Zero Sum: An Alexi Sokolsky Supernatural Thriller (Alexi Sokolsky: Hound of Eden Book 3)

by James Osiris Baldwin

  “Five past midnight,” the next speaker sounded nervous. It was Dogboy, his vampire lieutenant. “They said they’d be here zero-zero sharp with the Feds. I don’t know what’s keeping them...”

  “Otto Roth doesn’t like it when people are late.” Otto’s voice dropped to a dangerous rumble. “Otto thinks the cops should have gotten their motherfucking pot plant and left by now.”

  “Yaroshenko’s the Master of the Fifth Choir, man. He’s not gonna stiff us... it’s probably just traffic or something.

  I was still, but couldn’t suppress a bitter smirk. You clearly know a different Sergei Yaroshenko than me.

  The shadows wobbled across the concrete, cast long by the studio lights that beamed overhead. The hair on the nape of my neck prickled. There was something really off about Otto.

  A few minutes passed, and then the rapport of a metal door opening and slamming echoed through the building like a gunshot. Ears cocked, I listened as shoes rang off the hard ground. Two pairs.

  “Hey there, Joshy!” Dogboy called out, striving for cheerfulness. “Looking sharp, as always!”

  “No need to be cute, Dogboy.” A stiff, formal Gold Coast lockjaw accent. I tensed. It was Agent Keen.

  “Where are the Russkies at?” Otto, this time.

  “They’re finishing up their business outside. Now, where is she? Is she safe?”

  “The plant’s upstairs,” Otto said. “We put Christmas tree decorations on it for you.”

  “I’m so glad we chose associates with such a wonderful a sense of humor,” Keen replied. “We are not pleased with you, Roth, and in no mood for antics.”

  “What’s not to be pleased about?” Otto didn’t even bother to hide how smug he was.

  “Apparently you felt the need to sow your oats with Kristen,” Keen said, each word formed sharp and cold. “Now, a Streetsweeper is loose. Would you know anything about that?”

  “Otto knows the bitch got what she deserved. If you want a janitor, he ain’t your man.”

  I tried to look around the crates to see faces, but sunk back down as the door opened again, hinges squealing. The conversation died as the newcomers joined the assembled. One set of heavy boots that rang with a recognizable cadence, and two other pairs of feet that were, by comparison, whisper-soft.

  “How’s it going, Nic? And, uh, Advokat, right?” One of the other bikers stepped forward to greet the current Avtoritet of Brighton Beach. And his Advokat, too? GOD, how I wanted to put a knife through Nic’s neck.

  “Not bad. Otto. Dogboy.” It was Nicolai who replied, his dry scarecrow rasp heavily accented in English.

  “Heard there was trouble in your ranks, Nic,” Otto said. “One guy murdered. Other guys leaving.”

  “Yegor knew risks. There is always risk of playing this games.” Nicolai sounded... exhausted. His English was normally better than that.

  “Well, to business.” Joshua Keen now sounded distinctly uncomfortable. Dealing with the riff-raff was out of his element. “The handover, first of all. Let me see her.”

  “Go get the plant,” Otto ordered.

  Unseen feet stamped off across the floor, and the room fell into the uneasy tension between merchant and customer. Keen was too uncomfortable to let silence reign. “At least you got her. If you’ve hurt her…”

  “Ain’t done nothing to the plant. Ain’t like it got any holes to fuck.”

  “Charming. Did the cult give you any trouble?”

  “Nah. We nabbed it while your guys were getting slaughtered upstairs,” Otto said. “Never send boys to do a man’s job, I say. You ever figure what happened up there?”

  “No idea,” Keen replied. “We lost contact with the team. The final report was that ST-1 was chasing down a suspected undesirable inside the auditorium. This ‘Deacon’, perhaps, though he was supposed to be occupied elsewhere. You had the Tree, and thus we ordered withdrawal.”

  They were talking about the Church of the Voice raid—they had to be. Stunned, I focused on my breathing, trying not to let it speed. There was only one reason the Tree would have been at the Church… and suddenly, Glory’s remark to me made a great deal more sense. ‘A favor repaid.’ It was Christopher. I’d stopped the Vigiles from taking out the Deacon.

