Lee Nez 2 - Blood Retribution

by David

  "If they're all Navajos, and shape-shifters, that would be natural, wouldn't it? Anyone not part of the pack?" Diane speculated.

  "Exactly. But you know, all this could end up being nothing, or maybe just a bit of illegal gambling in somebody's back room."

  "Then all you have to do is play poker and try not to lose too much money."

  "Hopefully this won't be a total waste of time. I'll find a place to stash my vehicle close by the garage but out of their sight and you meet me there. You closing shop now?" Lee continued circling the neighborhood, trying to find a parking place where his vehicle would be within a quick run on foot in case they needed to split up later.

  "Yeah, I'm locking up now. I'll be in the area within twenty minutes, maybe less."

  Lee found a residential street a block east of Fourth and parked in front of a house listed for sale. The white stucco home was obviously empty, so he didn't have to worry about a curious homeowner. After meeting Diane, they found a good location for their stakeout near a fast-food place just south of Frank's Automotive. From there, they could see the front of the business and the alley on both sides of the building.

  "The SUV in front of the garage apparently belongs to a customer, and the other vehicles haven't moved since my first drive-by this morning," Lee said.

  A few customers came and went from the garage, and a courier from an auto-parts store delivered a battery. Finally noon came. The mechanic named Bruce crossed the street in the pickup and bought seven drinks and an equal number of bags of fast food. Lee ducked down to avoid being seen but Bruce didn't come near the car.

  "All that food for two guys? He had to make two trips just to load them up. Maybe we'll finally get a look at whoever's in the storeroom," Diane said when Bruce went back to Frank's. "Can you make out that storeroom door from here? It's almost too dark to see even with my binoculars. I wish I'd brought my night scope."

  "You did. Me. But that door hasn't opened an inch since we got here. Let's see if somebody comes out now that Bruce has returned with lunch," Lee answered.

  Bruce brought out the bags and set them on the counter beside a stack of shop manuals, and the other mechanic, the brake guy, came over and took a bag and a drink for himself.

  Bruce grabbed the other drinks, which were in a cardboard carrier, and brought them over to the door. There was a pause, and then the door opened halfway. "I can see inside now. There's a guy there who looks Indian, maybe Navajo, with long hair. He's taking the drinks and handing them to someone else. All I can see are his arms," Lee said.

  "Wish I had vampire eyes," Diane mumbled.

  "No, you don't. Then you couldn't get out of the car without being fried."

  "Well, there's that. See anything else?"

  "The guy just inside is lifting his arm. I see some cardboard boxes on metal shelves, but that's it. Wait, I can see some writing on a box. It says 'findings.'"

  "Bingo. Do you know why they call jeweler's clamps, wire, swivels, and things like that 'findings'?" Diane asked absently, leaning toward Lee, still trying to see inside the storeroom.

  "Not a clue. Is it worth looking up?"

  "Nah. What else do you see?"

  Lee watched as the Indian man at the door took four of the bags from Bruce. He still blocked the door with his body, and the mechanic made no effort to look inside. Maybe he'd learned it was healthier not to know too much.

  "I see another two boxes. One says 'beads,' and the other ends in 'ay' Inlay," he corrected as he got a better view. Then the door closed.

  "Well, now we know that Tsosie was right about somebody storing jewelry-making supplies in there."

  An hour later, the storeroom door opened and a man came out with a cardboard box identical to the one they'd found in Tsosie's car. "This isn't the same guy that was at the door earlier, is it?" Diane asked.

  "No. We already know there are at least two in there, and the number of lunches suggests five. This guy looks Navajo to me. Hair color, shape of face, body type."

  "He's heading to the back," Diane observed as the man disappeared around the corner. A minute later he drove out from behind the rear of the building in one of the cars they'd seen earlier, turned right onto Fourth, and headed west.

  "One down and maybe four to go. Still want to hold off running the plates?" Diane added.

