Blood Conspiracy (Brooklyn Shadows Book 2)

by Brock Deskins

  “I am getting nowhere with these people. Let us find a café. Perhaps I can overhear something there.”

  The larger, nicer coffee shops are on or near the highway cutting through the north side of the city. Most of the people, particularly the younger ones, wear more typically western style clothing, and I feel like maybe we dressed to an American stereotype of the Middle East. Fortunately, there are plenty of men and women in more traditional garb like ours, so we aren’t completely out of place. Besides, it would be hard to hide our weaponry beneath a polo shirt and a pair of capris.

  With smoking and the oppressing of women’s rights being the national pastime, the café is a place filled with cloying tobacco smoke and testosterone, but at least people are talking. Lesile chooses an empty table and orders coffee. As the dutiful bodyguards, Meat and I sit with our chair backs toward the table so we can react without obstruction.

  Lesile continues to snatch pieces of conversation out of the general din from all over the café. Many people are talking about the murders. Even in a violent territory like this, the brutality of the killings is noteworthy but it’s all fearful, useless mutterings with no useful information.

  An hour and three covertly discarded cups of coffee later, Lesile appears to note something of interest. She half-turns in her seat, leans toward a group of men at a nearby table, and begins asking questions. I don’t speak Arabic, but I am pretty good at reading body language and I translate it as:

  “Did I hear you say something about ghul attacks?”

  “Mind your damn business, woman!”

  “I’m interested and want to hear about the killings.”

  “You should only be interested in cooking, birthing boys, and pleasing your man.”

  “Why won’t you tell me?”

  “I would rather rape you and cut off your head, or perhaps cut off your head and then rape you. Then Achmed and I will go walk down the street holding hands and maybe later get in some ass play while we speak of our hatred of homosexuals and how they should all be executed.”

  I’m about to cap off my imaginative play with a big music and dance number when their posture turns overtly hostile. They start to stand, but Meat and I are both on our feet and have our blades parting beards before they assume the fully upright and locked position. It’s two against four, but these clowns know their numbers are going to be cut in half, quite literally, before any of them can draw a weapon or make a move. Meat, being something of a freakish giant in this brown version of Munchkinland and wielding a goddam scimitar, looks like a nightmare version of something out of Arabian Nights.

  A show like this back home would have people screaming, running for the exits, and jumping through the windows. These people just scoot away and duck a bit lower, some not even concerned enough to stop sipping their espressos as they hunker down to watch the show. Not for the first time I wonder what the fuck is wrong with this place.

  I’m about half a second from stabbing this guy in the neck when a third party butts in and starts jabbering away. Either that or he’s choking on a kebab and trying to get someone to give him the Heimlich. My vampy sense kicks in and I’m suddenly thinking this guy is a bigger threat than these four camel jockeys. Larry, Moe, and the two Curlys glare, growl out what I assume is an expletive, and spit on the floor before storming out of the coffee house.

  The newcomer turns to Lesile and dips his head. “Your Arabic is very good, but you are a westerner, yes?” he asks in flawless English.

  Lesile’s body tenses, but she responds casually. “This is true. Would you like to join us?”

  “Thank you.”

  I study the man as he takes a seat next to Lesile. He wears a thawb, but his fingernails are manicured and his beard and hair are neatly groomed. I get the feeling he is more accustomed to wearing a three-piece suit than a thawb and shemagh. His posture is relaxed, but it’s a pretense. I’m sure he pulled a rather long stick out of his ass before crashing our little party. There’s discipline and precision in his movements from years of practice that even his best acting cannot hide.

  “I am Zaim Kameel Safar, and who might you be?”

  “Lesile.”

  “Just Lesile?”

  “For now.”

  “And your friends?” Zaim asks without taking his eyes off Lesile.

  “Unimportant. They are my bodyguards. Both are mute, and the small one is a eunuch.”

