Dark Vengeance Part 2

by Reinke, Sara

  Julianne, please, Brandon cried, but it was no use. She didn’t slow her pace; didn’t turn around. The door swung shut behind her, and he and Julien were alone.

  Julien placed his jacket over the back of a chair. Big day today, kid, he remarked as he began to unbutton his shirt. We’ve got work to do. You ready?

  Fuck you, Brandon seethed, mustering courage and defiance he didn’t feel.

  Julien shook his head and chuckled. He stripped off his shirt and draped it aside, the interwoven design of his tattoos tangling down his arms and across his shoulders like a nest of snakes.

  You’ve got spirit, he said. I’ve got to hand it to you. He dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the gleaming brass knuckles, all polished and glinting wickedly in the overhead fluorescent glare. Damn shame I’ve got to break it.

  What’s going on? he heard a new voice say, and he and Julien both looked in mutual surprise toward the doorway. Another man had entered the room; tall, with unshaven stubble on his cheeks and chin, and sandy brown hair swept back in haphazard spikes from his face. He wore dark jeans and a T-shirt with a hooded leather jacket over it, and carried a black duffel bag slung loosely over his shoulder. Even from a distance, Brandon could see his eyes were an unusual shade of crisp, bright blue, much like Julien’s, and recognized him instantly.

  Aaron.

  “Az!” Julien’s mouth spread wide in a sudden, delighted grin. “I’ll be goddamned! What are you doing here?”

  In three broad strides, he closed the distance between them. Hooking his hand against the back of Aaron’s head, he pulled his younger brother to his shoulder in a brief but fierce embrace.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Aaron said with a smile, his mouth visible enough over Julien’s shoulder for Brandon to read his lips. “I thought you were in Miami.”

  It was a short trip, Julien said, either deliberately keeping his mind open so that Brandon could be privy to their exchange, or—more likely—in his excitement, forgetting Brandon was even in the room at all. Considering Cervantes packed up shop and headed north up to Bayshore. Looks like the little wetback thinks he’s El Jefe now—the big boss. He’s making a play for that statue Father’s after.

  Aaron’s eyes widened, but Julien shook his head. It’s nothing. I’ve got Nikolić and his crew down there handling it. I’d have done it myself, but… He awarded a pointed glance in Brandon’s direction. …I had more pressing business to attend to.

  The Serbians? Aaron frowned. Man, those guys are brutal. They’re like bulls in a goddamn china shop.

  Julien laughed. Hey, beggars can’t be choosers. You were out on a run. Speaking of which—how was Lake Tahoe?

  Went well, Aaron replied. Would’ve gone faster if I’d been able to use the Bravo, but you know how it goes.

  Julien continued beaming. You got it done? he asked, and when Aaron nodded, he clapped his hands. Hot damn!

  Aaron squatted, dropping his duffel bag to the floor in front of him. He pulled something out, but at first, Brandon couldn’t tell what it was. All he could make out was one of those gallon-sized Ziploc bags—with something heavy and bloody inside. It looked like a small cut of raw pork or beef, swimming in its own sanguineous broth. Brandon didn’t need to hear to know when Aaron dropped it on the floor, it landed with a dense plop.

  “Holy shit,” Julien said with a cackle. “You use a seven-inch blade for that?”

  “Seven and a quarter,” Aaron replied, reaching beneath his shirt for the small of his back. He had a knife sheath there—a dark steel blade with a serrated edge and well-worn handle.

  “When you saw through the costal cartilage, those rib bones fold right back, don’t they?” Julien said, taking the knife in hand. Miming as he spoke, he added, “If you wedge the knife point under it just right, that sternum just pops off like a bottle cap.”

  Judging by the way his mouth moved, he made a POP sound to go along with this comment.

  “Yeah,” Aaron murmured, as Julien spun the knife in his hand and returned it, hilt-first.

  “Damn, that’s got a nice heft to it,” he marveled. “Might have to take it from you.”

  “You’re welcome to try,” Aaron said, reaching beneath his jacket and tucking the knife back into its hidden sheath.

  Julien beamed, delighted. “Is that a challenge?” he asked, playfully punching his brother in the socket of his shoulder.

  Aaron winced, stumbling back a step at the blow. With a smirk, he recovered his footing and punched Julien back. “More like a dare.”

