Blood Conspiracy (Brooklyn Shadows Book 2)

by Brock Deskins

  “Hey, Rick, you guys want to give me and Lesile a ride back to the fuel depot so we can pick up her car? I think we’re done here.” I look at Harriet. “Right?”

  “We’ll handle the cleanup. Thank you, Mr. Malone. I’m starting to see why Vincent places some value on you.”

  “You checking out my ass now too?”

  “And yet dislikes you so much.”

  I give her a military-style salute, which I then snap down to give her the finger. It’s a snug fit for the four of us in the cab, but not overmuch. Once we get back to the fuel depot, Rick and Dimitri disappear into the trailer to update Yuri on the situation now that we are within range of a functioning cell tower. I follow Lesile to her car.

  “Can I give you a ride home?” Lesile asks me.

  “I’ll catch a lift with Rick and Dimitri. I need to square away some things with Yuri before I leave.”

  “Leonard, I hope this time together has made you understand why I did what I did to you. I am sorry for how traumatic it was for you, but I do not apologize for the results. You were special to me, and I wanted you to succeed in your new life. I hope maybe you understand now, even just a little.”

  I look up at the sky, sigh, and nod. “Yeah, I guess maybe I can find a little forgiveness.”

  Lesile smiles, kisses me on the cheek, and gets in her car. I watch her drive away, pull out my phone, and hit the speed dial. The explosion lights up the block, shatters nearby windows, and sets off a barrage of car alarms.

  “Now that you’re dead.”

  EPILOGUE

  The sharp reports of weapons’ fire echo through the woods, and the occasional blast of hurled grenades sends subtle tremors through the ground. A massive blast rolls a concussive wave through the trees and shakes leaves from their branches. It also carries the scent of a human to Henrik’s sensitive nose.

  He creeps through the woods, careful not to step on any branches that might betray his presence. He spots a form crouched in a stand of bushes ahead. He stalks closer and seats his M4 tighter against his shoulder.

  “Let me see your hands!”

  The woman lets out a fearful shriek and nearly falls over. She raises her hands and holds out a small video camera. “Please don’t shoot!”

  “Who are you?”

  “Jennifer Conway, Action News 5,” she answers nervously.

  “How’d you get this close?”

  “There’s a large culvert not far from here. I crawled through it to try to get some video of what’s going on. I know, not very dignified, but anything for a story, right?” She lets out a nervous laugh.

  Henrik leans forward, snatches the camera from her hand, and smashes it with the butt of his weapon. “Crawl back the way you came, and don’t come back here, or your camera won’t be the only thing left in pieces in these woods.”

  “Hey, you can’t do that! You ever hear of freedom of the press?”

  “You ever hear of reporters accidentally getting shot because they were someplace they weren’t supposed to be?”

  “Fine, but you’ll be hearing from my station’s lawyers!”

  Dr. Margaret Finnegan controls her deep sigh of relief and makes a beeline for the culvert, with the aggressive man shadowing her every move. She is certain he isn’t a vampire, but he is obviously in league with them.

  Agent Snow thought he understood these creatures, but he didn’t, not like she does. He thought they were little more than animals, like wild tigers or other creatures that occasionally preyed on humans, but she knows they are much more. She saw this eventuality and had prepared for her escape should they ever lose control.

  A maintenance tunnel runs from her laboratory to one of the outermost buildings on the complex. From there, it is only a short way to the tunnel-like culvert on the other side of the woods. She laments the disruption to her research. These so-called vampires are fascinating creatures, but she will set up her lab again and resume her work. It will be an expensive endeavor, and she no longer has the government’s deep pockets to fund her research. It is still a minor setback. She has the potential to make people immortal, and there are wealthy men and women who will pay anything for it. The Cure has some bugs to work out, but none of them is insurmountable given enough time and money.

  She looks back at the man still training his gun on her before squatting down and climbing into the galvanized steel pipe. It is a long duckwalk to the other end, but the discomfort is well worth her life.

  ***

  (Lesile)

  I shake my head while I watch the orange flames devour what is left of my car. “Leonard, you are such an asshole, but at least you are a predictable asshole.”

  The council had gotten too close. Harriet may have said they forgave my prior transgressions, but old grudges die hard. I can now disappear once again and return to the shadowy, enigmatic life I prefer. Perhaps with my apparent death, Leonard will even find some closure to ease his troubled soul, but I doubt it. He finds comfort in blaming me for his tormented spirit, but it is obvious his pain goes far deeper than the trauma I inflicted. Perhaps he feels better today, but tomorrow those ghosts that are the true cause of his anguish will return. I hope his relationship with Katherine brings him some happiness, but it is a salve at best. Someday, Leonard will have to seek out his demons and face them, or they will surely come for him.

