Blood Crimes

by Dave Zeltserman

  Noah kneaded his fingers deeper into his flesh considering this. “It would really piss that asshole Raze off, wouldn’t it?” he said, chuckling lightly, his hard flesh shaking. “But fuck, if he dies on us…”

  “Not if, when. And don’t worry, I’ll get rid of the body like I always do.”

  Noah was nodding, a brightness cutting through his stoner’s eyes.

  “You know who this asshole is?”

  “Hard to tell with half his face gone.”

  “That fucker Pearce.”

  “No shit.”

  “No shit. Get a sheet from the basement—I don’t want him bleeding on my carpeting. We’ll lay him down there. That Russian we used last time…”

  “Yuri.”

  “Whatever the fuck is name is. Get him over here. Let’s see if we can keep this asshole alive for a while.”

  Rolfe went into the house. Noah climbed into the back of the van. The physical exertion left him out of breath, and he stood bent over with his hands on his knees. After his breathing had slowed he gave Pearce a hard look. The skin was gone from half the biker’s face, his clothes torn and what showed underneath looked like hamburger meat. Noah got a closer look. One of the eyes had been torn out and nothing but bone showed in the empty socket. He was amazed the guy was still alive and doubted whether they’d keep him breathing much longer, or for that matter, get anything useful out of him. But maybe with some photos, a finger cut off, and a few teeth pulled, they could squeeze a ransom payment out of Raze. It would be worth it to piss off that crazy bastard. And he knew Raze would pay what he had to to get Pearce back.

  Rolfe came back carrying an old sheet bunched under an arm. They spread it out next to Pearce and rolled him onto it.

  “Sonofabitch,” Noah yelped. He pulled back a hand and pressed it against his mouth.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fuck, no, this asshole bit me.” Noah sucked on his hand for a long moment, then kicked Pearce hard enough in the side to crack ribs. The biker seemed oblivious to it. “This fucker doesn’t even know what’s up or down, and he still has to bite me. He better not have rabies or nothing. Fuck, I’m bleeding. Goddamn do I hate these fucking Blood Dragons.”

  “We’ll get him conscious. You’ll get your chance with him.”

  Noah shook his head angrily and gave Pearce another hard kick to the ribs. Together he and Rolfe lifted Pearce off the van and into the house. After they laid him out on a large piece of plastic, Noah went back to the garage to get a pair of pliers and a hatchet. In theory trying to get Pearce to reveal where the Blood Dragons kept their drugs stashed was a good idea, but he wasn’t going to wait for the biker to regain consciousness, not when there were more satisfying ways to squeeze money from that gang.

  Chapter 10

  Metcalf had maintained his lotus position for hours, his back straight, his eyes closed and his finger tips touching lightly as his hands rested on his knees. He ignored the sounds of Dr. Ravi Panjubar moaning and rustling about on the floor—they couldn’t be helped, it was all part of the infection process. Bronson’s fidgeting and periodic heavy sighs and comments to himself made loudly enough for Metcalf to hear about how unbearably hot and stuffy it was in the van were a different matter. It grated on him, but he didn’t let it show. To any outside observer he would’ve been the picture of tranquility. Inside, though, he was fuming because of the other vampire’s restlessness and lack of discipline. But he knew if he let himself move he’d rip Bronson apart, and now was not a good time for that. Later, when they returned back to the compound, but not now.

  Yeah, it was hot and stuffy back there, with the temperature reaching over ninety degrees, but it didn’t bother Metcalf. Instead, it brought back his pre-infection days when he was a field agent for the CIA. Back then he spent countless hours in the back of vans like this one in countries throughout Europe and the Middle East, at times the temperature baking the inside of his van to well over a hundred and twenty degrees. He’d sit quietly for hours to get the job done, sometimes eavesdropping, sometimes peering through the scope of a sniper rifle waiting for his target to show, but never letting the temperature or anything else affect him. Early on the CIA realized what they had—a pure sociopathic personality with a high intellect— and they put him on the dirtiest work they had. Metcalf flourished with it. What helped was he didn’t suffer from the other psychological defects that most other sociopaths tend to exhibit—he had no sexual deviancies, no sadistic tendencies, and took no pleasure from his killings. He didn’t enjoy it, but it didn’t bother him either. To him it was no different than flipping a light switch. He was good at what he did, one of the best the CIA had.

