by Mel Odom
Inside the courtyard, the music playing in the bars and buildings framing the open space was somewhat muted. Hawke walked through the wrought-iron tables and chairs that sat in three different groupings.
The Bordelon family had owned the block for generations, first as freedmen in the 1830s. They’d lived with the city, riding out the good times and the bad, pouring their blood and magic into keeping it safe. Now only Snakechaser was left to carry on that heritage.
Hawke gazed up at the second floor room where the man kept an office and his private quarters. The surrounding businesses rented from him, providing a solid financial foundation.
Soft, yellow lights glowed inside the windows. Hawke followed the wide stairs up to the second floor. As he reached the top landing, shadows shifted in front of the door.
Two large men stood in front of Snakechaser’s door. Both were dressed in combat leathers sporting green and black 40Leg Jamaican krewe markings. The 40Leg was a large centipede known for its venomous bite. Legend had it that if someone bitten by the 40Leg didn’t kill it, he would feel pain every time the centipede moved.
“What chu doin’ up ’ere, waste mon?” The bigger man nearer Hawke stepped forward and reached inside his jacket as he boomed the challenge. His short hair hugged his round face. Gold hoops pierced his eyebrows, nose, and lips. A neon tattoo of a 40Leg flashed a semi-circular pattern around his right eye.
“I jus’ lef’ a party an’ got lost.” Hawke blinked blearily, like he was drunk, knowing something was wrong because these weren’t the kind of men Snakechaser would have hanging around outside his door. “I was followin’ a woman . . .” He blinked and looked around again as if searching. He didn’t know if the ruse would work. It was thin, but it was all he had. “’Ave you seen ’er?”
Through the window blinds, Hawke glimpsed Snakechaser lying on his office floor. Three other men stood around the room. All of them wore 40Leg colors, and Hawke was certain Snakechaser had gotten himself sideways with the Jamaican gang—and was a few moments away from getting himself dead.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
“’ey.” The big ganger took another step forward and drew the silenced Remington Suppressor machine pistol from his hip. “You. Waste mon. ’ey.”
Hawke stared at the man as he slurred, “Are you talkin’ to me?” and got another step closer.
“Ain’t seen no woman. You got turned ’round. Get on now. Get on back to your party. You only be gettin’ yourself trouble if you stay ’round ’ere.” The man waved his free hand in a shooing motion.
Wired reflexes online now, Hawke grabbed the hand and twisted, torquing it so the man had to roll with the motion or get it broken. He cursed, yelled for help, and tried to bring the Remington into play.
Stepping forward, using his momentum and his body, Hawke caught the ganger’s weapon with his other hand and twisted sharply. Bone snapped and the pistol came free, fitting in Hawke’s fingers like it belonged there. With his arm thrust forward, one foot behind the first ganger’s left foot to keep him off balance, Hawke pulled the pistol into target lock from less than a meter away and put three silenced rounds through the second ganger’s head even as he clawed for his weapon.
Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!
The first ganger untangled his feet and set himself, growling curses edged with fear. He fisted Hawke’s hoodie and tried to smash his forehead into the runner’s jaw. Hawke lifted his head to dodge the blow, then slid back. He cracked the pistol butt against the neon 40Leg tat hard enough to leave a depression in the smashed orbital.
Hawke gave the man cred, because he tried to stay in the fight. He grabbed Hawke’s gun wrist and wouldn’t let go. Hawke torqued the captured hand again, breaking bones in the man’s wrist and fingers with wet snaps. Overcome by pain, the man lost his focus and his grip, allowing Hawke to slip the Remington under his chin and fire two rounds.
Hot blood sprayed over his face and clothing as the bullets tore through the man’s brain and blew off the top of his skull. Hawke let the dead man drop, knelt next the body, and removed two fresh magazines for the Remington. He glanced into Snakechaser’s office as he dumped the partially-used mag from his captured weapon and fed a new one in.
Wired reflexes making everything smooth and fast, Hawke stepped toward the French doors at the front of the office. He glanced at the lock and saw it was open. Filmy gray curtains presented a flattened, colorless image of the room’s interior.
