American Blood (38 page)
Crack.
Marshall looked.
Lucas Cohen stood in the door, Glock raised. Alyce Ray screamed behind the tape, ran, tripped, crawled for him.
Banister had dropped the gun. He fell across the toppled sofa, a red stain blooming on his chest. Marshall lay on the floor a moment, hugging his knees, gasping, waiting for the pain to back off. He rose unsteadily and picked up the Colt and stood looking down at Banister. The man coughing blood, chin pulled to his neck as he tried to check his pockets. “My daughter. Just let me. My daughter.”
He pulled a red cell phone from his pocket, fumbled it, dropped it on the ground. Marshall bent and passed it to him, the thing dead, not even a battery. Banister draped an arm across his eyes, choking as he put the phone to his ear.
“Sweetheart, it’s Daddy. It’s Daddy. I’ll see you soon, don’t worry.”
* * *
Marshall limped outside to escape the misery. Shadows had come down with the gloaming, and finally it was cool. Alyce Ray lay shivering on the driveway, Cohen crouched with his jacket draped over her. He watched the house as he made a call, stroking her shoulder, the girl screaming there was someone else down there.
Coming round the side of the Escalade, he saw the rear door was open. No Rojas. He swore under his breath and ran out to the road, awkward and shuffling, temples throbbing on each step. He saw him only sixty feet away, this hunched and lurching figure trailing blood.
Marshall watched him a second. Rojas swaying like a drunkard, bound hands oddly cocked, his every fiber desperate. Marshall raised the Colt and breathed out, sighted and squeezed the trigger.
Click.
A dud load. Marshall thought about that. Then he walked back up the drive to the house, Rojas still running.
* * *
The sofa was Banister’s deathbed.
Marshall went through his pockets. The Dallas Man watching wide-eyed. He had a blue cell phone as well, battery intact. Marshall clicked through the call history:
A New York number, showing up the last three days. Twice today. He wondered how many people in New York used the Dallas Man as their cleaner. Maybe he was just Tony Asaro’s man. He looked at the call times. The most recent was only thirty minutes ago, outgoing.
He imagined Banister reporting in while he waited:
I’ve found him.
Five years, and they’d done it. He remembered the photograph from Lloyd. Vicki B. shot dead. Greetings from Dallas. A threat and a promise that would never expire.
We’ll always be looking.
He brought the phone outside. Cohen was just coming in, gun up. Alyce Ray sat against the wheel of the Escalade, huddled in his jacket, rocking back and forth. Marshall hit Redial. Who’s it going to be: probably Tony, possibly Lloyd.
Three rings, and then the pickup.
Chloe said, “I figure this is either Wayne or Marshall.”
The last voice he thought he’d hear. He did a double-take: looked at the phone, and then put it back to his ear.
She said, “I’m guessing Marshall.”
He stumbled through a false start, cleared his throat to get past it. He said, “Wayne won’t be coming home.”
“Well, that’s a shame.”
Waiting for his reply.
He said, “I was expecting your father.”
“He had to delegate. It’s hard to run things from prison.”
“So you’ve found a career?”
She laughed. “No, I actually did this when I knew you, but I’ve upscaled slightly. They call me the Patriarch now. I thought about Matriarch, but I like the misdirection.”
He remembered talking with her that night at the Standard:
I’m with Brooklyn South Narcotics. I go around looking for drugs.
And her smile and the whisper:
I do that sometimes, too. Though I’m not with Brooklyn South Narcotics.
He swallowed. “So you’re in charge of killing me?” His voice was going. Shock more than exhaustion.
She said, “Good guess.”
He didn’t answer.
She said, “I was worried you’d moved on, but then Wayne called and said he’d found you. So that was a nice end to the day.”
That last line almost playful, inviting something back.
He said, “I’ll send you a photo. Make a nice start to tomorrow.”
“Yeah. I’d been hoping Wayne might send one.”
Marshall said, “I didn’t think I’d speak to you again.”
“Likewise, I guess. But I can’t say it’s a shame.”
All these questions he had, and all he could manage was: “I’m sorry I shot you.”
She didn’t answer. Blue and red lights out at the road.
Marshall said, “You going to stay in the business?”
She laughed. “We’ll see how it goes. This is a bit of a setback. But I think I’ll persevere.”
Cars coming round the bend. Lights and sirens.
She said, “They for you?”
Marshall said, “Maybe.”
The big question irking him: Were we the real thing, or were you just testing how much I knew? But he didn’t say it. To ask was to reveal a fear, and he didn’t want to give her that.
She said, “Are you going to come looking for me?”
Marshall didn’t answer. The dark landscape shaking in the blue-red strobes. Sirens keening as if chased by some greater horror. He ended the call and raised his arms.
I would like to thank the terrific team at St. Martin’s Press who enabled the publication of this novel. Thomas Dunne and my editor, Brendan Deneen, deserve a special mention for letting Marshall and me have a shot.
My agent, Dan Myers, was not only instrumental in getting me in the door in New York but has also proven himself a great editor and New Mexico tour guide.
Finally, I would like to thank the North Harbour Club (Auckland, New Zealand) for their AIMES and Emerging Talent awards, which provided invaluable support toward the writing of this novel.
Ben Sanders
is the author of three previous novels,
The Fallen
(2010),
By Any Means
(2011), and
Only the Dead
(2013), all of which were New Zealand fiction bestsellers. Sander’s first three novels were written while he was studying at university; he graduated in 2012 with a bachelor of engineering and now writes full-time.
American Blood
is his first novel in the United States. He lives in Auckland, New Zealand. You can sign up for email updates
here
.
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CONTENTS
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
AMERICAN BLOOD.
Copyright © 2015 by Ben Sanders. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Cover design by Ervin Serrano
Cover photographs: road by David Frazier / plainpicture; bullet holes by Sascha Burkard
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1 250-05879-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-6317-0 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466863170
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at
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First Edition: November 2015