Bloodshot: Kingdom of Shadows (Kindle Worlds)

by Jonathan Janz

  Ahead of them the door slammed shut. The little bald vampire leaned against it, his ugly face expressionless. Jillian noticed with a tremor of misgiving that a great many of the vampires who’d been collected around the stage hoping to sup of Philip’s blood had taken new positions along the base of the catwalk.

  “What is this?” Lou demanded, some of his poise crumbling. “I mean, you think my uncle’s gonna stand for this?”

  “Your uncle,” Harker said, hands folded behind him, “needs to learn who the dominant clan in this city is.”

  Lou put his hands on his hips. “Is that so?”

  “It is for this reason,” Harker continued, moving closer to Jillian. “I will leave one of you alive.”

  “One of us,” Lou repeated.

  Frankie tossed up his hands. “Isn’t it obvious? They’re gonna let the girl go free and feed us to those freaks down there.”

  An audible growl arose from the crowd at Frankie’s words.

  Harker eyed him craftily. “I’d be careful with my tongue if I were you, Mr. Canelli.”

  Frankie took a step away from the catwalk’s edge, looking like he might be sick.

  “No, the girl will die,” Harker said, “along with our friend, Mr. Lazarus.” He smiled mysteriously. “As recompense for past sins.”

  “And what about us?” Lou asked.

  Harker’s eyebrows rose. “You? Why, you three will turn on each other until only one is left alive. The survivor will be permitted to return to the world above to spread the news of what transpired tonight.”

  There was a gravid silence as Harker’s words sank in. Eddie Maza said nothing, but there were beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. Lou Carboni appeared to be deep in thought, but he was doing his best to look unconcerned about it. Frankie grinned nervously and shook his head as if it were all a big joke. But his grin stopped well short of his eyes.

  But Jillian wasn’t thinking about the three criminals and their fates. She was thinking about Lazarus, praying he wasn’t killed earlier by that truck. And if he had been, she hoped he could return from death one more time.

  Please, Lazarus, she thought. Please be alive. And please get here soon.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  They climbed out of the cab, Malcolm telling the wrinkled old driver to wait. The cabby nodded, not listening to Malcolm, only staring at Lazarus’s monolithic form striding away toward Lou Carboni’s five-stall garage.

  Malcolm hurried after, wondering what kind of security Carboni had. He was a Carboni after all, which meant he was constantly under threat of attack. From a rival mob wanting to settle an old score. From some other citizen he’d wronged somewhere along the way. Even from his own crew. The mob was like that. They pretended they were all family, and Malcolm supposed they were—if one defined family as a group of people who killed each other when it suited their purposes.

  Lazarus reached the garage unmolested, and kicked open the side door.

  If they hadn’t seen the taxi pull up, Malcolm thought, they surely would have heard the imploding door. It had cracked like a pistol shot. Malcolm glanced about, waiting for Carboni’s men to converge on the garage. He peered fretfully up at the sprawling stucco mansion, waiting for the wicked cavalry to burst forth in a hail of Uzi fire. Most of the windows in the three-story structure were illuminated, with insects and moths tapping the panes and flitting about as if eager to seek refuge from the approaching battle.

  The taxi pulled away, and Malcolm realized with a rush of apprehension that he was totally vulnerable out here. He hurried after Lazarus. Stepping through the splintered garage doorway, he sighted Lazarus right away—the man was hard to miss—wrapping a steel chain snugly around his forearm and wrist. He’d bunched the sleeve of the trench coat around his elbow to perform this task, and now that the chain had mummified the big man’s forearm in cold steel, Lazarus was just able to slide the trench coat sleeve back over it.

  Malcolm inched deeper into the garage, which was so gloomy due to the encroaching evening he could scarcely see. Evidently Lazarus’s sight was working just fine because the man’s movements were as brisk and assured as ever.

  Without acknowledging Malcolm’s presence, Lazarus rummaged through a large metal cabinet full of tools until he came out with an extension cord and a sawzall. Then, eyes doing a brisk scan of the wall, Lazarus selected a slender but sturdy steel rod about five feet long. Lazarus gripped the rod, smacked it a couple times in his palm as though testing its solidity, then twirled it the way a swordsman would handle his sword.

