Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (17 page)

Expressionism.

Such a commentary on the culture in so many ways.

“He’s ready now.”

Assail smiled to himself and turned around. “How accommodating.”

As he entered through that sneaky door and ascended to the third level, Assail did not fault his

supplier for being suspicious and wanting more information on his single largest customer. After all, in the shortest of time, the drug trade in the city had been rerouted, redefined, and captured by a complete unknown.

One could respect the man’s position.

But the digging was going to end here.

At the top of the set of industrial stairs, two other big men stood in front of another door, sure and solid as load-bearing walls. As with the guard on the first floor, they opened things up fast, and

nodded at him with respect.

On the far side, Benloise was sitting at the end of a long, narrow room that had windows down

one side, and only three pieces of furniture: his raised desk, which was nothing but a thick slab of teak with a modernist lamp and an ashtray on it; his chair, of some modern derivation; and a second seat across from him for a single visitor.

The man himself was like his environment: neat, officious, and uncluttered in his thinking. In fact, he proved that however illicit the drug trade was, the management principles and interpersonal skill sets of a CEO went a long way if you wanted to make millions in it—and keep your money.

“Assail. How are you?” The diminutive gentleman rose and put out his hand. “This is an

unexpected pleasure.”

Assail went across, shook what was extended and did not wait for an invitation to sit down.

“What may I do for you?” Benloise said as he himself resettled on his chair.

Assail took a Cuban cigar from out of his inside pocket. Snipping the end off, he leaned forward

and put the snubbed piece right on the desk.

As Benloise frowned like someone had defecated on his bed, Assail smiled just short of flashing

his fangs. “It’s what I may do for you.”

“Oh.”

“I have always been a private man, living a private life by choice.” He put away his clipper and

took out his gold lighter. Popping the flame, he leaned in and puffed to get the cigar into a sustainable burn. “But above and beyond that, I am a businessman engaging in a dangerous manner of trade.

Accordingly, I take any trespass of my property or intrusion upon my anonymity as a direct act of

aggression.”

Benloise smiled smoothly and eased back in his throne-like chair. “I can respect that, of course,

and yet I am confounded as to why you feel the need to point this out to me.”

“You and I have entered into a mutually beneficial relationship, and it is very much my desire to

continue this association.” Assail puffed on the cigar, releasing a cloud of French-blue smoke.

“Therefore, I want to pay you the respect you are due, and make clear before I take action that if I discover any person upon my premises whom I have not invited thereupon, I shall not only eradicate

them, I shall find the source of inquiry”—he puffed again—“and do what I must to defend my privacy.

Am I being clear enough?”

Benloise’s brows dropped down low, his dark eyes growing shrewd.

“Am I?” Assail murmured.

There was, of course, only one answer. Assuming the human wanted to live much past the

following weekend.

“You know, you remind me of your predecessor,” Benloise said in his accented English. “Did you

meet the Reverend?”

“We ran in some of the same circles, yes.”

“He was killed rather violently. About a year ago now? His club was blown up.”

“Accidents happen.”

“Usually in the home, so I’ve heard.”

“Something you might keep in mind.”

As Assail met those eyes straight on, Benloise dropped his stare first. Clearing his throat, the

Eastern seaboard’s biggest drug importer and wholesaler swept his palm over his glossy desk, as if

he were feeling the grains that ran through the teak.

“Our business,” Benloise said, “has a delicate ecosystem that, for all its financial robustness,

must be carefully maintained. Stability is rare and highly desirable for men like you and me.”

“Agreed. And to that end, I plan to return at the conclusion of the evening with my interim

payment, as scheduled. As I always have, I come to you in good faith, and give you no reason to doubt me or my intentions.”

Benloise offered another smooth smile. “You make it sound as if I am behind,” he moved his hand

around, waving it dismissively through the air, “whatever has upset you.”

Leaning in, Assail dipped his chin and glared. “I am not upset. Yet.”

One of Benloise’s hands surreptiously dipped out of sight. A split second later, Assail heard the

door down at the other end of the room open.

Keeping his voice low, Assail said, “This was a courtesy to you. The next time I find anyone on

my property, whether you sent them or not, I shall not be even half so polite.”

With that, he got to his feet and ground the lit cigar out upon the desk.

“I bid you a fond good evening,” he said, before walking away.

FOURTEEN

Talk about a late start.

As Qhuinn dematerialized away from the mansion, he couldn’t believe that it was ten

o’clock at night and they were just getting started. Then again, the Brotherhood had stayed

holed up in Wrath’s study forever, and when he and John had finally been let in, V’s

announcement that the proof against the Band of Bastards was ironclad had led to a good half hour of trash-talking Xcor and his buddies.

Lot of creative uses of the word
fuck
, as well as some crackerjack suggestions for places to put inanimate objects.

He’d never thought of doing that with a garden rake, for example. Fun. Fun.

And Blay had missed it all.

Reassuming his form in a woodland area south and west of the compound, Qhuinn steeled himself

against making any inferences about what had detained the guy—although the fact of the matter was,

the fighter had gone up to his room and hadn’t come back. And whereas most accidents happened in

the home, it was a good guess that he hadn’t had a slip-and-fall.

Unless Saxton had been playing throw rug on the marble in their bathroom.

Feeling like he wanted to slap himself, he surveyed the snow-covered landscape while John,

Rhage, and Z appeared next to him. The coordinates for the location had been found in the phones of those car thieves from the night before, the seemingly abandoned property about ten or fifteen miles past where he’d caught up with his stolen Hummer.

