Desperate Souls (19 page)

What he had not counted on was Katrina: she had become Malachai’s chief confidante and adviser, the role Marcus had envisioned for himself. He saw how things were between Katrina and Malachai, and he knew better than to make a play for her spot. He also knew better than to cross her. As long as he remained loyal and unquestioning, they would take good care of him. Problem was, he didn’t want anyone to take care of him. He was no goddamned pet. But Malachai’s empire was expanding, and Marcus knew he was better off going with the flow than against the river of blood that had already been spilled.

He rang the doorbell to Malachai’s apartment and cooled his heels until Katrina opened the door. She wore a bright red dress that hugged her figure and gold earrings that matched the jewelry around her neck and wrists. As soon as he saw her, he blocked his thoughts, a protection he had developed soon after realizing she possessed powers. Offering her a smile, he said, “Wow, you look great.”

“Thank you.” She raised one cheek for him to kiss.

Casting a sideways glance at Malachai, who stood in the center of the apartment buttoning a hundred-dollar shirt, he planted a kiss on her smooth skin.

“Hey, watch that,” Malachai said.

Marcus knew that Malachai intended the comment as both a joke and a serious warning to him.
Block your thoughts.
“Hey, hey, brah, how’s it going?”

“You tell me.”

Straight down to business. All right, my man.
“I left Six Pack in the car, so we could talk.”

Malachai sat on the white leather sofa and spread his arms. “So talk.”

Marcus sat in the matching chair and waited for Katrina to sit next to Malachai before speaking, a sign of respect. She rarely spoke during business conversations, but Marcus knew that Malachai liked to have her beside him and in the loop. “A couple of knockos grabbed one of our … pieces of meat at the Polo Grounds.”

Malachai raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

Marcus nodded.

Katrina slid one hand over Malachai’s bicep, reassuring him.

“Did they take it into custody?”

“I don’t think so, but the cops came back and snatched GQ.”

Malachai sat up. “What? Son of a bitch! Do we know who these motherfuckers were?”

Marcus felt some satisfaction from the rise he’d gotten out of Malachai. The two of them and GQ had been close for years, and Marcus had been opposed to allowing any zombies to work during the daytime. He saw Katrina working overtime to keep her man calm. “Nah, we got no ID on them.”

Malachai faced Katrina. “If the cops find out what those things of yours are—”

Slap the bitch,
Marcus hoped, although he knew that would never happen.

Glancing at Marcus with a knowing look, Katrina slid her hands over Malachai’s forearms. “They won’t, baby. If our slaves get anywhere near a police station, they’ll just stop functioning, and the arresting officers will suddenly have a dead dealer on their hands.”

Malachai furrowed one brow. “A dead dealer filled with sawdust instead of blood, you mean. You think that’s what happened?”

“Maybe. But I think we’d better skip dinner and go to my place, so I can find out for sure.”

“What about GQ?” Marcus said.

Malachai gave him a confident look. “G wouldn’t talk to five-oh any more than you or me would. If they got him, he’ll stay cool. If he needs us, he’ll call.”

“What about his package?” Katrina said.

Both men looked at her. Marcus waited to answer until Malachai glanced in his direction. “He delivered it right before he got snatched up.”

Malachai stood. “Good. No harm, no foul. Let’s roll outta here.”

Frank’s fingers danced along the denim covering his thighs. He wore baggy jeans, loose around his hips, with the waistband of his boxers showing, and white sneakers with the tongues curling outward, just like the yos did on the street. He also wore an unbuttoned black shirt over a turtleneck, light enough to keep him from melting into a puddle of nervous perspiration but bulky enough to conceal the Glock tucked into the front of his jeans. He wore a black knit cap, sunglasses, and a fake mustache he had purchased at a costume store in Manhattan, just in case the security camera he failed to avoid captured his image. Anyone who passed close to him might notice that he had removed the lenses from the shades and had darkened his eyelids and the flesh around his eyes black.

Rap music escaped from a piss yellow Escalade parked near the building’s parking garage elevator. He could not see the driver, but he knew who sat in the front seat: Laird Black, aka Six Pack, Prince Malachai’s driver and bodyguard. Black had served eighteen months on Rikers Island and another twelve upstate in Sing Sing for shooting a man five times in the chest. The man had survived, then disappeared under mysterious circumstances.

“The wheelman’s waiting,” Frank whispered into the miniature radio clipped to his shirt collar.

“Copy that,” Gary said, his voice tinny over the receiver in Frank’s ear.

Frank stood in the cool shadow of a white cinder-block wall, his back pressed against another wall, with a clear view of the parking garage elevator. A wide column hid his body. Removing the sunglasses, he unrolled the knit cap into a ski mask with eyeholes but no opening for his mouth. Then he pulled on a pair of tight black leather racing gloves. No one who saw him would assume he was Caucasian.

