Shrouds of Darkness (4 page)

Damn my chivalrous nature. I blame my intervention on being pumped up on fresh lifeblood. I take a hard left and leap to the next building, run across the roof, then drop effortlessly to the ground fifty feet below.

Amidst the trash-strewn alley, I see a young woman, probably in her teens, cringing against the wall as a young black man holding a knife in his left hand cocks his fist back for another blow to ensure she stops struggling and crying out. At first, I think it is just as I had suspected. Some pimp smacking his prostitute around. The girl is young however, maybe sixteen or so. That’s not so unusual. Many runaways are forced into prostitution to survive.

Then the air currents shift and I pick up the scent of them. I know what a whore smells like and this girl isn’t one. Ten to one odds she had met a boyfriend somewhere and was now sneaking back home. Like a stupid little twit, she thought it a good idea to take a shortcut so she could get back before curfew or mommy and daddy found out she was even gone. It was late. That is the more likely scenario.

You would be surprised how much information you can get from a smell—that and a few decades of experience.

I shout at the kid holding the knife, about to bust the cowering girl in the chops again. “All right, dickhead. Let the girl go and get the fuck outta here.”

I’m both impressed and annoyed when the kid turns and looks at me with a sneer. Granted, I’m not what most would consider an imposing man, but I have a presence that usually makes people think twice before screwing with me. Maybe it’s because it’s so dark. Maybe the knife gives the kid a big set of stones, I don’t know.

“Fuck off, white boy,” the kid says with complete contempt. “Get’cho ass outta here before I gut you too.”

I almost smile—again I blame the buzz that fresh lifeblood gives me—as I advance on the youth and the crying, cowering girl.

“Don’t move, bitch,” the kid orders the girl as he would a dog. “I’ll be back for you in a second.”

Yeah, the kid has balls all right. He would have fared a hell of a lot better with less balls and more brains. It is apparent that neither of us is intimidated by the other. That will change in a second as two nighttime predators assert their dominance for their territory.

When we are within six or seven feet of each other the kid lunges forward, knife leading and aimed straight at my heart with a darn good bit of skill and speed. It is obvious this is not his first knife fight, but it is definitely going to be his last.

My left hand darts out faster than the eye can track and I grab his wrist in a vice-like grip that stops him dead in his tracks. A slight flick of my own wrist snaps both of the bones in his arm as if they were dry spaghetti noodles.

“Mother fucker, you broke my fucking arm!” the kid cries out more in anger than pain.

Luckily, for him, depending on how you look at it, he will be dead before the shock wears off and he feels every bit of pain such an injury produces.

He takes a swing at me with his free hand but I slap it down with contemptuous ease. I release my grip on his ruined arm and open-palm slam him in his chest. I feel the ribcage compress and hear the bones crack as I send him flying backwards and knock him senseless on the unyielding brick wall.

I look over at the girl just now getting up, unsure if her nightmare is over or just beginning. She is holding the torn ends of her blouse together in fear and modesty. Judging by what I can smell she was not so modest before she left her lover’s house.

“Go on, go home, kid,” I tell her in a half growl.

She walks shakily towards me and the end of the alley. With a nervous glance at her assailant, she rushes me, weeping.

“Oh, God, thank you,” she cries as she tries to wrap her arms around me.

I grab her by the front of her ruined blouse and send her wind milling towards the street. “I said get out of here, you stupid little bitch! Go home and think about this the next time you want to make a booty call in the middle of the night in shittiest part of the city!”

She squeaks in terror and sprints down the alley and out onto the street. Yeah, I know I’m an asshole. I’ve gotten used to it.

I look at the kid crumpled against the wall and wonder what I should do with him. Be a shame to let a perfectly good meal go to waste.

I am just finishing my second meal of the night when my phone rings. I wipe off my chin with my hands then wipe my hands on the kid’s jacket before I answer it. I already know who it is. I’m late and I am being reminded of it.

“Mr. Malone. I assume you are waiting for me at the club?” the heavily Russian-accented voice asks through my Motorola.

“I will be, Yuri, don’t worry,” I reply more calmly than I feel.

I am really buzzed and edgy right now. I haven’t had two full meals back to back since I was in Vietnam. Nobody missed people back then in that hellhole. It was a shitty war but there was some damn good eating.

Yuri is not pleased with this answer and he tells me so. “Mr. Malone, you have one purpose this evening, and you cannot fulfill it if you are not where you are supposed to be when you are supposed to be there. Do not make me wait.”