  A terrible feeling of mingled dread and sorrow swept over the room, a wave of pure emotion so powerful that it lifted the hairs on the backs of my arms and brought an involuntary sting to my eyes. The air itself was wracked with weeping as the men who’d gone returned, huffing, and set down something heavy on the floor.

  “Ahh… yes. At last.” Keen’s voice became soft and reverent. “You could have cared for her better. Look at her. She’s half dead.”

  “Sorry, but gardening isn’t Otto’s specialty,” Otto replied. “Fork it over.”

  If they were moved, I couldn’t tell. The Tree’s pain, her terror and confusion beat through the air of the room. Her agitation became my agitation, the same internal desperation I’d felt when I’d first found one of the kids used in Sergei’s movies, or when I’d heard Binah’s stricken wails from the cage where she’d been imprisoned. My face began to burn with smoldering anger, like a seam of coal under the skin of my cheeks.

  “All in order,” Otto said after a minute or so. “So, got anything else you need done after tonight?”

  “The fight is the most important thing, but I’ve brought along two new ‘challenges’ for both of your organizations to consider after you’ve completed tonight’s objective. We’re offering them at above-average market rates,” Keen replied.

  Fuck. Fuck. I knew it was too good to be true.

  “Another agent screw the pooch?” Otto asked, voice thick with dark humor.

  “No. There was only the one.” Keen cleared his throat. “I am going to emphasize again that tonight’s events must not turn into a slaughter. We want the Twin Tigers M.C. absolutely routed, but we want them alive. You will occupy the therianthropes while we bring them to ground. Do you understand this?”

  “Pretty sure I do,” Otto replied drily.

  “If you can bait them to slaughter some scum, that would be beneficial. We need a case that will make the headlines.”

  I listened on in growing shock. Otto had been working with the Vigiles all this time. And ‘A case that made the headlines’ would be the kind of event that would justify rounding up every damn Weeder in the city, and probably a number of spooks, too. On top of the ‘Staten Island occult sex murderer escape’ story they were running about me, Keen was setting up a GOD-damned pogrom.

  “We have hashed out job already. Everything is planned. Give hit files,” Nic said.

  “The first target is probably going to be more difficult to find than the second.” Tomas still had that dead, recorded-message voice. “We don’t know much about this mark. Goes by the name ‘Zealot’ or ‘Angkor’. Everything we know about them is in that file you’re holding.”

  “Oh, I know him,” Nic said. “When we work for Deacon, I remember… uhh… ‘seeing’ him. He’s a freak, eh?”

  “Looks like a fuckin’ princess to me,” Otto said. “No sweat.”

  Nicolai laughed, a harsh croak of sound. “You do not know how true that is.”

  “Do not underestimate him. The first party to take them down gets the reward,” Keen added. “But we emphatically want this one alive.”

  “It is not ‘hit’ if you want person alive,” Nic replied. “It is ‘catch and carry’. More expensive. And this one is a powerful spook.”

  “So be it.”

  “We aren’t in the business of bringing back folks alive.” Otto was beginning to sound impatient. “Who’s the other one?”

  “This man,” Keen said. “Dead or alive.”

  There was a pause, and the shuffling of paper.

  “Chert poberi.” Nicolai grumbled in Russian. For him, it was equivalent to ‘fucking hell’. “Alexi. No, we cannot kill him. My Pakhun wants him. We been trying to find this piece of shit for months.”


  “Then we can take him to Mister Y?” Dogboy said.

  “Unacceptable.” Keen’s tone was very stiff. “We need him dead. If you can’t do it-”

  “No, you don’t understand.” Dogboy sounded worried. “You know who the head of their outfit is, don’t you?”

  “I don’t care,” Keen replied stiffly. “He’s-”

  “Sergei Yaroshenko is the Master of the Fifth Choir, man. You know what that means, right?”

  “His status doesn’t put him above the needs of humanity. That’s all I need to know, and as I was saying...”

  “You’ll get your wish, Agents, believe me.” An unearthly voice, silent until now, spoke from somewhere behind Nicolai. A voice as dry as old grave dirt. “What Nic isn’t saying is that Lexi here is scheduled for induction into the Choir. And I assure you. It’s a one-way trip.”

