Hounacier (Valducan Book 2)

by Seth Skorkowsky

  The shooter leaped to the side, and the window behind him shattered inward. Some of the shot must have hit because he lurched as he raised his gun back. Malcolm aimed the second barrel.

  Four quick shots rang out. The man dropped his gun, staggered, then fell.

  Orlovski lay on his side in a haze of smoke, pistol outstretched.

  Malcolm charged up to his partner. "Taras, hold on!"

  Groaning, Orlovski shot the dead man once more before dropping the pistol and clutching his bloodied leg.

  Malcolm clambered up beside him and checked the wound. "Shit." Blood soaked the Russian's pants around three large holes in the back of his thigh.

  Orlovski let out a long hiss, his jaw tight. "I think it's broken."

  "Hold on, brother." Malcolm sheathed Hounacier and flicked open a knife. He slit the black fatigues just above the wound and peeled them open. Blood coated the back of Orlovski's thigh, pouring from the ragged holes.

  The Russian's breaths quickened, his eyes clenched. "How bad?"

  "You'll live." He sliced off the rest of the pant leg to make a tourniquet.

  Orlovski clawed the ground beside him, reaching for his fallen kukri. "Amballwa."

  Pausing his work, Malcolm grabbed the holy blade and set it in his partner's gloved hand. "Here."

  Orlovski clutched the handle, pressing it against him. "Breathing…really hurts."

  "I'm sure it does," Malcolm said, forcing the dread from his voice. In Orlovski's vocabulary, "really hurts," was somewhere beyond agonizing. "Vest saved you."

  "I can bring the trauma kit," Sam offered.

  "No," Malcolm said. "Stay there."

  "But—"

  "No!" He slipped the cloth binding under Orlovski's leg, and the Russian howled. Malcolm started the knot when the blue scarab tattoo on his wrist suddenly scuttled to the side. Dropping the tourniquet, Malcolm spun and ripped Hounacier from her sheath.

  A lean creature crept down the trunk of a nearby tree. Smokey vapor wisped off its skin, impossible to differentiate from its gray fur. A low snarl came from behind its bared fangs. Slits of vibrant green shone from the pupils of its cat-like eyes.

  Malcolm stood, Hounacier before him. The beast cocked its head and leaped, trailing vapor like a comet's tail. Growling, it circled to the side, pacing like a jungle cat, then stood erect.

  Leaves crackled as Orlovski fumbled for his pistol. "Move!"

  "Stay down." Narrowing his eyes, Malcolm stared down the demon before him, seven towering feet, claws splayed.

  "Move!" Orlovski rolled to the side and fired. Bullets peppered the beast with blossoming puffs of mist. One took it in the face, and the monster roared.

  It charged, Orlovski's rounds ineffectively pluming off its body. Holding his ground, Malcolm displayed his left palm. His skin itched as the tattooed eye stretched open. The beast froze, averting its eyes. Smokey mist blew away as if caught in a tempest.

  Seizing the opening, Malcolm attacked, hand still displayed. He slashed Hounacier across, aiming for the demon's neck, but the monster stumbled back. It lurched away from Malcolm's next swing but not before Hounacier bit into its shoulder.

  It sprang to a tree then onto the porch roof. Hateful green eyes glared down as it paced back and forth, claws clacking on tin.

  Malcolm followed, staying between it and his partner. Blood dripped from Hounacier, evaporating before it hit the ground. Time to end this. Orlovski's leg needed tending, and he had internal injuries. Malcolm stepped back and knelt, feeling for his sawed-off. Orlovski's brass and amethyst bullets were as useless as silver. Malcolm's loads were iron, bronze, marble, and quartz. He hoped one of those would work. His fingers curled around the grip.

  The mist cat crouched on its forelimbs, obviously unconcerned with the shotgun. It leaped.

  Malcolm whipped the gun up and fired. The blast caught the flying demon cat in the chest. Yowling, it recoiled and hit the ground just a few feet away. Malcolm dropped the empty sawed-off and lunged, hacking Hounacier down into the wounded creature. The blade bit into its back as it tried to rise. It staggered and snapped its teeth. Sidestepping, Malcolm brought the machete down into the demon's skull.