  Meat stifles a choking sound, but the contraction in his throat is unmistakable. There is little I can do about her little jokes for now, but there will be a reckoning. There is always a reckoning.

  “What brings you to this unpleasant stretch of country asking about ghuls?”

  “I was once the first wife of Sheik Zafar Najid Shamoun until a ghul took him from me. I have spent the past decade learning all I could about them so I could hunt them into extinction.”

  “You hunt fairytales.”

  “Do I? I have heard of several brutal murders in the area, or are those fairytales as well?”

  Zaim looks pensive. “Unfortunately, Shuqrah does not need mythical creatures to create violence and fear.”

  “What about the nature of some of the murders? I hear many victims were found savagely cut open, their bodies nearly drained of blood.”

  “So you have heard much already. Despite the military’s efforts in driving the Taliban from Abyan, there are still active elements within the governorate, particularly in Shuqrah. It is likely a Taliban terror ploy to convince the uneducated that the government cannot adequately protect them. Ignorance has always been their greatest recruiting tool.”

  “You sound unsure.”

  Zaim shrugs. “Who can be sure of anything in these uncertain times?”

  “You know people are being killed. What can you tell me of them?”

  “You are persistent. Yet another sign you are not a born daughter of Islam.” He appears to give his next words some thought before answering. “All of the attacks happen at night. They are swift and often brutal, as you said.”

  “No one has been able to capture or kill one?”

  “Few, if any, have witnessed any of the attacks and lived to tell of it. Police and military forces have been to a murder site within minutes, but the killers have always vanished into the night before they arrive.”

  “What of the victims? Is there anything connecting them?”

  Zaim fidgets in his chair and seems reluctant to answer. “Most of the victims have ties to the Taliban, particularly known Al-Qaeda cells operating within the city.”

  “That sort of pokes holes in your Taliban theory.”

  “It has created some contradictions,” Zaim admits. “It may be an internal power struggle. With the American drone attacks killing off many of the Al-Qaeda leaders, there could be some infighting as men try to assert themselves into the hierarchy.”

  “You still sound unconvinced. What do you really think is happening?”

  He smiles and stands up. “I wish you luck in your hunting and beg you to be very cautious. The ghuls may be nothing more than superstition, but there are real dangers in Shuqrah. Salaam.”

  “Wa alaykum.”

  We wait another ten minutes after Aladdin, or maybe Jafar, I haven’t decided if he is a good guy or bad guy yet, departs before we leave as well. Sitting around irritating the locals isn’t likely to get us any closer to finding our guys.

  “I do not think we will accomplish much during the day,” Lesile says. “We should rent a room and wait until nightfall.”

  “Wonderful. Let’s hope the Shuqrah Ritz Carlton has a suite available. We’ll probably have to pay a pet deposit.”

  “You should really stay in character,” Meat responds.

  “You mean a mute?”

  “I mean a eunuch. I can’t recommend extreme method acting enough.”

  “I think we should listen to Bob Barker and have our dogs neutered.”

  “I’d still mount you just to display dominance if nothing e
lse.”

  “I dominated the hell out of your mother.”

  “Will you two boys just kiss and get it over with?” Lesile asks.

  “Gross, I’d rather bang you again, and I’d rather become a real eunuch than do that.”

  Meat quirks an eyebrow. “You and her…?”

  “Oh yeah, the sex was great. It was the whole post-coital Buffalo Bill serial killer thing that wrecked it all.”

  She scowls with practiced expertise. “Leonard, unless you want to play out the sequel, I suggest you stop talking.”

  “Will you eat my liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti?”

  “I’m warning you, Leonard,” she snaps.

  “Bitch, I ain’t afraid of you.”

  Lesile reaches beneath her abaya and lunges at me. I ruin my brave façade by leaping away so fast I almost trip over the hem of my robe and fall on my ass. Lesile smirks and stalks off.

  “You just got punked by a little girl.”

  “It was tactical retreat to give me some fighting space.”

  “From what I’ve seen, she doesn’t need much space to kick your ass—twice.”

