I looked at him from under my lashes. Noted him chewing the inside of his cheek, the way he did when deeply stressed.
Finally he said, “You know, when I was in that place, it wasn’t all bad. I found out I liked not having to think or be responsible. Not caring.” Dave stole a look at me, his face paling, as if he’d just confessed to murdering his best friend. “And when I came back. When you saved me, my pain-in-the-ass life sort of crashed on me, avalanche style. But I knew I shouldn’t feel that way. Not for a second. And at the same time I was shit-eating humiliated that I’d basically become a terrorist’s slave. Me, Dave Parks, American stud. Special Ops commander. Hero to men. Red-hot lover to women. At least,” he said, before I could make some snide remark, “that’s how I liked to think of myself.”
We stood there in silence for maybe a minute before I said, “Wow, you are fucked up.”
He punched me, soft enough to let me know he got it, his half grin backing up the gesture. “Thanks for the support.”
I shrugged. “Nobody’s ever survived what you’ve been through. Ever. So who’s to say what you’re feeling is wrong? Or even abnormal? The fact that you’re still fighting is enough for me. Just, you know, don’t try to do it alone anymore. I’ve driven that route. It’s a dead end with straitjackets and little cups full of pills waiting to snag you on the turnaround. Okay?”
He nodded. “Duly noted.”
“And since we’re talking about fighting, what do you say we figure out a way to even up the odds between ourselves and Samos’s crew?”
“Only if you promise to shower first.”
“That’s a given.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I took half an hour to scrape off the skank I’d sprayed on myself while the guys discussed strategies and Ziel raced around the suite sniffing everything like it smelled of dog chow. My sundress had found new life as a doggy bed, so I didn’t even bother slipping it into a plastic bag after my shower. I just left it on the floor beside the door and dressed in a much comfier outfit. A pair of hunter green jeans and a moss-colored sweater that didn’t feel clingy until Vayl gave me a look that made me double-check to assure myself his hands were safe in his lap and not roving my curves like it suddenly felt they were. I turned back to the bedroom. “I think I’m going to change,” I said.
“No!” the men replied in unison. Dave’s tone made it clear he was sick of waiting. Vayl—well, when my brother gave him the thumbs-up for voting with the team, he must’ve finally realized what was up. Because he stared at my boss, then he looked back at me until I started playing with my hair. At which point he said, “Dad’s gonna kick your ass.”
To which I replied brilliantly, “Nuh-uh.”
“What, you’re not going to tell him you’re romancing a vampire?”
“To be fair, it has largely been the other way around,” Vayl said.
“We’re just friends,” I said, sounding as defensive as a nun who’s been caught flirting with the neighborhood rabbi. I held my hands up to fend off Vayl’s glare. “Okay, hardly that. And a lot more than that. Like many things in my life lately, I’ve come at this whole relationship backward. We’re trying to be friends so we can be a really great couple that Albert doesn’t have to know anything about yet. Please?” I asked them both. Okay—begged.
Dave and Vayl spent some time in silent conversation. It was a guy thing, so I had no idea what flew back and forth between them, though my nerves were strung so tight they could’ve played a twangy sort of clang-ring-bang accompaniment to the communion. Finally both men nodded and looked back at me.
“Okay,” said Dave. “I won’t tell. But since I probably won’t be there for the big reveal, you have to tape it for me.”
“How am I supposed . . .” He just smiled, which was when I realized he meant for me to make the full confession to Cassandra so she could record it into her Enkyklios. Holy Jam on a Crapcracker, this blowup was going to be fodder for all of freaking history to chew on! I thought about backing out. But the idea of unleashing Albert’s fury any sooner than necessary made me shudder. Not that he scared me much anymore. But I so didn’t want to spend one more second pissed off, depressed, or contemplating patricide than I absolutely had to. I sighed. “Okay. Although how it took you this long to figure out Vayl and I—”
“Hey, I’ve been busy! Former zombie turned semi-alcoholic nutjob, remember?”
“Oh, that.”
“But I’m getting better.”
I smiled. “I noticed.”
