“Good idea. Give me his address.”
“I was joking. Besides, that’s highly valuable infor—”
“Not now. His address.”
Blake scribbled it down as Weisman reluctantly provided the information. The letters came out sloppy and crooked. His hand was shaking.
“How do you know it’s him, anyway?” Weisman said. “I mean, it’s been so long.”
“Because we only made one, remember? And his mother’s dead.”
He could hear Weisman smoking, could picture the pensive look on his bony, hawkish face.
“You sure you want Dominic in on this? After what happened?”
Blake looked at the address, flashed it into his memory, then lit the paper on fire with his cigarette lighter. “It’s the only way.”
“You still got friends at the border, then?”
“Gotta go, Sam.” Blake was already reaching for the kitchen drawer where he kept his pistol.
“Blake, things are bad over here. You’re still the FSD’s most-wanted criminal. You get yourself into a jam, even I won’t be able to get you out.”
Sam was right about that much. Despite being high up in the Party’s ranks, he thought the ideology was bullshit. He said as much, too. The only thing keeping him from getting thrown into a labor camp was his genius for mathematics. He was one of the few men keeping the Central Economic Planning Ministry from imploding. The regime needed him and everyone knew it, and that made Sam Weisman fearless.
The phone was now resting on its side with Sam Weisman’s voice floating up and fading into the hot air. Standing by the window, Blake held the pistol up to the light and inspected it. He released the clip, took a good look at it from each angle, and slid it back in.
With sharp movements, he pulled back the slide and chambered a bullet.
“I guess you are serious,” the voice on the phone said. “Good luck, then.”
The phone clicked, followed by silence. Blake had already left the room.
Chapter 6
The fights were held in an underground parking garage, on a floor closed off by orange tape and “UNDER CONSTRUCTION” signs. The signs were misleading; there was no actual work being done, unless you counted fists rearranging faces.
A ring of men hollered at two fighters in the center, their voices echoing in the cavernous space, along with the heavy smacking sounds of knuckles pounding flesh. The onlookers were dressed in business suits and leather jackets, money gripped tightly in their fists.
“Take him down, Swan Song, take him down!”
Dominic landed on his back, hard. He was shirtless, sweaty, his long hair knotted and dirty with blood and grime. His opponent—a man who called himself Swan Song—landed on top of him, a big, beefy guy with curly hair all over his chest, a gleaming bald head, and a handlebar mustache. He drove a fist into Dominic’s face, then pummeled his abdomen as Dominic tried desperately to block the blows.
Then, in a daring move, Dominic pulled his knee up between them—placing the flat of his boot against Swan Song’s chest—and sent him flying through the air. The big guy landed against several men in suits, whose cheers showed their excitement at being brought into the fray. They had to combine their efforts to push him back in.
“Now you get it,” Swan Song said.
The air stank of blood and musty concrete. Dominic clenched his teeth, crunching pieces of the floor that had gotten into his mouth. Swan Song tried to charge him with his shoulder.
Dominic sidestepped and threw a sideways punch that turned the big guy’s head. Swan Song stayed down on one knee, looking for a moment like he was praying. He shook his head to restore his senses.
“Come on, Dominic, you wimp,” an onlooker shouted.
Dominic gave the man a sour look.
A fraction of a moment. That was all it took.
Swan Song drove his bulky shoulder into Dominic’s lower back and sent him flying into the crowd. The men parted around the fighters, then howled and shook their fists in victory as Swan Song dropped a single solid punch into Dominic’s face for a K.O.
Afterward, washing up in the men’s room, Dominic heard the swish of the door being swept open. He tensed, an automatic response left over from his military days. It was his opponent from the ring. Swan Song strolled in, wearing a tank top that showed off his round muscles, one hand playing with a tip of his handlebar mustache.
“You are Dominic,” he said with an accent.
Dominic nodded and went back to washing his hands. If the man wanted another round, he would have one. But this time, Dominic wouldn’t play by the rules.