  “Shut up. Shouldn’t you be licking your balls or chewing on your ass?”

  Meat turns his eyes to Lesile. “I think I got someone for that.”

  I give my best Sideshow Bob shuddering groan and stop talking before he fills my mind with something even more disgusting. After a few inquiries, Lesile leads us to a three-story brick building looking as drab and decrepit as all the other structures in the town. A man sits behind the counter watching a soccer match on a TV probably half as old as I am. Lesile speaks a few words of phlegmy gibberish, hands over some money, and takes the two sets of keys the man drops onto the counter.

  The room is on the top floor and, although this isn’t the Ritz, it is probably the best suite in town. It’s large with two bedrooms and a spacious sitting room. It’s surprisingly clean, nicely furnished, and does not at all fit with the dilapidated exterior.

  “Dibs on the second bedroom,” Meat announces the moment we enter the room.

  “Why do you get the bed?”

  “Because you’re smaller than me, and I won’t fit on the couch. And yes, the pun was intended.”

  “What if I don’t want the couch?”

  Meat peers into the bedroom. “I suppose the bed’s big enough for the both of us, but if I get an erection in my sleep you might get pushed onto the floor.”

  I fluff one of the sofa pillows. “The couch is looking pretty comfy.”

  Lesile says, “I need some rest. I expect you two boys to behave yourselves.”

  “Yes, mommy.”

  Meat and Lesile head off to their beds, and I stretch out on the couch. Stretch out is a generous term. My feet touch the end, and the arm props my head up, but several throw pillows make it comfortable. I’m not technically alive like Meat is, nor did I fall out of the back of an airplane like Lesile, so I’m not feeling the effects of fatigue. I choose to slip into a state similar to sleep since the only other option is to lie here, stare at the ceiling, and listen to Meat’s hellacious snoring.

  I turn my thoughts inward, particularly in regards to getting this damn bomb out of my head and shoving it up Snow’s ass. He thinks he’s learned from his mistakes with his super soldiers and has vampires figured out. I intend to show him how wrong he is. He might understand the basics of your generic vamp, but he doesn’t know me.

  My subconscious registers a change in the ambient noise and rouses me back to the real world. The length of the easterly-pointing shadows made by the sun streaming through the window gives me a rough guess as to the passage of time. I cock my ear toward Lesile’s room and know why I no longer hear Meat snoring away. I release another shuddering groan and force my mind back into peaceful oblivion.

  CHAPTER 7

  The sound of running water wakes me up again. Given the smell of the populace, I wasn’t sure this country had showers, but I’m glad to find they do. The last thing I need is Meat and Lesile’s lusty, mingling scent distracting me. I suppress the shudder resulting from the unwanted mental picture and triple-check my gear.

  I’m reassembling my MP-7 when Meat walks in with a shit-eating grin plastered across his hairy face. He looks at me as if begging me to make a comment, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction. Lesile appears a few minutes later, and she and Meat make a hasty inspection of their gear as well.

  Lesile slams her weapon’s magazine home and slings it beneath her abaya. “We’ll leave by the roof. Call me paranoid, but I would rather no one sees us depart.”

  “Paranoid is pretty far down the list of things I’d call you.”

  Lesile gives me a disdainful huff through her nose. “Lawrence, how would you like to proceed?”

  “I need to get downwind. I think the wind is coming from the sea, so we should stake out the north side of town. If they show up, I should be able to sniff them out. This isn’t a big city, and there isn’t a lot of places to hide.”

  Our room has a balcony but no fire escape. Lesile balances on the wrought-iron rail and jumps the ten or twelve feet to the roof. I interlace my fingers to give Meat a boost. He sticks his oversized foot in the stirrup I make.

  “Don’t go looking up my dress,” he says and tries to teabag me.

