Ghost Soldiers (36 page)

“Our wolf,” Karl said.

The streets were empty except for a few people hanging out in the shadows of archways. A hooker paced back and forth a couple blocks up, idly swinging her pink purse and smoking. Maria watched as Karl pulled his SIG-Sauer from his shoulder holster and ejected the pistol's magazine. He glanced at the silver-jacketed hollow-point rounds, then slapped the clip home and chambered a round before slipping the SIG back into the holster.

“Doesn't look like a werewolf.” She pulled her Glock and went through the same motions. Xiesha had supplied all the ammo, but Maria hoped the guns wouldn't be necessary. A precaution only. “He doesn't even have any hair.”

Karl gave her a half smile. “Perfect camouflage. Don't be fooled by the ghetto slang either.”

“Shit. I hate dealers,” Maria said. “Scum.”

Bailey snorted. “Listen to the mobster vampire doling out judgment.”

Maria turned to stare at her, but Bailey didn't meet her eyes, looking pointedly out the window at Tyrell. She could feel a hot ember of anger burning in her mind, but then again…maybe Bailey had a point. A little, tiny, almost insignificant point, and one best left uncommented upon.

“All right,” Karl said. “Either we present a unified front or this won't go well.” He turned to Xiesha in the backseat. Xie had her 12 gauge beside her, barrel pointed down toward the floor. Bailey had refused a gun, for no reason Maria could conceive. “Xie, stay with the car. Keep it running. Any problems, get to us fast. Bailey, you come with Maria and me.”

“Should I bring out my wolf?”

Maria snorted. “A spirit wolf in Dorchester. That's low key.”

Bailey scowled at her in the rearview mirror. Maria smirked.

“What part of unified front did we not understand?” Karl asked. “No wolf, Bailey, this isn't a fight. Keep your guns concealed. He'll smell them and the silver, maybe as soon as we step out of the car, but showing a piece is a different story.” He looked at her with piercing blue eyes. “And, Maria. Be nice.”

“Why start now?”

He stared at her.

“All right, fine,” she said, twirling her hand in a hurry-up gesture. “Let's go meet our gangsta puppy.”

He stared at her for a moment longer, and she gave him her brightest smile. She thought she could see a bit of amusement in his eyes, way back there, if she squinted, before he opened the door and climbed out. She followed, leaving the keys in the ignition and the car idling, and Bailey came last. They formed up in front of the car, Karl in the middle, Bailey on his left, Maria on his right. They waited as Xie switched to the driver seat. Karl gave everything a once-over before they started across the empty street, approaching the Lincoln at a diagonal.

She saw Tyrell scent the air, lifting his nose just the tiniest bit and scanning for them. He spotted them and his hand dropped from sight.

“He's packing,” she whispered.

“So are we.”

Tyrell watched as they approached his window, every muscle in his posture screaming tension. He dialed the music down and lifted a Tech 9 just enough so they could see it and worked the bolt. He didn't point the machine pistol at them, but he certainly kept it visible.

“Tyrell.” Karl nodded. “How you been?”

“Vance.” Tyrell grinned, but the look in his eyes remained guarded. He lowered the machine pistol but kept it in his hand. His smooth skin glistened in the yellow light from the streetlamps as he slouched in his seat, his brown eyes hard as diamond drill tips. He wore a black muscle shirt, showing off his shoulders and arms, and a snarling wolf in ink stalked on his left deltoid. Truth in advertising. “This shit business or pleasure?”

“Only business.”

“That hurts my feelings, but fuck it.” He set the Tech 9 on the seat beside him, within easy reach. She could smell the faint odor of weed. “Who's the shorties? Yours?”

“Yes.”

“Did you just call me a
shorty
?” Bailey's voice cracked a little in outrage.

Tyrell peered knowingly at Karl. “Got your hands full, dog.”

Karl smiled but made no answer. Maria decided she'd make him pay for that smile later. Oh, yes.

Tyrell looked her over, hesitated, and his gaze lingered on her face. “Don't I know you?”

“I don't think so.”

He frowned and inhaled deeply, scenting the air. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. You're Maria Ricardi.” He peered up and down the street. She did the same by pure reflex.

“How do you know me?”

