Fallen Angels 04 - Rapture (20 page)

Outside, the night was unseasonably warm with a thick mist choking the air, the moisture hanging between the clouds above and the asphalt below like it couldn’t make up its mind whether to be a downpour or not.

Taking out his cigs, Jim lit up and exhaled a stream of smoke. Between the mist, the Marlboros, and the resonant sounds of their footfalls on the sidewalk, the whole damn thing was film noir in real life … and that was especially true as they came up to a group of men who were striding along—or marching, as was the case.

What. The. Hell?

The six bastards were all dressed in black leather, which might have marked them as Goths—except the way they walked in formation behind their leader had a professional soldier vibe.

As they passed by, Matthias and Jim moved to the side, and the one in front glanced over.

An ugly son of a bitch for sure, with eyes that were pits of aggression.

Huh … in his old life, Jim might have considered them candidates for recruiting. They looked like they could kill anything or anyone in their path, especially the guy in the lead.

But he was different now. And hopefully, so was Matthias.

“I remembered something,” his old boss said, after the stretch of concrete was their own again.

“Yeah?”

“Just personal shit. Nothing I was interested in.”

As the silence became as prevalent as the fog, Jim took another drag and talked out the exhale. “Waiting for me to fill the void?”

“You were the one who wanted to come along. You could at least make yourself useful.”

“And here I thought I was decorative.”

“Not for me, buddy.” When Jim didn’t comment further, Matthias glanced over. “So, I’ve been thinking about you.”

“Not romantically, I hope.”

“No, I used to like women. A lot.”

“Used to?”

Matthias stopped and faced off. “What I want to know is—”

At the far end of the block, a figure stepped out into the sidewalk with the ease of someone trained to ambush, and the gun that was discharged in their direction didn’t make a sound. All Jim saw was the brief flash as the bullet left the tip of the silencer.

With a cursing lunge, he tackled Matthias into an alley, the force of his two hundred and twenty pounds sweeping the other man off his feet, the pair of them going parallel to the ground in slow motion. In midflight, and with perfect synchronization, they took out their guns, trained their muzzles at the shooter, and pulled their triggers—and as their rounds left their silencers, Jim pivoted so that they landed on the damp pavement with him on the bottom, and Matthias using him as a mattress.

There was no time to fuck around, and he didn’t need to tell his old boss that—clearly Matthias’s preference in nooky wasn’t the only thing the guy remembered: he was on his feet and ready to bolt for cover behind a van that was about three yards away—

More shots were fired at them, pinging off the pavement, the GMC’s quarter panel, the wheel well. The shooter had followed them and was keeping to the shadows as he closed in.

That kind of stealth was another identifier. Their attacker came at them without sound, and not just because he was using the same kind of autoloader with a suppressor on it that Jim had against his own palm: No footfalls, not even heavy breathing; this was a trained killer, operating in his element.

XOps, Jim thought. Had to be.

With another curse, he looked around for options. The van wasn’t good for shelter, because it had a gas tank: he knew where the lines were in terms of what he could survive, but he wasn’t exactly sure
where Matthias fell on the spectrum of untouchable, and a mushroom cloud over their cover was not a good way to test that shit out.

Grabbing one of Matthias’s arms, he helped run the guy down the back of the GMC—and by dumb luck, the thing was parked at an industrial rear entrance to the hotel, the set of ugly steel doors inset into the brick. Jim went right for the handles, latching on, giving a twist.

Locked. Duh.

Annnnnnnnd fuck that for a laugh.

Throwing a blast of energy down into the metal, he blew the locking mechanism apart and threw his shoulder into the reinforced panels. As the pair gave way with a squeal, Matthias froze, the response so quick it was as if he had been trained into the fear.

Jim dragged the man in with him and slammed the way shut. Propping Matthias up, he hit the steel with another blast of heat, this one longer and stronger, putting a quick solder in place to buy them some escape time.

The good news was that it worked—and his old boss was too busy checking his clip to notice the sleight of hand.

Cane in one palm, autoloader in the other, Matthias regained control of himself. “Down that way,” he barked like he was in charge. “There has to be an out.”

Rather than get into a dick-toss, Jim took off, hitching another hold under that armpit and falling back into the half drag. As they shuffled along, he kept an eye over his shoulder.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out who was the target. Matthias had been the former head of XOps, and had “died.” SOP was to visually confirm the body, and given that Isaac Rothe had gotten rid of the remains, no one had been able to do that.

Somehow, they’d figured out that Matthias was up and around in Caldwell.

Maybe Devina had an “in” in the organization?

“Did you lock the door behind us?” Matthias grunted.

“Yeah.” But chances were good that the assassin was going to have—

The explosion was the short and sweet kind, little more than a flash of light. And then that squeal came again as the operative busted into the corridor.

Up ahead, no doorways. No cover. Just a straight shot as far as he could see.

As if he and Matthias had a single brain, they swung around and both pulled their triggers, emptying everything they had. Bullets ricocheted around as the operative shot back—and it went without saying that Jim shoved Matthias behind him, and used his own body as a shield.

A couple of slugs hit home, the sting unpleasant, but nothing that would kill him or particularly get his attention. And then he and Matthias ran out of shots.

