Templeton sprang at the brass door, slamming it open as if it were plywood. It collapsed backward into the casino and he raced forward. Hennessy followed an instant later, his black hair lifting, and their men fanned out around them. Shots rang out, lacing the darkness in massive fireworks.
Payback had finally started.
The kid shoved another shotgun into Twan’s hands and grabbed the first.
Twan grinned his thanks. Riot gun time, just like he’d learned on the streets so many years ago. He racked it happily and headed inside.
He had a rectangular tower to climb, built of old bricks and framed in wrought iron. The stairs were also iron but modern and harshly sturdy, with an equally efficient heavy metal door leading to the casino on each floor. If he craned his neck a bit, he could see the occasional chair or stool, maybe a battered wooden door cut into the wall at an odd angle. Just an antebellum warehouse, with plenty of space to cause trouble. All the windows had definitely been bricked up, becoming deeper splotches of shadow. Given the power failure, it would have been darker than a voodoo queen’s tomb without his NVGs.
Five flights up to the watch center and his head wasn’t even throbbing.
Twan grinned and started running, the white kid at his side.
A man jumped at him from behind a door and he blew him away, the fellow’s lungs evaporating into a red mist.
Another popped up from behind a stair rail only to have the young agent beside Twan put two rounds into his skull. The dawg went down like a puppet, limbs slack and eyes staring.
Another bastard burst out of a hidden doorway, gun blazing, and Twan instinctively fired—tearing out a chunk of wall but no enemy. The agent spun, getting off a single shot. The bastard dropped, a fist-sized hole in his chest—but the kid was writhing on the floor, holding his leg.
Twan knelt next to him. Gunshots were firing so hard and fast around them that the stairwell itself was shaking. Cordite’s acrid stench burned his lungs and feet drummed on the stairs.
“No, sir, you go on.” The young man’s face was ashen but his eyes were resolute. “You’ve got to make it to the watch center. Medics will pick me up.”
Twan hesitated before nodding. He lunged to his feet and ran, reminding himself his body armor hadn’t been out of warranty more than a few years. Surely it’d hold up to pistol rounds or a glancing hit.
He racked his shotgun again, fiercely thankful for his hours on the range. Man could never spend too much time practicing with a good piece.
Four more flights.
There was blood on the stairs and the walls, plus bits of flesh. He kept his gun at the ready, more than willing to pull the trigger. This was the payoff for all those hours in the gym and on the range, when he’d thought he was cursing his bosses.
Three more flights.
He’d run out of FBI dudes in front of him on the stairs. The ones he’d seen were either fighting to keep the casino doors closed, or wounded.
Firing was heavier now, an almost continuous blur of sound that jarred his bones and rolled his teeth together. It came from everywhere, above and below him, echoing through the stairs and the old warehouse’s bricks.
How were Templeton and his boys doing?
There weren’t quite enough bodies on the next landing, given the number of shots being fired. Good news, maybe.
Shooting was even louder after the next corner and Twan slowed down. He twisted cautiously around the landing, careful to keep his shotgun ready.
A great bank vault door stood at the top of the next flight, gleaming under recessed lights, its latch blatantly uncocked.
The dormitory’s armory. What else could it be, given the damn big door, unlike that on any other floor?
Two men fought hand to hand in front of it. Full-contact karate was a sissy sport compared to how they went at each other, fast and bloodthirsty like angry wolves.
One of them was Hennessy—and he wasn’t winning.
How the hell could Twan help?
The latch turned, lifted up—and the door swung abruptly open, shoving Hennessy against the wall. For a moment, he was separated from his opponent—and Twan put two solid loads of double-ought buckshot into the dawg. BOOM! BOOM!
The bastard dropped—and crumpled into dust, disappearing within seconds into little more than a fist-high pile of chalky powder.
Twan’s pulse lurched. What the hell? Who the fuck had that been?
The armory door opened farther and two more bastards edged through. Hennessy’s silver eyes met Twan’s, fierce enough to hurl knives. “Get on with you, boyo. I’ll hold ’em here.”