“My business to know. I kick up to Marco Lino. So you could say we're business partners in a way.” He laughed, but it held no humor. “Except I get the
privilege
of kicking up to you just to run my operation in peace.”

Maria glanced at Karl. He stood absolutely still, his gaze locked on Tyrell. Dangerous, that predator pose. She knew Tyrell could sense it too, because he kept throwing quick looks at Karl's face, as if trying to read him.

Tyrell reached toward the dashboard. All three of them tensed, all three of them balancing on the sword edge of violent action. Tyrell noticed the change—she saw his nostrils flare—but he only grinned and grabbed a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out, cupped his palm around it and lit up. A stream of gray-blue smoke blew at them. He looked at each of them in turn, starting with Karl. “So we gots us a vampire house painter, my favorite fuckin' blood-suckin' hatchet man. The fire-eyed mistress of the underworld. And a fairy Goth princess.”

“I'm fucking punk, not Goth,” Bailey snarled. “Get your shit correct.”

Tyrell laughed. “Be easy, girl. I can't keep track of your weird-ass white people shit. I bet you got all
kinds
of kinky piercings, though.”

“Let's focus on business,” Karl said. “I want to meet with the Blackstone alphas.”

“Might be a little problem. None of my brothers and sisters were happy about all the shit you fangers stirred up with your little war. Especially the alphas. And if the alphas ain't happy, the pack ain't happy.”

“You aren't the alpha? Shocking.” Maria turned to Karl. “Remind me why we're wasting our time?”

Tyrell smiled. “I'm an alpha in bed, baby. Alpha in all the ways it counts.”

“Yeah. You do doggie style, right? Fuck. Let's get outta here.”

“I do any style you want, lady. Shit, I'll do reverse cowgirl and let you wear spurs if that's your thing.”

Karl kept his voice even, but she felt the temperature of his words drop to zero. “Tyrell. Focus. This concerns the Blackstone Wolf Clan. All of us are in danger, including your wolf pack. I need to know where your pack stands.”

Tyrell shook his head. He stared out the windshield and across the street. He dropped the slang from his speech as if it'd never been there. “I can't do that. Things have changed.”

“What?” Maria said. “Too good to talk to the honkeys?”

Tyrell turned to her, eyebrows raised. “What the fuck is that? Who fuckin' calls anybody that? Tyrell prefers the term
color-challenged
for the pale brothers and sisters. More PC and shit. Works especially for the vamps.”

She almost liked this guy. Too bad he was some kind of low-level dealer. “So why won't you hook us up?”

And again, just as abruptly, back to his business face. “You have no fuckin' clue. I can't talk pack business. Not with outsiders. Not with you, especially.”

“Is the Blackstone siding up with Cojocaru?” Karl asked. “We heard things. Like maybe your alphas sold out your pack and you'll all wear collars soon.”

Tyrell scowled, staring out across the street again. “Fuck. Word is you're tight with the Thorn.”

“You heard wrong. The Thorn wants me dead.”

“That right?”

“That's right.”

“We ain't cozy with that Romanian guy,” Tyrell said and hesitated. “But neither are we at war with him either. That's all I got to say about it.”

Karl shrugged. “So let me talk it over with your alphas and see if we can't come to an understanding. The war is already here and already started. Nobody's going to be neutral.”

Tyrell mulled it over for so long Maria nearly screamed with impatience. Finally, he gave a curt nod. “Aight, come on, then. You got a car? Or you gonna transform into bats?”

“My car's over there.” She pointed down the block. Xiesha sat in the driver seat, engine running, watching them.

Tyrell whistled. “Benz, huh? Yeah, you roll with some style. I guess you're good enough to follow me.” He started the SUV and covered the Tech 9 with a sweatshirt. “I got to make some calls, find out where the alphas are tonight. They turn you down, you're outta luck.”

They crossed the street back to the Benz. Xiesha opened the door and got out of the driver's seat, holding her overcoat tight around her, but Maria caught sight of the shotgun barrel when a gust of wind snagged the edge of her coat and flipped it back.

“Were you successful?” Xie asked after they'd all climbed back inside.

“He's making calls,” Karl said. “Seeing if they'll agree to a meet. They agree, we follow him.”