  Julien’s grin widened. “You’re on.”

  Brandon watched as the two men began tussling together, trading light jabs and headlocks, both of them laughing like a pair of rowdy kids. It was the way he and Jackson often wrestled together, and the normalcy of it—this unexpected, affectionate turn in Julien’s demeanor—struck him as bizarre, nearly surreal.

  After a few affable moments, they finished roughhousing and leaned together, Julien with his arm around Aaron’s neck, winded and laughing.

  “What’s with the shoulder?” he asked, his face softening with a fondness Brandon wouldn’t have believed him capable of. “I saw you favoring it. You going gimpy on me?”

  “It’s nothing.” Aaron slapped his brother in the belly as he ducked out of his embrace. “I’ve been cooped up in a car, driving these past three days.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Let’s have a look.” Julien grabbed a handful of Aaron’s jacket and shirt collar, tugging. “Those are bandages.”

  “It’s not bandages, it’s a bandage, just the one,” Aaron grumbled, shrugging loose. “And it’s more like a Band-aid, one of those oversized ones, that’s—”

  “What happened?” Julien asked.

  “It’s nothing. I got shot.”

  Julien’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “It was a .22. No big deal. I’m fine.”

  “You got hit by a .22?” Julien laughed. “That’s pretty pussy, Az. I don’t know if I’d be bragging about it or anything.”

  “Fuck you.” Aaron flipped him off. “I wasn’t bragging. You asked.”

  “What, were the Morins running a daycare out there? The kindergarteners out doing some target shooting?” Julien asked.

  Aaron scowled as he leaned over, picking up the Ziploc bag. Tossing it to Julien, he growled, “Asshole.”

  Julien caught the bag, then nearly dropped it again as he grimaced in disgust. “Jesus Christ! You didn’t put this on ice or anything?”

  “Yeah. Like I want to drive across the country with Tristan Morin’s goddamn heart in a cooler, like a six-pack or something.”

  Brandon felt a shudder of icy shock at this. What?

  “It’s going to stink like all hell when Father opens the bag,” Julien complained, holding the bag out at arm’s length, his nose wrinkled. “Hell, it stinks already, even with the bag closed.”

  Aaron shrugged. “His problem, not mine. He said to bring it back. That’s what I did.”

  He…he killed Tristan? Brandon thought in shocked dismay. But why?

  Tristan Morin had helped treat Brandon after he’d been so badly burned, but he’d been far more than just a caregiver. He’d brought Brandon a tablet computer so he could download movies or play games to pass the time while bedridden and convalescing. To mark the occasion of Brandon’s first solid meal, Tristan had driven from the Morin clan compound into the town of South Lake Tahoe and bought the biggest ribeye steak—Brandon’s favorite cut—he could find. He’d also personally grilled it for Brandon, serving it with an ice-cold bottle of Sierra Nevada that Brandon technically wasn’t supposed to have had, considering he’d still been on narcotic pain medications at the time.

  “But we won’t tell anyone,” Tristan had told him with a wink and a grin, tapping his own bottle of beer in a toast with Brandon’s.

  Tristan had been more than Brandon’s doctor. He was my friend, he thought, staring in numb disbelief at Aaron Davenant—and Tristan’s severed heart. A
ll at once, the surge of hope and excitement he’d felt at Aaron’s arrival was gone. In its place, he felt a slow, simmering rage begin to build. That son of a bitch, he murdered my friend!

  Aaron noticed Brandon’s attention—his sudden, furious glare—and met the younger man’s gaze evenly, his blue eyes impassive, his expression unreadable. “Who’s the kid?”

  “Brandon Noble,” Julien replied. “Augustus Noble’s grandson. You remember Augustus, don’t you? He killed Victor. Damn near did the same by Allistair.”

  “Victor was a prick,” Aaron said mildly, still holding Brandon’s gaze. “And Allistair’s never been much better.”

  Julien chortled. “True,” he conceded. “But at any rate, he’s your ticket to ride, Az. All aboard the freedom train.” When Aaron glanced at him, visibly puzzled, he said, “The kid’s got the first-blood, same as you. Only he’s about a hundred and thirty years your junior, so his is a lot more potent.”

