The Castle Doctrine (Daniel Faust Book 6)

by Schaefer,Craig

  “I came here out of respect,” I told him, keeping my voice steady as I fought to hold his gaze. “I came in the hopes of stopping a massacre. Call off your dogs, Dominic. Rein your son in. If you don’t, he’ll be coming home in a casket.”

  Dominic nodded back over his shoulder. “You notice, when I told my guy to give us some privacy, he didn’t gripe about it. Didn’t hesitate, either. Didn’t question me. Absolute obedience. That’s what I demand from each and every one of my men, and that’s what I get. They trust me. I’m the shogun, and they’re my samurai, ready to die as soon as I give the order. That is respect. Threatening my son’s life? Have you heard a goddamn word I’ve said? I gave Angelo the green light on you, your buddies, and your entire city, to see if he can man up and earn his place in this family. If he can’t, then I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do to him. If he fails, he’s no son of mine. So go for it. Do your worst, because you’re handing me a favor. He wipes you vermin out and takes the city, or you kill him and save me years of frustration. Either way, I win. Survival of the fittest. That’s what this world is all about.”

  I inched closer to him, our toes almost bumping on the tile floor as my anger simmered. A low, steady fire in the pit of my stomach, threatening to boil over.

  “I don’t think you realize just how fit we are. This is your last chance. Call it off.”

  Dominic smirked. “You’re chicken feed. So you’ve got some street gangs, some cut-rate thugs, and a handful of freaks. We’ve got more men, more guns, and more experience. And I don’t like working with your kind, but we’ve even got you outmatched in the freak department.”

  “Your shape-shifter? Yeah, we know all about that. You got some good early licks in, when you had surprise on your side, but he won’t be a problem much longer.”

  “What? Tony the Tiger?” Dominic said. “Oh, no, he’s just my kid’s house pet. I’ve got something even better than that. See for yourself.”

  He whistled. We weren’t alone after all. And as one of the stall doors swung open, I saw the source of Dominic’s confidence. All seven feet of him, three hundred pounds of rock-hard muscle squeezed into a tailored black suit. He looked my way, the overhead lights gleaming across his razor-nicked scalp and prison-ink neck tattoos, and bared his teeth like a shark spotting his first meal of the day.

  “This is Koschei,” Dominic said. “I believe you two have met.”

  The last time I crossed paths with Koschei the Deathless, he was on the payroll of a coke dealer out in LA. A coke dealer I was trying to rip off, so the meeting didn’t go too well. We electrocuted him. It didn’t stick. Then Caitlin snapped his neck. That didn’t work either. Finally, we fed him into a wood chipper.

  Some people just don’t know when to quit.

  He took two running steps, faster than he looked, and hoisted me up by the lapels of my rented tux. Then I was weightless, flying like a skydiver who forgot to pack a parachute. My back slammed against the bathroom door hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs and I just kept going, through the door and hitting the bodyguard standing right outside. We went down in a tangle of bodies. As I tried to clear my head, jolts of pain shooting down my spine like I’d been pounded with a ball-peen hammer, I saw Koschei steaming toward me, a runaway train.

  I reached into the stunned bodyguard’s jacket and snatched the nine-millimeter from his holster. The ballroom erupted in screams as I opened fire, shooting Koschei three times in the chest. The slugs tore his dress shirt and clung to his unbroken, bloodless skin like medals of honor. Grinning now, he swatted the piece from my grip and got one hand around my throat, the other around one leg, lifting me like I was a rag doll. He took a running start, swung back, and then heaved. I tumbled in the air and crash-landed into a banquet table, rolling, hitting the hardwood floor and bringing a rain of broken wineglasses and burgundy-stained tablecloth down with me.

  The gunshots had sparked a stampede, partygoers pounding across the dance floor in all directions, shrieking as they crammed the doorway at every exit. I had blood and Bordeaux on my tux, one shoulder torn at the seams, one arm sliced up from a shard of broken glass. The biting sting was the only thing cutting through my reeling head fog, and I was seeing double. Either that or Koschei had suddenly sprouted an identical twin, both of them standing over me in triumph. He bent down, reaching for my throat again—and then Caitlin hit him from the side, ramming him like a linebacker and sending him sprawling.

