'You're dirty up to your eyebrows, aren't you?' Newman said.
'Well, I am off duty.'
Newman stepped in close enough for his breath to gust across Reece's face. 'Where's Marshall?'
'Dunno. She called me up to see if I could drive her, but she didn't say where. Something to do with the kerfuffle in the tunnel, I'd think. Or Jensen's murder. Duteous to a fault, Marshall.'
Newman hit him in the guts, an expert blow that stole his breath, but Newman thumped him again anyway. Reece slid from the desk, grabbed the edge to keep from going all the way to the floor. Then Newman ground the barrel of his pistol into Reece's neck. 'You aren't a Hunter any more, Reece. You're just shit on my shoe.'
Reece had no air, no ability to go for his own weapon, to even protest.
'Ten-shun!' A GS snapped his heels together at the door.
The rest followed suit. Newman reluctantly pulled back, leaving Reece gasping.
'At ease, at ease,' Campbell said as he strolled into the room. He wiped his mouth, then his hands, on a black handkerchief. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose. His cheeks were aglow. 'Problem, Hunter Newman?'
'One of Marshall's pets, covering for her.'
Campbell picked up the ashtray, shook his head in mock disappointment. 'Poor choice in women, Hunter Reece. A recurrent theme, I believe.'
Reece shrugged.
'Where is Marshall Smith?'
'As I was just explaining—'
'I can take it from your blood.' He put the ashtray down, nonchalantly, wiped ash from his fingertips. 'Or get Vee to do it.'
'Look, I've got no idea where Marshall is, all right? Check her diary.'
'For someone who is supposed to know everything, you're not impressing me.'
'It's not so much knowing a lot of things, but the right things.'
'Well, this is what I know: you're done.'
Campbell confiscated Reece's weapon, mobile phone and ID, and then told two Black Shirts to escort him to detention.
'Nothing too serious, Reece,' Campbell said as the guards bundled up his possessions. 'We're letting a few of you Greenies cool your heels in the cells, just till we've sorted out the mess. A dirty business, this.'
'On whose authority are you ordering the GS around?'
'Maximilian's. With Heinrich dusted, I'm acting Preceptor until the council meeting, when the new board will be decided.'
The Black Shirts led him out. Marshall's Familiare was dead, a gun spilled from her holster where she lay on the floor, throat torn out.
'What's happened to the Strigoi?' Reece asked the guards as they entered the lift. One man's eyes flashed red as he turned to answer. The other swiped his card and hit the button for basement level C — AKA, the Dungeon.
Reece hit him in the throat. The man fell, gagging.
Reece drove his elbow into the guts of the second man.
The red-eye was quick, though, managed to pull back in time to avoid the full force of the blow. But he was off balance, and Reece followed up, making the most of his advantage. A shoulder, a fist.
The soldier pushed back, gained enough space to claw for his sidearm.
Reece smacked his head into the wall, fumbled, then snatched the Staker from the Black Shirt's belt and rapped it hard, baton-like, against the man's knee. The man canted and Reece walloped him behind the ear, sending him to the floor. A twist to arm it, and he brought the Staker down on the soldier's chest. There was the soft whump of the cartridge firing the stake from the housing. The man went limp.
He pulled the soldier's sidearm and belted his mate behind the ear to keep him quiet, then cuffed him with the irons on the man's belt.
Reece fell back, exhausted. He allowed himself a moment to wipe his face as the adrenaline drained, leaving his muscles aching. He retrieved his confiscated gear, then snatched one of the guard's IDs, and filled his pockets with ammo clips.
The lift reached C, but he hit the close button and managed to get going again without anyone noticing his arrival. He pressed 11. He was lucky; the trip was uninterrupted. Lockdown was good for something.
The doors opened and he used a soldier's foot to prevent them closing. The hall was empty. He stalked to the ward, gun by his side, and squinted through the glass doors. Shit. Two GS vampires guarded the ICU. They were looking in his direction, too; had probably heard the lift arrive.
At least he knew Mira was being kept alive. He'd know if they killed her — the blood link would snap like a motherfucker. But they had her under guard, so she still had time. More than him.