“Come and see what else your brother has achieved,” Vayl said as he motioned to the tableau they’d arranged on the library table between them.
“Vayl helped,” Dave protested.
As the two of them explained their tightening of our execute-Samos plan, it began to resemble something out of a military manual. A thing of beauty that belonged on some strategist’s chalkboard. Only Dave had gone one better. He’d picked the lock of one of the display cases upstairs and stolen a couple of handfuls of teeth. Once you got past the yuck factor, they worked great as miniature tombstones. He’d set them up across the table just as we’d mapped them.
As I sat down at the table with them Dave said, “You’ll come in from the south, between this line of molars. So I’ll set up behind this bicuspid. Remember the raised plot with two slabs marked by an angel standing with her wings spread? That’s the one I’m talking about.”
“Where’s Vayl—” I began, but Ziel distracted me. He’d gone to the hall door and begun scratching at it.
“Does he need to go out?” Vayl asked.
I looked at my watch. “We got back at, what, ten forty-five? That was about an hour ago, and he went before we came inside,” I said.
“Enough to keep an army of dung beetles busy for a week,” Dave added. He shook his head. “I bet it costs a fortune to keep that dog stocked with Iams and chew bones.”
Ziel kept scratching at the door, so I went over to him. But as soon as I crouched down, he bolted into the bedroom. What the hell?
The door crashed open, throwing me into the wall like one of those sticky toys kids get for a buck at Wal-Mart. I reached for Grief, but the blow to my head had thrown off my dexterity and I ended up with a handful of boob. I looked down. Goddammit! I commanded my hand to rise to the butt of my gun, watched it grip.
At the same time Vayl and Dave had risen from their chairs. Dave’s hand was on his holster. Vayl’s powers had spiked, raising a chill breeze in the room. I scrambled to my feet.
“Stop!” commanded Blondie. His hair stood out on one side like he’d gotten too close to an überstrong fan. I could see grass stains on his powder blue suit.
Beside him, lined up in a semicircle of intimidating guy-flesh, were three of the largest men I’d ever laid eyes on. Which explained why I hadn’t sensed them outside the door. Oh, I can pick up on strong human emotions, but these guys weren’t emitting anything, except possibly an invisible steroid fog that would make them all wonder why their kids couldn’t divide simple numbers sooner or later. They, too, were dressed as if to attend a back-to-the-seventies charity event, each of them sporting suit coats in varying shades of pastel, two days’ growth of beards, and way cool shades. I know, we were inside, but apparently their pupils couldn’t adjust.
In addition to Blondie, we had to contend with a balding dude whose overbite was so pronounced it left his lower lip in perpetual shade. He stood to Blondie’s left, blocking the exit. Beside him, flexing his hands as if preparing to reach forward and strangle one of us, stood a black guy with a sparkling Mohawk. While I wondered what kind of product he used, I also decided the last goon had aged out of this game at least a decade ago and nobody had bothered to tell him. He hunched his enormous shoulders inside his lemon-drop coat and frowned at me, as if pissed that I’d pulled him away from his daily rendezvous with a mug of Boost fiber drink and the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. Overbite and the Old-Timer both held silenced Baikal IJ-70s at their sides, let
ting us know it could get nasty but they’d rather it didn’t.
A lot of stuff flew through my mind in the five seconds we stood there, closer than football foes, sizing each other up. Some of it made no sense. Thoughts like, Damn, I think I forgot to pay my water bill! And, I’ll be so mad if I die before I’ve done the Indy Racing Experience. And, I’m glad I don’t have to pee right now. Like a tornado, it all whirled around a quiet eye, which clicked off the relevant thoughts rapidly, calmly, and without regard to the cows, minivans, and occasional tourists who flew past, trying to distract it from its vital business.
They’ve come to take back the dog. But they shouldn’t even know Ziel’s here. We snuck him in through Admes’s tunnel. And the Monise showed us all the humans were in the kitchen when we brought him to the room. Or were they? Does Samos have an insider here we haven’t even met yet?
I lowered my hands to my sides. That way, when it all went to crap, I could grab the bolo from my right pocket. And, with a twist of my left wrist, I could put Bergman’s latest invention to use.