  They squared off on the empty dance floor. He snarled silently, slowly circling, his oversized hands strangling the air in anticipation. Caitlin held him in her cool gaze, studying, planning.

  “Care for a rematch?” she asked him.

  She kicked off her high heels one at a time, sending them spinning across the polished floor. Then she reached down with both hands and tore the hem of her evening gown a few inches along one leg, shredding the fabric, giving her more room to maneuver.

  “I assure you,” she said, “I am quite happy to oblige.”

  15.

  Koschei roared as he charged at Caitlin, his boots pounding a war-drum beat on the dance floor. Caitlin caught him by the elbow and heaved him off his feet, flipping him over her shoulder and slamming him down hard on his back. She swept one bare foot high, bringing it down in a kick with the sound of a whistling ax, and he rolled out of the way just in time. The parquet floor splintered under her heel. Clambering to his feet, Koschei put his fists together and hit her in the stomach with the force of a sledgehammer, sending her staggering back.

  An ordinary human couldn’t do much against an incarnate demon like Caitlin, but the giant Russian was anything but ordinary. The last time they’d squared off he broke her arm as easily as snapping a twig, and he would have done a lot worse if Jennifer and I hadn’t been there. Still groggy, blood trickling down my sliced-up arm, I staggered to my feet and looked for a way to help.

  They were in close now, trading hits in a ballet of violence. Koschei grunted as Caitlin spun on one heel and lashed out, hitting him with a rib-splintering kick. He threw a pile-driver punch, aiming for her jaw; her scarlet hair whipped the air as she ducked backward, his fist missing her by a fraction of an inch. Dominic stood at the edge of the dance floor, flanked by a few of his thugs. They lined up and drew steel, taking aim at me and Caitlin.

  “They’re too close,” one said, his pistol bobbing helplessly. “I can’t get a clear shot.”

  Dominic glowered at him and snatched the gun out of his hand.

  “Idiot. Koschei’s immune to bullets.” Dominic squinted one eye closed as he sighted down the barrel. “Shoot through him.”

  I flung out my hand and sent a royal delegation of playing cards winging through the air. Four kings jumped between us and the gunfire, dropping dead with four bullets in their faces. The distraction bought Caitlin the split second she needed to take Koschei off guard. She grabbed his wrist, spun him around, and wrenched it behind his back until his howl of pain rang out over the wet pop of splintering bone.

  “Caitlin!” I edged backward toward the ballroom door, throwing up more cards to catch another hail of bullets. “Time to leave.”

  “Next time,” she growled in Koschei’s ear. She shoved him toward the gunmen and joined the retreat, both of us running for the door with death on our heels. We raced through the abandoned foyer and burst out into the cool night air. The parking lot was a tangled mess, a hundred panicked guests all trying to fight their way out at once, a cacophony of jolting brakes and squealing horns. The wail of sirens rose in the distance, coming in fast.

  “Forget the limo,” I said. “We’ll never get it out of here before the cops lock this place down.”

  We ran on foot, skirting the lot and hitting the sidewalk. No destination but away. Once we got clear of Dominic’s thugs and the local police—who probably answered to someone on Dominic’s payroll anyway—we could figure out our next move.

  A battered old Datsun with an NPR bumper sticker rumbled up to the cur
b. Halima behind the wheel, and Freddie riding shotgun. The window rolled down.

  “Say the words,” Freddie told Halima.

  “I’m not saying it.”

  Freddie waved a checkbook at her. “One thousand dollar donation to the Field Museum, right here and now, but you have to say the words.”

  Halima let out a weary sigh and looked our way.

  “Come with me if you want to live,” she said.

  Freddie squealed with delight as we piled into the backseat. The Datsun lurched away from the curb, fading into traffic, leaving the chaos and the cops behind us. Scribbling out a check, Freddie turned in her seat and gave us a once-over.