  Yellow-tinged turquoise fire spewed from the demon's wounds, quickly spreading out over its corpse. Its burning blood shimmered along Hounacier's blade. Malcolm stared at the ethereal flames. Mesmerized, he raised the flaming blade up toward his face, the cool metal touching his temple beside his right eye.

  No! He fought the machete, struggling to pull it away. "Not there." His arm shook, unable to overcome Hounacier's desire. Malcolm grabbed his wrist and managed to gain some control. The trembling blade moved as a dousing rod, finding an open patch of skin on his left inner forearm. Allowing Hounacier its gift, he loosened control. It sliced along his flesh. Malcolm hissed as flaming demon blood entered the shallow cut.

  Hounacier ceased her fight. A trio of pale, golden lines glowed beneath Malcolm's skin for a brief moment then faded.

  "Thank you," he breathed.

  Orlovski groaned behind him.

  Malcolm turned back to his injured partner. Orlovski's waxy face looked ghostly, hued in the demon fire's light.

  "What…were you doing there?" Orlovski moaned.

  Malcolm tied the tourniquet and cinched it tight. "Fixing you up."

  Orlovski shook his head. "No. Y…you cut yourself."

  "Don't worry about it." Taking a nearby stick, Malcolm looped it into the binding and tightened the tourniquet down. "We're going to get you out of here."

  Samantha's voice yelled though his ear bud. "Mal, scanner got a call on Tiffany Mayhew. She called in!"

  "What?" Malcolm looked back at the cinderblock shed, its door still open. "Where is she? Did she leave?"

  "I…I didn't see her. She must have gotten out when I was watching the fight. Mal, police are coming."

  Fuck. "How long?"

  "Don't know."

  Malcolm ground his teeth. Orlovski shot, three corpses, police imminent. At a guess, twenty minutes before the first police car. In thirty, every cop in the county would be all over. What had Tiffany told them?

  "What do we do?" Sam asked.

  A faint light moved within the torture room's door. There! Malcolm ran to the building and looked inside. Hobb's body now lay on its back, his blood pool disturbed by bare footprints. Tiffany sat huddled in the corner, clutching a serrated knife, her face half visible in the glow of a cell phone pressed to her ear. "Tiffany?"

  She flinched as she saw him then seemed to relax.

  He smiled, keeping his voice calm, "Is that the police?"

  Tiffany nodded.

  Keeping clear of the blood, Malcolm stepped inside. "The bad guys are gone now." He held out a hand. "Let me talk to them."

  She seemed to hesitate then slowly offered up the phone, her blood-stained hand trembling.

  "Hello! Hello, Tiffany!" said a woman's voice from the speaker.

  Malcolm took the phone and clicked it off.

  "Why did you do that?" Tiffany yelled, eyes wide.

  "We need your help. My partner is hurt."

  "But—"

  "Tiffany!" Malcolm drew a breath. "Please. Help him."

  She wiped her tear-streaked face, smearing a little of Hobb's blood on it in the process.

  "Mal," Sam said. "What are you doing?"

  "Trust me." He helped Tiffany to her feet and led her out of her prison to where Orlovski lay.

  She froze, seeing the demon's corpse, blanketed in ghostly fire. Already, some of its features had begun to melt back into the form of its now dead host.

  "Tiffany," Malcolm urged, pulling her hand. "It's dead. But my friend needs you."

  "Mal," Sam repeated, her voice strained. "What the hell are you doing?"

  Orlovski looked up as Malcolm and Tiffany knelt beside him. "We've…gotta go." He gulped air. "The police…"

  Malcolm smiled comfortingly. "Will be here soon. You've lost a lot of blood. Do you remember your
name?"

  The Russian closed his eyes then nodded. "I'm Eduard Lukov. I sell picture frames."

  "Mal," Sam's voice echoed in his ear. "You can't be serious."

  "That's right," Malcolm said. "Eduard, this is Tiffany. She's going to stay with you, okay? Tiffany, did you tell the police about us?"

  She nodded. "Yes. I told them you let me out and killed one of them."

  "All right," he said. "We need you to change your story for us. Eduard saved you. Only him. They brought him in a couple hours ago and tortured him. But he escaped. He killed one, took his gun, then let you out of your cell."

  "No. That's not what happened."

  He set his hand on hers. "Yes, it is. That's what you need to tell them. He took the man's gun, let you out, and killed the other two. We need you to say that. Do you understand? Will you do that for us?"