  Misses his katana, Malcolm thought.

  And on the heels of that: He’d still have his katana if you hadn’t set him up today at the museum.

  I didn’t set him up, Malcolm argued, but it was a feeble defense. He knew he had betrayed Lazarus, and not knowing for sure what sort of perils the vampires had prepared for Lazarus was no kind of excuse.

  So make up for it tonight, a voice in his head urged.

  Malcolm nodded to himself. He felt hollowed out and dismal, but he could still do his best to make things right, couldn’t he?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the whine of the sawzall biting into the tip of the steel bar. Lazarus was slicing lengthwise, the cut advancing squarely down the middle of the steel bar. He stopped the cut after about six inches. That accomplished, Lazarus tossed the sawzall aside like a fast-food wrapper and locked the bar cut end up in a big table vise affixed to one end of the workbench. Lazarus selected a hammer and chisel from the particleboard tool holder above the workbench and set to work flaring out the cut ends of the bar, fashioning, Malcolm now realized, a sort of harpoon. As Lazarus hammered and molded the steel, Malcolm looked around nervously, noticing as he did how all five stalls of the garage housed an expensive car: a white Rolls Royce, an older Corvette, a pair of red Porsches, and at the far end, what Malcolm thought was an Aston Martin. The man had good taste, Malcolm had to admit. And lots of money. Anyone with the resources to afford five luxury vehicles could certainly afford extra security. On the heels of this thought, a voice from the shattered doorway shouted, “What do you think you’re doin’ in here?”

  Lazarus appeared to take no notice of the newcomer, who to Malcolm looked like the sort you wouldn’t want to anger. The guy was bulky, with shoulders so wide they barely fit through the doorway, and a nose that at some point had been badly broken. The guy had a crew cut and wore a black tee shirt and blue jeans.

  He came around the Rolls Royce. “I asked you a question,” he said, flaring his back muscles so that his arms spread even farther apart. “You better have enough money to pay for that door.”

  Lazarus blew the steel shavings off his makeshift harpoon. Without turning, he said, “Where’s Mrs. Carboni?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Crew Cut said.

  “You a bodyguard?”

  “That’s right. I’m to make sure no one messes with Lou’s family.”

  Before Lazarus could answer, the man’s mouth opened in surprise. He moved closer and stopped maybe ten feet from them. “Hey, you’re the guy,” he said. He frowned. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  Lazarus squared up to him, and the man took an unthinking step backward. Despite Crew Cut’s girth, Malcolm was astonished at the size difference. Lazarus made the bodyguard look like he was in grade school.

  “I’m here because your boss took something of mine,” Lazarus said.

  The man shook his head. “Lou don’t need to steal. As you can see, Lou does very well for himself.”

  Lazarus appeared to appraise the bodyguard. “You’re a strong guy. You good with a gun?”

  Crew Cut lifted the front of his black tee shirt, revealing a tight, ridged stomach and the wooden handle of a pistol. “I can hit what I need to.”

  Lazarus eyed the handle. “You’re not careful, you’ll hit more than that. I’ve never understood why someone would carry a gun that way.”

  Crew Cut tilted his h
ead, looking slightly puzzled by this. “I never had any accidents.”

  Malcolm was sure Lazarus would beat the man to death then or perhaps spear him with his new harpoon, just to make sure it functioned properly. But Lazarus surprised him by saying, “What did you do to get this job? Take a bullet for Lou? Get injured working for Uncle Benito?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Crew Cut said. “Now get out of here before I show you how qualified I am to do this job.”

  Lazarus said, “You’re overqualified. That’s why they kept you on the payroll when you got hurt.”

  The man started to protest, but Lazarus overrode him. “Your shoe. It’s prosthetic, isn’t it? You don’t limp too badly, but I noticed it when you recognized me and walked over here.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” Crew Cut said and reached for the gun.

