Death's Rival (27 page)

The unflappable chef had laid out a feast. Or I’d thought him unflappable until I
heard him telling the cops he’d hidden under a small table in the butler’s pantry
during the shooting. And then he’d changed his pants. It was his vehicle out back.
He had been grocery-shopping when we arrived, which was why I hadn’t seen the SUV.

We gathered for snacks in the dining room, which had a carved mahogany table and chairs,
and a wall-long hand-carved and painted china cabinet. The room would seat twenty
easily, and the chandelier over our heads was the real thing—twenty-four-karat gilt
and hundreds of lead crystals. The snack, thrown together in minutes, was brie, fresh
fruit, sliced homemade rye bread, and ten pounds of rare roast beef with sandwich
makings dished up in cut-crystal bowls. There was also red beans and rice and barbecued
Andouille sausage. Finger-licking, to-die-for sausage. The fighters were starving,
adrenaline breakdown needing fuel. I hadn’t been involved in the fighting, but with
my skinwalker metabolism, I was always hungry. Which likely had something to do with
the little clinch in the hallway. But still . . .

I ate two sandwiches, mostly meat and brie, remembering Bruiser’s hands on me, his
mouth on me, while the guys discussed what we had to do.

“We can’t stay here and wait until nightfall when our full backup arrives,” Wrassler
said.

“We can’t storm the three-story building without them,” Eli said. “It would be stupid.”

“We’re down to two healthy shooters,” Bruiser said.

“Three,” I said through a mouthful of food. “What am I? Chopped liver?”

“A woman,” he said.

My eyes went cold and narrow. The table went silent, all the eyes on me. Bruiser stopped,
a sandwich halfway to his mouth. He held it there, his mouth open, thinking. He turned
his eyes to me, his head not moving. I didn’t smile. He blinked once, took a bite,
and chewed, still thinking, letting his eyes roam the room and out into the hallway
where we had recently had that very unsatisfying clinch. When he swallowed, he said,
“Four shooters, one injured. Forgive the automatic, ingrained stupidities of an old
man.”

Alex snickered into the silence. I finished chewing my bite and swallowed. “Don’t
let it happen again.” Eli looked at Bruiser, at me, and to the hallway, his eyes considering.
I reached for an apple and bit down, the crunch seeming to break the tension.

“So we have four shooters and they’re down seven. And they won’t be expecting us,”
Wrassler said.

“It’s daylight. The fangheads will be asleep, right?” Alex said.

“Fiction. They can stay awake if they have to, and they can stand a little sunlight,
especially the old ones.” Wrassler emptied a Coke down his throat and popped the top
on another. “From the intel—”

“What intel?” I asked.

“One of Leo’s blood-servants is related to one of Hieronymus’ servants. He asked some
questions and provided us some answers. We’ve got maybe ten old ones in there, plus
their blood-meals. No way we can take them.”

“Most Mithrans travel with two blood-servants apiece,” Bruiser said, “so if they hold
true, then we would be facing ten masters and the remainder of their servants, thirteen
humans.”

Alex asked, “Do we have access to a helicopter?” Every head in the room turned to
him. He spun the laptop around so we could see a schematic of the roof of the three-story
building the vamps had taken over. There was a large, new air-conditioning unit and
plenty of room for a helo to land, providing the structure could handle it, or for
soldiers to drop down if not. And the AC vent was a specific weakness to the entire
building.

Bruiser started to smile.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I Disliked Her on Sight

The helo would be in position over the building in thirty minutes. We were parked
down the street, geared up, watching the place from the back. Grégoire was not going
to be happy when he saw the damage incurred on his new limo in the shoot-out. My official
cell vibrated in my pocket. Ricky Bo LaFleur’s picture appeared on the front. My heart
did a little flutter. I opened the cell and said, “Hi.” There must have been something
odd about my tone, because all the men looked at me at once. I turned my back to them
and heard Rick say, “Where—you?” There was a horrible roar in the background and he
was breaking up.

“In Natchez. Where are you?”

“In a helicopter wi . . . razy former marines.”

