This sent him into another coughing fit. He pressed his mouth into the crook of his arm as a web of pain spread across his chest. The cough syrup was on the kitchen counter, still wrapped in Midas’s note.
He made his way toward it with shuffling steps, unwrapped the bottle, and immediately read the scrap of paper on which Midas had scrawled the message in his sloppy script. For such a smart man—a doctor, no less—his handwriting was that of a drunken sixth grader.
Louis,
New stuff here. Should help with the pain as well as the coughing. Will dull your mind a little, but that shouldn’t be a problem. If you weren’t such a dummy to begin with, you’d have quit smoking a long time ago.
Midas
“Yeah, yeah.” A dry rasp instead of a voice. “Go tell it on the mountain, you old drunk.”
He crumpled the note before tossing it at the overflowing wastebasket in the corner. It bounced off the mountain of trash inside, tumbling into a square of sunlight beneath the window.
He drank a mouthful of cough syrup, burped, and let out a tired sigh. Someday he would get around to emptying that thing. Someday.
Louis Blake didn’t feel like a man fifty-seven years of age but more like one in his eighties. That was his fault, he knew—bad habits had worn down his body like a century of storms eroding a coastline.
“Wrath,” he said. He hadn’t seen the sea in decades.
Suppressing the urge to cough—damned syrup didn’t work after all—Blake threw open the screen door to the porch and let it slam shut behind him. The sun blasted him as he descended the front steps, one hand on his lower back to soothe a pain that had risen there.
He took out his pack of cigarettes, fished around for one, and stuck it between his cracked lips. Just as he was about to light it, he heard the phone ring inside.
“Son of a bitch,” he said, lighting it anyway and sucking down the smoke. There were no phones in Gulch except this one—Blake’s old satellite phone, which he hadn’t used in close to eight months. Sam Weisman was supposed to call him once a year on Blake’s birthday to make sure the phone still worked. He was early by more than four months, which meant something was wrong.
Or it wasn’t. Blake tripped on his way up the porch steps.
“Damn it,” he said as his back spasmed with pain. Grabbing the banister, he limped the rest of the way. The phone beeped, and a man’s voice filled the living room, high and nasally.
“Blake, Weisman here.”
Crashing through the screen door, Blake almost tripped over the mat where he always wiped his boots. His cigarette exploded in a puff of burning embers.
“Goddamn it.”
“…hope you’re sitting down,” the voice continued, “because I’ve got something you need to hear.”
Blake dove toward the table on which the phone sat half-covered by a yellowing newspaper. The handle was sticky against his ear.
“Sam, what is it? What have you got?”
“Glad I caught you, Major. Listen, I need you to take a seat.”
Blake bent over the table, resting on his elbows. He had lost the cigarette somewhere. Hopefully, it wouldn’t burn the house down. “Just throw it at me,” he said.
He could hear Weisman lighting a cigarette of his own. Blake pictured the smoke curling against the brim of his baseball cap, the man’s small, cynical eyes narrowing above his beak nose.
“One of our scouts picked up a signal. He followed it into the outer sec—”
“Which one?”
“Tercero.”
“Jesus, that hellhole?”
Weisman dragged on the cigarette, obviously at a loss for words. Blake listened to the crackling sound of burning embers. “We, uh… Well, Louis, we got ourselves a Type I, it seems. No blocking ability whatsoever. Just pure transmission. Almost like he wants to be found.”
“You’re sure—”
“Yes. I’ve never seen a power this strong, not since… You know.”
Blake’s mouth slowly opened in shock, then snapped shut again. It couldn’t be right. In all probability, someone had made a huge mistake.
“It’s got to be a false alarm.”
Weisman was silent for a moment. “Don’t know. Have we ever had one?”
“No, but… it has to be. Otherwise…”
“Just telling you what we picked up,” Weisman said. “I’d seek him out myself, but—”
“No. This one’s out of your field of expertise. It could be dangerous.”
“That’s why I called you, Major.”
Blake closed his eyes. Inhaled deeply. “They’ll find him.”
“Yeah, they will,” Weisman agreed. “And fast, unless you get someone on it right away. Someone who’s in the city right now.”
Blake rifled through the mess on his desk, found a scrap of paper and a pencil, and readied himself to take notes. “I can be there by tomorrow night.”
Weisman let out a faint chuckle. “Don’t kid yourself. You’re better off calling Dominic.”
“Good idea. Give me his address. I’ll be there anyway.”
“I was joking. Why would you—”
“I’m not, Sam.”
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 expression on his bony, hawkish face.
“You sure you want Dominic in on this? After what happened?”
Blake flashed the address into his memory, where it would linger forever along with every other damned thing he had ever stored. He lit the paper on fire with a match, then used the flame trembling along the edges to light a cigarette.
“It’s the only way,” Blake said.
“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, and 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, which made Sam Weisman fearless, even in the face of Fatherland Security Department agents.
The phone was now resting on its side with 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, inspected 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 10
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 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 and 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. He was a big, beefy guy with curly hair all over his chest, a gleaming bald head, and a handlebar mu
stache. 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 backward. 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 threatened.