  ***

  (Castillo)

  “Castillo, did you hear about the shitstorm last night outside Philly?” Angel asks.

  I shove the folder I’m reading into my desk drawer. “No, I was up late looking into the park murders and went straight to bed. What happened?”

  “My buddy down there says the shit really hit the fan. Something about the feds taking out a terrorist cell.” Angel fishes a thumb drive from his shirt pocket. “He sent me a copy of his cop cam. You gotta see this.”

  Angel plugs the drive into my computer and hits play when the menu appears. The video shows a plain-clothes detective having a heated discussion with a short but stern woman who appears to be in her mid-fifties. Two men of equally severe disposition flank her. The woman is verbally emasculating the detective when a massive explosion rocks the scene.

  “Look at that!” Angel exclaims. “That blast broke windows half a mile away.”

  I nod, but it isn’t the explosion that catches my eye. I pause the video and rewind it to the moment of the blast. My stomach churns with a wild mix of emotions.

  I jab my finger against the screen. “Who does that look like to you?”

  Angel leans in and looks at the figure partially illuminated by the flash of the explosion. “I know who it looks like, but that don’t mean it’s him.”

  “Goddammit, Angel, we both know that’s Malone!”

  “I don’t know shit, and you don’t either. The captain is going to have your ass if you go busting down his door and haul him in here without concrete evidence. Why would Leo even be there? You think he’s a terrorist now?”

  “I don’t know what the hell he is, but I’m damn well going to find out.”

  Angel sits on the corner of my desk. “If that is Malone, and he’s obviously not under arrest here, then maybe he’s a fed.”

  “Leo Malone is not a fucking fed!”

  “You’re right; maybe he’s something worse. Maybe he’s a spook. You ever think of that?”

  “Like CIA or some bullshit?”

  Angel shrugs. “How many times have you had him in here? How many times did you have enough evidence on him that would have put any other perp in jail, only for it to fall apart long before it reaches trial?”

  “That’s because of his slimy, sewer rat of a lawyer.”

  “No lawyer is that good. I’m telling you, stop chasing the dragon before it turns around and eats you.”

  I stare at the mostly silhouetted figure on the screen for a solid minute. I don’t know who or what Malone is, but I’m not going to rest until I find out. No one is above the law. I don’t care if Malone is CIA or a godda
m alien from outer space. I am going to bury him.

  ***

  (Leo)

  I’m about to make a call when someone knocks on my door. Katherine is the only person who stops by for visits, and she’s at trial today. My sign directs customers to use the stairs to my office. That pretty much leaves Castillo here to bust my balls some more.

  Imagine my surprise when I find Vincent standing outside. Any meeting he ever wanted to have with me was always done by his order and within his Tower office. He doesn’t wait for an invitation before pushing past and walking into my loft.

  He looks around the room in obvious disdain. “How old are you now, eighty-one, eighty-two?”

  “Eighty-one.”

  “By the time I was your age, I was a reasonably wealthy man. It is not as though what I, or even most of your clients, pay you is a mere pittance. I fail to understand why you cannot afford something a little less…third-worldly.”

  I shrug. “I guess I’m just not money savvy.”

  “No, this goes beyond not being business savvy. It borders on economic retardation or ambivalence at the very least.”

  “Did you come here just to insult me?”

  “No, I came here to express my appreciation for what you did.”

  “I’m sorry; I must have misunderstood the context of you calling me retarded.”

  “It is no secret that I do not particularly like you. Other than Katherine, I don’t know anyone who does. Your friend Marvin has some affection for you, but his fear makes it a complicated friendship. We had a long talk about fear and the responsibilities inherent to his newfound knowledge.”

  “Marvin’s all right when he isn’t driving you into a homicidal rage. Was there something else you wanted other than to tell me I have no friends and nobody likes me, because recess is almost over and I don’t want to be late for class. One more time and I’ll get detention.”

  Vincent indulges me with a chuckle. “I am often asked why I tolerate and even seek you out for help. Do you know why?”

  “We most desire that which we can never have,” I answer philosophically.

  “It is because despite your abrasive personality, I can count on you doing what you know in your heart to be the right thing. You are not persuaded by allegiance and politics. You have a freedom to act as you see fit that, due to my position and responsibility, I don’t. And while publicly I must condemn some of your actions and behavior, I admire your unwavering sense of duty.”