  ... NoA full-length mirror took up a corner of the dusty bedroom where Talya left me alone. I approached it side-on, gathering the fortitude required to look at myself, and was hardly disappointed by how revolting it was. My face was pale and jowly. I had grown a stubbled mess of gray hair over my scalp and jaw. My nose was slightly crooked. When I peeled off my clothes, I found swollen masses of bruises, inflamed cuts, and the puncture wound. Peeling the clothing off had ripped off a few of the scabs, and blood oozed out of at least ten inflamed cuts, lines slashed down my body. Twisting carefully, I was able to finally make a real assessment of everything. It looked bad, but not as bad as it probably had a couple days ago.

  I climbed into a hot shower, letting the spray pound the bruises on my back, arms and chest, then went back to the quiet hush of the bedroom and flopped out onto the creaky bed. The air smelled like old paper. The peaceful silence was surreal.

  “Why do I care so much, Kutkha?” I sighed the question aloud. “The Tree, these Government assholes… none of it is my business.”

  “Perhaps the better question is: what makes a man stop caring about such things?” He replied. “What is it that makes beings like Sergei, Yegor, and the Deacon? What is that which makes men unaffected by the sight of something awe-inspiring or horrific?”

  Good question. No matter how many hits I’d pulled or how much shit I’d seen, that sense of wonder in the face of the Mystery had endured. I’d dreamed of the Garden several times now, and each time I’d seen it, it had changed me. I was in awe of it: of GOD’s skin, the incredible expanse of great, prismatic Trees. I could remember details with intense, supernatural clarity: their sighs and whispers, the way the MahTree’s leaves carefully and gently reached out and brushed the delicate glass-thread creatures that swam around them. Zarya had been born to one of those trees. Maybe the MahTree the Manellis wanted WAS Zarya’s mother. I couldn’t say why, but the way I’d felt around those trees was the same mix of emotions and instincts I’d felt when I’d rescued the first of the Wolf Grove children, Josie. They made me feel... protective. Fierce, even.

  I’d rescued Zarya for a whole number of reasons. At first, they were purely selfish. I’d been driven by the pursuit of the Mystery, the Source and promise of power. Six months ago, I might have been too jaded to care about people fighting and dying over a tree. But now, I cared. I cared a lot. Yegor’s words had stuck with me, no matter how hard I’d tried to brush them off. While I’d been wrapped up in the ecstasy of the occult all those years, battling my pride and pretending I didn’t love Vassily, I’d been protecting a pack of traitorous, child-abusing fucks. I’d killed for them.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted aloud. “I don’t know what it is that makes someone stop caring. But I have a question, and I’d appreciate an answer.”

  “Speak.”

  “Is my attachment to this, the need to find this Tree, tied to my other lives? The ones that came before this lifetime?”

  There was a pause. “Yes and no. It is most connected to the ones that are operating simultaneously to this Now.”

  It was rare to get such a straightforward response from Kutkha. “Simultaneously?”

  “You are not ready for that story, my Ruach.” Kutkha sounded... anxious. “But one day, not really that far from now, you will be.”

  Part of me wanted to argue. The other part of me wasn’t willing to. Kutkha wasn’t some absurdly patronizing shade—he was my Soul, with a capital S. If he said I wasn’t ready, I probably wasn’t. If I could prove myself able to learn and understand, he would teach me.

  Sleep hit me like a speeding truck. One second, I was drowsing off, and the next, I woke into darkness. The clock told me that it was eight p.m., and twelve hours had passed between blinks. I still felt like shit as I pushed myself upright, spent a couple minutes scratching together the energy to move, and got out of the warm nest of blankets and cat to start my night.

  The first order of business was getting rid of Celso. Zane and I drove him out to the swamps in the pounding rain, where he was given a Viking funeral in a shitty stolen VW Beetle and left to burn in a greasy plume of black smoke. Zane dropped me off at the shop. I borrowed a motorcycle and raingear, loaded for bear, and left Binah with a full bowl of food, a clean litter box, and a note for her care in the event I didn’t return.

  East Hanger Road had an airfield on one side, and rows of huge cargo warehouses on the other. It dead-ended into a massive industrial park at the end, a desolate expanse of asphalt and prefabricated steel shelters, cold semis, and hangars. With the lights off and the cover of darkness, I cruised to a stop behind a large row of signs near the fence line. I could see a line of motorcycles parked deeper in the yard. Bingo.

