The first was that her enemies couldn’t surprise her by arriving in the heart of town unannounced. The second, and most important in her book, was that while her patrons couldn’t drop themselves into creation, they could follow those who used that particular mode of travel if they were “suicidal, incompetent, or ignorant enough” to do so while standing near one of the spots where they took sacrifices. A drop on the other end of the city would not end too badly, other than being cut off shot. One too close to the building, however, would apparently become “unpleasant” pretty fast.
I still had no firm idea of just what her patrons were like, but the bits she’d described hadn’t been pleasant, so it’s little surprise that I instead chose to use the last bits of my cash and call a taxi.
The taxi pulls up to a stop outside of Cafe du Monde. I pay the driver the last of my money, step out into the street, and find myself immediately drenched in rain. The foot traffic outside of the coffee shop has all but disappeared since I’d left this part of town a few hours before, and the only people left out on the streets are me, and the mercenaries.
They’re easy to spot, because both of them had lifted their heads to track the movement of the taxi when I’d arrived, and are not shy when they start jogging my way with hands tucked into their jackets.
Anyone looking at them, me included, can tell that they’re not reaching for cell phones under those jackets. These guys are armed, and while the others who’d come after me seemed to take great efforts to not hurt me too roughly, these guys, I’m sure, are here for murder and murder alone.
I feel my breath catch for a moment, because despite all the times that it’s happened, I’ve never gotten wholly comfortable with the idea of someone trying to kill me. That lack of air doesn’t make me freeze up, though. Once again I feel my body spasm with a flinch and once again I embrace it - turning the motion into a full on sprint down the street. I have my lighter out and sparking in my hand by the time I come near a corner. The wind flying by from my sprint is giving me trouble in creating a spark, and the rain overhead isn’t helping.
I pause in flicking my wet lighter long enough to throw a look back over my shoulder just in time to see one of the men skid to a halt, set his feet wide, and start aiming his weapon with steady hands down the street at me.
Instead of turning around and continuing to run in a beeline, I throw myself forward in a dive that turns into a mud splashed skid. I don’t hear the sound of a gunshot going off, but I do see a piece of brick wall on the storefront next to me chip off, and hear the flitt, flitt, flitt of very fast somethings flying by overhead.
My stomach clenches in worry again. Suppressor, and one good enough to really tamp down on the noise of a gunshot, I think. Despite their usefulness, I really don’t bump into men with suppressors that often, and even fewer with suppressors on weapons modified or designed to not cause the crack of a sonic boom. These guys, while not subtle, have no intention of letting anyone else interfere.
My stomach clenches again and I realize, with a little bit of worry, that I’d half, or maybe a little more than half, been depending on something like a police patrol to come by and complicate things. Funny, because despite all the shit that I’d done to make some money for me and Mary, I still think of cops of, if not the good guys then at least the cavalry. They won’t be coming to help me now, which in its own way is good I think. After all, I’ve seen what others in this company did to cops who got in the way.
None of this, however, stops the gunman from shooting at me. It’s a miracle that I’ve not been hit yet, and I have no intention of letting it stretch itself any further.
I scramble onto my hands and knees, and instead of getting up to run again, hunch over, using my body to create some shelter from the rain and wind. I hold the lighter under myself, flick the wheel again, and pray.
The drop was more abrupt than those that I’d experienced before coming to this goddamn state and city. I land nearby, as I’ve increasingly come to expect, but at least, when I look up, I see that I’m no longer directly in line with where the mercenary was shooting. The man no longer aims his gun level with his eyeline, and now holds it in a low ready position. He pivots at the hips, turning his head left and right until he again sees me. He tries to snap the weapon backup and in line with his eyes again, but by then, I’ve already turned a corner behind a building. Two steps later I set my eyes on a rooftop on the opposite side of the street, and after taking some care to snap a clear flame with the lighter sheltered in cupped hands, make a drop to the best high ground that I can see.
For the minutes that follow, I watch the mercenaries looking for me. I let them catch glimpses of me once or twice while I do so, dropping down to a piece of sidewalk that has some hard cover nearby, before dropping back up to a rooftop or other hiding place. They follow me as if my sightings were a trail of breadcrumbs, over the hour that follows. Eventually, we come to the edges of the neighborhood which holds Graham’s shop. I make another appearance for the mercenary just near the edge of a street corner before dashing out of sight so I can make another drop. The rooftop I land on is right beside and above the following mercenaries. I expect him to keep following where he’d last seen me, which is in the direction of the Graham’s shop. Instead, he surprises me.
One of the mercenaries sets eyes on a street sign at the neighborhood’s edge, then hastily steps off to the side of the road and retreats back several blocks. His pace is so fast that I actually have trouble making drops fast enough to keep up.
He actually gets a little ahead of me, and by the time I make my way to a place that’s close to him and still hidden, he already has his gun hidden and a waterproof cell phone held up to his ear.
“Yeah.” he says into the phone. “I didn’t realize, but she led me straight to your guys. I didn’t see if she made a stop there, but I thought you’d want to know.”