Twan nodded and ran. Not the time to deal with a man’s injured pride—or find out too much about what had been going on. As long he had bullets, he was good to go.
Two more flights.
Another dawg popped up from behind a pile of bodies.
Twan pulled his shotgun’s trigger—and it clicked on an empty chamber.
Shit. How the hell could he reach his backup piece?
His attacker grinned and jauntily flaunted his pistol.
Someone else’s feet appeared on the stairs above, clad in superb cowboy boots. Templeton?
The bastard spun to face the newcomer and spat a string of feral curses.
“You idiot,” Templeton remarked calmly. Why the hell was he distracting the guy? Never mind that; use it!
Twan grabbed his beloved Colt and fired.
The dawg collapsed onto the stairs, the top of his head blown off.
Templeton took a few more steps, careful not to get his boots dirty.
“Why the hell did you do that?” Twan demanded. “Asshole could have killed you.”
“No, he wouldn’t. You’d have fucked him over first,” Templeton pointed out, calm as if they were talking football plays. “Come on up. We’ve secured the watch center, although the other staircase is still pretty lively.”
“Why the hell didn’t you say so?” Twan charged forward.
“Where’s Hennessy?” Templeton turned to lead the way.
“One flight back.”
Templeton gave him a long look, those hazel eyes seeing beyond the words.
“I helped him out some,” Twan admitted and started to grin, remembering Hennessy’s ungracious expression.
“You did what?” Templeton chuckled softly, his head swiveling as he scanned the top corridor. This place was modern and high-tech, with every edge polished to a glossy finish, unlike the rough brick and wrought iron below. Shots echoed from the staircase at the corridor’s far end and a hole gaped beside the heavy bank vault doors, guarded by two hard-eyed men with shotguns.
Judging by the wall, Twan didn’t think their pieces were loaded with double-ought buckshot. In fact, he might pity anybody who tried to take them out. Then again, he’d more likely enjoy watching such a stupid dude’s funeral.
The watch center’s steel door swung loosely on one hinge, its edges curled and blackened. He stepped inside to find a world of crimson-smeared electronics but no shattered glass. It was smaller than he’d expected, allowing no more than three men to work there at a time. Parallel streaks on the carpet showed where at least one corpse had been dragged out.
“Only one man standing watch when we got here,” Templeton drawled. “We used knives, not guns. Didn’t want to disturb anything if we didn’t have to.”
“Thanks.”
Tinned voices bleated from the radios, bitching about gunshots and ignorance. Chief Broussard, in particular, was whining long and loud about disrespect. His mouth’d be filthier after he saw how many counts the indictment listed against him.
Twan’s grin deepened, rising from somewhere he hadn’t known could still set fruit. It broadened, flashing white teeth against dark skin, and was reflected back in a fancy computer monitor.
Other monitors above the watch desk showed New Orleans, image after image spilling into each other. His streets, about to start getting clean for the first time in how long?
&
nbsp; Twan shoved the chair back and sat down. This deputy chief had a lot of work to do.
When things got a little quieter, he might ask Templeton to explain what the fuck had been a man one minute and dust the next. Didn’t want any more like it on his streets—but how the hell was he going to keep them out?
SIXTEEN
DON RAFAEL’S GULFSTREAM JET, LOUIS ARMSTRONG INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, THAT NIGHT
Ethan propped his chin on his fist, considering the miserable specimen of humanity before him.
The fellow blubbered again, too terrified to form words, whether verbal or inside his head. Neither torture nor threats had been needed to achieve this result, just the reminder that Madame Celeste didn’t appreciate losers. It didn’t take a fool to realize he’d spoken the truth.
Finally, Ethan waved him away, letting Jean-Marie’s man finish questioning him.
Time to call his oldest hermano and his cónyuge, a couple who looked forward to sharing eternity together. Ethan had known they were a matched pair from the moment he’d seen them riding Jean-Marie’s motorcycle through Austin. Jean-Marie had been a loner for too long to let his guard down around just any woman, let alone allow her to seduce him in public. And his Hélène had been so visibly delighted every time she touched him—hell, it had made Ethan and half the men in Austin jealous to see them.