  Lazarus was on him in a flash. But rather than knocking him senseless, Lazarus merely seized the man’s wrists and spoke rapidly into his face. “I don’t wanna hurt you. I will if I need to, but I’d rather not. Your boss kidnapped a good woman today, and she’s in serious danger. I need something from inside the house, and I’m gonna get it. You can either show me where he keeps his computer or I can find it on my own.

  Crew Cut started to struggle, but Lazarus merely squeezed. Crew Cut’s mouth opened in pain and emitted a high-pitched groan. “I mean it,” Lazarus said. “Help me, and I promise no one gets hurt.”

  Crew Cut grimaced a moment longer, then nodded rapidly.

  Lazarus released him. Crew Cut bent over, panting and massaging his wrists. Lazarus moved past him in the direction of the door. Malcolm followed, but kept throwing backward glances at Crew Cut, sure the big man would fire on them. But soon Crew Cut followed.

  On the way to the house, Crew Cut said, “I think you broke something in my wrist.”

  Lazarus didn’t turn. “Mild ulnar contusion. Ice it and it’ll be fine in a few days.”

  Lazarus mounted the side porch steps and paused at the door, Malcolm beside him. As Crew Cut ascended the steps and began typing in the security code on the glowing green keypad, Crew Cut glanced at Malcolm and asked, “He always like this?”

  “Not really,” Malcolm answered. “Ordinarily he would’ve just killed you.”

  There was a click, and Lazarus went through the door. Malcolm followed, leaving Crew Cut gaping after them.

  Lazarus heard a woman call, “Danky, could you run out and get me some more Grey Goose? I’m fresh out.”

  Moving in the direction of the woman’s voice, Lazarus turned back to the bodyguard, eyebrows raised. “Danky?”

  The bodyguard put on a tough expression. “Name’s Ed Danks.” Then, under his breath, he added, “I always tell her not to call me that.”

  “It’s cute,” Lazarus said, stopping before they entered what appeared to be an indoor poolroom. “Why don’t you introduce us, Danky?”

  “Shut up,” Ed Danks muttered on the way past.

  They followed Ed Danks into a surprisingly large pool area that was so warm and humid Lazarus’s skin was instantly filmed with perspiration. It felt okay, though. His body had been sorely overworked over the past few hours combating the bullet wounds, the fractures and bruises he’d sustained from his five-story leap, and of course the severe trauma he’d sustained from the delivery truck collision. After all that, the sultry air was soothing.

  There were two women poolside; one was very young and apparently sleeping. A Cosmopolitan magazine lay open on her face, shuddering slightly with her breathing. She wore a skimpy black bikini and had spilled a drink and its umbrella stirrer on the concrete beside her chaise lounge.

  On another lounge chair closer to them a raven-haired woman who looked like she was in her early thirties lay on her stomach, her eyes closed and her face resting on her folded hands. Inches from her face sat a small rectangular box with slightly rounded corners. It reminded Lazarus of a miniature computer tablet, except in this one the screen was a blaring white light that made his eyes hurt.

  “Hi, Danky,” the woman on her belly said. “Did you find my Grey Goose?”

  Ed Danks’s tone was respectful. “Uh, Mrs. Carboni? There’s someone here needs to talk with you.”

  “If it’s my husband, you can tell him to go to the casino tonight. I’m not in the mood for physical contact. At least not with him.”

  Danks blushed, appeared to study his shoes. “It’s not your husband, Mrs. Carboni. It’s … somebody else.”

  Languidly, Mrs. Carboni turned her head and opened her eyes. She cocked an eyebrow up at Lazarus, her face coming to life.

  “I assume you’re the somebody else?” she said.

  “I’m Michael Lazarus,” he said. “And this is my associate, Malcolm.”

  “That’s not your name,” she said. “Your name’s Angelo Mortalli.”

  Lazarus kept his expression neutral.

  She propped up on an elbow, revealing ample breasts that her one-piece swimsuit struggled to contain. She seemed to inspect him. At length she said, “You’re paler than you used to be, but I like you better this way. You’re harder … stronger. Like you don’t drink as much.”

  “What’s your name, Mrs. Carboni?”

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” she said.

