by Domino Finn
I took a step backward. The Spaniard wasn't just bound to the Horn in spirit but in body as well. The powder horn was no longer a storage for black powder, but an urn.
"Eew," I maturely noted.
Dr. Trinidad crossed her hands in her lap and studied me. "Indeed," she said. "And I have to ask you, Mr. Rose, why you feel you need to personally hold onto this piece instead of turning it over to qualified authorities?"
I clenched my jaw. We'd been over this before. "Your museum has no right to it. It wasn't recovered in South Florida."
"I'm not speaking about legality, but ethics. The piece belongs to a larger collection. It deserves to be studied and treated with respect."
Her argument was sound, but it ignored the homicidal necromancer that came as a package deal. I tightened my voice and said, "Let's move on."
The curator sighed. "Move on?"
"With what else you've learned."
"I'm afraid that's the extent I can discern from the photographs. As I've stressed, my research is limited without being able to study the artifact itself."
"That won't be possible."
She crossed her arms. "Then I've helped all I can." The doctor stood and made her way to the door of her office.
"Wait a minute," I called, hurrying after her. "You have to understand. I'm looking out for you."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I don't want you in any trouble."
She spun around on a dime. "The powder horn is stolen, isn't it?"
"What? Why would you say that? No, I didn't steal it. I found it fair and square. Would've made Indiana Jones proud. But it's valuable and... well..." I turned away as I finished the last inconsequential detail. "There are maybe some people who kinda want it."
She stood there in silence, face tightening, waiting for me to explain. I didn't. No way could I reveal the details to her. Not in a way she'd believe. I got my point across. Either she would help me out or not. So I turned her silence back on her, putting the ball in her court, waiting for her to say something. I could be real stubborn if I wanted to.
In a low voice, she asked me, "Am I in trouble?"
I wasn't taken aback by the question as much as by the fear in her eyes. I reassured her in a neutral tone. "Not at all, Doctor. That's why I haven't brought the Horn in."
She spoke under her breath again. "Maybe it's better if you don't come back."
She tensed as she said it. For some reason, I looked around. "Why are you whispering?" I asked.
Dr. Trinidad shook her head and backpedaled to the entrance. I followed. She opened the door and leaned against the frame.
"You sure you're okay?"
She nodded quickly. "Yes. It's just that weird things have been happening lately."
Weird things? I could relate. "Like what?"
She waved it off. "It's nothing. Ridiculous."
"Tell me," I urged, leaning in. "I can help."
She was conflicted. Her indecision told me that much. She bit her lip and nodded out the doorway. "I have work to do, Mr. Rose," she announced, her voice bolder. Loud in an authoritative way, but polite. "Feel free to return with the powder horn. I'll be available."
She practically pushed me out the door. As soon as I was clear, it shut behind me with a loud click of the lock.
"Academics," I muttered loud enough for her to hear. The doctor was frazzled. Or worse, paranoid. Just like over the phone. But I didn't get it.
I pondered the matter as I made my way down the hall. The curiously empty hall. It was strange, compared to the previous activity. The building was now not only quiet, but serene. I had the feeling I was walking down an abandoned movie set. That didn't make sense because everything was very real. I dragged my finger along the wall to make sure.
Talk about paranoid.
Since nobody was around to judge me, I picked up my pace a wee bit. My cowboy boots echoed on the tiles and the hall dimmed slightly. Not where I looked, but around the edges. The world became a vintage photograph. The faint smell of sulfur filled the air. A door closed in the distance. I spun around but saw no signs of anyone else. Only echoes greeted me.
Maybe Dr. Trinidad was onto something with the whole "weird things" business. Or maybe it was my imagination. Either way, I wasn't sticking around. I hurried to the double doors and pushed the bar.
The mechanism slid in but the door didn't budge. I tried the other. They were locked.
I checked through the reinforced glass to the other side and didn't see anything of note.
Wrong move, Cisco. The only thing of note was behind me. That became exceedingly obvious when something tackled me forward and violently introduced my face to the window.