  "Yes."

  "Thank you." He looked down at Orlovski. "You got the story? They tortured you. You escaped. Got it?"

  The hunter resignedly nodded. "Do it."

  Malcolm punched him in the eye.

  Tiffany tried to grab Malcolm's fist before it smashed into Orlovski's nose, unleashing a stream of blood. "Stop!"

  "Tortured him," Malcolm repeated. "Beat him. Now, help me get his gear off."

  Carefully, they removed Orlovski's web belt. He stifled a cry as they worked the ballistic vest off of him. An enormous swollen and purple bruise spread out just below his shoulder blade. Several ribs appeared broken, but the impact missed his spine. Thankfully, the individual pellet strikes weren't visible.

  Malcolm fished the fake IDs from the Russian's back pocket and took the three spare magazines from his ammo pouches.

  Sam spoke in his ear. Panic was gone, replaced by the stone-cold tone of a Valducan. "Mal, we have ten minutes, tops, before we have to be out of here."

  "Give me five. Count 'em down." Leaving Orlovski and the girl, repeating their lie again and again, Malcolm ran up the porch and into the house. Trash and grime coated everything in a yellowish film. Empty beer cans and dirty plates blanketed every flat surface, their contents rotting and speckled with roach shit. He dropped the IDs beside a mound of unopened mail atop the dining table. In the kitchen, beside the back door leading to the cinderblock prison, he deposited two of the magazines loaded with specialty ammo in a drawer. Malcolm removed a pair of his own shotgun rounds from his gear and planted them as well. If the police and FBI were going to believe Orlovski got the gun from his captors, they needed to find more of the unique ammo than just inside the dead men's bodies. Buying it wouldn't be too difficult considering everything else they'd find there.

  "Four minutes."

  Sweat ran down his face as Malcolm hurried out to the cinderblock bunker. Searching the walls, he found a knife with a long curved blade, its handle wrapped in electric tape. Not a perfect match for Hounacier and Amballwa's cut marks but close enough. He smeared the blade in Hobb's coagulating blood pool then rolled the body over to hide the disturbance. After slipping the last of Orlovski's magazines deep into the dead man's pocket, Malcolm pocketed the dead man's pistol and ran back out.

  "Three minutes," Sam said.

  He removed Orlovski's camera from the grill. "Almost done!" The turquoise fire had begun to wane, revealing a stocky man with buzz-cut hair. Malcolm slid the blade into one of Hounacier's cuts and returned to Orlovski.

  "Here." He slipped the tape-wrapped handle into his partner's hand. The latex gloves were already piled with his other effects beside him. "This is the weapon you used."

  Orlovski only grunted. Maybe he knew what was about to happen. The hardest part.

  "Tiffany, you can't tell them about the monster."

  "Why?" she asked. "It's real. I did see it."

  "I know," Malcolm said. "But no one will believe you. In a few minutes, any trace of it will be gone."

  She shook her head. "But…"

  "I have a friend. Daniel. He'll contact you. You can tell him everything. He's the one that found you."

  "Two minutes, Mal," Sam urged. "We gotta go."

  Malcolm touched Orlovski's other hand, still clutching Amballwa's jeweled handle. "It's time."

  Orlovski shook his head, pressing the blade flat against him. "No. No, you can't."

  "She's evidence," Mal said, prying the Russian's weak fingers open. "We'll keep her safe."

  "Please, Mal," Orlovski begged. Tears welled in the blond man's eyes. "Don't take her from me."

  "You'll have her again. I promise." He pulled the bloodied kukri free.

  "Please!" Orlovski sobbed. "Don't take her from me!"

  Malcolm tried not to look at him as he scooped up Orlovski's effects. It was the only way. Without a word, he hurried back down the drive, stopping long enough to retrieve his own camera, then raced to where Sam waited in the SUV.

  She didn't speak to him as he threw the gear inside and gunned the engine. She was still too new to understand. After the first mile, he slowed to more reasonable speed. Locals only slightly sped along the Ozark roads. Two hills later, he pulled to the side, allowing three flashing squad cars room to pass. They had no idea what they were in store for.

  Chapter Three

  "Jesus, what a circus," Sam said as they pulled into Cox South Hospital.