  “We figured you might run into a little trouble, so we decided to come and be helpful.”

  “I thought we were going to the movies,” Halima said, “until you insisted I circle the block for half an hour.”

  “I needed you to drive. My Ferrari only has two seats. I’m assuming the negotiations didn’t go your way, Dan. Hate to break it to you, but you’re not getting the cleaning deposit back on that tux.” Freddie gaped at Caitlin. “Where are your shoes? And the dress! You tore the dress!”

  “The party was wilder than we anticipated,” Caitlin said.

  Freddie rubbed her chin, her brow furrowed. “Honestly? The side slit isn’t bad. No, you know what? Next version, I’m incorporating that into the design. Just…less raggedy and battle-damaged.”

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said to Halima.

  She met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “I assume this means a peaceful solution is impossible?”

  “Did my best. Turns out Angelo Mancuso hasn’t gone rogue. His old man wants him to pick a fight, to see if he’s tough enough to lead the family. He doesn’t even care if his kid lives or dies; it’s some sick survival-of-the-fittest bullshit.”

  “When a man abandons his humanity and chooses to live as a beast,” Halima mused, “it should not be surprising that he views life and death just as a beast does. What will you do now?”

  “Get a change of clothes, find some bandages for my arm, and figure out plan B on the flight back home. Gotta shut this down fast, or Gary Kemper’s gonna throw me to the wolves. If they won’t talk peace…I guess we give ’em the fight they’re asking for.”

  “Well, while you were spilling perfectly good wine all over your tuxedo, Halima and I were solving a mystery.” Freddie looked to Halima. “Go ahead, tell them what we found.”

  “Right. What we found. Trying to locate the elusive Carolyn Saunders was difficult at first. Her novels are all self-published, and her ‘company’ is a bogus address.”

  I shrugged. “Makes sense. If I was writing dirt about the real occult underground and selling it as pulp fiction, I’d be in hiding, too. Lots of sorcerers would take a shot at her just on general principle.”

  “Well, then I did a little digging. Turns out, until she suddenly quit her job and became a virtual recluse about five years ago, she taught history and literature at a local college. She once released an archaeological study through the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, which, by good fortune, is also my very occasional publisher. And I have friends on the staff.”

  “Prepare to be awed.” Freddie reached over the seat and pushed a yellow Post-it note into my open palm. “My beloved BFF made a few phone calls, and answers were granted. This is the address where Saunders gets her annual royalty checks from the OI. Google Maps says it’s a ranch house in the boonies a few miles outside Bloomington. Bloomington, Illinois, not Bloomington, Indiana. It’s south of here, maybe a two-hour drive.”

  I stared down at the neatly written address. I had a tough decision to make.

  The four of us walked through the lobby of the Four Seasons, Caitlin shoeless and her dress torn, me bloodied, wine-drenched and bedraggled, drawing eyes from a few late-night tourists. Security got between us and the elevators, and I warded them off with a wave of my key card.

  “It’s okay, guys, we’re guests. Hey, send some bandages up to my room? And a bottle of bourbon. On second thought, make it two bottles.”

  At least my cuts were shallow, mostly clotted by the time I locked myself in the bathroom, stripped down, and turned on the shower. I studied my body in a cloud of billowing steam as the mirror slowly fogged and turned me into a winter ghost. Fresh bruises on my arms, my back. A pulled muscle that treated me to a whip crack of pain every time I bent my left shoulder too far, but nothing I couldn’t live with. I stood under the shower’s spray, letting the hot water pulse against my tender skin until I felt human again. Mostly, though, I tried to work the angles and figure out my next move.

  Damien Ecko was out there somewhere, hunting for me. That was a problem, but one I could put on the back burner. As long as I stayed underground, he could hunt all he wanted. My best move was to figure out a way to find him first, and set the terms of battle. That could wait, though. It was going to have to, with the Chicago Outfit on the rampage.