  “What?” Aaron shook his head, as if trying to clear his ears of some perceived impediment to hearing. “Augustus Noble did that? Gave him the blood?”

  “No. His half-witted son, Sebastian, did. He—”

  Shut up! Brandon snapped, balling his fists and straining against the tight handcuffs. He had no idea what they were talking about—this ‘first blood’ that made him like Aaron—but it didn’t matter. The anger that had reached a low boil inside of him suddenly flared brightly at the mention of Sebastian’s name. Don’t talk about my father like that. Don’t you dare, you murdering sons of—!

  His voice cut sharply short as a sudden surge of agonizing neuroelectric energy ripped through him. Brandon convulsed in the chair, nearly toppling sideways as his muscles abruptly heaved, his nerve endings all seeming to simultaneously short-circuit.

  Cute, isn’t he? Julien remarked, releasing Brandon from the excruciating telepathic hold, leaving him to slump in his seat, gasping for breath, his shoulders jerking involuntarily. He hasn’t quite figured out how to keep his mouth shut yet, but I figure we’ve got nothing but time.

  How do you know he has the first blood? Aaron asked.

  Julianne, of course, Julien replied.

  As he said this, as if on cue, Julianne opened the door and stepped across the threshold. At the sight of her cousin, she stumbled to a wide-eyed, stricken halt, her breath drawing short in a startled gasp. “Aaron!”

  “Hey, Jules,” he said, ducking his head slightly so she could throw her arms around his neck in a fierce hug.

  “What a wonderful surprise!” she exclaimed when she was through, stepping back to look at him, as if marveling at his presence. “I thought you were in Lake Tahoe.” With a glance at Julien, she added, “Mr. Kobayashi has arrived. Uncle Lamar has asked—”

  “Kobayashi?” Aaron frowned at the mention of the name.

  “I didn’t know we were having company. Why didn’t Father say anything?” Julien glanced at his brother. “Bet you’re glad to get to sit this one out now, huh, Az? Kobayashi’s a sick fuck.”

  “Yeah,” Aaron murmured, and when he glanced at Brandon again, his expression nearly mournful, Brandon felt a sinking, twisting knot of dread in his gut again.

  Aaron took the Ziploc bag from his brother, then turned, shoving it into Julianne’s hands. “Take that to my father. Let him know I’m back. I can cover Kobayashi.”

  “But, Aaron…” Julianne said, looking down at the bag and its gruesome contents, her face twisting with disgust.

  “Az, no,” Julien said. “We’ve tested the kid’s serum levels. All analyses show his somatotropic enzymes are off the charts.”

  “They also show mine are almost at baseline—back to normal,” Aaron countered. “But I still heal three times faster than any control.” He reached down, grabbing his duffel bag. “I got this.”

  Az, listen to me, Julien said, the pleading tone in his voice drawing Aaron’s gaze. You don’t have to do this. Not anymore.

  My blood is still good, Aaron insisted, his brows narrowing.

  And I like it right where it is, Julien said, reaching up and cupping his hand briefly, fondly against Aaron’s cheek. His mental voice cracked, as strained with raw emotion as any spoken words.

  Aaron didn’t answer; he looked visibly moved by his brother’s plea, but at the same time, conflicted. When Julien gave him a little nudge toward Julianne and the exit, he fell in step, but didn’t look happy about it.

  “Come on,” Julien said. “Let’s go show Father your souvenir. He’ll be tickled shitless. Then get showered, changed, whatever. We’ll go grab some beers, hit the titty bars, something.”

  “Yeah,” Aaron murmured, as Julien steered him about and they headed for the door together. “Sounds good.” Sparing one last glance over his shoulder in Brandon’s direction, he said, Sorry, kid.

  To his credit, he sounded nearly sincere.

  Go fuck yourself, Davenant, Brandon seethed in reply. He felt foolish for all of the years he’d spent worrying about Aaron, pitying him, and regretting that he’d never gone back on the night of Lamar’s party to rescue him. Because you deserved it, you son of a bitch. You’re as sick as the rest of them.

  Aaron looked away again, his face devoid of any emotion, as featureless and smooth as marble. The door closed behind them, and Brandon was alone.

