Alliance of Shadows (Dead Six Series Book 3)

by Larry Correia

  It was eerie as hell down here. The water was fairly clear and free of sediment so I wasn’t blind, and the flashlight helped a lot. Sadly, nomadic traders in the Golden Mountains didn’t stock swim goggles, but I could see well enough to get by. The flood had been so gradual that it hadn’t even knocked over chairs. There were still billiard balls on the pool table, though the cues had floated away. Things were starting to decay and the walls were getting fuzzy with moss. There was still a TV mounted on the wall. I’d found the Montalbans’ rec room. Useless.

  My lungs were starting to hurt. I’d been a damned good swimmer, but it had been a long time. By the time I squeezed back through the debris a little bit of panic was starting to build in the back of my mind. I’d pushed too far. I was going to run out of air and die down here. I swam down the hall as fast as I could, passing other rooms I’d already cleared. As the pain grew, I cursed myself. It figured that I’d be the one to survive a prison that no one ever survived, only to drown myself inside a house two days later. Desperate, I reached the stairs, got my hands, then feet on them. The glue had melted so the carpet was a floating bubble, tacked at the edges. I half swam, half walked the last few feet, and gasped in precious air as my face broke the surface.

  Dripping and gasping, I stumbled out of the water, sank to my knees, and lay down on the damp floor.

  Damn it. That was as far as I could go, yet I’d found nothing.

  I began to shiver uncontrollably. We were way up in the mountains, so even in the summer the water was cold as hell, and I had no insulation left. There was a fireplace ten feet away, but no way to light it, and everything here was too soggy to burn.

  There was one more room past the rec room, but I couldn’t reach it. I knew my brother. If Bob thought there was any way Exodus could find him, he’d leave a clue. He was so dedicated to his investigation, so worried about Project Blue, that he’d been willing to sacrifice his life—and mine—to stop it. Bob had months to piece together more about Blue after those journals of his I’d read, plus he might have learned something from Kat and Anders, or maybe even had an idea of where they would be taking him next. He had to have left something in there. I knew it.

  Bob wasn’t a quitter. It ran in the family. I’d not given up in the dark for a year and a half—that still boggled my mind—And I wasn’t going to give up here either. I was getting into that last room one way or the other, and if there was nothing, then I could get on that train knowing that I’d at least done my best. The Montalban Exchange was big, but it was just a fancy house. I hadn’t given up when I was surrounded by solid rock. There was an iron poker next to the fireplace. I got up, went over, and picked it up. It was rusty, but that was fine. I just needed it to last longer than the soggy floorboards.

  I made an educated guess about where the last room was, and went to work on the floor. Smashing into the Montalban Exchange gave me a chance to think, and to focus my rage. If there was no clue, no bread crumbs, no answer, then I’d just declare war on the lot of them. I used to work for Big Eddie. I used to know some of his operations and many of his lieutenants. Some of them still had to work for Big Eddie’s psychotic little sister. I’d pick them off, one by one, until somebody gave up Kat.

  As I pounded the floor into splinters, I had to stop to rest several times. It gave me time to think through the repercussions of going to war with an organized crime family. I’d been elated to get out of the dark, but enthusiasm can only get you so far when you’re trying to kill a bunch of professional killers.

  There were good odds I’d die. Kat was damned good at her job, and Anders was probably better. Anyone who helped me would be in danger. Kat knew what Jill meant to me. I’d stayed alive for Jill, but once the Montalbans knew it was me, they’d go after her again. I had to keep her out of this. I had to keep Reaper out of it. They were probably still in hiding. They needed to stay that way. Big Eddie had targeted my family to manipulate me once, and if Kat found out I was still alive, she’d do the same thing. Right now, my best defense was them thinking I was dead.

  I had to do this the old way, the way I used to operate, back when I truly did not give a shit about anyone or anything. When I was a ghost, faceless and living job to job, doing whatever it took to win, without mercy, without thought, without hesitation. The only way to beat them would be by being worse than them.