“Good fight,” Swan Song said, smiling at him. Something was odd about that smile.
Dominic shook the water off his hands. “Get out of my way,” he told him, making for the door.
“Wait.” Swan Song grabbed Dominic’s arm. “Why don’t we go for a drink? I’ll buy. For your bruises.”
Dominic considered this. He could use a drink, and he was low on cash tonight as usual, but he also wanted to go back to his apartment and feed the cat that always showed up at his window at the same time every night.
“Not tonight,” Dominic told the big guy, frowning.
“You’re always saying ‘no.’ I hear this about you, Dom. Come on. Don’t be shy.”
“Don’t be—what?”
Swan Song gave Dominic an artificially sweetened smile. “You and I, we are not so different. I could tell by the way you fight. Let’s go have some fun together.” He stroked the side of Dominic’s bruised face. “I know a club few streets over where you and I could really dance.”
Dominic brushed the hand away and tried to shove past the big guy. Apparently, Swan Song had expected this sort of reaction. He grabbed Dominic’s arms and sent him backward against the wall of the tiny bathroom.
“Shouldn’t have done that,” Dominic said through a snarl.
Swan Song pulled out a switchblade, flicked it open, and held it up.
“What are you laughing at now, pretty boy? Tonight, you do as I say.”
“Is that right?” Dominic said.
Swan Song grinned and made a slashing motion with the knife.
“Turn around,” he said. “Put your hands on the wall.”
“You got it.”
Dominic turned, and as he did, he closed his eyes and fanned a single thought outward.
Slow…
Swan Song blinked, suddenly alone in the bathroom.
“What the…” he said, turning and looking around for Dominic. There was the old, rusted sink and the brown, filthy toilet—but no skinny fighter with the narrowed, brooding eyes that he had found so attractive while fighting him in the ring. Where was that skinny bitch?
He turned toward the door.
The light in the bathroom seemed to darken as something moved incredibly fast in front of him.
The first blow took him in the side of the head, the second right in his belly—and still he couldn’t see his attacker. The third, fourth, and fifth blows made him shake and shiver like a man taking shots from an automatic weapon.
I’m nothing like you, a voice whispered in his mind.
The pain hit him all at once, and before he knew what had happened, Swan Song found himself on the cold, concrete floor, groaning and tasting his own blood, watching a pair of boots walk calmly past the open door and into the hallway.
The only sound he could hear, apart from those soft footsteps, was of a man whistling a light tune. Swan Song wanted to ask Dominic if he was the Devil, or if maybe he worked for him in some formal capacity. It was the only explanation he could come up with.
Instead he gave in to the pleasant sensation of slipping away from the pain. A moment later, he was unconscious.
Chapter 7
“You didn’t use your ability once in that fight,” Louis Blake told Dominic, as if the younger man didn’t already know that. Dominic reached up, touched one of his bruises, and winced at the sudden pain. “Doesn’t make sense t
o me, but then again, you never did make sense.”
Dominic frowned at him.
Blake had picked Dominic up outside his apartment, catching him in the act of feeding a stray cat. He would have made some sort of joke, but the situation was too grave. Dominic had read the urgency in Blake’s expression and had gotten into the car without asking.
Now, in this hole of a bar down the street, Dominic sat slumped over a mug of beer, his face beginning to resemble a rotten piece of fruit. He kept glancing at the back door for some reason.
“You could have aced that fight in a heartbeat,” Blake said.
Dominic scowled at him. “Can’t win every time. You don’t make money that way.”
“Speaking of money, how much?”
“How much what?”
Blake gave a knowing smirk. “How much do you owe?”
Dominic gulped down the rest of his beer and motioned to the bartender for another round.
“You haven’t changed a bit, Blake,” he said and burped. “I owe a fat man seven million.”
“That’s nothing,” Blake said.