Chapter 14
Besides the sound of my head bouncing on glass, the attack had been completely silent. A forceful shoulder jammed into my back, pinning me to the door. Hands clamped around my left arm and right leg.
My instinct in these situations is not to hesitate. I didn't. I tried to phase into the shadow, but the hallway was too well lit to accommodate the spellcraft. All my attempt accomplished was to press my body against my perpetrator. Whatever had me wrapped up was strong.
Not impossibly strong, though. My backward shove shifted my attacker's weight. It gave me the sense that I wasn't facing a giant, at least. A grating snarl pierced the silence. It confirmed my fears: my attacker wasn't human. It shoved me forward again, reminding me that it had all the leverage.
Still holding two of my limbs, it ran yet another hand down both sides of my legs to my boots, checking me for weapons.
While it was occupied, I slammed the elbow of my free arm into its gut.
Intense pain jarred my arm. For a second I thought I'd cracked something. My blow was hardly noticed through the armor I'd struck. As I shook the sting away, my attacker found the knife tucked into my waist and tossed it to the floor.
Still wedged into the door, it was my turn to growl. By all accounts, I was at this thing's mercy. Deprived of shadow, unable to maneuver—hell, I didn't even know what I was up against. I forced the panic down. Urged myself to think. The ceremonial blade wouldn't have fared well against armor anyway. I could've rummaged in my belt pouch, but that would be slower than I needed.
Instead, I backed into the thing again. As before, I couldn't shake free, but I was able to loosen enough to sidestep. When it shoved me forward again, I slid free of the door and into the corner wall, where there was a small enough spot of shadow to reach my hand into.
The creature hissed, pinning me into the corner, keeping my face to the wall. Maybe it thought I was out of weapons. Maybe it should think again.
I pulled my trusted sawed off from the darkness and rested the barrel against my hip, aimed backward. The gun kicked as it went off. My back was battered with points of icy fire. I screamed and spun around, suddenly free.
The hallway was empty. My attacker, gone.
Birdshot pellets bounced uselessly on the floor. The tiles at my feet were cracked. At least now I knew why my back was on fire. The shotgun blast had bounced clean off the thing's armor. Most reflected back to me. I ran my fingers under my shirt and didn't feel any holes. Most likely the ricochets weren't forceful enough to pierce my hardened skin. Still stung like a bunch of pissed-off wasps, though.
I readied a heavier load in my shotgun and waited. This time my back was in the corner. This time I was ready. The smell of sulfur drifted away and the darkened edges of reality dissolved. If there had been an eerie soundtrack of fingernails scraping a chalkboard, that would've ended too. Whatever that thing was, it wasn't coming back.
I bent to recover my knife. Grit scraped under my boot. Something like sand or gravel, leftover from the gunshot. It didn't match the color of the cracked tile.
Was this part of the game? Cisco Suarez, someone's personal cat toy. I figure I'd done more damage to myself than the creature, so I doubt I scared it off. Yet I wasn't dead. The thing had gotten the drop on me. Searched me. I assumed it had been d
isarming me, but there was frustration in its voice.
I didn't kid myself. That beastie was here for one thing and one thing only. Something I very well might've brought to the museum if I hadn't been suspicious. I'd been ambushed in the hope that I was carrying the Horn of Subjugation. When it was clear I wasn't, my attacker fled.
Not scared. Not defeated. Just biding its time till the next ambush.
This was turning into a doozy of a day.
I flinched as the door beside me opened. A needly man in glasses walked past without giving me a second look. Voices echoed through the hallway from the other end. The training seminar was back. Everything returned to normal. Part of me wondered if I should double-check on Dr. Trinidad. The counter-argument to run like hell was equally strong.
I noped right out of there, an extra skip in my step until I was safe in the pickup. My back was already raw as I leaned into the seat.
Look, Dr. Trinidad had recognized the signs. She'd seen something that had her spooked. But ultimately, if this thing wanted the Horn, there was no reason to harm her. That was why Dr. Trinidad had whispered for me not to return. She'd known something was listening. She knew something wanted the Horn.