Snakechaser remained on the floor. Hawke detected no wounds or blood, and realized whatever was going on inside the office was on a different plane than the one he was privy to.
He opened the left door and swung it inside, following with his captured pistol raised before him. A long-bladed ceiling fan stirred the air around inside the building, but didn’t do much to combat the humidity. A massive teak desk with carvings of old gods and monsters occupied the back of the office, just behind Snakechaser’s prone body.
A handful of oil paintings of various New Orleans and Mardi Gras highlights hung on the walls. All of them had been done by Snakechaser. If he hadn’t become a cop and houngan, he could have been an artist. One of the most striking paintings was of the tarot readers clustered in folding chairs along Jackson Square with Café du Monde in the background. Snakechaser had been working on the painting the day Hawke first met him three years ago.
In the painting, wispy figures drifted up from the readers’ cards and Baron Samedi, his feathered top hat in place, his face painted like a skull, and a cigar between his teeth, hovered over the readers with his arms spread wide. Somehow, Snakechaser had caught magic in the oils, and the mocking sound of Baron Samedi’s laughter always echoed inside Hawke’s head whenever he looked at the painting.
Putrefaction warred with the thick scent of the flowers outside the office. Inside, the stench of death ruled, rolling off two of the gangers in waves. They stood behind the third man, who stood like a statue less than a meter from Snakechaser.
The third man was in his seventies, perhaps older. His withered skin hung loosely on his face, and his hands were scaly and liver-spotted. Thick, gold rings encrusted with jewels glinted in the office light. He wore an expensive suit that might have fit at one time, but now hung on him like a linen sack. Waxy burn scars in the shape of a jawbone hollowed the emaciated cheeks.
The two men at the rear turned to face Hawke, who cursed when he realized what he was up against. He’d seen reanimated corpses before, and even fought briefly against one in a run a few years ago, but he’d never been this close to one before. According to word on the street, bokors—and sometimes houngan who skirted the dark side of voodoo—used their art to tie spirits of the newly dead they controlled into fresh corpses for a time. The spirits were usually echoes, like badly copied versions of an original program, but they were still dangerous.
Porcelain jesters’ masks covered the zombies’ faces, putting false smiles on the dead features, but there was no mistaking the stench or the reason for the mottled flesh. They moved more quickly than Hawke expected, and he guessed that was because the spell that bound them was fairly recent, or the bokor that had created them was exceptionally strong.
Maybe both.
He leveled the Remington and put three rounds into the head of the zombie on the left. Decayed brain matter evacuated the shattered skull and the thing slowed in its approach, lurching to the side and blocking Hawke’s field of fire on the second zombie. Running up the back of the first zombie, the second leaped at him.
Hawke got two rounds off, but both only smacked into dead flesh, not the thing’s head. The zombie collided with him, knocking him back and shattering the French doors as they smashed into them.
Landing on his back, Hawke felt the wind whoosh from his lungs. The zombie leaned down to snap at him. The mask prevented any contact at first, but the teeth clacked together behind the porcelain layer. A moment later, the jester face shattered, leaving the zombie’s ruined and disfigured face only centimeters from Hawke
’s.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The thing lunged at him again, trying to sink its yellow teeth into his flesh. Hawke had heard some zombies spread infection, depending on how they were created. Virus-born zombies carried sickness and death in their veins for anyone they injured. Even some of the magically generated zombies could infect living beings with the corruption, if they’d been made with magically-enhanced bacteria.
Hawke arched his back and lifted the thing away enough to shove his arm under his attacker’s chin. The zombie bit the Remington and tore it from his grip. Heaving again, Hawke pushed the animated corpse off and rolled to his feet.
Just as quickly, the zombie got its feet under it and stood. Without hesitation, it came at Hawke again.
Not wanting to use his own machine pistol because it wasn’t silenced and would bring law enforcement, Hawke shucked his hoodie and drew the katars. When the zombie reached him, Hawke sank his left blade into the thing’s chest to hold it at bay, then cut off its left arm. As the limb thumped to the floor, he shifted and swung again, taking off the zombie’s remaining arm just above the elbow.