With his hand resting on the Glock’s grip, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Christ, he needed to do a line. But Gary had forbidden it.
Hypocrite.
Gary liked to indulge just as much as Frank did, but Frank didn’t repress his habit just because he carried a shield.
Fuck that.
He worked hard, he played hard, and he lived hard. If it came down to it, he intended to die hard, too.
Come on. Come on. Come on.
He didn’t mind moonlighting as Papa Joe’s hit man; he just hated waiting.
Let’s do this already and get high.

The light next to the elevator glowed white.

“Someone’s coming,” he said into the radio transmitter.

“I’m in position,” Gary said.

The elevator door opened, and Frank saw three people inside: Prince Malachai, dressed head to toe in white; Marcus Jones, his right hand; and a stunning woman who immediately caught Frank’s attention. In her high-heeled boots, she stood almost as tall as Marcus. She wore her straightened hair long, so that it framed her high cheekbones, and her makeup shaded her wide eyes. Frank almost regretted that he had to kill her.

Marcus held the elevator door open with one hand, gesturing for Malachai and his companion to wait. Six Pack climbed out of the Escalade and opened the passenger door. The elevator’s occupants filed toward the waiting vehicle, and the elevator door closed behind them. As Malachai guided the woman toward the door Six Pack held open, Marcus opened the other front door.

With his Glock in hand, Frank walked straight toward the column separating them, then stepped around it, revealing himself as he raised the gun sideways in one hand like a gangsta. He saw realization spread across Marcus’s features.

“Gun!” Marcus said.

Malachai looked to his right at the short man wearing the ski mask. Panic sped his heart rate, and with no thought for his own safety, he shoved Katrina inside the Escalade and slammed the door behind her. An instant later, a round struck the bulletproof window. Even as he heard the semiautomatic gunfire, hot metal grazed his left cheekbone.

Son of a bitch!

By the time he turned around, Marcus and Six Pack were returning fire. The window of a Mercedes behind the gunman shattered, and a car alarm filled the underground space in protest. The gunman continued firing, and Six Pack took a shot in his left shoulder. Marcus’s shots struck their attacker in the chest, propelling him backwards.

The gunman fired again, this time striking Six Pack in the chest. As the driver crumpled to the ground, blood spilling over his fingers and across the cement, Malachai dropped to the ground and rolled under the Escalade. Hearing Katrina’s screams inside the vehicle, he emerged on the other side of the SUV, below Marcus, who continued shooting. Malachai rapped on the window to show Katrina that he was okay.

If only I had a piece,
he thought.

Then another SUV sped into the garage, tires squealing, and lurched to a stop between the gunman and Marcus and Malachai. The vehicle’s passenger window was down, and the driver fired his own weapon in the drug dealers’ direction.

“Get down!” Marcus said, and Malachai ducked for cover with him.

Malachai heard echoing footsteps and a car door slam; then the vehicle took off.

“You okay?” Marcus said.

“Yeah.” Malachai looked down at the blood and grime covering him. “But these clothes are garbage now.” He touched the gash on his cheek.

“You just got grazed,” Marcus said.

“Payback is a bitch.”
And her name is Katrina.

Marcus circled the front of the SUV with Malachai right behind him. Six Pack lay on the ground, sucking air through a punctured lung.

“Motherfucker,” Malachai said.

Marcus reached inside the Escalade and popped the hatch. “Let’s get him in the truck. We can’t leave him here.”

Malachai nodded.
We can’t take him to a doctor, either.

Both men hauled Six Pack to his feet, which caused the wounded soldier to cry out. Katrina got out on the far side, where Malachai and Marcus had made their stand. As they guided their comrade to the open hatch, Katrina passed them.

“Who the hell were they?” Marcus said.

“I don’t know, but that driver was a white dude.”

“Cops?”

“Joe’s got more than one on his payroll.”

“That explains it. Little runt was wearing a vest. I know I hit him in the chest.”

They loaded Six Pack into the back and closed the hatch.

“That’s it for this truck, too,” Marcus said. “He’s going to bleed all over the interior.” He rounded the Escalade, slid behind the wheel, and closed the door.

Seeing Katrina standing where the gunman had been, Malachai said, “Come on. We gotta get outta here before five-oh shows up.”

“Just a minute,” Katrina said, crouching low to the ground.

Malachai advanced on her. “I said,
come on.
We don’t have time for you to play
CSI.”
He saw her dabbing at blood on the cement with the fabric of her dress. “What are you
doing?
That dress set me back a G!”

Rising, Katrina offered him a knowing smile. “You’ll thank me later.”