  With a heavy sigh, I cut the engine and took stock of what I had. The Wardbreaker, a spare knife—not my preferred one, the Vigiles had taken that—a spare bullet-resistant MiB suit, but no familiar, a fever, and very little energy for this spur-of-the-moment infiltration. Wearily, I checked over my gun and made sure I had spare ammunition and a clean silencer, then double-checked the rest of my tools. Exhausted as I was, I knew I had to follow this up. The immediate payoff was being able to give Jenner good intel when I finally got in touch with her. But it wasn’t just that: my soul was whispering to me, telling me that this was important. That it was all important.

  The only ways in or out of the building were through the loading docks or the door at the short side of the warehouse. I wasn’t too keen on simply strolling in through the front, so I went around back, mounted the steps up to the loading dock furthest away from the front door, and fiddled with the lock at the base of the roller shutter. When it popped, I greased the door’s rollers and opened it just enough to slide underneath.

  The warehouse was lit down at the other end, but those lights didn’t reach this end of the rectangular building. It was dark enough that I could safely crawl in, gently shut the door, and slip down behind a stack of plastic-wrapped pallets. From here, I could get a sense of what I was dealing with.

  The pallets nearest me were full of garden mulch, soil, and fertilizer. The warehouse was cavernous, and the stock varied from dock to dock. I began the slow, quiet course down to the other end, ears cocked and eyes keen, and eventually began to pick out ‘AEROMOR’ on a number of the pallets and crates.

  I was almost at the end of the building when heavy footsteps thudded right above my head. They were inside the warehouse office, one of those shipping-crate offices mounted over the cargo area. My pulse skipped, and I ducked down as several pairs of thick boots scraped against steel grating.

  “Where the fuck are they?” The first voice was deep, masculine, but throaty. There was an odd rough strain to it, like the end of a crow’s caw... as if his voice would give out at any moment. Otto Roth. “What time is it?”

  “Five past midnight,” the next speaker sounded nervous. It was Dogboy, his vampire lieutenant. “They said they’d be here zero-zero sharp with the Feds. I don’t know what’s keeping them...”

  “Otto Roth doesn’t like it when people are late.” Otto’s voice dropped to a dangerous rumble. “Otto thinks the cops should
have gotten their motherfucking pot plant and left by now.”

  “Yaroshenko’s the Master of the Fifth Choir, man. He’s not gonna stiff us... it’s probably just traffic or something.

  I was still, but couldn’t suppress a bitter smirk. You clearly know a different Sergei Yaroshenko than me.

  The shadows wobbled across the concrete, cast long by the studio lights that beamed overhead. The hair on the nape of my neck prickled. There was something really off about Otto.

  A few minutes passed, and then the rapport of a metal door opening and slamming echoed through the building like a gunshot. Ears cocked, I listened as shoes rang off the hard ground. Two pairs.

  “Hey there, Joshy!” Dogboy called out, striving for cheerfulness. “Looking sharp, as always!”

  “No need to be cute, Dogboy.” A stiff, formal Gold Coast lockjaw accent. I tensed. It was Agent Keen.

  “Where are the Russkies at?” Otto, this time.

  “They’re finishing up their business outside. Now, where is she? Is she safe?”

  “The plant’s upstairs,” Otto said. “We put Christmas tree decorations on it for you.”

  “I’m so glad we chose associates with such a wonderful a sense of humor,” Keen replied. “We are not pleased with you, Roth, and in no mood for antics.”

  “What’s not to be pleased about?” Otto didn’t even bother to hide how smug he was.

  “Apparently you felt the need to sow your oats with Kristen,” Keen said, each word formed sharp and cold. “Now, a Streetsweeper is loose. Would you know anything about that?”

  “Otto knows the bitch got what she deserved. If you want a janitor, he ain’t your man.”

  I tried to look around the crates to see faces, but sunk back down as the door opened again, hinges squealing. The conversation died as the newcomers joined the assembled. One set of heavy boots that rang with a recognizable cadence, and two other pairs of feet that were, by comparison, whisper-soft.

  “How’s it going, Nic? And, uh, Advokat, right?” One of the other bikers stepped forward to greet the current Avtoritet of Brighton Beach. And his Advokat, too? GOD, how I wanted to put a knife through Nic’s neck.