It was actually a new take on an old gadget he’d never quite perfected. The application fit my purposes nicely, however. So, hiding beneath my sleeve was a device that shot tiny rockets. Well, that’s what they looked like, though they didn’t burn when they released, and Bergman wouldn’t explain the technology that made them fly. He just said they somehow targeted what you were looking at, hit it, and then burrowed in. Once under the skin they released hundreds of miniature robots that went straight to the brain. At which point they exploded.
Bergman noted that his original plan was to use the robots as tumor eaters. But apparently that required a lot more finesse than his little guys were capable of. Thus, the kaboom. Lucky for him, we in the CIA love the kaboom.
“Who let you in?” I asked. “And does Samos force you to dress like the Lollipop Guild, or is it just instinct?”
Ignoring my jibe, Blondie said, “We have people in all the major Trusts in Europe. Soon they will begin falling like dominos.” He looked at the ceiling, as if we’d stowed the mutt in the crawl space, and snapped, “Ziel, come.” No sound from the bedroom. I imagined the malamute crouching inside the tub, trying to figure out if there was a way for a four-legged dude with a hard head and a strong will to barricade the door.
“Bring him to us,” said Blondie, “or we start carving up your friends.” He nodded to Mohawk, who pulled a bowie knife from a sheath at his belt as he strode forward to grab Dave.
I didn’t even have to look at Vayl. Some things you just know. Like that he’ll always give you the last bite of his brownie. And he’ll never fail to defend the people you love.
I fired my rocket at Blondie even as I charged their line. My idea was to surround myself with bad guys who would, no doubt, pummel me senseless within a matter of seconds. But at least they couldn’t shoot me. Not without hitting each other.
Blondie dove to the floor. At the same time he yanked Overbite toward him, using him as a shield. The slug hit him in the shoulder, flipping him ninety degrees, at which point he smacked into the wall.
I shot another missile at Old-Timer, who’d had the experience and presence of mind to stand still and target me. It hit him in the chest, throwing off his aim just enough that I heard the bullet split the air above my head. He sat down hard, pulling it out like some badass cowboy. The rip it left revealed the bulletproof vest he was wearing. Shit!
Dave had disarmed Mohawk, whose right wrist dangled at such an odd angle I was sure it wouldn’t be working correctly for some weeks to come. They were fighting hand-to-hand. And it wasn’t pretty, like you see on TV. Mostly grunting and a few choice blows that landed with a sickening, flat sound that lets you know something underneath the skin is either broken or bleeding.
Vayl filled the air with winter, making Samos’s gang groan, slowing their reflexes as they faced two people who were pretty much immune to vamp powers. But my boss didn’t move into the melee as I’d expected. Instead he disappeared into the bedroom.
I didn’t have time to wonder about his plan. Because the hint of a blur out of the corner of my eye told me to duck. I heard the whir of a blade slice off a hunk of hair as Blondie followed through with a kick that caught me in the kidneys, knocking me into Old-Timer. Though my lower back felt like it had caved in, I made the move count, isolating his gun arm so I could grab, twist, and break. He doubled over with a grunt of pain that he soon repeated when I followed up with a knee to the jaw.
By the time I stood, I’d drawn my great-granddad’s bolo and loaded up another missile. I met Blondie’s blade with a clash of my own, just managing to transform a major stab wound into a minor slice of the upper arm. At the same time I aimed the rocket at Overbite, who was just regaining his feet. It fired just as Blondie threw a punch that hit me under the collarbone. Suddenly struggling to breathe, I fell. The missile launched and flew upward, digging into the ceiling, where it released its robots into the intricate white tiles above, making them tremble and bulge. And still, no explosions.
If I’d had a second to spare, I’d have used it to curse Bergman and his goddamn prototypes.
I began to rise, planning an attack that would leave Blondie at least lame and, at most, dead. Which was when I felt the round, cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against my temple.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Get up real slow,” said Old-Timer.