He turned back for the lift, broke into a run as an orderly approached. One of the vampire sentries stuck his head out the ward door as Reece pulled the dead guard back into the lift and hit 1.
The lift stopped once, but he blocked the door, hand out, shouted 'medical emergency' and punched the close button until he got moving. Two very confused suits watched him leave.
On 1, he hit the button for the top floor and stepped out in time to avoid the closing doors.
It wasn't far to the kitchens. He walked quickly, and made a show of talking on his phone, using it to mask his profile when he met anyone. He ignored enquiring looks from the staff dutifully finishing their dinner preparation for the various mess halls — who the fuck would be eating in tonight, he wondered — and took the service lift to the basement car park.
He pulled a recycling bin into the lift door and crept out to a point from where he could scope the situation. Guards on the gates, of course. And on the main lift bank.
He wondered if Marshall had come this way. If she'd got away.
The Monaro had been offloaded. Nigel and the tow truck driver were sharing a smoke.
Reece forced himself to saunter; a belt of rum wouldn't have gone astray. At least the alarms had stopped.
'Hey,' Nigel said, and offered the packet. 'What's the story, boss?'
Yeah, they were best buds since they'd been shot up on the highway. Reece shook away the offer. 'Bit of a to-do about a fire in a bin.'
'Don't see why I can't leave,' the truckie said.
'Actually, can I hitch a ride?' Reece asked.
'I'm just goin' back to the depot. Bowen Hills.'
'Close enough,' Reece said, then told Nigel, 'I'm on leave, no pay, till things blow over. Watch the Monaro for me, eh?'
'I'll watch it real good,' Nigel said. 'There ya go, green light.'
A guard was waving from the exit.
Reece jumped into the cab next to the driver and they chugged to the gate. He endured a nervous wait, hand on pistol, as the guard came around to his side, but he gave Reece's stolen ID only a cursory glance before letting the truck proceed. Reece bailed with an awkward thanks at the first red light, and high-tailed it.
He had a bolt-hole, only a few blocks away. With Jensen and Heinrich dead and Marshall on the run, there was nothing to stop Campbell from taking over at the council meeting. Hell, he was more or less in control now, just waiting for his rubber stamp.
And then what for Mira? A hostage, or a martyr, or a scapegoat? None of those suited her, not one bit.
He had less than twenty-four hours to save her, and maybe himself, but he'd need help. What were his chances of getting in touch with young Matheson, he wondered. The grease monkey was probably his best hope, if he could stop him from killing Mira.
SIXTY-TWO
The Needle showed him photographs. The faces were vaguely familiar, but one Kevin recognised immediately: the sneer as the blade opened Greaser's throat, the cold stare through the glasses making him look fish-like, a barracuda perhaps. Tony Campbell, head of Treasury.
'Sure?' the Needle asked.
'Yeah. The beamer was working for him. Got the taste of that when I sank my teeth into the cunt.'
'Just the two of them at Mel's?'
'All I saw. Must've snatched Greaser outside the restaurant.'
The Needle gave a short groan. 'And I texted her to meet; I led them straight to you.'
Kevin shook his head, the closest thing to reassurance, to forgiveness, he could muster through another wave of loss; there was plenty of guilt to go around.
How much more guilt was to come before he had avenged his parents, and avenged himself? Rabbit had asked him what made him so special that he was worth dying for. He'd said 'nothing', and that was true. But justice — that was worth dying for. He just hadn't expected so many people to pay the price.
Danica had warned him about revenge being a whirlpool, and with Greaser's death, he felt more than ever like a leaf caught in the eddy, being sucked closer to oblivion.
He had to get to the end. He clutched at that belief. It was the only way to repay the dead for their sacrifice, to prove they had died for something worthwhile. He would have all the time in the world for guilt once Mira was dead.
Silver broke the maudlin silence. 'I'm surprised they didn't have back-up.'
'Wheels within wheels,' the Needle said. 'They put a squad of VS against us at the restaurant—'
'Knowing their Hunter was on the spot,' Silver said.
'But only the beamer for the kill. No prisoners. No leaks.'
'Trust issues?' Kevin suggested.