  Jill had helped me become a better man, and I loved her for it, but being a decent human being was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I had to become that perfect killer again, and that meant I had to be alone. If I was going to do this, I could afford no distractions.

  In my condition it still took me a while, and by the time I’d pried up enough floor to squeeze through, I was exhausted again. I was going to be cutting it close on catching that train, and if I missed today’s, it wouldn’t surprise me if one of the nomads just decided to kill me in my sleep to keep life simple. Hospitality is nice and all—until it draws the Pale Man’s eye.

  Making the hole had at least warmed me up, so it sucked extra when I lowered myself through the moldy insulation and back into the frigid water. I took a deep breath, and dropped into the last room. My vision was blurry, but when I shined the light around, I knew that I’d hit the jackpot.

  The four walls were made of solid wooden beams instead of sheetrock like the rest of the place. The door was metal, and looked like it had been looted from an old Russian military bunker when they’d built this place. The only piece of furniture left was a metal bed frame. There were leather straps bolted to the side of the frame. The Montalbans had probably used this room for interrogations. Someone could have screamed their head off in here and the people upstairs would have never known.

  If Bob had been here, there hadn’t been much to work with in the way of tools, but he would have improvised something. He couldn’t have done anything in the open, or they would have seen it when they took him away. I swam down to the bedframe and put the flashlight between my teeth so I could use both hands again. The little flashlight had a yellow plastic body, so at least it was soft enough not to chip my teeth. It still tasted better than Jihan’s gruel.

  I felt around behind the metal bars. Sure enough. One of the bolts was really loose. That had been his tool. He’d been smart enough to stick it back in the frame so they wouldn’t notice. Anders was observant and smart, but Bob was smarter.

  My chest was starting to hurt. I felt along the wall. It reminded me of exploring my cell in the dark, looking for any vulnerability I could exploit. There. Something was scratched into the wood, placed at an angle that any guard who entered wouldn’t see it behind the frame. I had to practically drag myself beneath the bed to get eyes on it. It was too blurry to read, so I had to feel it out with my fingertips. It was rough, and must have taken him forever to do it with the end of a bolt.

  Varga.

  I knew that name. I swam for the hole. I had a train to catch.

  Chapter 3: Rampage

  Lorenzo

  Budapest, Hungary

  September 1st

  Ten days later I was in a nightclub in Budapest, looking to take down a Montalban stooge.

  Big Eddie’s employees loved places like this. Lots of coming and going, big crowds, so much obnoxious music noise that bugging it would be impossible, it was a perfect place to exchange information, collect bribes, plot crimes, and then fade away. The combination of black lights, glowing body paint, and half-naked people was distracting enough that a regular boring criminal—like yours truly—drinking at the end of the bar was practically invisible.

  It had taken me a while to get to Hungary. Playing hobo across Siberia isn’t as fun as it sounds. I couldn’t call in any favors, because I couldn’t risk word getting out that I was alive. Once back in the civilized world, I’d stolen money and clothing, and got treated by a shady doctor who’d given me a bottle of antibiotics. Then I’d hotwired a car to get to one of my stashes in Volgostadorsk. That storage locker I had rented years ago had netted me some IDs, a f
ake passport, and more money. I’d found a Roma caravan. That’s how my dad had grown up, before he’d been such a scumbag that they’d tossed his ass. I’d picked up a couple of dialects over the years, and knew how to pay my proper respects—and money—which had bought me a ride to Hungary. Being a passenger had given me time to rest and recuperate. They’d dropped me off in Budapest, I’d stolen a car, and come straight here.

  I scanned the crowd for Stefan Varga. Back when I worked for Big Eddie, he’d run this club. It seemed like a legit establishment, but if you knew where to look there were signs and signals to the other criminals that this was Montalban turf. There was still plenty of hired muscle wandering around, partying between their criminal endeavors, but nobody I recognized from the old days. Varga had been a major smuggler for Eddie when I knew him, and smarter than he was tough. Kat had probably promoted him after she took over. She’d always had an eye for talent.