  You’re all fucking sick! he shouted after them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Pilar’s brows furrowed when she caught sight of Lina and Augustus standing in the doorway to her mother’s hospital room. Like a shot, she leapt up from her chair, hands balled into angry fists, her dark eyes flashing.

  “You,” she exclaimed, glaring at Lina. “Chingate, tu pinche puta! How dare you come here!”

  Lina and Augustus had tried tracking down Valien at the garage, but had found the place vacated, not another car or motorcycle in sight.

  “I don’t sense anyone inside, human or otherwise,” Augustus had told her.

  “I should have tried the hospital first,” Lina had said. “He’s probably there with Pilar and Estela. If not, after last night, he’s probably holed up somewhere, staying under Cervantes’s radar until he can arrange to hand off the wayob. They might be able to tell us where he’s hiding.”

  However, Pilar clearly did not feel so inclined.

  “Get out of here!” she demanded, marching toward Lina. Estela appeared to be asleep in the bed behind her, and Lina figured she must have been sedated to not have roused at the ruckus her daughter was making. “You have no right to be here, bothering my family!”

  Lina stood about a half-head taller than her, and when Pilar jutted her chin up to defiantly meet Lina’s gaze, tears gleamed in her eyes. Dozens of small cuts, all in various stages of healing, littered her face, and fading bruises were still visible on her cheek. “I asked you one thing,” she snapped, jabbing her forefinger in the air between them. “One thing—to keep the wayob away from my brother. I trusted you because Elías trusts you! And you turn around and give it to Valien! Qué chingados es eso?”

  “You’re going to want to get your finger out of my face,” Lina told her coolly. “There’s an armed guard posted right outside this door, and I’m sure he’d be more than happy to book you on charges of assaulting a police officer. And don’t talk to me about trust—not when you’re the one who brainwashed Elías into hitting Miami in the middle of an active investigation.” And then, because she couldn’t resist, she added, “Or when you’re the one who was all over Brandon at Duke’s Place, introducing your tongue to the back of his throat.”

  Pilar blinked, as startled as if Lina had just slapped her in the face. “Is that why you did it?” she asked. “Do you hate me that much that you…you’d let my brother die?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Lina rolled her eyes. “This has nothing to do with you and Brandon. And I don’t hate you…not really. As far as Valien goes—that’s why we’re here. We need to talk to him.”

  “You’re too late,” Pilar snapped. “He’s gone.”<
br />
  “What do you mean?” Augustus asked with a frown.

  “He left here an hour ago, said he’d made plans to meet with Tejano and hand over the wayob.” Pilar stared at him, distraught, her bottom lip quivering as her tears began to fall. “Valien’s going to be killed when he gives that statue to Tejano. You know that, right? He’s going to die because of you and this…this lying puta!”

  She squared off against Lina again, and this time, Lina curled her fingers lightly into fists and moved her feet slightly, widening her stance, readying to fight.

  “Call me a puta again and I’m going to poner my pie up your culo,” she warned.

  “Ladies, please.” Augustus stepped rather conspicuously between them, shooting stern enough glares that each backed begrudgingly down. “This isn’t helping matters in the slightest.”

  “Will…will you help him?” a small, fragile voice asked, and they all turned in unison to see Estela blinking at them from her bed. With a grimace, she pushed herself into a clumsy seated position, propped on her elbows. When she spoke again, she directed a plea to Augustus alone. “Señor, por favor. Te lo ruego, ayude a mi hijo—I beg you, help my son.”

  * * *

  “Well, this is great.” Lina fumed as they climbed back into the car in the hospital parking lot. Glowering at Augustus, she said, “You told me he hadn’t planned to meet with Tejano yet.”

  “Because last night he hadn’t,” Augustus said pointedly. “I had no way of knowing what the boy would do between now and then. I’m a mind reader, not a fortune teller.”

  She glared at him again, then gunned the engine to life. It would have had more effect had she been in Elías’s Charger. The little four-cylinder engine in Latisha’s Honda didn’t compare to the ferocious growl of his V-6 Hemi.

  “Pilar doesn’t know where Valien went to meet Cervantes,” Augustus continued. “Neither does Estela. I could see that in their minds.”

  “Okay, so we go back to the jail,” she said. “We get with Nikolić again and find out where Cervantes is holed up. Maybe there’s still time to head off Valien.”