  Three different reporters stood out front, each meticulously placed so that their cameramen wouldn't catch the others. News vans from across the state cluttered the already cramped parking lot, and even more raced toward Springfield to join them. They already knew the name Eduard Lukov, and while the police and FBI were too busy to dig that far into their victim-hero's identity, the press had nothing else to do but chip into Orlovski's already weak alias.

  Twenty minutes after leaving the crime scene, Allan and other Valducans had already begun the elaborate and laborious task of transforming Eduard Lukov into a man that reporters and internet sleuths could easily find and then write off as uninteresting. Malcolm's job now was to get the Russian out of there before anyone cracked the tenuous illusion.

  He managed to find a space in the parking garage. They'd rented a non-descript Toyota on the off-chance that anyone might somehow recognize the black SUV from the night in question. How the hell had such a simple job turned into such a world-class fuck up? Media and police attention were one thing. Hospitals and questionable injuries was another. Somehow, on Malcolm's watch, he'd managed to pull them both off. Thankfully, neither of them were dead or holy weapons confiscated. At least, not yet.

  He checked himself in the visor mirror and cinched his olive-colored tie. The black plastic-framed glasses seemed an inadequate disguise, but they'd worked many times before. They also drew attention away from the strip of Sam's makeup, masking the red line from when Hounacier had tried to mark his temple. Long steel-gray sleeves hid his tattooed arms.

  "You ready for this?"

  Sam nodded, her jaw tense. She stepped out and shut the door behind her. Malcolm followed. Sam's ponytail bounced ahead of him with each step, its curled end forming it into a long, auburn teardrop.

  Dual rows of glass doors slid apart, releasing a gust of air conditioning into the June air. Three uniformed police stood near one wall. They glanced at the newcomers for only an instant before their attention returned to their white Styrofoam coffee cups. Malcolm made his way to the reception desk and waited.

  A pale nurse dressed in pastel-molted scrubs looked up. Her hair was cut short, shiny, like a smooth, brown helmet. "May help you?"

  "We're here to visit Eduard Lukov."

  The receptionist's plastic smile cracked. Her eyes darted to the three policemen and back so fast that she probably didn't even realize it.

  "My name is Adam Jones," Malcolm continued. "I should be on the list."

  She clicked her keyboard a few times, then the smile returned to her pink-painted lips. "I'll just need to see some identification, Mister Jones."

  Malcolm drew the wallet from his back pocket. "I understand." He flipped it, revealing the
beautiful, two-thousand-dollar Oklahoma driver's license featuring his face and alias.

  She squinted at it, not really appreciating the forger's masterful work. "You'll need to sign in." She offered up a clipboard.

  "Excuse me," said a female voice.

  Shit. Malcolm turned to see a pretty Hispanic woman in a mint green pantsuit. "Yes?"

  She smiled. "Fernanda Guzman, Springfield News-Leader. I couldn't help but overhear. Are you familiar with Eduard Lukov?"

  "No comment," Malcolm said, noting the little black recorder in the woman's hand. He scratched his alias onto the log beneath Sam's.

  "Do you know of his condition?" Fernanda asked.

  "Not yet." He accepted a pair of visitor passes from the nurse, keeping his palm downward to hide the tattoos.

  "How do you know Mister Lukov?" the reporter pressed.

  Need to move before they bring a camera. Malcolm clipped the plastic badge on his shirt, smiled at the nurse again, and hurried toward the elevator.

  "Mister Jones," the reporter said, her heels clacking on the linoleum behind them. "Do you know why Eduard Lukov was abducted?"

  Malcolm stepped into the elevator behind Sam and hit the 'Close' button.

  "Did he see—" The doors slit shut.

  "Bloody hell," Sam growled "Thought we were made."

  Malcolm fidgeted with his tie. "Just relax."

  "Relax? They'll be snapping our pictures when we leave."

  "They should have a back door they'll let us use."

  She shook her head. "And if they don't?"

  "They always do." He squeezed her shoulder. "We'll be fine."

  The doors opened to the third floor. White halls, their travelers hesitant to make eye contact, low voices tinged with concern and grief. Hospital smell, the scent of cleaners overlaying the stink of humanity. It was the same everywhere but always a little unique, like different women wearing the same perfume. Malcolm slowed his steps, blending in.

  A blue-uniformed security guard checked their badges before allowing them in Orlovski's room.