Covering her escape from Madame Celeste’s clutches was why they’d blown up Rosemeade Plantation, and he’d have been happy to do more. Although a pair of cónyuges was a priceless asset to any esfera, Jean-Marie’s happiness was worth far more.
“Jean-Marie, do you read me? Jean-Marie, come back.”
A long pause ensued.
Hell, if he was riding across country with Steve on their motorcycles, he wouldn’t answer the radio, either.
Ethan’s mouth thinned.
“What is it, Ethan?” At least Jean-Marie was more polite than Ethan would have been.
He cut to the chase.
“According to the rats here at Bacchus’s Temple, Madame Celeste is flying to Hollingsworth’s ranch to reclaim her arsenal.”
“Oh, hell,” Hélène muttered.
“Yeah, that’s just what I said. Did you have a chance to look it over when you made Hollingsworth talk last month, Jean-Marie?”
“Yes, it’d be a good start to World War III. Didn’t touch it, though, since we left him in place as a double agent.”
“Not much of one, considering he’s in Aspen with his girl-friend,” Ethan grumbled, remembering that lost argument with Don Rafael. “Madame Celeste is in the air right now, and I can’t get there before she does.”
“Houston’s got their hands full with the floods, and you’ve got Dallas with you,” Jean-Marie said slowly, identifying where the two closest compañías were—and why Ethan hadn’t called them.
Ethan kept his mouth shut, letting his elder hermano make his own decision about involving himself and his cónyuge. Much as he’d like to have them involved, he wouldn’t ask Jean-Marie to do so—nor would he beg two recently reunited cónyuges to risk everything on a very dangerous venture, even if they were the only ones who had a chance of succeeding.
“Hélène and I will go.” Jean-Marie’s voice crackled through the night.
Ethan threw back his head, almost shouting with relief.
“We should be able to reach Hollingsworth’s ranch just before midnight,” Jean-Marie continued.
“You should have a few minutes before Madame Celeste arrives.” Ethan gave what encouragement he could. “Don Rafael is flying in with the mesnaderos, but I don’t have a precise arrival time for him.”
“Also, Hélène stole the names and addresses of Madame Celeste’s bandolerismo in Texas.”
“Thank God! I’ll start putting together a hunting party so we can bag them quickly.”
“Keep me informed.”
An emphatic click ended the call, probably signaling two cónyuges who needed to encourage each other. What couldn’t they do if they stood together, secure in their love?
Ethan slammed his chair back and stood up. Stupid to dwell on possibilities he’d never know. It was more important to think about the here and now and the few decades he’d have with Steve afterward.
HOLLINGSWORTH’S RANCH, EAST OF HOUSTON, LATER
THAT NIGHT
Devol brought the Cessna lower, cursing the arrogance which had set his hand to a jet instead of a prop airplane. Jets were far faster, oui, and cher madame undoubtedly needed help quickly. But props could land anywhere, unlike this clunky, noisy brute.
The runway was covered with grazing cattle, indistinct shadows in the waning moonlight. Even if he succeeded in moving them—hah!—someone would have to taxi Madame’s jet out of the way before he could join her.
And if that motorcade of armored Mercedes sedans coming down the main road didn’t contain Don Rafael, he’d be polite to a priest for an hour.
Pine trees and cedars shivered, their needles lashing the breeze like a small hurricane.
Crap. He couldn’t put down here, either.
He hauled back on the yoke and forced himself to fly higher. There had to be somewhere he could land and join the battle. Assuming there was still a fight by then.
Templeton was in New Orleans and Gray Wolf never willingly left Texas. It had to be the heraldo but they were only important for their treacherous tongues. Yes, he’d taken out two of Devol’s mesnaderos but they were the least. Surely his best men could handle that rat, while Madame Celeste handled the vampira.
“Mathiot,” he ordered. “Come in, Mathiot and Folse.”