  He thought about it. “Not really.”

  “We met a couple times before they set you up. I thought you were good-looking, but like I said, a bit soft around the edges. Even though you were a hitman.”

  He nodded at the glowing rectangle of light. “What is that thing?”

  “It’s my happy light,” she said. “I get depressed sometimes, and this thing simulates natural light. You look different than you used to.”

  “Where’s your computer, Mrs. Carboni?”

  “You used to be way too cocky. You were big and handsome and always had your eye on the ladies. It’s what got you in trouble.”

  He controlled the rise of anger. “I need your computer.”

  “The name’s Gia.”

  “Gia?”

  “It’s actually Gianara,” she explained. “But I’ve gone by Gia ever since I was a girl.”

  He smiled. “You’re not much older than a girl now.”

  “You sound like my daughter.” She nodded toward the passed-out girl with the Cosmo on her face.

  Lazarus eyed the womanly body beneath the bikini. “She’s not your daughter. Not unless you had her when you were fifteen.”

  “Stepdaughter,” Gia explained. “She’s from Lou’s first marriage.” Gia surveyed the girl dourly. “Candace and I don’t get on that well, what with my being only about ten years older than she is. But we both like to drink, so at least we can do that together.”

  “Looks like she likes to drink too much.”

  “You’ve changed,” Gia said, settling her impish gaze on Lazarus. “The old Angelo wouldn’t have been able to keep his eyes off her in that little bikini.”

  Lazarus cleared his throat. “May I see your computer, Gia?”

  “Help yourself,” she said. “Laptop’s over there.”

  He strode over to a glass table and opened the Mac laptop. There was wireless, which was good. Even better, he realized as he laid his big hands on the keyboard, like many Apple products, the Carbonis had everything connected via Airdrop. That would make matters even easier. He closed his eyes, concentrating. Unless something had happened to him, Lou would have his iPhone on him, and most mobile devices came equipped with a built-in GPS. Yes, Lazarus thought, the information swarming through the nanites and storing itself into his brain. He had Lou’s location—and more importantly, Jillian’s location—but he wanted more. He closed his eyes, concentrating. The others were engaged in conversation over by the pool, but Lazarus blocked all that out. He sifted through countless documents, e-mails … Yes, he thought. He could follow the e-mail chain … infiltrate the firewalls of Carboni’s associates … now the big picture was crystalizing, the tiles of a vast mosaic snicking into
place … he almost had it …

  Yes, he had all he needed and more.

  Rejoining them, Lazarus said, “Mr. Danks, I would appreciate your assistance.”

  “Assistance how?” Danks asked.

  Malcolm frowned at him. “Don’t you need to get Lou’s whereabouts?”

  Lazarus shook his head. “I already did. Mrs. Carboni, will you please get some different clothes on?”

  “Where’re we going?”

  “Underground.”

  “Wait a minute,” Gia Carboni said, shaking her head. She stood, tottered a little, and grabbed Lazarus’s arm for support. “I’m not going anywhere, and neither is Danky.”

  Good thing we got here when we did, he thought. She’s tipsy already, and it’s only seven p.m.

  “Listen carefully,” Lazarus said. “Where we’re going is very dangerous, but by midnight tonight there won’t be a safe place in this city for you, and not for anyone else associated with the Carboni crime syndicate.”

  She folded her arms, a sassy gleam in her big brown eyes. She looked good, Lazarus decided, but if she didn’t knock off the booze she wouldn’t look good for too many years longer. “I’ve never committed a crime in my life,” she said. “And if I wanna stay here by my pool and relax, I’m going to.”

  “But your husband has committed crimes. Plenty of them. So has just about everyone else connected with the Carbonis. Do you have any idea where your husband is, Mrs. Carboni?”

  “Gia,” she corrected. “No, I don’t, and to speak frankly, I don’t particularly care. If Louie wants to have his fun on the side, that’s his business.” She gave Ed Danks a brief but meaningful look. “Goodness knows I do.”

  Danks reddened.

  Lazarus said, “Your husband kidnapped a woman tonight and took her to another group. But do you know where he is now?”