  The thought of flinging him off the balcony crosses my mind as I heave him upward. Lesile snatches him from the air and pulls him onto the roof. I leap up afterward and join them. One good thing about Yemen’s haphazard city planning, most of the buildings are built close together. We’re able to cross much of the town without dropping to street level.

  Meat calls for us to stop a few blocks from the hotel. “There are a lot of cops and soldiers around here. How is that going to affect the actions of our guys?”

  “It’s hard to say,” I answer. “It depends on how far gone they are. When I went rogue, I was far more animal than man, but I was still clever and capable of tactical decisions. They might pick a target as far from armed opposition as they can, or they might attack the cops and soldiers because it’s a greater sport and a challenge.”

  Lesile asks, “What do you think, Lawrence. You are guiding us. You make the decision.”

  Meat thinks through the situation. “Frost says these guys are still somewhat following their OPORD. If they are sticking to their mission, even if out of control, they’ll want to execute it as quietly and as efficiently as they can. I think they’ll avoid the soldiers, so let’s head east. It looks like they’re concentrated mostly here in the west side of town.”

  We’re on the move once more. It takes only minutes to cross the town, but we have to drop to the ground to cross a small wadi bisecting the city into two halves. We sprint across the two hundred yards of open ground in seconds. Meat is in partial shift and is able to keep up if we don’t pour on the speed.

  We take back to the rooftops once we cross the open ground. Meat sticks his elongated snout in the air and takes several deep sniffs. He doesn’t detect anything, and we follow him as he lopes farther east. We’re near the northeastern part of the town when he stops again to get a sensing.

  “Anything?” Lesile asks.

  Meat twitches his shemagh-enshrouded head. He moves his muzzle around like a wizard wielding a magic wand, picking out invisible streamers of different smells borne on the wind. He doesn’t seem inclined to leave this spot for a while, so Lesile and I move to opposite sides of the building we’re on and look out over the nearly lightless town. Gazing into the blackness, I’m surprised at how much we take something as simple as light for granted. It’s everywhere in the States, especially in cities like mine where artificial light takes over from the sun the moment it drops below the horizon.

  “I got something to the east,” Meat announces.

  We hop across the roofs until Meats stops, takes a sniff, and points to the north. The buildings become sparser, and we are forced onto the dark streets. I hadn’t paid much attention before, but
now I realize there is absolutely no one on the streets and likely hasn’t been since the sun went down. This city is under siege from an enemy they cannot fathom.

  “I think they came from the north and circled around to the southern side of that compound up the road.”

  I use my enhanced vision to cut through the darkness and spy a long wall a couple of hundred yards away. I can see the roofs of a few buildings just peeking over its top. There’s a smaller walled courtyard to our right and a stand of greenery between it and the big compound north of it. It’s a good tactical approach for someone wanting to infiltrate the complex.

  “How old is the scent?” I ask.

  “Recent. It was made maybe half an hour ago. I can detect the trace of older scents in the area as well. They probably staked this place out before and chose tonight to hit it.”

  “Aren’t we just the lucky bunch?”

  We stick close to the wall on our right and creep toward the big compound. I don’t need Meat’s nose to tell me someone has recently moved through the brush near the wall. We listen for signs of activity around and within the complex for two full minutes before making the leap over the wall. In his partially shifted form, Meat is able to jump high enough to grab the top of the wall and drop over with ease, which is a good thing because I would surely have head-butted him or worse if he tried to stick his balls in my face again.

  It takes us less than a minute to find the first body, its throat slit yet showing far less blood loss than such a gruesome wound should. The undischarged AK-74 lying next to him indicates he never saw his killer. This man was probably a roving guard, which means we are likely to find more corpses before long.

  Sometimes being right isn’t so great. We discover three more sliced and diced guards by the time we reach the first building. Assuming the rogues will strike at the main building across the way, we lope across the twenty yards of open courtyard, hunched over like a bunch of burglars. All of our stealth, or lack thereof, is a waste of effort. A sharp crack rings out and I tumble to the ground when the bullet strikes my right upper back.