ease. Relaxed. Perfectly in place, like a puzzle piece. Somehow, I tore my eyes away and left. They were laughing. I wanted to get out of there so bad.” She reached back and grabbed his hand. “Thank God you came.”

  Smoke’s neck hairs stood on end. A shadow fell over the car.

  Out of nowhere, a man landed on the hood, standing. His eyes were bright as moons. His fangs were sharp slivers of white silver.

  Sam screamed.

  CHAPTER 8

  “How are his feet sticking to the car?” Guppy yelled.

  A man with long snow-white hair stood on the hood of the Bronco. His eyes were white hypnotic fires. Rippled by the headwind, his silky clothes tore at his lean body. He stepped forward, and his long fingers clamped into the steel on the car’s roof.