A voice that I can’t hear over the distance and rain buzzes back through the phone at the mercenary’s ear. He stiffens, for a moment, then relaxes.
“OK, good to hear.” he says. “With the primary down, we can wrap up this thing. Finish up in there then send someone out to come help me with this Robin lady.”
The voice on the phone says something in return, but I’m too distracted to try and listen in anymore.
There’s a deep feeling of unease going in me. Things are adding up, and not well for Graham, or me. He’d stopped and turned tail the moment he’d realized that I’d come back to Graham’s place. Whatever was going on there, he wasn’t supposed to be part of it. What’s worse, he’d said that I wasn’t the primary, and that the primary was down. I have more than an inkling that Graham does not play well with others of any stripe. The only people that the mercenaries could possibly be after in this city were Graham and me. And whoever they’d downed inside wasn’t me.
Shit. Shit shit shit. These mercenaries had never been after me after all. Some way or another, they’d been after Graham. Yet another ally that I’d led these mercenaries straight to again.
But, come to think of it, wasn’t that the plan all along? It had made sense to me as something to do, to lead the mercenaries, and through them, Ole Beeze, to where Graham would be waiting with a one way ticket to her patrons.
The fact that the mercenary had in fact followed me all the way to Graham’s place should be a victory for me. I should be happy, ready and waiting for the inevitable arrival of Ole Beeze.
I’m not though, and now that I let myself think about it, I realize the two reasons why.
Part of it has to do with Graham herself. I don’t know her well, but I do know this - she’s an ally, and one who’s backed me. Three years ago, when Mary had been taken, I’d called on friends, rivals, and everyone else in between in an attempt to put together a crew that could help me save my sister. Every single person, save for one, who’d agreed to help me was gunned down within an hour of taking my
call. I’d been sloppy in my haste, and their deaths were in no small part my fault.
And now, here I am, repeating history with my newest ally. I’m not going to let her down like I did the others. Not if I can help it one bit.
None of that makes me an angel, because the other thought keeping my mood tamped down is a whole lot more selfish. The mercenary I’d led here recognized the place, or at least something near it. He’d known where Graham’s place was long before he saw me. If Graham had been his company’s real target after all, and if she was indeed down, then it means that they were ready for her. And if they’re ready for someone like Graham, they’re more than able to take down someone like me.
“Like hell.” I don’t realize that I said it out loud until the mercenary talking on the phone below me jerks and snaps his head up to look in my direction. He still has the gun on his body, but it does him no good, because I’ve already got a brick from the side of the rooftop in my hand and am in the motion of throwing it, hard, downward at him.
I’m not that strong, but my throw is accurate, and the thirty or forty feet worth of distance between me and the mercenary on the street is more than enough to make up for what I lack in muscle. The brick hits him full on in the face, and he crumples to the ground as a crunching noise echoes up between the buildings. I flick my lighter, make another short drop, and land beside him a moment later.
The voice on the phone is still speaking, apparently unaware of what I’d just done. I lift it up to my ear and stiffen when I hear the voice more clearly. My first instinct is to put the phone down and just leave. Get in a car and leave this whole stupid fucking city and this stupid fucking state. Drop to someplace tropical, and make sure that I still have money stashed away in dead drops the world over.
I could do that, but I don’t. I don’t because I’m tired of having the rug pulled out from under me. And honestly, I’m just tired, period.
I clear my voice and speak.
“Hi, Tom.” I say. “Or hi, shithead wearing Tom, at least. Been wondering when you’d call me.”
The voice on the other side doesn’t pause before speaking again.
“Hello, little imp.” he says, and when he does, I notice the accent of the man slip away, replaced by another accent that is even more familiar.
“Beeze.” I say. Fucking Beeze.
“Got it in one.” he says. “You know, I was wondering if it would all be for nothing. You’re usually so smart, or at least clever. I thought that you’d maybe see through me, recognize me.”
He laughs.
“I guess I was overly cautious.” He says. “Apparently all I had to do was stop fiddling with coins, and pick up an accent. Disappointing, really.”
I smile. The expression feels odd on me, almost as if my skin has stretched too wide for what could usually be called a grin. My heart is beating pretty fast, and I feel another emotion, something that I’d not expected, bubbling up in me.
It’s not rage, like what I’d been feeling for days. It isn’t frustration either. Not anymore, at least.
It’s hunger, I realize. It’s excitement. It’s knowing that all this shit is coming to an end, one way or another.
That’s not a sane thought. But then again, nothing about this has been remotely close to sane since Mary was taken from me. May as well embrace it, right? Especially if it gives me what I need to do whatever comes next.
“Stay right where you are Ole Beeze.” I say. “You can show me just how disappointed you are in me.”
“You know where to find me.” He says, and the phone goes quiet.
