Dietrich dug into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He was about to light one when he felt a ripple at the edge of his perception. He jumped to his feet. Yes, he knew exactly what this was.
Telepathic dampening. A Type II trying not to be seen or heard.
A trained Type II.
Climbing down the rope ladder, Dietrich admitted he hadn’t been this excited in years. He ran straight to Nero Street, home to Praetoria’s largest whorehouse, The Emperor’s Palace, where the majority of the female slaves were kept, banged, bought, and sold. Sex was the city’s main industry. As a result, the Palace was probably the largest whorehouse for a thousand miles. If the intruders were after old friends who had been captured or sold into slavery, Nero Street was where they’d go. It was just a theory, but why else would they come?
He was so sure of his logic he licked his lips in anticipation as he ran. He’d left his pistols at Roman’s sanctuary, which created a problem. There was no time to run back. Instead, he’d have to pull a couple of old tricks out of his hat.
“Hey, you,” he said, stopping a mercenary who appeared to be off duty. The man was tall, broad, and shiny inside his leather jacket and pants. “I’ll give you five hundred dollars for that Desert Eagle on your belt.”
“This?” the mercenary said, opening his jacket and gaping in amazement at the silvery gun. “That’s twice what I paid for it.”
Dietrich gave him a flat look. The man was dumber than a rock.
“I’m in a hurry. Give it to me now, and I’ll give you”—pulling out his pack of cigarettes—“five hundred dollars.”
He spoke the last three words while staring at the mercenary’s forehead, imagining that good old dancing string every living soul possessed, for better or worse, bending it to his will. Easy as pizza, his mother used to say. Like nothing in the world.
It’s a thick, juicy wad of bills. Five hundred dollars. Just look at it.
The man stared at the pack of cigarettes in utter amazement, eyes as wide as golf balls.
“I’ll be damned,” he said. “Five hundred big ones. Ho, baby. I’ll take it.”
He yanked the pistol out of his pants, then held it butt-first toward Dietrich.
“The magazines, too,” Dietrich said.
The man happily obliged him. Dietrich stuffed the gun into the waistband of his pants, the magazines into his pockets, and ran, grinning like a child, down the crowded sidewalk.
Nero Street was lit by a parallel string of streetlamps, the only place in the city that had this luxury. It was because of the tourists who came here. Just as he’d expected, it was full of people, a crowd that overflowed into the street and was loud as hell. The enemy would have no trouble blending in.
Rushing now, Dietrich glanced into each alleyway he passed until he found what he was searching for. A bearded man slumped against a brick wall, wearing a long, brown coat and holding an empty bottle of grain alcohol. Dietrich bent and slapped the man’s face until he opened his clouded eyes.
“Give me your coat and bottle.”
The man blinked. “Kiss my ass, buddy.”
Dietrich pointed the Desert Eagle at the man’s face. “Now.”
Gasping and coughing, the bum lifted himself by pushing against the wall. Dietrich helped him up, then stripped him of his coat and bottle, then gave him a hard kick in the ass to send him stumbling into the street. Once the man had turned the corner, Dietrich dressed in the rancid-smelling coat, stepped onto the sidewalk, and found a dry spot.
He sat and made himself somewhat comfortable, back straight against the wall, then he closed his eyes and began.
Chapter 5
“Did you hear that?”
It was Michael who’d spoken. They were on the roof of The Emperor’s Palace, directly above the three women they had come to rescue. Peter and Eli had dressed in a new set of slick costumes. The boys looked ready to dance, drink, and gamble the night away. They had even slathered oil into their hair to make it shine.
Peter began to send, I thought we were—
Dominic clamped a hand on his arm to silence him. He gave them all a warning look, touched his forehead, and shook his head.
“What is it?” Peter asked in a whisper.
They gathered around Dominic to listen.
“Another telepath in our midst,” Dominic said. “A Type II. Must be. I felt him searching for us.”
“He probably knows we’re trying not to be seen,” Peter said. “What if he’s one of Roman’s?”