  Lee nodded. "Every computer stroke entered on the government systems is recorded and saved in this age of paranoia. It could come back to haunt us. And not only would we be flagging whoever runs the check, we'd have to put hard data like that into our reports. If these people are skin-walkers too, I'd rather they disappear than end up in jail."

  "I understand. But if we got some useful information like where they lived, we might be able to take them on one at a time. I'm not looking forward to tackling a six-pack of wolves, cougars, panthers, or whatever," Diane said. "And, speaking of reports, we're going to have to make another one tomorrow morning, especially after giving the Bureau all those telephone numbers and asking for the wiretap."

  "But for now…" Lee motioned with pursed lips across the street. "Here come two more Indians out of the storeroom, both with boxes."

  They watched as the two drove away in different directions with their apparent deliveries. Hours went by, punctuated by the work of the mechanics in the bays. A few minutes before five, the brake mechanic put his tools away, swept up his area, then closed his bay door and drove away.

  Bruce continued working for another half hour, then drove off. The garage was closed now. A low-wattage light glowed inside and another outside the office door.

  "Drop me by my car, then pick a new position to watch the front," Lee said. "I'll park in the employee spaces, then go through the office and see if I can get the attention of whoever's still in the storeroom. I think offering them what Tsosie failed to deliver will be the ticket. If you hear shooting, call the cavalry and come in with guns blazing."

  "And if you don't get any response?" Diane started the engine, then pulled out onto the street as soon as traffic allowed.

  "We'll have to track one of the delivery guys during daylight so he can't pull any shape-shifting stunts," Lee said as he brought out his spray bottle of Buckscent.

  "Make sure you use a lot of that. But if we're wrong about this stuff working…"

  "You'll hear gunshots, hopefully mine." Lee looked down the street and pointed. "My car's over there."

  Five minutes later, Lee pulled up in front of Frank's Automotive. The two cars out front hadn't moved an inch that he could tell.

  He looked around casually for Diane, then located her car in the parking lot of a pizza place. The sun was about to set. Skinwalkers were only minutes away from being able to transform into animal form. If he was going to infiltrate Silver Eagle, he'd have to do it now, while they were still human. As animals, Navajo witches tended to be surly and unreasonable.

  A quick glance confirmed that no police vehicles were within view and that the sidewalks were empty of pedestrians. It took Lee less than half a minute to pick the lock on the office door. There was no alarm.

  Lee took a quick look around, not knowing if whoever was inside the storeroom was watching. But there was a faint glow around the rim of the glass where the one-way-view stick-on film hadn't covered. Either the light had been left on or somebody was definitely at home.

  Lee turned on the overhead light at that end of the garage, grabbed a rubber mallet from a tool rack, then walked over to the door to the storeroom. Standing where he could be seen from inside, he held up the box of silversmith's supplies with one hand and hammered on the door twice. "Knock, knock. A man named Jacob Tsosie said to come here and return this turquoise and silver. You want to unlock the door and let me in?"

  Lee's hearing was exceptional. Though it had been nothing more than the whisper of a breath, he turned around. A Navajo man with hair down to his waist in old warrior style, whom Lee recognized as one of the delivery men, was advancing toward him with a long shank screwdriver
, holding the blade out like a dagger.

  "Whoa, Long-hair." Lee dodged, avoiding the man's forward lunge. But now he had his back to the door. With a quick flick of his wrist, he threw the rubber mallet at his attacker, striking him in the chest with the rubber head.

  The man grunted and staggered back a step, obviously surprised and suddenly short of breath. Lee took advantage of the pause to set down the cardboard box, but his respite was short-lived. The man growled angrily and swiped at Lee this time with the tip of the screwdriver, missing his stomach by a mile as Lee slipped sideways along the wall, then moved out into the garage floor where he'd have more room to maneuver.

  "Hold on," Lee suggested, holding up his hand. "I didn't come here to fight."

  "You chicken shit!" Long-hair said, smiling wickedly and baring his teeth like a wolf. He faked a backhanded swipe with the screwdriver, then lunged at Lee's extended hand.