  After ten years as a top assassin, he was unofficially brought back to New York and very quietly introduced to the wife of a dot-com billionaire. Her husband had supposedly fallen under the spell of some Eurotrash whore, and had transferred most of his wealth to this woman, leaving the wife only the fifty million she was allowed under the prenup she signed. The husband had since dropped out of the real world to live in this whore’s converted hotel that was located in the Union Square area of downtown Manhattan. The wife met alone with Metcalf, telling him how she wanted this bitch killed, figuring that that would break the spell and send her husband back to her, and she was prepared to transfer two million dollars to an offshore account for Metcalf to get the job done. He agreed to do it. Two million dollars would more than adequately pay for his retirement, and the job had a wink-nod sanction from his boss who was an acquaintance of the wife’s family. Anyway, it didn’t matter to him what light switches he flipped as long as he was compensated properly for it.

  He spent a week in an untraceable van parked outside of the once-upon-a-time hotel that his target now owned and operated as a private residence, all the while peering out a rifle scope that was trained on the building’s front door. This was during a brutally hot and muggy period in August, but Metcalf sat motionless as he waited for his target to show. Anyone looking at him would’ve thought he was a marble sculpture, not even a drop of perspiration showing. If he got his chance to take his target out, the van would disappear from the face of the planet, and nothing would ever be able to connect him with the hit. After a week without seeing anyone enter or leave the building he was beginning to have his doubts whether anyone was actually inside. The windows had all been painted black so he couldn’t look through them, and if people were leaving and getting back into the hotel he had no idea how they were doing it. For all he knew they had all packed up weeks ago to go to the Hamptons for the season. He decided to break in, do some recon, and take her out if she was actually holed up in there. Breaking in was easy, he used a grappling hook to scale up to a fourth floor landing, then broke in through a window. He had a .45 with an attached silencer and enough extra magazines to take out a small village. His plan was to move from room to room until he either found his target or uncovered information as to where she was. Anyone else he came across would be knocked unconscious if he could do it quietly, if not, he’d take them out also.

  The first room he entered he was quiet enough that no one should’ve been able to hear him, and was surprised when a scrawny-looking man turned to face him. What seemed odd to him was the way the man’s nose wrinkled, almost as if he had smelled Metcalf. The man was a skinny runt who couldn’t have been more than half of Metcalf’s weight. Metcalf put a finger to his lips to warn him to be quiet. Instead the man came after him, moving faster than anyone should’ve been able to. Metcalf still got off two kill shots that hit the man squarely in the heart, but other than knocking him back a foot, didn’t stop him. He just kept coming. Metcalf couldn’t believe the strength or the quickness of this man as he grabbed Metcalf’s wrist and snapped it, then picked Metcalf up and slammed him to the floor. It didn’t make any sense. The man couldn’t be more than a buck thirty, and Metcalf should’ve been able to handle him easily, instead he was held immobile on the floor until his target was called into the room.
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  She took his .45 off him, then pulled his black knit mask off his face and stared at him with both curiosity and amusement mixing in her eyes. With a short nod she had the other man get off him while she took his place. She was tall but as skinny as a rail, and couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds, and he couldn’t budge under her grip. It made no logical sense. He accepted the fact that he was in over his head, that this was something far outside the norm, and that he was a dead man. It didn’t much matter to him. He was one of those rare sociopaths who valued his own life as little as he did others.

  “You came here to kill me,” she said softly, more as a statement than a question, her voice hypnotic, almost trance-like. He found himself strongly attracted to her. It was partly her looks and partly this dense odor of sexuality that came off her like musk, but it was more than that. He could see in her eyes the same cold ruthlessness that he saw every day when he looked in a mirror. They were kindred spirits, and he had met so few in his lifetime.