The undead creature swung at Hawke with its stump but only succeeded in spreading a little of the stagnant fluid that remained within the body. This corpse must have been taken fresh from wherever it had been found, because the liquid was blood, not embalming fluid.
Yanking the embedded katar to the side, Hawke tripped the zombie. Without arms, his attacker couldn’t keep its balance and smacked face-first into the hardwood floor. Teeth embedded in the flooring, standing like a miniature Stonehenge. Before it could get up again, Hawke slashed it across the back of its thighs, cutting ligaments and leaving it crippled.
A quick stab to the base of the zombie’s skull returned it to death. Hawke wasn’t sure if the interruption of the revitalized neurons disrupted the reanimation spell, or if the second brain death unfettered the spirit that had been bound to it. Either way, it was dead. Again.
Breathing faster, his enhanced lungs a bellows inside his chest as they kicked into action, Hawke turned to face the third man. He didn’t know whether to keep the katars ready or try for the silenced pistol lying on the floor a few meters away.
Spinning without a sound, like he was on ball bearings, the old man turned to Hawke. Full-on, he realized the guy was older than he’d first thought. The man might have been in his nineties, or even older. The burn scarring, lighter than the ebony skin it lay on, completed the outline of a skull face, including upper and lower teeth charred into the man’s lips.
Hawke lifted the katar, defying the sudden urge to run that rose within him.
The man pointed a bony finger at Hawke, then his mouth opened and blood gushed forth, spilling out in a torrent. Without a word, he toppled to the floor as his sunken eyes registered a brief moment of surprise.
Behind the crumpled corpse, Snakechaser sat up and roped his long arms around his knees, heaving a sigh like he was incredibly tired. He was short and stout, his shoulders broad and thick. His short hair curled tightly to his scalp. A chinstrap beard framed his strong jawline. His slightly rounded face was handsome enough that he was a favorite with the ladies. He wore black slacks and fitted black pullover that showed off his powerful physique. His golden eyes were startling.
“Hoi, Hawke. Long time, no see.” Snakechaser smiled as he got to his feet like it was a normal day, and he didn’t have dead men scattered around his office and outside his door. “Why don’t we take this surprise visit somewhere else?”
“From the sound of it, I think you’re right about this young woman being possessed.” Snakechaser leaned back in his chair and surveyed the partiers on the main floor of the club they’d retreated to. They had a back booth, away from the main ruckus. Snakechaser had a knack for getting preferred seating. His gold eyes—natural, not cybered—roved constantly.
Someone who didn’t know Snakechaser would have presumed he wasn’t listening or thinking about much at all. Familiar with enough cops, and with the houngan himself, Hawke knew that wasn’t true. He rolled a shot glass in his fingers.
“Can you help her?”
Snakechaser flicked his attention back to Hawke. “Mon ami, you know that is a question I can’t answer until I’ve seen her.”
“Would you be willing to try?” Hawke continued before Snakechaser could reply. “I don’t have enough cred to pay you, so all I can offer is a share of the profits.”
“Profits from what?”
Hawke shook his head. “I don’t know. Gotta be something big, though. The Azzies are interested. NeoNET, too. Somebody else with deep pockets. And I haven’t even tried to find other buyers yet.”
“No loyalties to whomever your Johnson represented?”
“None whatsoever. I got handed something a lot bigger than I was prepared to take on.”
“But now you’re refusing to let go.”
Hawke hesitated. “The woman, she didn’t ask for any of this either.”
“At least, you don’t think she did.”
“She got set up by her mentor.”
“That’s what really bothers you about this, isn’t it? That betrayal by someone you’re supposed to trust.”
Hawke didn’t want to answer that question because it was hitting too close to home. When he’d first gotten into the shadows, he’d gotten paired with a man named Hargrove. From what Hawke had later found out, Hargrove had been with one of the big corps, a hatchet man for when things got badly slotted or someone was put up against the wall.