  Lee slipped inside the attack, grabbing Long-hair's wrist and clamping down hard. Anchoring his feet, Lee swung the man completely around, slamming him into the wall and at the same time grabbing the screwdriver.

  Startled by Lee's speed and strength, the man froze for a second. As the man kicked out, Lee stepped close, raising him off the floor by the throat. Lee jammed the screwdriver through Long-hair's arm just above the elbow, impaling him to the wall a foot off the ground.

  Long-hair screamed, slapping out with his free arm at Lee, but the effort must have been excruciating with him dangling from the wall, gushing blood like a leaky hose. He cursed in pain, grabbing frantically for the screwdriver with his free hand.

  Lee punched him sharply in the solar plexus, then yanked the screwdriver free from the wall and the man's arm. Long-hair collapsed to the floor like a sack of potatoes, out cold.

  Lee jammed the screwdriver an inch deep into the wooden workbench, then turned and brushed himself off before walking to the door and knocking once more. "You'll need a wet mop to clean up the mess out here, and a body bag if you don't hurry," he said. "I'm here to do business, but if you want to take me on too, I can use the workout."

  Although he could detect angry voices speaking in what sounded like Navajo, he had no idea what was being said. Thirty seconds went by; then he heard a sound at his feet. A piece of paper slid out from under the door.

  "Who are you and what do you want?" was the message written in black marker.

  Lee set the box down. "My name is Lee Nelson. I just opened a Southwest jewelry supply business selling turquoise and other stones, castings, findings, and silver stock, and other supplies. The same type of merchandise Mr. Tsosie delivered for your outfit."

  Lee reached into his pocket and brought out one of his bogus business cards, then slid it under the door. "If you have a phone, call the number and you'll get our answering machine. I have a woman partner named Diane Santiago."

  There was a pause, and then another piece of paper appeared from the gap beneath the door. "Take what's in the box and hold it in front of the glass," the note said this time.

  Lee reached inside and brought out two of the plastic bags containing three matched sets of spiderweb turquoise obviously intended for squash-blossom necklaces. He held them in front of the glass for about ten seconds, then put them back in the box. Inside were some silver castings intended to be part of a concha belt, probably. They looked somewhat unique, so he held them up in their plastic-bag containers.

  "Are you a cop?" a man's voice called from down close to the floor inside.

  "After just beating the shit out of your pal and sticking him to the wall? Pull your head out of your butt. I'm exactly who the card says I am. Check for new listings by calling four-one-one. I see a telephone wire leading into there." Lee pointed to the wire above the door, wondering if anyone was looking. Then he took a quick glance back at Long-hair, who was still alive, apparently. Blood continued to enlarge the pool on the concrete floor.

  "You want to save your pal or not?"

  "You carrying a weapon?" the man called out from inside.

  Lee opened his jacket and showed his handgun in the civilian holster, assuming somebody was watching through the glass. "Of course I am. I sell jewelry supplies and do a lot of cash business. I bet you're packing too, if you carry quality merchandise like Tsosie brought to me. Now can we quit passing notes and whispering under the door like a class of third graders and finally do some business?"

  Lee knew that as long as he heard voices, the speaker hadn't shape-shifted. Of course there was someone else in there, and that person could be a two-hundred-pound panther by now.

  There was a metallic click, then another, then the door opened a few inches. "I'm coming out," a distinctly feminine and somewhat familiar voice called out softly. "Would you please step back?"

  Lee's eyes narrowed as he tried to remember where he'd heard that voice before; then suddenly he recalled a clear, cold night and the scent of piñon. Just as the memory passed from speculation to reality, a beautiful young Navajo woman with a small, light streak in her waist-length ebony hair stepped out from the storeroom. The all-too-familiar face smiled sweetly. "Mr. Nelson, is it? We're not traditionalists here either, so we don't mind using our names. Just call me Angela."