Silence.
“Mathiot,” he snarled, mentally rehearsing the most painful disciplinary methods.
A single shot answered him, clear as crystal through his very good radio, followed an instant later by a blur of bullets.
Merde! His gut twisted, sucking his hopes into a monstrous vortex.
Now cher madame was alone down there but she was no duelist. He could not fight for her, could not kill for her.
She needed to be warned—but how? Why hadn’t he insisted cher madame take one of the headsets, instead of sending all of them with the men?
He circled again, cursing the trees which made it impossible to even guess at the number of wires concealed among them.
Killing himself wouldn’t help her. He was her only defender, now those four assholes had gotten themselves killed inside the house.
Ah, there was the heraldo’s motorcycle, glinting in the moonlight between the road and some trees and looking entirely too innocent. Hell, there were a thousand different ways to blow one up and all of them were very fatal.
If cher tried to ride it . . . No!
He gulped and tried an experiment for only the second time. Madame?
Nothing. He could have been talking to a fog bank.
Of course, she never, ever liked to speak mind to mind with anyone.
He beat on the instrument panel with his fist and circled in the other direction. If he was to save his love, his darling, he had to get his feet on the ground.
This time, he brought the jet in very low, looking for someplace, anyplace to put down.
Instinct led him toward the motorcycle. Cher Celeste, the one person who gave life its savor, was running toward it as fast as she could.
What had they done to frighten her?
Cher madame!
Time slowed and his veins chilled.
Fire burst out of the pine forest in a torrent, shooting for the impassive stars and tossing his plane forward.
Noooo! Tears burned Georges’s throat and eyes, too bitter to touch his skin. His goddess was dead, destroyed in a fire brighter than the sun. Everything that made life sweet was gone.
He automatically circled again to mourn her brilliant pyre, but his brain stirred slightly when the motorcade pulled up.
Don Rafael and his cónyuge embraced their heraldo and his slut. Celebrating their victory, no doubt, the bastards.
Georges started to snarl, his heart pounding for vengeance.
Blood for blood.
If Texas women thought they’d suffered before—hah! He’d destroy the greatest, most respectable woman in Texas as payback for their esfera’s murder of Madame Celeste.
COMPOSTELA RANCH, AUGUST 7
Don Rafael’s office was very crowded the next afternoon, with vampiros and compañeros squeezed onto every seat and standing against the wall. The heavy steel shutters were completely closed, protection against their enemies and the sun. Recessed lighting picked out every detail of weapons openly worn, glinting when men shifted slightly.
Today, Don Rafael displayed a cónyuge’s full unity with his lady. She was seated at his desk, while he stood behind her at the fireplace, before his great sword. They moved with the same gestures, finished each other’s sentences, echoed the same facial expressions.
Gray Wolf stood shoulder to shoulder with his cónyuge, Caleb, so close the same air could have passed through both pairs of lungs. Jean-Marie and Hélène, Texas’s third pair of cónyuges, sat on the sofa with her head on his shoulder and their arms wrapped around each other. Last night’s exhaustion no longer bruised her face, although she definitely clung to her lover.
Amazing that Don Rafael had accepted her, even though she was a fire starter and therefore a great weapon.
A muscle throbbed in Ethan’s cheek and he turned his attention back to his master.
“We know now where Devol has been hiding his bandolerismo, mis amigos—in off-site storage vaults for computer data, which are similar to safety deposit boxes.”
Just as Steve had said—the brutes had been hiding in plain sight. So simple, once you knew where to look.
“A thousand apologies for missing them, patrón,” Luis growled.
“There are dozens of such facilities scattered across Texas and Oklahoma, to be found near every major city,” Jean-Marie drawled. “Each one contains many locked vaults and is guarded day and night by a single guard.”
“A vampiro only needs to wake up and command the guard to release him and then forget he ever did so. A similar process will handle the vampiro’s return,” Ethan added. Steve had explained the process that morning before leaving for Dallas, thanks to having previously dealt with a computer fraud case.
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