“Then he would have sounded the alarm,” Dominic said. “But he may be hunting us for his own reasons. He may be one of Kole’s men.”
“If telepathy’s out of the question,” Ian said, “then we should go in the old-fashioned way, with guns blazing if we have to. We can’t turn back now.”
“Now we’re talking,” Reggie said, smiling and raising his eyebrows at Dominic.
Dominic gave him a nod. Reggie took off his coat, then began to undo straps holding a miniature scoped rifle against his back. It was homemade, one of the man’s own inventions, and was no longer than his forearm, no heavier than a pistol.
“I’ll cover you if you have to go out the front.”
Dominic regarded Reggie seriously. “Don’t focus too much on the street. Someone might come up behind you. Stay aware.”
“Only if you say please,” Reggie said, flashing Dominic a playful grin before crouch-walking to the edge of the roof overlooking the busy street.
Eli kept fidgeting.
“If you have to pee, do it now,” Dominic said with a frown.
Eli turned into the shadows, unzipped, and relieved himself. When he was finished, Dominic gave them each the cold, hard stare they recognized from training.
“I’m not coming back for anyone who lags behind. You have to keep up.”
The boys nodded, each wearing a glum expression. The night was warm and full of the sounds of men and women, mostly men, enjoying themselves below.
“I don’t have a hold on the telepath,” Dominic said, “but I can feel him. He’s trying to resist our block. He’s strong.” Dominic checked the ammo clip in his pistol. “I’ll take care of him. No other choice. The rest of you stick to the plan. If you find yourself in a rough patch, just shoot your way out, notify the rest of us, and meet at the rendezvous point. Peter, Eli, you ready to go undercover?”
Chapter 6
Peter and Eli strolled through the front doors of The Emperor’s Palace.
Their hair had been styled into sharp, messy spikes. Eli had several earrings clipped along one ear. They wore denim jackets with colorful patches sewn onto them, in designs of flaming skulls, blood-soaked daggers, and anarchic symbols, along with studded leather belts. Their boots were thick, black, and steel-toed, and their jeans were torn at the knees. Eli’s right sleeve had been ripped off, exposing a chubby arm covered in tattoos. Peter wore spiked bracelets on both wrists, a cigarette gripped between his fingers. He gave off a dangerous air—a man ready to kill.
“Can we serve you?” a man asked. He was dressed in a white-and-gold tunic and a Centurion helmet with an oversized red plume. There was a white cape draped over one shoulder, which he stroked as if it were a cat.
A gladius hung from his belt. Peter had never seen such a deadly looking sword. The man was a Legionnaire, one of the settlement’s elite guards, and his stony grimace marked him as a man not to be messed with.
“We want girls,” Eli said, swaying slightly, his eyes fishy and blank. “Whores, you know.” He counted with his fingers. “One whore, two whores, three whores, four.”
“He’s sunk,” Peter said, grimacing at Eli before smiling at the guard. “We had a few too many down at the club. But my friend ain’t lying. You got any whores available?”
The Legionnaire frowned, his face shaped like a concrete block. Even Eli was puny next to this guy.
“You boys new here?”
Peter scowled. “We ain’t new to whores, if that’s what yo
u’re saying.”
The Legionnaire grabbed Peter by the collar, then pulled him close.
“I asked you a question, you spiteful pissant.”
“Okay, okay.” Peter waved his hands in deference. “Whatever you say, my man.”
Eli burped. “You’re in trouble,” he sang, stumbling back a few steps.
The Legionnaire swung his gaze between Eli and Peter, his expression one of distrust mixed with boredom.
“You boys cut out,” he said, pointing at the door with his chin. “You ain’t got the money to be in here.”
Peter flashed his most charismatic grin. “It’s my birthday, and I’m eighteen years old. Where I’m from, we don’t got a whole lot of girls, you know? So this is a special occasion.”
“We got cows, though,” Eli said with a blank-eyed grin.
The Legionnaire’s lips curled in disgust.