“What the hell is that?”

As someone spoke up, he glanced over his shoulder. What-the-hell was right: Looming behind

them was a boxy building tall as a church steeple and as unadorned as a recycling bin.

“Airplane hangar,” Zsadist announced as he started walking in that direction. “Has to be.”

Qhuinn followed, bringing up the rear in case anyone decided to pull a hi-how’re-ya—

From out of thin air, Blay made his appearance, the male suited up in leather, and as heavily

armed as the rest of them. In response, Qhuinn’s feet slowed, then stopped in the snow, mostly

because he didn’t want to lose his footing and look like an asshole.

God, that was one grim motherfucker, he thought as Blay started walking forward. Was there

some trouble in paradise?

Even though there was no eye contact between them, Qhuinn felt compelled to say something.

“What’s…”

He didn’t finish the “doing” part of the sentence. Why bother? The guy stalked past him like he

wasn’t there.

“I’m great,” Qhuinn muttered as he resumed trudging through the ice pack. “Doin’ awesome,

thanks for asking—oh, you having probs with Saxton? Really? How’d you like to go out and get a

drink and talk about it? Yeah? Perfect. I’ll be your after-dinner mint—”

He cut off the fantasy monologue as the breeze shifted and his nose got a whiff of sweet and nasty.

Everyone got their weapons out and focused on the airplane hangar.

“We’re upwind,” Rhage said quietly. “So there’s got to be a big-ass mess in there.”

The five of them approached the facility cautiously, fanning out, searching the ambient blue glow

of reflected moonlight for anything that moved.

The hangar had two entryways, one that was bifurcated and big enough to fit a wingspan through,

and the other that was supposed to be for people, and looked Barbie size in comparison. And Rhage

was right: In spite of the fact that the icy winter gusts were hitting them in the back, the smell was enough to tingle the insides of the nose, and not in good way.

Man, cold usually dimmed the stink, too.

Communicating via hand signals, they split into two groups, with him and John taking one side of

the mammoth double doors, and Rhage, Blay, and Z zeroing in on the smaller entrance.

Rhage went for the requisite handle while everyone braced for engagement. If there was a football

team’s worth of
lessers
in there, it made sense to send the Brother in first, because he had the kind of backup nobody else did: His beast loved slayers, and not in a relationship sense.

Talk about your thin mints.

Hollywood put his hand over his head. Three…two…one…

The Brother penetrated in total silence, pushing the door open and slipping inside. Z was next—

and Blay went in with them.

Qhuinn felt a heartbeat of pure terror as the male jumped into the unknown with nothing but a pair

of forties to protect him. God, the idea that Blay could die tonight, right in front of him, on this run-of-the-mill assignment, made him want to stop all this defending the race bullshit and turn the fighter into a librarian. A hand model. Hairdresser—

The shrill whistle that came no more than sixty seconds later was a godsend. And Z’s all-clear

was the signal for him and John to change positions, shuffling laterally to the now open door, and

going through the—

Okay. Wow.

Talk about your oil slick. And holy fuckin’ A from the stench.

The three who’d gone in first had busted out their flashlights, and the beams light-sabered around

the cavernous space, cutting through the darkness, illuminating what at first looked like nothing but a sheet of black ice. Except it wasn’t black and the shit wasn’t frozen. It was congealed human blood—

about three hundred gallons’ worth. Mixed with a whole lot of Omega.

The hangar was the site of a massive induction, the scale of which made that thing out at that

farmhouse a while back look like nothing more than a play date.

“Guess those boys who took your whip were heading to one hell of a party,” Rhage said.

“Word,” Z muttered.

As the beams of the flashlights highlighted an old, decrepit airplane in the back—and absolutely

nothing else—Z shook his head.

“Let’s search the outer area. There’s nada in here.”

Given that the cabin was nothing much from the exterior, just your typical hunting/fishing shack out in the woods, Mr. C was tempted to bypass the damn thing. Thoroughness had its virtues, however, and

the cabin’s location, about a mile or two into the tract of land, suggested it might have been used as a headquarters at some point.

All things considered, it would have been smarter to check out the property before he’d used that

airplane hangar for the largest induction in the Lessening Society’s history. But priorities were what they were: First, he had to put himself in control; second, he had to justify the promotion; and third, he had to deal with all those new
lessers
.

And that meant he needed resources. Fast.

Following the Omega’s messy, grand ceremony, and the nauseous period that had lasted a number

of hours thereafter, Mr. C had ordered the new recruits onto a school bus that he’d stolen from a used-truck dealership a week ago. Between exhaustion and the physical discomfort they were in, they had

been such good little boys, filing on and sitting two by two like they were on some kind of fucked-up Noah’s Ark.

From there, he’d driven them himself—because you didn’t trust assets like that to anybody else—

to the Brownswick School for Girls. The defunct prep school was in the suburbs on thirty-five acres of ignored, overgrown, dilapidated grounds, rumors of its being haunted keeping the normal folks out.

For now, the Lessening Society were squatters, but the For Sale sign on the corner near the road

meant he could fix that. As soon as he pulled some cash together.

With his boys finishing up their recovery back at the school, and the current slayers downtown

trolling for the Brotherhood, he was out on his own, cataloging the few assets left in the Society—

including this stretch of mostly empty forest north of the city.