'Secrets, I think,' the Needle said. 'I just got word. Trappier Christian Jensen is dead, assassinated. Heinrich is dead, killed in an ambush; purportedly by VS turncoats. Marshall Smith is on the run.'
'Blake?' Kevin asked. 'I left him on ice.' Or had he?
'No idea.'
Kevin rubbed his temples; pressure pounded on the inside of the bone. 'What the fuck's going on?'
'Campbell has made his move. It's the whole night of the long knives thing.'
'What about Max?'
'My guess is: watch this space.'
'And Mira?'
'No word. But Heinrich? That shows the gloves are off. Positioning before the council meeting tomorrow night. A state of panic; the Old Man isolated.'
Kevin reached for the picture of Tony Campbell. The Needle pinned the snapshot with a nail. They locked gazes. Kevin took his finger off the photo and the Needle palmed it.
'What was your plan again?' the Needle asked.
'It's changed. Seeing Hunter made me remember something.' Kevin picked up a paperback and flipped through the pages before throwing it down on the table. 'I think him and me are about to reach a new understanding.'
SIXTY-THREE
Kevin had been a vampire for less than a week when he kicked piss and pick handles out of Hunter; bailed him up against a rocky outcrop in a gorge in western Queensland and tore a great chunk of flesh out of the fucker's throat. He'd drunk, and drunk, only just managing to avoid killing the man. Had, in fact, left him for dead. But Hunter was made of sterner stuff: Kevin knew that. He'd tasted it. Forty years of trading blood with Mira. Forty years of fear, and misery, and momentary ecstasy in her embrace. A little of Hunter had stuck in Kevin's lifestream; glimpses into his life as Mira's most favoured pet. Mira was paramount, already tottering on the brink of bedlam when they'd crossed paths, and Hunter sliding down the slope of menopause. An aging dog all out of new tricks, taking his pleasures where he could: a cold beer, Mira's blood, the occasional fuck. The Rolling Stones, Brian Cadd, Billy Thorpe. And Hammett, Spillane, Chandler.
Which was why Kevin was now standing in front of Pulp Reader, his face flushed with a touch of wolfbite from his late-afternoon surveillance of the bookstore. The rash darkened his reflection in the window. The displays meant little to Kevin but plenty to Hunter — enough to have stuck in his lifestream like a burr to a sock: Megan Abbott, James Lee Burke, Martin Cruz Smith; dark covers, shadowy figures.
Movement caught his attention: a customer leaving with a paper bag clutched under the arm, and a woman at the door saying goodbye. She glimpsed Kevin and stepped back, the door swinging.
Kevin caught it with an inch to spare. He felt the tension as the shop attendant pushed; Kevin thrust. The woman stumbled back and the door swung open. Kevin stepped in, closed the door and flipped the sign to Closed.
The attendant was middle aged, going grey, in slacks and open-necked blouse and cardigan.
'I don't want any trouble.' She strode behind the counter and dug in a drawer. Kevin slammed her wrist down on the counter, jarring the pistol loose. A plastic shelf of bookmarks shivered with the impact.
'I don't want to rob you,' Kevin said. 'Not that I'd expect a bookshop to have a lot of cash.'
The woman grimaced — from the insult or the pain in her wrist, who knew?
Kevin scanned the shop. Cosy, with bookshelves squeezed in so tightly two people wouldn't have room to pass each other. He almost missed the door at the back labelled Private.
'I just want a favour,' Kevin told the attendant. He let go her arm and walked around next to her. Shelves were lined with brown packets, with papers sticking out with names written on them, all in alphabetical order. He looked for the Rs. He always thought of Hunter by his rank, never his name.
'Reece,' he said, and the information bobbed to the surface like a cork. 'Phillip Reece. A customer of yours.'
'What if he is?' The woman rubbed her wrist. She eyed the office door behind Kevin, then the front door.
Kevin looked up at the ceiling. 'I thought you might know where I could find him. Or get in touch with him — a phone number, maybe.'
The woman looked confused, but not convincingly.
'Do you know where he is?' Kevin asked.
'Why would I?'
'Because,' Kevin said.
The woman shook her head.
Kevin checked the name on a bundle of books and then dropped it on the floor. 'Nope.' And another. 'Nope.' There was a computer on the counter, still bright, cursor blinking on some inscrutable form. 'Database?'