So did the operative.

There was a brief lull, which was a loud and clear “RELOADING NOW,” and Jim had no choice but to get running again. Protection spells were great against Devina’s minions; not really all that effective against Remington-onset lead poisoning: Keeping his body as a block, he chose one side of the hall and hustled like hell. And as they passed stacks of banquet chairs, Matthias helped as much as he could—but with the damage to his lower body, it would have been better for him to stay still and be muscled off the ground.

Not like they had time to debate deadweight etiquette.

They’d gone about ten feet when Jim realized they weren’t being shot at.

No professional would take that long to put another clip in. What the hell—

At that moment, he felt Devina’s presence, sure as a shadow passing over his own grave.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Come on, Monty, you gotta give me something.”

Unlike the other reporters on scene at the motel, Mels wasn’t choking against the police line in front of the open room. She was over on the far end, standing in the fog that had rolled in with her good old friend Monty the Mouth. Monty was a decent cop, but what made him really useful was his ego. He loved to share just to prove he could, and didn’t that make him handy.

The difference tonight was that this was her own story. She wasn’t background gathering for someone else.

Mels leaned in over the tape. “I know you know what’s going on.”

Monty jacked his belt up higher on his bay window, and ran a hand over his moussed-back hair. Talk about from another era. A shave job on his dome and a Tootsie Pop and you had Kojak in the twenty-first century.

“Yeah, I was one of the first here. So, you know, on the ground floor.”

The problem with Monty was that he made you work for it. “When did you get called in?”

“Two hours ago. Manager dialed nine-one-one and I was the first responder. The guy who rented the room only wanted it for an hour around five, but the front office didn’t realize no one had checked out until nine. I knocked on the door. No answer. The manager used his key, and hello.”

“What do you think happened?” It was important to use the pronoun
you
.

“She was a known prostitute, so there’re three likelies.”

After a pause, she filled in, as she was supposed to. “Pimp, john, jealous boyfriend.”

“Not bad. Not bad.” He rejacked that belt. “No forced entry. Clearly a struggle, as her clothes were messed up. But not everything was blue alley.”

“Blue alley” was a reference to the hallway where generations of CPDers had led perps down to intake at headquarters. Over time, the term had codified itself to mean nothing unusual or unexpected when criminals were involved.

“And the surprise was …”

Monty leaned in, all state secret. “She’d colored her hair. For some reason, that had been part of the date. Long and blond was how she went. And then he killed her.”

“How do you know it was a ‘he’?”

Monty shot her a yeah-right look. “And no, I can’t give you her name—not released yet because we’re tracking down the family. But I know who she is, and she’s lucky to have lived through the last two years. Her record’s long and there’s violence in it—with her as the aggressor.”

“Okay, well, you’ll call me if you can share something? I don’t name sources—you know this.”

“Yeah, you’re good like that, but no offense, you don’t get by-lines
very often. Hey, can you set me up with your boy Tony? He’s usually on these kinds of gigs.”

At that moment, she didn’t respect Monty at all, and not because he was unimpressed with her lack of credentials at the
CCJ
. Damn it, he was not a rock star, and this was not a gig, and for the love of God, could he please stop jacking up that gun belt of his. This was a crime scene and there was someone’s daughter or sister and maybe girlfriend or wife dead on the tile in that bathroom.

He could at least feel awkward and slightly dirty about the exchange of information. As she did.

“Dick assigned this to me,” she said.

“Really? Hey, maybe you’re moving up. And yeah, I’ll call you, as long as you keep my name out of it.”

“I promise.”

“Talk to you later.” He nodded to the side, dismissing her. “And make sure you answer your phone when I hit you—I have a feeling about this one.”

She lifted the device. “I always do.”

As Mels turned away, she reached up to the back of her neck, the hairs pricking at her nape. Looking around, she saw only people who had a purpose: Cops. Detectives. A photographer striding toward the yellow tape like she was pissed off. There were also two news crews across the parking lot, one of which was doing a broadcast, the superbright light putting a dark-haired reporter onstage as they taped.

Mels turned all the way around. Rubbed her neck some more.

Man, this mist was creepy.

Checking her watch, she cocked her phone and hit
send
. When the call was answered, she cupped a hand around her mouth. “Mom? Hi, it’s me. Listen, I know I said I’d be home early, but I’m still at work. What? I’m sorry I can’t hear—Okay, you’re back. Yeah, I’m—Oh, no, don’t worry. I’m with about half the CPD—” Probably
not the best thing to say. “No, I’m fine, Mom. Yes, it’s a homicide, but it’s a big case, and I’m glad Dick gave it to me. Yes, I promise. Okay—yup, okay, listen, I have to go—and I’ll knock on your door as soon as I get home.”

As she hung up, she didn’t think that was going to be anytime soon—and she was prepared to wait things out no matter how long it took. The body would need to be photographed, and CSI would also come in and do their thing, and then the victim could finally be removed.

Mels was going to stay until the CPD packed it in, and the newscasters went home, and any other reporter gave up.

Going over to Tony’s car, she texted him to let him know that, in fact, she hadn’t totaled his vehicle—and that she was going to treat him to lunch tomorrow as well as pick him up at eight thirty on her way in to the newsroom.