  It didn’t matter anymore. It was over. He nodded. At that moment he felt no allegiance to the woman who had hired him, nor to The Company.

  “You’re a hit man, aren’t you?”

  He didn’t bother answering her since it was obvious.

  She spoke with the man who had disabled him, asking whether Metcalf had made any noise when he broke into the room. The man shook his head and said the only noise was his heart beating. “And it was a slow, calm beat,” he added.

  “You must be well-trained,” she said to Metcalf. “You’re not even showing any pain over your broken wrist.”

  “What would be the point?” he said.

  She nodded at that and asked him who he worked for. He told her. She seemed surprised about that. “Why would the CIA even know about me?” she asked.

  “They’re don’t. This is an outside job.”

  He explained to her then who he had been hired by and why. “I’d like to ask a favor,” he said. “Could you get this over with quickly?”

  She showed a thin impish smile.

  “Get what over with, darling?”

  “Whatever you’re going to do to me. Kill me, I suppose.”

  Seconds before he had seen his death in her eyes, but that changed. Her eyes softened subtly, and he guessed that she must’ve also recognized him as a kindred spirit.

  “But darling,” she said, laughing lightly. “If I were to do that I’d have to offer you a last meal first, and I’m afraid what we have here isn’t anything you’d care to imbibe in, at least not at this time. Later, perhaps.”

  A small crowd that had gathered behind her, and they started to complain once they realized she’d had a change of heart. She quieted them, then moved in close to Metcalf, her teeth caressing his throat for several seconds before biting in. Somehow he knew she was going to do that. He also knew what was going to happen. None of it came as a surprise, and he quietly made his transition from spook to vampire. Later, after his fever had broken and he had gone through the changes, he cleaned up whatever loose ends had been left. He took care of the dot-com billionaire’s wife, his ex-boss and anyone else who might’ve been able to connect him to Serena. As far as the CIA was concerned he had dropped off the face of the planet.

  Metcalf’s cell phone rang and it brought him out of his nostalgic reminiscing of the old days. According to the Caller ID it was Walter Smith, one of the residents of Serena’s hotel. Smith was in his late fifties and was a small bald man who since his infection resembled a lizard more than anything human. Serena had chosen Smith early on for his money, which she later used to buy the hotel, and Smith held a quiet grudge against her. He frequently filled Metcalf in on her activities. Metcalf answered the phone and asked what Smith wanted. Smith tittered on his end.

  “Have you been watching CNN?” he asked.

  “I’m not near a TV.”

  “Oh.” Smith’s voice lowered. “You must know that Serena and her posse left this morning to Cleveland?...Hello, Metcalf, are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here. No, I didn’t know that. She promised me she was going to stay in New York.”

  There was some more nervous laughter on Walter’s end. “She did, did she? That’s not even the half of it. If you were near a TV you would see what I’m talking about.” He paused for a moment, then went on, his voice more guarded. “There was an incident in Cleveland. Eight police officers slaughtered. According to witnesses, the killers drank their blood and took off in one of the police cars. One of the witnesses made a video recording. It’s not the best picture quality, but you can make out Serena in it.”

  Metcalf sat quietly for a moment processing what Smith told him, then asked if there was anything else. Smith seemed surprised by Metcalf’s reaction.

  “I thought you’d be spitting nails,” he said.

  “It wouldn’t do any good. Again, was there anything else?”

  “Nope, but I’d have to think that would be quite enough.”

  Metcalf told him it was and disconnected the call. He tried calling Serena, but as he expected she didn’t pick up. Bronson was watching him, his lips pursed as he tried to figure out what had happened from Metcalf’s end of the conversation. The other vampire knew better than to ask Metcalf. One look at the darkness clouding Metcalf’s face told the other vampire that much. Metcalf shifted his gaze to meet Bronson’s eyes, and the other vampire looked away.