“Like I was saying…” Peter said. “If you check my left pocket down by my belt, you’ll find my birthday present. Courtesy of my dear old dad. Where I’m from, turning eighteen means I’m a man ready for his first woman. My brother here”—he indicated Eli—“had his first two years ago. Tonight, his whore is on me. I’m doing this so he’ll stop fucking my dad’s cows. It brings shame to my family.”
“I got a real sweet one back at the farm,” Eli said, then burped low in his chest. “Hoo boy.”
Another Legionnaire came up behind the first. They studied Peter and Eli for a moment before the first one reached into Peter’s pocket and pulled out a wad of cash.
“Caesar’s ghost,” he said with a smile. Several of his teeth were capped in metal. “Why didn’t you say it was your birthday?”
He counted the bills, peeled off a few, then stuffed them into his armor. Peter frowned.
“With this,” the man said, holding up the wad, “I’d say you got enough for one whore.” He gave a black-toothed grin. “Guess you boys will have to share.”
“But we brought enough for two,” Peter whined.
Eli clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You take her, bro. I’ll just watch.”
The two Legionnaires glanced at each other.
“But I get to pick her,” Eli said, to which Peter nodded glumly.
The inside of The Emperor’s Palace was not at all palatial. Its name was undermined by the cramped rooms, the cracked, water-damaged ceilings, and a rancid humidity brought on by too many bodies crammed in one space. The stairs creaked beneath the weight of loitering patrons. Doors slammed shut with the hollow-sounding clatters of cheap wood.
The boys felt claustrophobic as they tried to navigate the hallways. The building was packed full of men and prostitutes, all smoking cigarettes, flirting, and drinking a clear, foul-smelling liquor. From somewhere close by, a pianist played an out-of-tune but upbeat song. Legionnaires stood watch over the crowd, eyeing the men who had become too drunk to contain themselves.
Peter and Eli allowed the guard to check for weapons before following them into a well-lit back room in which a number of women in skimpy clothing lounged on armchairs and couches, reading magazines and playing board games. The guard shut the door behind them, clearing his throat. A few of the women surveyed them before going back to whatever they were doing.
“Up!” the guard shouted.
A grumble started, but they pushed themselves off their seats. Peter examined their faces. They weren’t made up in Roman fashion like the women he’d seen in the foyer and hanging out on the stairs. These women wore cheap jewelry and tight leather outfits that showed rolls of loose skin around their midsections. A few were old enough to be the boys’ mothers. These were the stragglers of the bunch, the ones who hadn’t been chosen.
But not Rocio Martinez. Peter’s eyes lit upon her face as though a match had been struck in a dark room. She was here for a reason—punishment, maybe. Unlike the other women, Rocio wore a white tunic that went down to her sandaled feet. It left her arms exposed up to the shoulders. Two crisscrossing golden bands at the waist accentuated her curves, making her ample hips visible. She was a small woman. Standing by the window, she blew cigarette smoke out into the night air. Peter could smell the sweet, cinnamon scent of burning cloves.
She stood her ground as the other women stumbled forward. Peter and Eli ogled their bodies like the horny teenage farm boys the guards expected them to be.
You see her? Peter sent, tunneling his mental voice so only Eli would receive it.
Yeah, by the window. I recognize her.
“Stand up straight,” the guard said, resting his sizeable fists on his hips. The women ignored him, keeping their eyes pointed at the floor.
Rocio caught his eye. She recognized him. He could feel it.
You see that? Peter sent.
Sure did, Eli responded. Wonder what she thinks we’re here for.
You know what she thinks we’re here for.
The women stood in a line. The guard approached them.
“Well?” he said, shooting a glance at Peter and Eli. Now, he sounded bored. “The Emperor’s Palace is happy to offer you one of these fine young maidens, each one eager to serve your every desire.” He cleared his throat. “You boys got one hour in the next room. I hear anything out of the ordinary, I come in there and rip your balls off, you got it?”