  There had to be some reason Varga was important enough that they would have mentioned his name in front of Bob. Unless it was a different crook with the same last name and this was a dead end. Or the right guy, but he’d moved on. But if that was the case, one of these mooks would know where their old boss had gone.

  I’d gotten cleaned up in Russia and bought nice clothes so I wouldn’t look like the Unabomber. I must have done something right because I got flirted with twice in the last forty minutes, by one woman and one dude. Apparently this scene was into that emaciated, spent a year and a half in a lightless hole chic. I told them that I was waiting for my date and went back to my scotch. I wasn’t wearing a disguise, but my hair was longer, my beard was trimmed, and I was probably twenty pounds lighter and a decade older than the last time I’d been here, so I wasn’t likely to get recognized by a crew that thought I was dead. However, I probably shouldn’t have blown the flirts off, because if I was here alone for too long I’d look suspicious. I couldn’t afford to get made. I wasn’t even armed. I knew the club would have metal detectors, so the only people in here with guns would be working for Kat.

  I got up and walked toward the bathrooms, trying to get a better view of the VIP area. Varga had never been a back office type. He’d always liked to conduct his criminal business out in the lights and music, snorting coke off the table while getting a blow job from an expensive hooker under it. Big Eddie’s people were classy like that. If Varga was still here, hopefully he hadn’t mellowed with age, because if he was in the offices, I was going to have a hard time getting back there without being seen.

  The music was shit. It was better than the horrible noise of Jihan’s prison, but that was it. Music had peaked with Black Sabbath. This was just repetitive electronic noise over a bunch of bass and what sounded like a power drill. The DJ looked like a crackhead. The air smelled like pot and sweat. The dancers were sleazy, stoned kids. It made me feel old, but Reaper probably would have loved this place. Damn I missed him. Five minutes on his computer and he’d probably be able to tell me exactly where Varga was right now and what he’d had for breakfast. But I’d made my call. I couldn’t risk my old team’s lives. This was on me alone.

  My target wasn’t in the VIP area. In the bathroom I splashed some water on my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I was getting stronger, but I still looked like death. The sunburn from the mountains was healing and I was getting my color back. I’d been eating, exercising, and actually sleeping. Sure, the sleep was riddled with nightmares, and I kept waking up in a cold sweat freaking out that I’d imagined my whole escape, but I was getting better. When I woke up now all I had to do was focus on sweet revenge until my pulse slowed down, and then I was fine for another hour or two.

  You got this. Satisfied that the hollowed-out, used-up killer staring back at me in the mirror could still do the job, I headed back to the bar.

  Back out in the electronic noise and fog machine chaos, for just a moment it felt like someone was watching me. I turned to see a shadowed figure on a balcony above, white skin, black hood. I felt a flash of panic. It was the Pale Man. He followed me! But then the spotlights shifted along the rafters, and the figure was gone. It was an illusion. Nothing more than a trick of the lights and smoke. My fear was irrational.

  Calm down, you big pussy. I’d been through hell, but that was no excuse. Focus. Then, through the dancers, I caught a glimpse of another ghost from my past. Only this one turned out to be real.

  Hello, Diego.

  It was hard to tell with the flashing lights, but I was certain it was him. The last time I’d seen that lunatic had been at the Crossroads. One of Kat’s best men, he was also the asshole she’d sent to try and kill Jill and Reaper during the betrayal, and afterwards Kat had gloated about it. Diego had shaved his head since then, but there was no mistaking him for anyone else. See, Diego was one of those guys who was too pretty. He stood out, even in a place like this.

  Carefully, I followed him, keeping a lot of people between us. Diego was an effeminate crossdresser in his free time, but he was a psychopath and underestimating him would get me killed. From what I’d heard he was a ruthless, efficient killer. Hands on, preferred to work with knives, and good enough at it that most of the Crossroad’s resident professional killers had given him a wide berth. It takes a lot of skill to build that kind of rep in a place like that.

