by Jon F. Merz
I handed him the money, waved off the change, and slipped the Jetta into drive. "Everything is perfect, my friend. Absolutely perfect."
And for the first time in my life, it actually was.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at
THE INVOKER
A Lawson Vampire Novel #2
Chapter One
Killing is never easy.
Between the preparation time, tracking your target, and making sure things go like they’re supposed to-it gets complicated.
In the end, pulling the trigger is actually the easiest part.
For some.
Lying underneath the battered rusting hulk of an abandoned Volvo station wagon on crumbling cinder blocks wasn’t the kind of activity I normally prefer for a Saturday night. Especially since the freezing rain made the ground underneath me soggy and home to all sorts of creepy crawlies that enjoyed the warmth bleeding out of my body and into the ground.
But a job’s a job.
My name’s Lawson.
I’m a Fixer by trade. I serve and protect the community. But mostly I help maintain the Balance. It’s a noble profession and those of us born into it would never really feel at ease doing anything else. But there were days when I’d give anything to know the monotony of an accountant who stared at numbers all day long.
Right now was one of those times.
Thunder boomed somewhere overhead and a second later the lightning flashed briefly illuminating my surroundings. Damn. I could be seen if the lightning lit up the area at the wrong time.
And I definitely did not want to be seen.
Otherwise I wouldn’t have been under that damned car.
But cover and concealment in this deserted auto wreckage yard was scarce. I could either hide inside a compacted car or under one. And since trying to get out of a car is harder than rolling out from under it, I chose the latter.
But I didn’t like it.
I shifted and instantly regretted it when a fresh pool of rain found its way south to my groin, quickly soaking through the tough denim of my jeans. The cold helped shrink my balls further into my tight scrotal sac, making me feel more like a castrato gunslinger than the professional killer I am. It would take a generous serving of gin and tonics and a hot bath to help me relax after this escapade.
The air shifted, blowing in sideways from the east and I caught a scent I hadn’t detected before. Cologne. Cheap. Like the million department store samples that come with my credit card bills every month.
I heard the squishing sound of water and mud under shoes. Uneasy steps, though. Not focused. Random, even.
It wouldn’t be long.
That was good. I didn’t like soaking in fetid rain water and melting ice any longer than necessary.
The footsteps approached just as another thunder clap exploded in the night air. I held my breath and waited for the
lightning.
Nothing. No flash of bright light. No nothing.
I exhaled just as the shoes drew abreast of the car. I could see the soles and what looked like hand made brown leather uppers. Even in the dark, I could see the cuffs on his suit pants seemed like they were professionally tailored at a designer store.
The smell of cologne was killing me. I tried to mentally analyze it – to break down its individual components so it wouldn’t bother me as much. I got as far as the ethyl alcohol before I realized I was going to sneeze.
There are a few techniques you can normally employ when sneezing isn’t appropriate. The first involves sticking your tongue to the roof of your mouth right behind your front teeth. I did that.
It didn’t work.
The next best option is to rub the spot under your nose and press in with a finger. It’s an old pressure point a Japanese martial arts master once showed me.
I’m sure that would have worked fine, had both my hands been free. They weren’t. In one hand, I held my modified pistol. In the other hand I had my small black bag that contained some other items I might have needed tonight.
Hands unavailable, I steeled myself for the sudden expulsion of air. I tried to stifle it and did a good job. But as the air rushed out, I tensed my body which then caused me to jerk upward suddenly and hit the steel, aluminum, and iron undercarriage of the Volvo with the back of my head.
And since bone and metals do not make fond friends or even remote acquaintances, I saw stars.
Shit that hurt.
My eyes clouded briefly with tears before I realized the shoes had shifted.
Double shit.
I’d been heard.
Calmly, I thumbed the safety off of the pistol and waited. Most folks don’t think to look above them or below them so if I stayed cool, he might not see me.
The shoes moved around the car. I could visualize him checking the area, searching the heaps of rusted mufflers and hubcaps, looking for the source of the sound. I watched as the shoes started to take a few steps away. Seemingly satisfied, he turned and came walking back toward me and the car.
Which, of course, was the exact moment Mr. Lightning decided to put in his overdue appearance and illuminate the entire area – including the Volvo, the cinder blocks. and yours truly.
The shoes stopped.
Past experience has taught me it’s better to go on the offensive at times like this, rather than wait. I’ve debated that idea in the past and usually come away with some bad scars because of it.
Not tonight.
I rolled out and got a bead on him center mass even as the shocked expression began to register on his face and he started to back away.
I squeezed off a single round – watched as it caught him square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and pitching him back over. He crashed to the ground, kicking up mud, icy water, and sludge before rolling a short distance away.
I got up – my gun at low-ready position – and walked over, squishing all the way thanks to the mud and rain clogging my clothes.
He was breathing, but just barely. Dark blood soaked his shirt diluted by the icy rain pelting him from above, turning it a softer shade of frothy pink. The shocked expression still clouded his face, almost as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.
I knelt down. "The Council sent me."
He tried to speak. It came out as a stutter of gurgling consonants. "F-f-fixer?"
I nodded. His eyes grew wider. I’d seen the look before. Technically most of my kind don’t think we exist. That we’re just legends told by parents to kids to get them to behave. But we’re real enough. We work in the shadows. Our accomplishments go unnoticed by all but a select few.
Unfortunately for Shoes, tonight was the time he found out we really did exist.
I frisked him, looking for his gun. I came up empty. "Narcotics trafficking is bad business for humans to be in. It’s even worse for a vampire."
He grimaced, feeling the agony of the wooden splinters in his heart courtesy of the wood-tipped rounds my pistol packed. In the night air he drew his head back, trying to inhale a raspy breath. His canines lengthened, fully exposed. That happened only during feeding or when a vampire is close to death.
"You could have exposed the community. You threatened the Balance." I leaned closer. "You know the penalty for any of those violations is death."
He frowned, but it looked more like an upside down grin. "They…they told you that?"
"The drugs? Yeah. I wouldn’t be here otherwise." He only had a few minutes left.
"Lies…all of it….lies…."
I’d heard that before. Claims of innocence come with the job. Even when you’ve put them down, some of the most hardened criminals will deny they did anything wrong. They go off to the afterlife convinced of their own innocence.
"Whatever you say, pal." Time to end the repartee. I started to stand.
But he grabbed my hand, clutched it and squeezed. Hard.
I started to pull away, started to try to break his grasp. He wouldn’t let go. He still had some strength in him.<
br />
He pulled me closer, until his mouth was just a few inches away from my ear. I could hear the rasping of fluid in his lungs as he breathed in short gasps of dwindling air. And then he managed to cough out two words.
"My son."
I frowned. "What about him?"
He closed his eyes, tears running out of them now dripping off his wet face to the ground beneath him where his blood ran crimson tinged with silt and grime. "You…must…protect him."
His head lolled back and to the side then as his hand went limp in mine. As it opened, a small photograph rolled out and fluttered toward the rain-slicked ground.
I scooped it up, wiping the bloody mud off of it. Lightning flashed again and I peered closer. The picture showed a small boy. His son, no doubt.
But protection? What the hell was that about? The mission had been a simple termination order. Punishment for crimes committed. There had been no mention of protection.
None whatsoever.
And that’s precisely what worried me even as the rain increased and pounded against my back. I looked up, feeling the cold rain pour down my face, coat my lips, and bleed into my mouth.
I swished around a mouthful and spat it back toward the ground.
Why was nothing ever as easy as I wanted it to be?
The Fixer
Copyright © 2002 Jon F. Merz
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.