I couldn’t have moved any other way. In fact, Blondie’s blows to my kidneys and lungs made me think it would be nice if an elderly lady would appear beside me with her walker, which I could then attempt to summit. I did consider grabbing the wall for support as I tried to rise. But they’d like that too much. So I just let my mind scream, Ow! Ow, ow-ow-ow! as I made it first to my knees and then to my feet.
At which point I realized Overbite had Dave covered as well.
“Have a seat,” ordered Old-Timer, pointing his gun at the fountain-bound wicker, his other arm hanging useless at his side.
Overbite shook his barrel at Dave. We both began walking.
I don’t know how many steps I’d taken, enough to feel like I was going to make it to the chair before they killed me, when pain lanced through my back. I spun, barely stifling a scream as I realized I’d been cut; that huge droplets of blood had splashed onto the seat cushions and into the fountain behind me. Blondie stood before me, his dagger red and dripping, his smile wide and lustful.
Screw getting shot. I’m going to kick your pretty teeth in, I thought wildly. With Old-Timer standing to my left, and Overbite to my right, the latter holding his gun to my chest, it wasn’t going to be a long, drawn-out revenge. But I thought I might at least get to wipe that disgusting look off his face before I died.
Mohawk beat me to it. He shouted from the doorway, where he stood watching, holding his damaged wrist with his good hand. “These are proven warriors! They have earned an honorable death!”
“Who are you to decide?” Blondie demanded. “I am Samos’s field commander.”
“Not after he learns you lost his dog.”
Blondie flinched, his eyes going just round enough to make me wonder what kind of punishment Samos would mete out to an underling who’d screwed up as badly as he had.
Mohawk went on. “In fact, I think your only way clear of slow torture is to have died in battle retrieving Ziel. Which will, of course, leave Samos free to consider a new commander.” He nodded to Overbite and Old-Timer, who each nailed Blondie with a single shot. Blam, blam.
The crack of both guns going off simultaneously, even though they carried silencers, still sent a doomed whip of sound snapping through the room.
The impact, hard as double sledgehammers slamming into his skull, threw Blondie backward. He died before he hit the floor, his last expression one of mild surprise. Blood pooled beneath him, filling the cracks in the floorboards, running toward my boots as if to lick them in belated apology.
Old-Timer turned to speak to Mohawk, but before he coul
d get the words out he was interrupted. By singing. Loud, raucous, off-key belting in the deep voice of a man who’s had way too much to drink, coming closer by the second.
“Well, it’s a girls’ night out. Honey, there ain’t no doubt. Hey!” Tarasios appeared, grinning happily in the doorway, his head practically on Mohawk’s shoulder. “Well, if it isn’t the exterminators. Did you find the cockroaches okay?” He glanced down. “Aw, look, a dead man!”
Crowding Mohawk aside by virtue of a drunken stumble combined with a sigh that had to smell strongly of the bottle of ouzo he held, Tarasios half knelt beside, half fell on Blondie.
“I know how you feel, buddy. I’m a”—pause for monster belch here—“a smidge under the weather myself. Love stinks, didja know that? Well”—he nodded wisely—“I’m here to tell ya. It stinks like . . .” He paused to think about it, took a whiff of his own armpits, and nodded his head. “Yup, that would be me.” His eyes wandered over to us. “How you doing?” he asked. “Enjoying your stay at the Heartbreak Hotel?” He suddenly launched into an amazing imitation of Elvis. “It’s down at the end of Lonely Street at Heartbreak Hotel.”
Overbite and the Old-Timer looked at each other, shrugged, and pointed their guns at Tarasios.
“Everybody freeze!” We did. Mostly out of surprise because the command came from the forgotten vampire who now stood in the bedroom doorway, hair standing on end, shirttails hanging, scratches running down his cheek, and a large malamute tucked under his left arm. Ziel’s head drooped and every few seconds he licked at his nose, which I suspected had taken a thump sometime during his struggle not to be caught by the dude who currently dangled him like a naughty child.
“Here is what we are going to do,” Vayl said. He stared down Samos’s men, one by one. The certainty in his voice a concrete barrier, he went on. “You are going to pull your men out of this room. You have until the count of three, after which I will crush this animal like a beer can.”
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