The air stank of blood and musty concrete. Dominic clenched his teeth, crunching pieces of grime that had gotten into his mouth. Swan Song tried to charge him with his shoulder.
Dominic sidestepped, throwing a sideways punch that turned the big guy’s head. Swan Song stayed down on one knee, appearing 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.
That fraction of a moment was all it took.
Swan Song drove his bulky shoulder into Dominic’s lower back, sending 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.
Washing up in the men’s room afterward, Dominic heard the swish of the door being swept open. He tensed, an automatic response from his military days.
It was his opponent from the ring. Swan Song strolled in, wearing a tank top that showed off his muscles, one hand playing with a tip of his handlebar mustache.
“You are Dominic,” he said, accent strong. “We were never properly introduced.”
Dominic continued washing his hands. If the man wanted another round, he would have one. But this time, Dominic wouldn’t play by the rules. He was still pissed about losing all the money he had paid to get into tonight’s match.
“Good fight,” Swan Song said, smiling. Something was odd about that smile. “You fight well for such skinny man.”
Dominic shook the water off his hands. “Get out of my way,” he told him, making for the door.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Swan Song grabbed Dominic’s arm. “Why don’t we go for drink? I will buy. For your bruises, to ease the pain.”
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 the same time every night.
“Not tonight,” Dominic told the big guy, shaking his head in what he hoped was an urgent manner that would rule out further questions.
No luck there.
“You are always saying ‘no.’ I hear this about you, Dom. You are cold as steel nails in a buried coffin. Don’t be shy.”
“Don’t be—what?”
Swan Song gave Dominic a knowing 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 dance.”
Dominic brushed the hand away, trying to shove past the big guy. Apparently, Swan Song had expected this sort of reaction and had a Plan B for how he would deal with it. Grabbing Dominic’s arms, he 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.
Grinning, Swan Song made a slashing motion with the knife. “I think maybe you like it this way better,” he said. “Turn around and put your hands on the wall.”
“You’re right,” Dominic said, turning and lifting his arms. “This is what gets me hot and bothered.”
With his hands on the wall, Dominic closed his eyes and fanned a single thought outward.
Slow…
Swan Song blinked, suddenly alone in the bathroom.
“What the…” he said, turning and searching for Dominic.
There was the old, rusted sink and the brown, filthy toilet, but no skinny fighter with the narrowed, brooding eyes he’d found so attractive while fighting him in the ring. Where was that skinny little tart?
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, the taste of his own blood on his lips. He wondered how many ribs were broken. It was certainly more than one.
Swan Song couldn’t move his head to even look up at his attacker. All he saw was a pair of beat-up leather shoes walking past him, topped in a faded pair of jeans Dominic hadn’t been wearing before—though Swan Song had seen him come in wearing that outfit earlier. Had the man changed his clothes that fast? In the blink of an eye? It was impossible.
“So long,” Dominic said, the bathroom door closing quietly behind him.
Chapter 11
“You didn’t use telepathy 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 to me, but then again, you never did make sense.”
Dominic frowned.
Blake had picked Dominic up outside his apartment, catching him in the act of feeding a stray cat through his window. He would have made some sort of joke, but the situation was too grave. Dominic had read the urgency in Blake’s expression and gotten into the car without asking. Thankfully, the younger man still hadn’t mentioned the ridiculous hat, fake beard, and unseasonably long coat Blake wore to disguise himself.
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. “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 the rest of his beer, already motioning to the bartender for another round.
“You haven’t changed a bit, Blake,” he said with a burp. “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 cash 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 stout, balding man in a beige suit stepped into the bar’s main seating area. Behind him was a large office. From it emerged two gigantic men, each dressed in a black suit. They caught up with and flanked the man in beige—a man who immediately settled his sharp, Mediterranean 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 match, though, absolutely beautiful. Just wonderful.” Taking Dominic’s face in both of his hands,
he slapped it around lightly. Wincing in pain, Dominic pulled away and stood up so suddenly his chair tipped over and clacked against the floorboards.
The bodyguards reached into their coats, placing their hands on barely hidden 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 match. Wonderful, except…” He made a hammering motion with his fist, index finger extended. “Except for one rather unfortunate thing. Bitch! Son of a bitch!”
By now, the other people in the bar knew to keep their eyes averted from the screaming man in the beige suit. He was obviously someone powerful, violent, and almost definitely involved with a gang—if not the leader of said gang. Blake had dealt with a dozen small-time criminal assholes like him before, though never one quite so… colorful.
Dominic rolled his eyes while Gigi took a moment to catch his breath and fix the lapels of his suit.
“You know it wasn’t long enough,” Gigi said. “I told you twenty-five minutes in the ring. You gave me fifteen—fifteen minutes of worthless shit fuck! So I lost five million.” His face tightened, and he made a violent pffff sound with his lips. “Fucking spiteful wrath.”
“How much did you make?” Dominic said in a challenging tone.
Gigi cleared his throat, his face pink from all the shouting. “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. Let’s round it up to fifteen. Does that sound good? Good. Spite. 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 snatched the envelope and peered inside. He tipped his head left and right as he counted. Suddenly, his face went tight. Blake knew what was coming and tried not to wince.
“Spiteful wrath, shit!”
Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series Page 7