And there I'd been thinking I was protecting her with euphemisms.
So my thinking as I drove away was that the staff would be safer without me in the museum. Cisco Suarez would be too, and I was kinda partial to that guy.
"What is it?" asked Milena, keying off my silence. "It looks like you've seen a ghost."
I snorted. "Ghosts I can handle. This was something else." I weaved through the afternoon traffic. "Some kind of presence attacked me at the Historical Museum."
"HistoryMiami," she corrected.
I glared. "I'm not calling it that. Ever. But I was right about scrapping my burner phone earlier. Something's following Dr. Trinidad. And it has to be because I showed her pictures of the Horn."
Milena saw how seriously I was taking the threat. "What was it?" she asked flatly.
"Not sure. Not a spirit. More like a creature, but not exactly that either."
"You're not making sense, Cisco."
"I didn't get a look at it. But this thing wasn't flesh and blood. It wasn't just a Netherling playing with magic. One second it was there and the next..."
We both let that sink in. And then Milena decided to unsettle the situation even more.
"Wait a minute," she added. "If something was following Dr. Trinidad, something that wants the Horn, wouldn't it be following us now?"
In my head I gulped louder than Scooby-Doo. I checked the rear window. Stark daylight outside. No one could follow unnoticed. I sped up anyway, watching my mirrors for any signs of a tail. I watched them more than I watched the road ahead of me, which is a great way to keep your pulse spiked. I just swerved from a third close call when my phone rang.
"Suarez," came Chevalier's precise voice over the phone. "The street has finally spoken. The Agua Fuego cartel is meeting this afternoon in the Port of Miami."
The Port of Miami is a world-class port, handling both cargo containers and cruise ships. It's a bustling workplace. Maybe the sort of place where Connor could operate uninhibited.
I turned to Milena. "Did you find anything else on the phone? Anything about the Port of Miami?"
She shook her head. "Nothing like that. Nothing at all, actually. The phone was a waste of a good performance."
I grumbled into my burner. "We haven't dug up anything better. How reliable is the intel?"
"We cannot know until we see it ourselves," answered the bokor.
"'We?'" I asked.
Chevalier was quiet for a moment. "You told me Connor Hatch is the man who had Baptiste killed. Who started the war in Little Haiti."
"He is."
"Then I am obliged to see this through," he said.
I nodded knowingly. "Plus, it doesn't hurt that there'll be lots of cash and drugs on hand."
"Which we will split evenly for every man on the team."
Team. Wait a minute. "Let me guess. You're bringing a few of your Bone Saint buddies."
"Say the word if you would rather I didn't."
I ground my teeth. Jean-Louis Chevalier had me. I couldn't refuse the help, but his numbers against lonely ol' me? They would get the brunt of the spoils. But this wasn't about the score. It was about getting close to Connor Hatch.
What exactly my plan was when I got close was a work in progress. There was so much left between us that I knew we'd figure it out when we saw each other. It was an opportunity I had to take. Chevalier gave me the details and we agreed to meet at the Port in a few hours.
The extra time worked for me. I wasn't too keen on being backed up by a bunch of gangbangers. Chevalier would have his Bone Saints, but I could bring in some people myself. My friend Evan was a Lieutenant in the City of Miami Police Department. He commanded his own team of SWAT-trained detectives. I'd helped him out with intel before. Got him a promotion, even.
It was high time I finally had the police on my side.
Chapter 15
Milena whistled as we strolled passed the yellow Corvette in Evan's driveway.
I ground my teeth. "Don't tell me fast things make you swoon."
"Please. Like you don't wanna drive it too." An over-the-top giggle escaped her lips as she ran a finger over the sleek lines. "Check it out. You can feel the wax job."
I ignored the comment and banged on the front door. Milena ogling my best friend's material wealth wasn't putting me in a happy place. Even the welcome mat was perfect. But that wasn't the real reason I was in a sour mood. I was here to cut the cops in on the Connor Hatch heist. Figured I owed them. I could make peace, throw Evan another bone, and come out the good guy.