“Could this be a trap? Perhaps the Blackstone wolves would rather hand you over to Cojocaru.”

“Possible, but my read on the alphas is they're very careful.” He looked at each of them. “So we keep it tight. Keep our eyes open. Don't shoot unless I start shooting. We're off to make friends, not corpses.”

Xiesha nodded, Bailey chewed at her bottom lip with one fang, and Maria only smiled. A moment later, Tyrell swung the SUV around and pulled up alongside them. He leaned out his window.

“Got the green light, but they ain't happy about it. Try and stay with me—I'm gonna be driving hard, lose any tails. You better not be lying about those Thorn motherfuckers. Be the last thing you lie about.” He switched on the music again, bass rattling the world.

Maria swung the car around and followed his speeding SUV. She could hear the bass rumble even this far back and windows up. How that guy could stand music so loud with his werewolf hearing was beyond her. She glanced at Karl when they stopped for a red light. “How do you know this Tyrell guy and I don't, despite the fact he kicks up to my people?”

Karl stared out the window. “I know a lot of people.”

“Yeah,” Bailey chimed in, staring at her in the rearview mirror. “Whereas
you
have minions to insulate you from the low-level players. Did you expect to know about every pimp and pusher paying to the Ricardis?”

Maria took a deep breath. Counted to three. Lost her temper anyway. “What the fuck do you know about it, fairy Goth princess?”

“Fuck you. I watched
Goodfellas
. Three times.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Teeth of Wolves

They followed Tyrell to a high-rise office complex in the Financial District near the Keystone building and the First National Bank Building. Limestone façade, Art Deco stylings, bronze panel sculpture, a building Karl had never been inside before, but the lobby was filled with veined marble and lots of bronze. Tyrell showed ID to the girl at the desk and led them to the elevators. The ride up in the elevator was one of the more awkward he'd endured, swimming with intense silence. They got out on the eighteenth floor. Tyrell led them to the last office. He'd left his Tech 9 behind in his SUV. They'd returned the gesture of good faith and left behind all their hardware. Things could always come down to fangs and claws in the end.

Tyrell knocked at the door, which had no markings except a gold number, and glanced at them. “Any problem with a friendly pat down?” He leered at Bailey.

Karl frowned. “Yeah, I have a problem with a pat down. Is my problem a problem?”

Tyrell's smile grew strained. “Guess we'll find out real soon.”

The door opened. A tall, thin African American man in a well-cut suit that whispered of fine tailors stood in the doorway. He smelled of pricy cologne and below that lingered the scent of wolves and the faint aromas of forest, of stone and fallen leaves. He glared at Tyrell, his lip twisting upward into something very nearly a snarl.

Tyrell appeared unfazed. “Damon, my brother. How they hangin'?”

“You're at home with the wolves now, Tyrell,” Damon said. “Cut the ghetto out of your speech when you're with us.” He looked at Karl. “Mr. Vance, if you'll come with me, I'll lead you to the alphas.”

He turned and walked across the inner office without checking to see if they followed, moving with powerful, silent grace. Karl stepped inside without pause and everyone followed. They moved through an office of plush beige carpeting, recessed lighting, rich wood paneling and abstract art. Huge windows faced out on the city lights and traffic far below. Five more of the Blackstone Clan gathered inside the room. One dressed like a security guard complete with sidearm. Two more with hidden guns he could smell. All but the security guard wore loose robes over bare skin to allow them to shift at a moment's notice. They kept silent, their eyes tracking him as he walked.

Tyrell fell into step beside him. He glanced at Karl and said in a low voice that every werewolf in the entire building could probably hear, “No love lost between me and him. Damon thinks his blood's too good for the streets, but he's got it backward.”

Karl said nothing.

“He's got a problem with me selling weed. Don't matter to him I hawk that shit to white college kiddies looking for a little de-stress after finals.”

Karl didn't even glance at him. “I don't care.”

“You and me both,” Tyrell replied.

Damon made no indication he'd heard and led them to a set of rosewood double doors with the words Administration stamped in a narrow blocky script glittering gold in the recessed lighting. He knocked, and a female voice said, “Enter.” He opened the door and stepped aside for them.