  CHAPTER 8

  « ^ »

  Bridget drove around the Las Cruces apartment complex slowly, casing the grounds for security cameras, nosy old men or women looking out their windows, or dogs that might bark at just the wrong moment. She hadn't seen State Police Officer Leo Hawk's unit parked anywhere, but then again she hadn't expected it. The sun had set, and according to messages sent to Elka prior to the loss of her brother, the Navajo cop worked the night shift like any self-respecting vampire. If that had changed in the recent past, she'd soon find out.

  She noted an old, seedy-looking van with a New Mexico license plate indicating it was from San Juan County parked in a visitor's parking slot beside the building she was going to enter. The driver was inside, reading a newspaper. It was a common way to hide your face while keeping watch.

  The person could be just waiting for someone to come home from work, or possibly staking out the place, like she was. She'd known some burglars who'd liked hitting an apartment or home just after a couple had left to go out to dinner or a movie.

  But her career as a burglar was about to end. By the time she left New Mexico she'd be a very wealthy woman and she'd never have to worry about work again—no matter how long she lived.

  She looked like a teenager, though she was barely twenty-one, and couldn't even get into a bar without being carded. But she'd grown up inside well beyond her years, and had the real-life experience one could get only from years living on the streets.

  Since that terrifying night when she'd been turned into a vampire, one of the things that continued to amaze Bridget was that nothing about her own personality had changed. Well, except for the fact that she was now paranoid about getting a really deep tan. All the movies and the books she'd read depicted vampires as nasty, supernatural creatures with evil hearts. But not her. Of course she was a thief, but she'd been one before when she was so-called normal. The only difference was that now, as a vampire, she could carry out that profession with capabilities so enhanced she was almost unstoppable.

  . Once it was quiet at the residential complex, Bridget would go check out Officer Hawk's apartment. Elka's orders had been clear. Four or five quick shots into his face with the silenced .380 autoloader, removal of his head with the meat cleaver she'd bought at the local Wal-Mart, and Patrolman Hawk's immortality would come to an abrupt end.

  The problem was that she'd never really killed anyone. She'd lied to Elka about that. The closest she'd come was when she'd turned fourteen—the last night she spent at home. Her stepfather had sneaked into her room after midnight. She'd screamed for her mother to come and help, but soon it became clear she was on her own. Bridget had fought him off with a kitchen knife, left him with a few souvenirs, then locked the door. The next morning she'd stolen money from
her mother's purse and run away.

  Once or twice since becoming a vampire she'd considered going back and ripping off one or more of her stepfather's body parts. But that wouldn't have solved the real problem—the reason she'd never return home again. Her mother had been in the house that night and had heard her scream for help, yet she'd done nothing about it.

  But all that was history. After they finished with Elka's retribution, she'd be on her own. Elka had agreed to let her go when the job was done. And five million bucks would make sure she could get as far away from Elka as she wanted.

  Killing Officer Hawk was worth three million. Helping Elka get the ex-CIA man responsible for the destruction of Elka's vampire family was worth an additional two million. After that was all over, she'd be rich and, more important, free.

  Lee tried not to let recognition show in his expression. They'd met before, and though Angela had caught the scent of his vampire blood, he'd allowed her to escape. He'd hoped to use her and her skinwalker pack to help him track down the vampires he'd been after. It had been a good plan that had worked—except for one little glitch. Angela was still alive and a very real threat to him now.

  The young Navajo woman still mesmerized him. She looked so much like Annie, his late—and only—wife. But this woman was a predator with a black heart. His hand moved imperceptibly toward the grip of his pistol as he tried to think of what to do next.

  "Mr. Nelson, you're staring at me. Shame on you." She smiled again, her whole face lighting up. Angela was acting, of course, but the results were almost convincing. His gaze drifted down slowly to her tight satin blouse and formfitting jeans. If she was carrying a weapon at all, it was either at her back or neck. It couldn't be beneath her blouse; everything there was natural. Her shoes were slip-on, the kind women called pumps, so he could rule out a boot knife.