“You’ve been out of town a long time, old man. Ten million people in this city wish they made that much in a year.”
“Here.” Blake said. He pulled an envelope out of an inside coat pocket. “Use this.”
Just as he was handing over the envelope, the back door opened with a slam. It was as if someone had kicked it open. Dominic closed his eyes.
“Here we go,” he said.
A bulky man in a beige suit and a red bow tie stepped into the bar’s main seating area. Beyond him was a large office, and from that office emerged two gigantic men, each dressed in a black suit. They flanked the first man as he settled his gaze on Dominic.
“Dom.” He spread his arms and walked over. “I’m back in town. Aren’t you glad to see me? Shit.”
Blake startled a bit as the man shouted that last word.
“Didn’t expect you so soon, Gigi,” Dominic grumbled.
“I watched your fight from the monitors. Wasn’t too happy with what I saw. It was a beautiful fight, though.” He took Dominic’s face in both of his hands and slapped it around lightly. Wincing in pain, Dominic pulled away and stood up so suddenly that his chair tipped over and clacked against the floorboards.
The bodyguards reached into their coats, placing their hands on their guns. The air in the bar stood still as everyone held their breath and watched.
A wide, wet smile spread across Gigi’s face. It was obvious he and Dominic had done this dance before.
“It was a beautiful fight, but it didn’t last long enough. I told you twenty-five minutes in the ring. You gave me fifteen. So I lost five million.” His face tightened and he made a violent ffff sound with his lips.
“How much did you make?” Dominic said in a challenging tone.
Gigi sniffed the air. “Shit,” he screamed suddenly, his jowls quivering. His face rearranged itself into a pleasant smile. “That’s not your concern. We had a deal. A knockout after twenty-five minutes. So I’ll be adding that five million to the seven you owe me, which is about fourteen-point-five now, with interest and all. Which means you owe me—oh, let’s see”—he counted on his fingers—“let’s round it up to fifteen. Sound good? You have five days.”
“I’ll give you seven million right now,” Dominic said, holding out the envelope. “Cash. Now you leave me and my friend alone so we can enjoy our drinks.”
Gigi took the envelope and looked inside. He tipped his head left and right as he counted. His hand shivered and his face went tight. Blake knew what was coming and forced himself not to wince.
“Spiteful wrath! Shit!”
The people in the bar tensed as Gigi screamed up at the ceiling. The outburst lasted only a moment. His face returned to its normal tilt, and he gave Blake a cynical smile.
“You gave him this money, huh? You’re his rich daddy? How much more you got?”
“That was all of it,” Blake said.
“I don’t believe you.” The fat man motioned for one of his men to search Blake. Blake rose from his chair and glowered at the approaching bodyguard.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
The bodyguard reached into his suit jacket and kept his hand there, eyes narrowing on a square face.
“Boss?”
Gigi motioned for the bodyguard to stand back.
“You’re not from these parts,” he told Blake, “you’re on Murcielo territory. You know that, right?”
“You got your fight and you got your money,” Blake said. “So if you don’t mind, we’ll be on our way.”
He spoke with the calm, sharp-edged authority that only decades of military command can instill in a man. Gigi must have noticed this; he squinted at Blake as he considered his next words.
“You’re from the Eastlands,” he said. “I knew I detected an accent. But you have western military experience, like me—which means you’re a defect—”
Before Gigi could finish his sentence, Blake whipped him in the throat with rigid fingers while pulling his pistol out of his holster with his free hand. He swung himself around the fat man to put him in a headlock.
The bodyguards had their weapons out in a flash. By then Blake’s pistol had found a home nestled against Gigi’s right temple.
“I’ll shoot him,” Blake said. “And none of you will get paid. Think about that.”
The bodyguards watched their boss for guidance. This wasn’t an everyday encounter for them. Not even close.
Squinting at the men, Blake attuned himself to the strings dancing in their minds. If any one of them came up with a bright idea, like trying to shoot him in the head, he would sense it.