Something had gone wrong, and Hargrove had been tossed out. A kill squad had been put on his trail. Still in his teens, Hawke had been living on the streets doing strong-arm stuff when Hargrove found him and brought him into the biz.
“You’re a natural at this stuff, chummer, but you have a long way to go if you want to survive. I can teach you.” Hargrove was a lean blade of a man who’d been vain enough to leave a little gray at his temples. He’d worn a goatee when he could, but his appearance had changed for every run.
For three years, Hawke had followed the man and learned everything he could from Hargrove and the other runners they did biz with. Hawke had taken in every lesson, every run, and made it his own.
Until the day when a run had gone badly, and Hargrove hung Hawke out to dry. Badly injured, almost dead, Hawke had managed to survive. When he went looking for Hargrove, he found his old mentor had disappeared, sucked into the shadows.
Hawke hadn’t ever told Snakechaser the whole story. The man was gifted enough to pick up most of it through a cop’s observation skills and his own magical ability.
“If you’re going to do this, omae,” Snakechaser said softly as he watched Hawke from the corner of his eye, “you’re going to have to be truthful with yourself. You can’t go into this much firepower without being solid as to why you’re doing it.” He pointed at Hawke with a forefinger. “If you’ve never listened to me before, youngblood, listen to me now.”
Slowly, Hawke nodded. “I’m doing this for her. To get her out of whatever slotted-up situation she’s in.”
Snakechaser held up that same finger. “And you don’t even know if you can do it.”
CHAPTER Forty-EIGHT
Bristling with anger and frustration, Hawke glared at Snakechaser. He thought he had the man figured out for the most part, but this surprised him. “You don’t think I should do this?”
“That we should do this?”
The pronoun made Hawke feel better immediately. “Yeah, we. If I’m just wasting your time, let me know.”
“I didn’t say that.” Snakechaser paused while the young male server plunked down fresh drinks and went away. “Those dead men Crazy Mary’s cleaning out of my office right now? Do you know how they ended up there?”
Crazy Mary was a crime scene cleaner Snakechaser had used on a New Orleans run that Hawke had been part of. The ork woman was ancient and had limited imagination, but she was wiz at making even trace evidence disappear. Sh
e’d shown up at Snakechaser’s office as they were leaving, like she’d already had an appointment.
“No,” Hawke said.
“A cousin was having trouble, and asked if I could help out. You know I can’t turn down family.”
Cousin didn’t necessarily mean blood relative. To Snakechaser’s way of thinking, everyone in the sprawl who had been born into the area was related to each other. He’d even made a case for it once by having Hawke pick someone off the street. If the person had been born in New Orleans, Snakechaser and they had family together no further back than five or six generations. According to Snakechaser, that was close enough to consider them family.
“This cousin,” he continued, “she had a baby recently. The father was Champagne Sonnier.”
The name didn’t ring any bells for Hawke, and he shook his head.
“Oh, you’d have known Sonnier, mon ami. He was strictly a low-level street tough waiting to get his ticket punched. A few months ago, one of Mary Jo Doonan’s enforcers done for him down in the Lower Nine, when Sonnier tried to hijack a shipment.”
Hawke had heard of Doonan. She was a rogue CIA agent who ran a big part of the sprawl’s smuggling enterprise. She also wasn’t known for her charity.
“The only thing worthwhile that Sonnier ever did was get himself killed and father one of the prettiest little girls you could ever wish for.” Snakechaser smiled, the expression genuine. He liked kids, and kids liked him. That ease with those relationships was one of the reasons Hawke wanted him to work with Rachel Gordon.
“That bokor in my office was Big Eel Sonnier, a legend in the 40Leg krewes, and Champagne Sonnier’s great-great grandfather. Champagne was Big Eel’s last living relative, because good luck and common sense seemed to wither up and breed out of the Sonnier family a long time ago. Champagne was being trained to take over the family business once the old man died. Except he liked to moonlight too, which is what got him killed. After that, Big Eel all out of family like he was, he came after that little girl.”