I put it together fast. “You and Derek are on the way
here
?”

“Yeah . . . mi. . . . and once this little problem . . . we can take off . . . play.”
The call clicked off. I wiped my mouth, hoping I was smearing off the goofy smile.
I turned back around. “We have official government backup from the Psychometry Law
Enforcement Division of Homeland Security.”

Bruiser nodded. “I wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull it off.”

“
You
did this?”

“Yes.” His eyes met mine. “As primo.”

“Ah,” I said, my heart plummeting. That was that. So much for the hot and heavy clinch
in the hall. His duty to Leo came first, and keeping us on the right side of the law
was a big part of that. Not that I could complain. Ricky Bo was coming and my big-cat
was happy.

“Masks,” Eli said.

I pulled the mask over my face. Eli had found them for sale at a gun shop in New Orleans
and identified them as “Israeli M-15 military models with Nato filters.” Whatever.
I just wanted mine to keep me alive. I settled the mask in place and tested it by
breathing deeply before Eli released the foul-smelling smokeless bomb in the confines
of the limo. Stink filled the car. I didn’t smell a thing, though breathing wasn’t
easy and the mask was hot and uncomfortable. But I smelled nothing gross and gave
Eli a thumbs-up.

Eli had informed us that sleeping gas didn’t exist, but the military had something
that worked short-term on humans. He’d be using that on the building. I didn’t ask
what it was or where he got it, and he didn’t volunteer. I vaguely recalled that the
Russians had tried something on a theater full of people once and managed to kill
most of them. I just hoped the U.S. military stuff worked better.

Thanks to Derek’s suppliers and the truck that had followed us up here, we were all
dressed in night camo with Kevlar vests, combat boots, utility belts, shooting gloves—the
kind with the knuckles and fingertips bare—ear protectors that doubled as radio receivers,
and enough gear to start a small war. Bruiser had guns holstered everywhere and carried
the pump shotgun borrowed from Esmee. Wrassler had a totally illegal, fully automatic,
compact machine gun and enough magazines to shoot for fifteen minutes at full auto.
Enough ammo to melt the barrel of his gun, assuming the heat buildup from firing didn’t
jam it first, which was all too likely.

I had all my blades and stakes—including two new, longer, special-made ones—in sheaths
and loops, and my Walthers holstered at my spine and under my left arm. One was loaded
with silver for vamps and the other with standard ammo. My M4 Benelli was loaded for
vamp with seven silver fléchette rounds, and I had another seven in special loops
in a thigh pouch. But if I needed to reload, I would likely be dead before I could
finish. The shotgun was slung at the ready and strapped in place under my right arm.
The positioning was Wrassler’s idea, and though I’d never fought with the M4 strapped
there, it felt good. I wouldn’t have to pull the shotgun from its spine sheath and
ready it for firing. I just had to stabilize, point, and shoot. The webbing left me
room to maneuver the weapon enough to aim and fire, and was relatively easy to pull
free for full manual positioning.

“Com check,” Derek said over the radio. Instantly, we could hear the helo in the radio
system background. He called our names or monikers out one at a time, and when he
said, “Legs,” I replied, “Got ’em.” Everyone laughed. It was hard to see his expression
with the mask in the way, but I thought Bruiser’s eyes were twinkling.

“Canisters?” Eli asked Bruiser and me.

I touched the three canisters at my belt; they were marked CS. It was the new pressurized
colloidal silver stuff for use on vamps and I didn’t know how they would work. No
one did. When the canister was activated, it would spew an ionized silver mist into
the air. Every time vamps took a breath—if they did before it dissipated—they’d get
a lungful. It wouldn’t mean instant death, but it might slow them down and poison
them.

“On my go,” Eli said. This was his gig. I had no training for paramilitary raids.
My combat style was more along the lines of stake ’em and run. Eli pulled his mask
off, grabbed a black mesh bag, and slid out of the car. He disappeared into an alley
at a fast jog.