  “I want you to take me to San Jose International Airport,” Metcalf said. “After that you’re going to drive back to the compound. You’re not going to be able to get into the lower level by yourself, so you and the Doctor here will stay in the house. It might take me a day or longer to get back, but if you do anything other than that I will hunt you down wherever you end up, and I’ll make you suffer worse than you could ever imagine. Do you understand that?”

  Bronson forced a crooked smile. “Yeah, fuck, don’t worry. You should know me better than that. I’m going to do as I’m told, okay?”

  “You know that I’ve had tracking chips implanted in all of your skulls. The same that’s done with show dogs.”

  Bronson’s smile dimmed a bit. “Yeah, I know that.”

  “Well?”

  Bronson looked confused. “I’m going to drive you to the airport, then back to the compound. What else are you asking?”

  “What the fuck do you think? Get your ass up there in the driver’s seat.”

  “What? But it’s still a couple of hours before sunset.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you mean? I don’t have any protection against the sunlight. I’ll get sick as a dog doing that.”

  “That’s probably true. The sun’s going to make you feel like your flesh is burning off your body. But you know what? You’ll get over it. If you stay back here any longer with me, the pain’s going to be a lot worse, and it will be forever.”

  A shadow fell over Bronson’s eyes. He looked away from Metcalf, a sourness shrinking his mouth. “Chrissakes, Metcalf, there’s no need for that. Not after everything we’ve been through together. When you said you wanted to go to the airport, I thought you meant after it got dark out. I didn’t know you meant now. If I did, I’d just take you.”

  Bronson continued to sulk as he left the back of the van and went up front. Metcalf stayed where he was. While Bronson drove, Metcalf called the airlines and arranged the first flight he could to Cleveland. After that he got Vanessa on the phone and told her what he needed her to do.

  * * * * *

  Jim had stashed the sword behind a dumpster and now stood across the street from the bar that he had robbed Raze at the night before. Mostly hidden in shadows, he watched for Raze or any of his gang members to show up but so far hadn’t seen anyone with skull tattoos displaying winged dragons and Chinese letters. It was hard for him to just stand still and wait like he was doing—his insides were knotted up to where it was like a fist squeezing his heart. He needed to do something, anything, to look for Carol. On the way t
o the bar he had picked up a carton of smokes and was sucking down one cig after the next, but they weren’t helping much with his nerves. He tossed a half-smoked cig to the ground and crushed it out with his heel. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe it wasn’t, but he couldn’t stand there any longer. He walked across the street and entered the bar.

  The place was a lot quieter than the night before and a lot emptier. It was several hours before a live band was scheduled, and maybe twenty people sat around the bar and at tables drinking while a sound system cranked out Mellencamp tracks that were older than most of the people there. A lone bartender was on the job. He was in his thirties, a big man with a pink face the color of bologna and a shaved scalp that would’ve been mostly bald if he’d allow his hair to grow out. He watched Jim approach, his stare disinterested. He crossed his arms along his chest to show off thick forearms and large fleshy hands. He looked like someone who’d have no problem busting skulls and tossing drunks head first out into the gutter if given the opportunity. Jim took a seat at the bar across from him. He leaned forward so he could talk without anyone else other than the bartender hearing him. The bartender stood impassively and flexed his large forearms.

  “What’s your name?” Jim asked.

  The bartender scratched his jaw, yawned. “What difference does it make?”

  “Come one, I’m just trying to be friendly. I like to know who’s pouring me drinks. Nothing more than that, and if it helps any my name’s Jim.”

  “Pete.”

  Jim put a twenty dollar bill on the bar. “Okay, Pete, a Bud.”

  The bartender started to pull a draft. Jim leaned closer to him.

  “I’m looking for Raze,” he said.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pete said, his stare focused on the draft beer he was pouring.

  “Sure you do. Raze was here last night dealing like he always does. The two of us ended up doing some business and we need to do some more, so I’m looking for him.”

  Pete gave Jim a quick look, then moved his stare back to the draft. He finished pouring the beer and placed the glass in front of Jim.