Except I kinda worked alone. And I didn't consider myself the good guy. Not after the things I'd done.
In contrived Hollywood blockbusters, the heroes overcome their differences. They stand victorious against insurmountable odds. Come together to save the day. Except there were real consequences to involving the police. The DROP team was a unit of elite detectives with SWAT training, but that didn't mean they were experts in supernatural circles. My circles.
I banged on the door harder this time.
It was all bullshit. The police weren't the problem. If the deal came with extra baggage, that would only mean I'd get extra goodies too. No, the problem wasn't I didn't work well with others. The problem was I had no idea how to ask for help.
The door swung open at the tail end of my scowl. Cool indoor air washed over my face. I took a breath, expecting to see Emily or Evan, but a five-foot tall nine-year-old greeted me instead.
"I've seen you before," she said. Her tone was somewhere between excited and curious.
"Fran." My tone was somewhere between excited and shell-shocked.
I turned to Milena, hoping she could reteach me how to speak. Mouths form words. Brains organize words into coherent thoughts. Seemed easy enough, but I couldn't stop gawking at the kid.
Flowing brown hair set neatly behind her ears. Large eyes, button nose. She was precious. My eyes flitted to the welcome mat again. I made a show of wiping my boots. Anything to avoid confronting the girl.
We have a history, me and her. Not much of one. Not really. But she's my daughter. I'm her father. Evan's her dad, of course. Along with Emily, he's the one that raised her in the wake of my death. But Fran was mine biologically. Yet I'd barely interacted with her.
"What's your name again?" she asked lightly.
"Uh... Cisco. Fran-cisco. Suarez."
Milena elbowed me in the stomach. She knew about the whole secret-daughter thing. I mean, she'd never seen the kid before, but she put two and two together pretty fast. The girl herself had no idea.
I wanted to tell her that I loved her. That I was her father and I'd do anything for her. I had a right to be known, didn't I? And she had a right to know. But I couldn't rip her world apart on a chance visit. Even Cisco Suarez had enough tact to kno
w that much.
"That's a neat getup," I said, pointing to Fran's yellow jersey and green shorts. "What's that for?"
She beamed. "Dad's taking me to soccer practice. I'm the lead scorer."
"Wow," I answered. The joy in my voice surprised me. I was genuinely pleased. I leaned lower. "You know, I was a pretty good goalie in my day," I lied. "Maybe we can practice your penalty kicks."
She gave me the once-over and said, "Piece of cake." I liked her already.
Milena chuckled and leaned against the doorframe with an arched eyebrow and a smile.
"Are you Dad's friend?" asked Fran.
I nodded. "I'm Mom's friend too."
Emily's ears must've been burning because her calm voice came from within. "Who's at the door, honey?"
She stiffened when she saw me. (I have that effect on people.) To Emily's credit, she didn't grimace. (Our relationship's complicated.)
"Cisco," was all she said in way of greeting. Not welcoming or inquisitive, but not damning either. Hey, it was a start.
Emily stroked her blonde hair behind her shoulders and eyed my guest. "I don't believe we've met."
"Milena Fuentes," she offered, holding out her hand. Emily shook it cordially. "I remember you back when you dated Cisco."
Fran's eyes widened and she looked up at her mom. "You two used to be boyfriend-girlfriend?"
Emily deflated. "That was a long time ago, honey."
To make this a legit crowd, Evan strolled past the entryway with a soccer ball under his arm. He saw the commotion and joined us at the door. He froze when he saw me.
I sighed and looked down at the letters spelling "welcome" under my feet. Cisco Suarez, the doormat standing on a doormat.
Evan laughed it off, a bit too boisterously for my taste. "What a nice surprise," he said, putting emphasis on the last word. "Come in, Cisco. And Milena, am I right?"
She nodded and stepped past me. I followed them into the air-conditioned living room. Evan put his hand on his daughter's shoulder. "Fran, where are your cleats?"