He had reconnoitered the alley earlier and found some old wood back stairs on the
two-story building adjacent to the three-story one, housing our target. He was going
to ascend the steps of the two-story building, make his way to the roof, toss a grapnel
across to the adjacent walled roof, and then haul himself up to the roof next door.
The last part was an eighteen-foot climb. Which I would like to see, but I wasn’t
part of the roof assault.

Six minutes later he said, “I’m in. Gas is a go.” Which meant in six minutes he had
climbed up the fire escape, then to the roof adjacent, found an access for the air
conditioner, removed its air intake panel, and started the gas. Go, Rangers, go, army.

Based on estimated cubic feet, Eli had calculated the number of canisters needed to
knock out the building, and how long it would take. Then he added two canisters. Waiting
sucked. I looked at the time. Sunset was in fourteen minutes. In fourteen minutes,
the vamps could take an attack into the streets. We were cutting it close.

I could hear the helo’s rotors beating the air. The helo got closer, the noise louder.
Leo’s helicopter wasn’t a sleek, modern, quiet-operating model, but an older helo,
a refurbished Vietnam Era Bell Huey, with heavy armament and retrofitted with lots
of modern bells and whistles. I was pretty sure that most of the bells were not entirely
legal, and owning the whistles was likely a felony but well worth the risk. If we
had to shoot the vamps with missiles, the helo had the capability, I thought dryly.

The helo was directly overhead, the tail rotor over the alley. Dark blobs dropped
out—Derek Lee and his buddies. I wondered if Angel Tit was among them, and knew he
must be, the Tequila Boys as well. There were too many men for just the Vodka Boys
cadre. I wondered which one was Rick.

If I thought it was weird to have so many men I was interested in all in one place,
my inner cat was just happy about it.

“Go. Go. Go,” Eli said over the com, and Bruiser, Wrassler, and I leaped from the
limo. Because of his injury, Wrassler’s job was to cover the back entrance and make
sure no one got away or came in to help the bad guys. Bruiser and I raced through
the alley for the frontal assault, my breathing doing that whole Darth Vader wheeze
inside the mask. I pulled on Beast’s speed to keep up with him. We rounded the front
together, and sent two women screaming away. I had a glimpse of a sleeping baby in
a backpack.

Bruiser took out the front window with a ball-peen hammer. Glass shattered and fell,
the sound muffled by the ear protectors. Bruiser raked the glass out with the hammer
and leaped through. I followed, glass still falling. He disappeared behind the silver
velvet draperies. My first job was to yank the draperies down and let in sunlight.
The velvet came down fast, along with the metal track that supported it, flooding
the space with light and revealing only an entrance to a hallway that opened both
left and right.

Bruiser had disappeared to my right. I entered the hallway to the left, sliding my
spine against the wall. I heard nothing except my heavy breathing, smelled nothing
except the filtered air, and saw even less, thanks to the mask. On the upper floor,
the guys were clearing rooms: I could hear it through the communication gear. On the
roof, Eli was supposed to be doing his magic and reversing the powerful AC fan to
air out the gas from the building so the guys could pull off the masks and pull on
low-light-vision gear, but it would take time, and every second would just be pissing
off the vamps. Fortunately, I didn’t need low-light gear. I had Beast.

She rose in me like a wraith, and my vision sharpened, turning the world silvery bright.
My heart pounded steadily in my ears. I moved down the hallway. There were no doors
except at the ends, which was odd. I was hearing nothing. Except the radio chatter
of the men. No one was on the third floor. No one at all.
Again—odd
.

I stepped through the doorway at the end of the hall into an open room. It looked
like a reception room, and a woman was facedown at a desk. I raced over and checked
her pulse. Steady, if a little slow. I secured her hands behind her back with two
zip strips and moved around the desk to a door in the back. Carefully, I opened it.
The room beyond was pitch-black except for tiny red and green lights, like on computers
when they’re asleep, or on battery backups. But I couldn’t use my nose to smell vamp,
which I hated. I was head-blind.

I pulled a flashbang and tossed it inside. Turned my head away and closed my eyes.
It exploded, the flash white through my closed lids. I raced in and stopped, listening,
hearing nothing. I had to get out of this headgear. As soon as I could breathe.