'No,' the woman said through clenched teeth.
'I don't want to hurt you.'
'No you don't,' said a voice from behind — Hunter's — followed by the metallic snick of a hammer being pulled back.
Kevin turned to face him.
'What do you want, Matheson?'
'The Maltese Falcon.'
Reece paused, then laughed, a rough hiccup like a car stalling, and safed the weapon; put it away inside his coat. He told the shopkeeper to leave, that he'd lock up, that there was no cause for alarm.
The woman scowled but left, still holding her wrist, taking a moment to stare through the window as though imprinting the store on her memory in case it wasn't there in the morning.
Hunter locked the door before leading Kevin up a set of stairs. 'Alley at the back,' Hunter told him as they passed a multi-locked door marked Fire Exit. They continued down a short carton-lined hallway; a toilet was signposted to the right, but they walked to a door marked Staff Only. Inside, the walls were lined with more cardboard boxes, shelves brimming with books. A window covered with a yellowed roller blind overlooked the street. A space had been cleared in the centre of the floor for a camp bed. A suitcase sat next to it, brown and dented and scratched, the kind of thing you'd expect a door-to-door salesman to have. Nearby a power cord snaked out from an invisible corner, sprouting a powerboard with a kettle, a smart phone and a radio scanner. The box blinked and crackled as they entered, telling them between scratches that 'soup can one' had left the kitchen, that 'soup two is rolling', 'can three is outbound'. An ashtray overflowed on the floor next to a stained mug, a tumbler and a bottle of Bundy rum.
'Pull up a pew, sport,' Hunter said. He poured himself a dram and sat on the nearest convenient carton. 'I'd offer you one, but I've only got one glass.' He tasted, winced. 'How did you know I was here?'
'I knew this was a hiding place for you. Thought it was worth a shot. So why are you here?'
'Things at the tower are a little tense right now.'
'Mira?'
'Still there. But the new management has called a council meeting for later tonight. I figure they're going to do your job for you. That is why you're looking for me, isn't it? To see if you can convince me to get you inside Thorn
. Bedlam's not punishment enough.'
'Mira has my mother inside her. If someone drinks Mira, drains her...' He motioned with his hand, a circle going on and on. 'The blood is everything,' he murmured, reciting a different context, but it seemed to fit. He didn't want — didn't need — to explain. Hunter had been there. He knew.
'Yeah, I hear that every day.' He drained his glass and poured another. 'So, what was your argument, sport, to get me to agree to this suicide mission of yours?'
Kevin shrugged. 'I was just gonna threaten to kill you. But then, if things are like you say, if Mira is on death row, then maybe you might like to save her. From them first. Then from me.'
Hunter swilled a mouthful, sifted for hidden flavours. Swallowed. 'Sure.'
SIXTY-FOUR
Riding Yoshi's bike with Hunter behind him, Kevin couldn't help but remember riding as pillion to Taipan, carving through the outback by night. It might've been a thousand years ago, the memories of another person swimming in his bloodstream. He was no longer that young man, injured and confused and desperately afraid, still caught in the throes of the change from human to monster. He was all monster now, but still, he had to admit, confused.
He suppressed those memories. Charging through Brisbane traffic on a bike wasn't the best place for bloodwalking. Besides, he might've been in the driver's seat, but Hunter was far from a helpless passenger. They wove through the Valley, Kevin trying to remember the turns to get to the rendezvous with the Needle. He waited for Hunter to try something, though Kevin had taken his guns and Staker; expected at any moment a VS patrol to plough into them.
He rode with the helmet's visor up. Warm, wet air gusted through the opening; sweat pooled under his arms, on his back where Hunter pressed against him. There'd been clouds over the mountains, massive rolls of grey and black hiding the dying sun, as he headed out for the bookstore. But the sky over the city was still clear.
The Needle had told him, somewhat extravagantly, that the storm would crash down tonight, bringing cool relief in a violent cleansing of overflowing gutters and downpipes. The faraway look in his green-tinged eyes suggested he was looking at more than the weather report. Plunging through the choke of brake lights and headlights and reflecting bodywork, Kevin could see no relief here.
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