  Diego went past some security guys and up the stairs to the club’s offices. I went back to the bar and ordered another drink. Diego was one of Kat’s insiders. I might not get another opportunity like this. One of the bartenders had been slicing lemons. There was a little knife on the cutting board. When nobody was looking I snatched it. It was only a skinny, five-inch kitchen knife, with a clumsy square wooden handle. Not exactly a properly balanced killing blade, but it was solid, and when I tested the edge with my thumb I knew it would do.

  This asshole had tried to kill my woman. That sort of thing demands retribution.

  Normally I liked to plan things out, take my time, look for angles and plan for contingencies, but a few minutes later Diego came down the stairs and headed for the back exit, and I followed him. There was an alley behind the club. He’d probably parked there. I might be able to tail him to someplace quieter, but my car was parked half a block away. By the time I reached it, I might lose him. Diego paused to talk to another security goon in a suit, who handed Diego a motorcycle racing jacket and a helmet. Diego took them and went out the door.

  Palming it so the blade was concealed along my forearm, I quickly walked toward the back exit, passing between unsuspecting Hungarians. The big guy in the suit was moving toward the stairs. Good. If I’d had to slash his throat in here there’d be too many witnesses. There was a sign that warned opening this door would cause an alarm to sound, but Diego had just proven that was bullshit designed to keep patrons from letting their friends in. I pushed the door open and entered the alley.

  The night air was cool. The light was bad. There was a security camera mounted on the bricks high above me. I wouldn’t have much time. The annoying techno music faded as the door closed. I looked right. Clear. To the left was a green dumpster. I stepped around it. Fifteen feet away Diego was walking toward a parked BMW motorcycle. I’d cripple him, then question him. Simple, nice, fast, and clean.

  Making no sound, I flipped the knife around in my hand and started toward him.

  Diego must have seen my reflection in the bike’s chrome, because he reacted instantly, spinning and hurling the helmet at me. I dodged to the side, but it still caught my forearm, slowing me. I lunged, directing a cut at his face. He blocked my arm with his palm as he moved back. I slashed again. Our arms and hands collided. The man was quick.

  So much for simple.

  Trying to make distance, Diego reached for his side. Gun! Kitchen knife flashing back and forth, I followed. His hand came up with a black pistol, but I elbowed it aside, kicked him in the shin, and with the flick of my wrist sliced open his knuckles. The pistol went skittering down the alley. He hit me, but I shoulder checked
him into the brick wall. I kept on him, slicing, but I’d lost track of his other hand, and barely avoided getting cut by the blade that had appeared out of nowhere. I leapt back as a six-inch tear appeared in the fabric of my shirt.

  We stood there for a moment, a few feet apart, knives pointed at each other. His folder was designed for piercing skin, severing tendons and arteries. Mine was for cutting lemons. But Diego was bleeding and I wasn’t. I could still hear that damned techno music. His baby smooth face contorted in rage as he realized I’d already cut him several times. “You realize who I am? You know who you’re fucking with, you little bitch?”

  “Where’s Kat?”

  “Lorenzo?” Diego’s anger turned to shock. I had a rep too. “But you’re dead!”

  “Where’s Anders?”

  Diego rushed me.

  The knife was aimed at my eyes, but mostly to steal my attention long enough to nail me with a knee or an elbow. If I’d not had the element of surprise, he might have taken me. He was scary fast, but I was too focused, too angry. All the fights in the Pale Man’s dungeon had changed me, honed me. Now? I felt alive. It was amazing the difference food and a purpose could make.

  I blocked his knife hand and cut him. I ducked under his fist and cut him. I caught his knee with my forearms and stabbed him. He grunted as the blade punched a hole through his abdominal wall. I shoved Diego back into the dumpster. He left a big streak of blood across the sheet metal.

  “Where’s Kat?” My voice was cold.

  His knife came back around, but I caught his wrist with the edge of my blade. Lemons weren’t the only thing it could slice in half. His knife landed at my feet. He punched me in the ribs, but he was losing too much blood and weakening. His next punch was easily dodged, and I stabbed him in the shoulder. I twisted the knife and Diego screamed in my ear. “Where?”