  Gary Kemper said he’d give me up to the FBI, making me a fugitive all over again. And I believed him. We weren’t exactly the best of friends before this whole mess started, considering I’d blackmailed him once, and I was only breathing free air because—for now—he’d decided I was more useful on the loose than I was behind bars. My best bet was to dig up something just as lethal to dangle over his head in case he dimed me out, keeping the peace with the threat of mutually assured destruction. That was going to take time, though, time I didn’t have.

  So that left Angelo and his crew. Shut ’em down fast, stop any more civilians from eating a bullet, and get Kemper off my back. Seemed like the obvious choice, the only right answer.

  Almost.

  Because I’d been handed the home address of a woman who knew way too much about my life, and who had put it in a book for the world to read. A woman who knew about the man with the Cheshire smile. Carolyn Saunders was my one lead, my one clue to tracking down the Enemy. I thought back to my kitchen-table conversation with Bentley, his fear that I was getting obsessed. I’d promised him I’d rein it in, that I’d get my head right and my priorities in line.

  But Carolyn was a two-hour drive from here. One shining lead, dangling right in my face, so close I could touch it.

  I already knew what I was going to do. It just took me the rest of the shower to talk myself into it. You can justify any bad idea if you really work at it. Halima and Freddie were still in the hotel room, talking while Caitlin and Freddie shared glasses of bourbon. Freddie poured a third glass and held it out to me as I emerged from the bathroom, thankful for a fresh change of clothes.

  “You clean up nicely,” she told me. “Here, drink. You probably need this.”

  I probably did. I savored the smoky tang and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m going to see Carolyn,” I said. “Cait, can you go back to Vegas and maybe watch over Jennifer until I catch up with you? I’ll see if there’s an airport near Bloomington. Maybe I can fly back from there and save some time.”

  “Alone?” Caitlin frowned. “We did discuss the possibility of a trap, did we not?”

  “I’ll be careful. Look, the Outfit is on the move, and Jen needs backup. And now that we know Koschei’s alive, she’s in even more danger. It’s not like that giant psycho forgot what the three of us did to him. I’d feel better if she had a guardian angel until I got back.”

  Caitlin arched an eyebrow. “Guardian what now?”

  “Figure of speech. Sorry.”

  “I thought you promised Jennifer you’d be at her Commission meeting.”

  I winced. “She’s in safer hands with you anyway. I’ll only be a few hours behind you, I promise. This is just…this is just something I have to do, okay?”

  “Think carefully,” Halima said. “This woman, whoever she is, whatever she knows, can wait. Meeting her is likely to bring even more problems to your doorstep, and that’s assuming this isn’t a trap. Can you really afford to buy more trouble right now?” />
  I wanted to say I didn’t have a choice, but we both knew that’d be a lie.

  16.

  We took Caitlin to O’Hare and put her on the next flight west, and then I made my way down to the rent-a-car kiosks. My new Paul Emerson persona was getting a workout. So far, no red flags, and nobody took a second glance at my new ID. Budget set me up with a shiny new Elantra and a GPS that pointed me toward the nearest on-ramp, the screen sketching out a long ride ahead.

  The strobing white lines lulled me, fatigue sinking bone deep as the road hypnosis set in. I pulled into a convenience store for a big cardboard cup of black coffee, then got right back on the road. I was in no shape to be driving—no shape to do anything but sleep, truth be told—but I forced myself to push through it. I’d left the city lights behind, plunging into rural Illinois, and it felt like the world had turned into a vast, flat and endless plain. Soil and cornfields and the occasional hamlet, rusting away in the moonlight.

  Whoever he is, whatever he is, I told myself, the Enemy’s not sleeping right now. Neither am I. Just keep going.

  I twisted the radio dial until I found a hard rock station and turned up the volume, squealing guitars carrying me through the still hours of the night.

  The first shimmering rays of dawn, breaking over a cornfield, brought me to Carolyn Saunders’s doorstep. She lived on the edge of farm country, in a ramshackle ranch house with faded gray clapboard siding and ginger lace curtains in the windows. A massive weeping willow squatted in her front yard, its drooping boughs casting a moss-green canopy over her gravel driveway. I pulled in behind a rusty Toyota pickup truck, turned off the engine, and studied the house.