From nowhere, I took a blow to my chest that threw me across the room. I rolled to
my feet and pulled two blades. I couldn’t fire a gun—there might be sleeping humans
in the room. I felt, more than saw, movement and struck out with the blades, cutting
in a figure-eight pattern. I hit nothing. And I took another blow. This one to my
head. It knocked my mask askew. I took an involuntary half breath and smelled sleep-bomb
and vamp. The scents were vaguely like boiled eggs and vamp-spice tea, an unpleasant
combo to my Beast-enhanced nose, though the humans the vamp hunted probably liked
her spicy scent. Holding my breath, I pulled the mask back in place. I yanked loose
a CS canister, set it on the floor, and activated the nozzle. Hit the halogen light
on my vest.

The room lit up like stadium lights and revealed a vamp right in front of me. She
gripped my right arm and snapped down, around, and would have pulled me off my feet,
except I knew that move and I followed her, dropping with her. I grabbed her ankle,
threw it into the air. Dove under her legs. CS mist coated my mask, further depleting
my view of the world. I wiped at it, smearing it worse. The halogen light bounced
around the room, revealing and hiding, illuminating and throwing bizarre shadows dancing
drunkenly on the walls. It was disorienting and Beast hurled more speed and her spatial
awareness into my bloodstream.

The light hit the vamp in the face. She was vamped out, two-inch-long fangs and pupils
like black saucers. Her face was bleeding. Her eyes were bleeding and watering. She
took a breath and started coughing, the action so unexpected to her that she fell
to her knees. She looked up at me, her face shocked. I wondered how many centuries
since she’d had to cough. The CS was working in ways I hadn’t expected. The vamp rolled
to her back, breathing and coughing, clutching her throat. I pulled one of the special
stakes and stabbed downward with both hands. The stake was way longer than my usual
ones, at thirty inches. I rammed it into her belly. Blood sprayed up, but not the
fountain I sometimes saw. I had missed her descending aorta. Caught on her belt buckle.
I put my back into it.

The stake had a silver cap on the sharp end with a steel tip that I drove into the
floor, pinning her down, poisoning her blood on the way through, in addition to the
silver spraying into the air. She wasn’t true-dead, and she might even survive, but
she was in a lot of pain. She wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.

Over the com gear, I learned that one of the rooftop teams was entering the second
story. They had already secured three humans, all of whom were starting to wake up.
I also heard heavy, steady breathing and the sound of blades clashing.

Clicking off the halogen light, I moved on through the room and out another door,
into a larger room, maybe half the total square footage of the bottom story. The open
area was dim, lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Bruiser was already in
the room. Part of the panting I heard over my com channel was him. He was fighting
two very old, and very strong, vamps, one armed with a long sword and one bare-handed,
claws extended.

I could barely follow the moves, the swoosh of afterimage giving it all a filmlike
speed. Bruiser was fighting with a midsized blade in each hand and it was almost beautiful,
poetry in motion. I had given him the blades two months ago, after I took them from
the body of a vamp I’d killed. Bruiser had been mesmerized by them, calling them something
Asian, in a language I didn’t recognize. He had obviously been practicing, and even
more obvious—he was no novice. With the vamp-blood in his system, he was a master
work of art. He flew through the moves, the blades an extension of his will and his
mind. The vamps were bleeding. And Bruiser had removed his mask. I yanked mine off
and it fell to the end of the flex strap to dangle behind me out of the way. I took
an exploratory breath and smelled the egg-stink, but felt fine.

On the other side of Bruiser, a door opened and three more vamps entered. They were
far closer to Bruiser and his fight than I was. Bruiser was good, but not one-on-five
good. I ran right at them, screaming in challenge, a big-cat scream of rage. I pulled
and tossed a flashbang and a CS canister at them. Shouted, “Flash!” hoping Bruiser
would understand. I leaped right at the closest vamp, sliding my hand around the stock
of the M4 in midair. Tucked my feet out of the way, and fired, closing my eyes.