  “It’s nice to know I’m appreciated even if you have to keep it a secret. I had a girlfriend in high school like that. I think they call them moped chicks these days.”

  Vincent chuckles again, bringing the grand total of the number of times I’ve seen a hint of humor from him to two. It is truly a historic day. I guess having a bomb planted in your head brings about a profound sense of appreciation.

  “Speaking of keeping secrets, do we know if we plugged the leak?”

  “Our senior assets within the FBI and CIA have buried or destroyed the few reports that put Snow onto us. He was telling the truth about the level of covertness of his operation. There was a single hard copy file on record with Homeland Security. A file clerk belonging to us managed to get her hands on it. Agent Snow and his people died heroes, killed in the line of duty thwarting the biggest terrorist act on American soil since 9-11.”

  “It sounds like we really dodged a bullet.”

  “We certainly did. You have taken the liberty of bringing your young friend and doctor into our circle. While their services have proven to be a great benefit to us all, we cannot condone any further outside knowledge of our existence. We are watching those two men, as well as Mr. Poplonovich, very closely. It would be good to remind them of that on occasion.”

  He turns to leave but pauses at the door. “Oh, there is one other thing, Mr. Malone. There have been seven calls to have you expelled from the enclave over the years. I was the deciding vote in four of them. You may want to keep that in mind the next time you want to coordinate an offensive like Operation Fuck Vincent.”

  I watch him climb into the backseat of his chauffeured town car and resume making my phone call as he drives away.

  “Orphans of War Foundation, this is Cynthia. How may I help you?”

  “Hello, Cynthia, this is Leon Mallory.”

  “Hello, Mr. Mallory! “It’s always wonderful to hear from you. How can I be of service?”

  “The usual.”

  “Wonderful! Will this donation be coming from your Cayman account?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how much would you like to donate today?”

  “A hundred and fifty thousand American. Anonymous.”

  “Of course, Mr. Mallory.”

  “Thank you, Cynthia.”

  “We all thank you very much for your continued, generous support, Mr. Mallory. Have a wonderful day.”

  I lay my recliner back and stare at the ceiling. Dr. Morrison thinks my PTSD and my social disorder is due to all the dead I’ve left in my wake throughout the decades, but he’s wrong. It’s the living who haunt me. I’ve been in three major wars and several freelance mercenary conflicts. It was a life I chose. I killed without thought until I lost it in Nam.

  When I finally snapped out of my insanity, it made me think about all the people I killed. I was able to reconcile myself to most of them. What I could not contend with were those I left alive. I killed hundreds, maybe as many as a thousand or more, but the real toll was much higher than that. How many families did I destroy? How many children did I leave without fathers or mothers? What kind of suffering did I impart that stayed with them as they grew to adulthood? How many more inherited the suffering I laid upon their parents?

  People think I’m an asshole and a loner because I don’t care. Apathy would be a blessing. Do I think throwing money at it absolves me of my crimes? No, but I don’t have anything else to give.

  ***

  (Delia)

  The rain pattering down upon the pawnshop’s canvas awning makes me feel like I’m inside a drum, but at least I’m dry. There are better spots to turn tricks, places with a little more traffic, but that would require standing in the drizzling rain and competing with other prostitutes in the better areas. It’s the price I pay for a little comfort and minimal competition. Even here, I should still make enough to pay my rent and get high.

  My prospects start looking up as a man carrying a black umbrella casually strolls up the sidewalk whistling a tune I don’t recognize. Not many people walk this area at dark, and none in the rain. My clients usually pull up in their cars for some drive-through servicing.

  “Hey there, sweetie, looking for a good time?” I ask the man when he draws near.

  He smiles beneath his umbrella. “I am indeed.”

  “Oh, you sound like James Bond. Are you from England?”

  “I am, but I haven’t visited my home in more than a century.”

  I giggle at the man’s joke. It is an unwritten rule of whoring. You always compliment him on the size of his manhood and sexual prowess, and you have to laugh at his jokes.

  “So what’ll it be?”

  “I think a quickie just around the corner will suffice.”

  “In the rain? I know a cheap motel with hourly rates half a block up the street.”

  “My brolly should suffice to keep us both from the elements.”

  I glance at the big umbrella and understand what he wants. “Sure. Oral is fifty bucks.”

  I lead him to the side of the building, and he hands over three twenties. I fold them in half, stuff them in my shirt, and set a piece of cardboard down at my client’s feet to protect my stockings.

  “So what’s your name, or should I just call you James?”

  “My friends call me Jack,” he answers, “Jack the Ripper.”

  End

  A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR

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