Dominic was smirking now at Gigi’s men. “I would do what he says.”
Locked in Blake’s arm, Gigi struggled to speak. “Wh—who are you? Spite, spite!”
“Dominic,” Blake said, ignoring the squirming man. “Relieve these men of their weapons.”
“None of you move,” a voice said behind Blake, followed by the chik-chik of a pump-action shotgun chambering a round.
The bartender.
“Any of you sonsabitches fires a shot in my bar, and I’ll be paintin’ the wall with your childhood memories, you feel me?”
The overhead lights blinked, darkening the bar for a split second. Dominic had disappeared. The spot in which he’d been standing was empty now except for the toppled chair.
Blake knew better than to move. This trick worked better when you let it wash over you like a drug. Already he could feel his awareness of time narrowing.
The bar was quiet except for Gigi’s whimpers. Everyone was looking around for Dominic, trying to solve the mystery. A man couldn’t just disappear like that.
Low, sinister laughter filled the bar. The chuckles of a deranged killer. It sounded like it was coming from above. The bodyguards looked up at the empty ceiling, and then one fell to his knees, a strangled cry erupting from his throat.
Behind Blake, the shotgun went off—but it had been pointed up at the ceiling. Blake spun, still holding Gigi in front of him like a shield, and dove backward into a table. The bar’s few remaining clients, too afraid to move until now, scrambled to get out through the front door.
The bartender, still standing and holding the shotgun, let out a gasp of terror as his arm was grabbed and twisted—by nobody, apparently—and the shotgun went spinning up a few feet in the air.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a hand reached out and caught the shotgun.
Dominic had appeared behind the bartender, close enough to whisper in his pink ear, the shotgun held firmly in his left hand. He kicked out the bartender’s knees, dropping him, then aimed the weapon at the bodyguard still holding his pistol. The other bodyguard—the one Dominic had punched in the throat—was on his hands and knees, coughing.
Stupidly, the one with the pistol moved to aim at Blake. The shotgun went off in Dominic’s hand without hesitation, blowing off the man’s f
ingers and sending the pistol across the room.
The blast put a hole in the back wall, sending plaster and brick particles into the air. Gigi coughed as the dust entered his throat.
“Oh, shit,” Blake said.
When the particles entered his nose and lungs, it felt immediately like an explosion had gone off in his chest. He coughed like he’d never done in his life.
Dominic winced at the sound.
“You need to quit smoking,” he said, releasing the bartender.
“My bar,” the man said. “Dominic, you son of a bitch. Look what you did to my bar.”
“Nothing money can’t fix.”
Dominic flipped a wheezing, shivering Gigi onto his back and searched his pockets. Blake, still coughing, was trying to keep his gun steadily trained on the bodyguards, one of whom kept glancing at the pistol on the floor like he thought he could still be a hero. His partner gripped his wounded hand, moaning through clenched teeth. Served him right for being foolish.
“Tell these men,” Blake told Gigi through hacking coughs, “to stand down.”
“Do it,” Gigi told his men, gasping for breath. “Stand down! Stand down!”
The bartender was still fretting about the damage done to his bar. Dominic found what he was looking for, held up the envelope stuffed with bills, and tossed it to the bartender.
“This should cover the repairs.”
“You’re ments, aren’t you?” the bartender said, stuffing the envelope down the front of his pants. “You should be arrested.”
“Not today,” Dominic said, aiming the shotgun at the bodyguard whose eyes continued to flirt with the pistol on the floor.
Dominic flashed out of view, the pistol disappeared, and then he was standing right back where he’d been a moment earlier.
“Do your thing,” he told Blake, slipping the pistol into the back of his jeans.
Blake had finally stopped coughing, though he could still feel a few more trapped in his chest. He pounded his rib cage a few times and cleared his throat, wanting desperately to smoke a cigarette. Funny how a cigarette could make him feel so good after a coughing spell.
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