The boys nodded, inspecting the line of women. Peter tried not to focus too much on Rocio. He couldn’t let on to the fact they knew each other.
Rocio made it easier for the boys. She strutted across the room, then stood a foot in front of the other women, still holding her cigarette. A golden headband contained her silky brown hair, which had been shaped into a bun on top of her head. Exquisitely curled strands dangled over her forehead, partly hiding her eyes, which were wide and brown, rimmed with dark makeup, above an elegant nose and lips that seemed to expand as she blew out smoke.
Damn, Peter sent.
I know, Eli replied.
“We’ll take her.” Peter thrust his chin toward Rocio, like he was only partially interested.
She smiled and winked, then she took Peter by the hand and led him toward a half-open door in the back of the room.
Chapter 7
“Five years,” Rocio said through clenched teeth as soon as the door had shut.
Peter inspected the room. No windows.
Trapped, he sent Eli.
Eli sat on the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders sagging. “This is the worst possible room we could be in.”
Glaring, Rocio crossed her arms over her chest.
“Did Blake send you? Is that what this is? A rescue mission?”
Peter breathed in and out, trying to control his panic. “Lower your voice. You don’t realize how much danger we’re in.”
Her face softened, though she kept her arms crossed.
“Little Petey Rivers. I remember when you were just a boy. You grabbed my left tit one time on a dare.”
Peter frowned. “Really? I don’t remember that.”
“You were such a little pervert. And you’re Eli, right? I remember you pissed yourself once during a town meeting. You ran out of the room like your pants were on fire, afraid your friends would find out.”
“I was eight years old,” Eli said, rising from the bed. “Are we really doing this right now?”
“Shut up, both of you,” Peter said in a harsh whisper. “We need to come up with a way to get out of here. We’ve got fifteen minutes.”
Rocio sauntered over to the bed. Peter watched as she sat, amazed at how little she had changed.
“When you finally stop staring at me,” Rocio told him, “I’ll tell you what I think we should do.”
Peter lowered his gaze, clearing his throat. He and Eli listened.
“You boys are Type II telepaths, right?”
They nodded.
“Good, ‘cause I have an idea. You”—she pointed at Eli—“are going to have to punch him”—she gestured at Peter—“in the face.”
Eli shrugged at Peter.
Chapter 8
Michael ducked beneath the window ledge, aware of two realities at once.
In one reality—the true, physical one—he was on a metal fire escape platform three floors above the ground, dressed in black and pressed to the brick wall like a spy. Above his head, a window hung half open. In the other reality, which was in his mind, he was an invisible, floating entity that could see through the walls to pinpoint any surrounding individuals. He saw them as pale phantoms in a murky blackness. They stood all around him, attached to nothing.
Through the window, he heard a man speak in quiet, refined accent.
“You’re mine tonight, apple pie,” the man said.
Michael sensed there were two people inside the room, with a pair of Legionnaires standing guard outside the door. It was a sprawling suite with an enormous, canopied bed extending into the center. He saw that much through the window when he dared to peek through. Pale pink sheets everywhere, white pillars set up to make the place feel like Ancient Rome, and a golden plate and utensils still stained with food by the window. Michael would have to step over this table somehow if he were to crawl inside—
No. He had a better idea.
“Oh, My Liege,” the woman said, sounding bored. “I am yours to command.”
“Oh, yes, you are, apple pie. Oh Lord. You’re quite the apple seed.”
Michael cringed. What was this guy’s obsession with apples?
He poked his head up, stealing another glimpse into the room. Fran Baker, wearing a golden headband and dressed in flowing white silks, lay on the bed, auburn hair spilling over her chest and shoulders in soft ripples.
The man hovered over her, propped on his left elbow. Tufts of white hair stuck out from the sides of his balding head. His bony arms and legs—he was completely naked except for a pair of white undershorts—resembled raw chicken wings. His face was not much better. A hooked nose hung beneath a set of miserly eyes. When he spoke, his lips gleamed with moisture.
Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series Page 27