I put the phone down and wipe off a few splashes of rain off the screen. Looking at it, I realize how he’d found me, and through me Graham. The phone he’d given me was nothing compared to the older, heavily encrypted model I’d carried around back when I’d had Mary. Even with all the bells and whistles attached to it, however, it didn’t prevent Tom and his people, back when Tom was people himself, from tracking me and the allies I’d spoken to with it. The new phone had no prior associations with me, which is why I’d assumed it was safe enough to use for a day or three. It would have been safe, if Ole Beeze hadn’t been the one to give it to me. With that phone bugged, they could have followed me accurately to the ends of the earth.
No use worrying over that now. I had people to kill and devils to feed to unspeakable things.
I look from the phone to the mercenary on the ground, still knocked out cold on the edge of the street. What I find in his jacket pocket isn’t useful for killing Ole Beeze. There’s nothing there but a small pistol, a spare suppressor, and a spare magazine. I find three more magazines in the matching pocket on his jacket’s other side. I take the gun, switch out the suppressors, and feed in a new magazine. It’s not much, but it’s a start, and a start’s what I need.
Stepping back out into the street, I look down the road to where Graham’s place is set up at the crossroads down the way. I take the pistol in my hand and thumb back the hammer.
Yeah I think. A start is the only thing I need.
CHAPTER TEN
I start making drops over towards the block that holds Graham’s Wine and Grocery store. My progress is good until I come within a mile or so of the place. After that it got… weird.
The first clue of something, something more, at least, being wrong comes when my time spent in the empty space between drop and landings lasts for a second or more long. Whether I’m dropping through Hell anywhere else in the world, or the odd in between place found while dropping in New Orleans, I usually spend so little time downstairs that the most I get to notice is a sensation of heat or cold.
This time, I actually see something. Gone is the wide, spacious pit of falling and flame that I’m used to seeing. Instead, what I find around me is… nothing. Not just a lack of fire, or even a lack of light. The space around me is just that, space, empty of everything save for the air I breathe.
Stumbling, I land back in the world a moment later. I blink my eyes, and blink again when I find that they’ve been covered in frost, I shake my head, and watch as pieces of hair break off, frozen solid, break off and float to the ground. The fabric under my fingers is cold and stiff to the touch, as if I’ve been dropped into the world’s most powerful freezer on the drop. That in itself is scaring me.
The fact that I can’t feel the cold, however, scares me even more.
I look down at my hand, the bloody one, still wrapped in a now dirty washcloth. My hand hasn’t hurt once this entire time that I’d been back here. The absence of pain that I’d felt there while driving in the taxi away from here had been so pleasant it was almost like drinking. Somehow, I hadn’t noticed it. Just like I hadn’t noticed the cold.
I’m used to picking up a burn or scratch here and there while dropping through Hell. Dropping through this new place, however, so close to Graham’s shop, seems to carry its own set of obstacles. I can’t tell how badly, or if at all, I’ve hurt myself. But I also don’t have the time to sit here waiting to see if this turns out badly down the line. I’m still a ways out from Graham’s place, and I have a dozen or more drops to make until I can get to her and Ole Beeze.
My next few drops are more of the same. Emptiness, blackness, and a cold I can’t feel. My fourth of fifth one is a little different though, because on that one, I can tell that I’m not alone. I’m not down there long enough to get a good look around. Hell, I don’t want to be there long enough for a good look around. But I know what I’m feeling. It’s the sensation of hair standing straight on the back of my neck. Of goosebumps spreading across bare and covered skin alike. I’m being watched by someone, no, something unseen. There is definitely something here with me.
The mystery arrival doesn’t fully make its presence known to me until I’m almost within sight of Graham’s place.
In the split second after beginning my drop, I come face to, well not face,
with a sickening, twisted, impossible shape hovering in the void in front of me. I can’t really describe what it looks like.
It reaches out with … an arm? A branch? A claw? The mere effort of trying to put words to that thing makes my skull ache and stomach revolt.
Only then do I realize the sheer size of the thing.
Impossible. Impossibly large is the only way, the only rebelling word, to describe that thing. Buildings. Moons. Maybe even planets were pebbles in comparison to the thing. It was impossible to understand, impossible to contain, and it was coming straight for me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fuuuuuuck that.
I finish my drop to get away from that place as fast as I’m able, and land on Graham’s rooftop in time to avoid being crushed, or worse, by that impossible thing.
My breath comes ragged, and the tears I don’t remember shedding mix with snot from my nose and sickness on my lips. Filth seems to cover me, to smother me, in an all encompassing film that I smell, or see, or even feel. But I know it’s there. I know it’s there. I know, because of where I’d been. I know because of that --
The sound of a car engine idling on the street below grabs my attention before I can descend any deeper into the sheer insanity of what I’d just encountered. Cars, like guns and the roofing tiles underneath my feet, are tangible, touchable things. I can deal with guns. I can deal with cars. I can deal with whatever it takes to get my hands on Ole Beeze.
What I can’t do, at the moment, is actually see the nearby car from where I stand on the rooftop, so I start crouch-walking closer to get a better look. After a few steps I come close enough to peer over the edge and look down to see a trio of SUVs are parked on the street below.
The Brimstone Series Page 18