Yuri hangs up on me before I can answer. That is a good thing. I had nothing to say and it avoids what could have been an awkward silence. Yuri pays me well because he knows I am worth it, and the meeting he has arranged is serious enough for him to contract me out instead of simply relying on his usual bodyguards and mobster compatriots.

Yuri Poplonovich, also known as Molotov for his tendency to burn up those who piss him off or get in his way, is a Russian—or is it Ukrainian—whatever, mobster. Yuri is a ruthless man but he also conducts himself with a certain sort of standard you do not often find in your typical criminal types these days.

I guess you could say he is your old-school type of mafia. He grew up reading about America’s old mobsters from the days of prohibition and watching movies like The Godfather. He charges various businesses in his territory for protection money like any good mobster does, but unlike other crime organizations he actually affords them protection.

He does not terrorize or threaten those he calls his clients. He simply lets it be known throughout the criminal underworld who is under his protection and who is not. It is a very effective way to keep a good customer base.

Yuri deals in cocaine, ecstasy, and stolen goods but is adamant about keeping crap like meth and crack off his streets. I don’t know if I would go so far as to say I like Yuri, but we have a mutual sort of respect for each other. I’m not real quick to judge the lifestyles of others.

I hang up then select the first of very few presets programmed on my phone.

“Yeah,” the disinterested voice speaks through the phone.

“I need a cleanup, fast.”

“Screw you, Leo. Clean up your own mess.”

Damn, I hate caller ID. “I’m sorry to interrupt your jerk-fest, but I can’t. I’m on a job and there was a witness so I need you here now.”

“Fine, what’s the address?”

I give him the exact location of the corpse. The cleanup crew will be here in minutes and remove all traces of the kill. I don’t know why they always give me such a hard time. Since I was fired as a Sheriff, I have to pay out the ass for this, which really puts me in a bad mood. It’s not like I can add it to my client’s bill as an expense.

I snap my phone shut and take the nearest set of stairs leading to the rooftops. I am really buzzing now and more full of energy and life than I have felt in a long time. That is the danger, the warning signs that sets off alarms in my brain. It is so easy to become addicted to the feeling that practically gorging oneself gives you. The feeling of having so much power makes me feel invincible even beyond my normal scary-strong and fast self.

The buildings and lights are a blur as I sprint across the roofs and leap across the yawning chasms between buildings. I drop four stories onto the roof of the Perestroika Club before scaring the shit out of a valet by dropping down right behind him just as Yuri’s up-armored 1955 Bentley pulls up to the front of the club.

The front passenger-side door swings open almost before the car comes to a complete halt. The valets are smart enough not to make the slightest attempt at opening the door or even more foolish, try to park the big, black car. A big, blond Slav pivots on his right heal the moment he steps out of the car, and with a quick look around, holds open the door for his boss.

The mafia boss steps out in a well-made but non-ostentatious Italian suit and gives me a nod of recognition before slipping the valet a twenty simply for formality’s sake.

“Mr. Malone, I trust everything is proper?” he asks without actually making it a question.

I give him a curt nod. “All looks secure. It does not appear that Mr. Hanako has arrived yet.”

“Bah, of course not,” Yuri replies with a disgusted snort. “Would not be seemly for the little peacock to be on time, much less waiting on someone.”

 Tommy Hanako is the leader of an influential and rapidly growing Asian gang that borders Yuri’s territory. Hanako wants to fill what he sees as a void—namely the vast assortment of drugs—which Yuri seemingly allows to exist.

“Come, Mr. Malone. We will wait inside as is proper. I will need a drink or five to deal with this little prick I think.”

Another twenty is exchanged with the doorman as I lead my employer into the club. It is a testament to Yuri’s faith in me that the big Slav does not follow us in but rather stays with the driver to guard the car.

I drape my black trench coat over my arm and pass it off to the coat check girl. I slip the ticket stub she gives me into the front pocket of my black slacks. A black sports coat and black shirt finish off my rather drab ensemble. I know what you’re thinking—typical cliché vampire getup. It was no fashion statement however. It’s just that blood stains aren’t so readily apparent against the black material.

My casual suit is acceptable but I won’t win any fashion contests. No tie, you see. I fucking hate ties. Stupidest damn thing ever invented by man. Come to think about it, a woman probably invented it. No self-respecting man would put a noose of silk around his neck to dangle in front of him as if he is just waiting for the scaffold to be built to finish his hanging.

My steel-toed combat boots aren’t exactly a great leap towards being fashionably elite either. I’m a practical man and the steel-toed boot coupled with my ability to out-kick a mule makes them imminently suitable to my disposition and profession. At least they are polished to such a sheen a man can use them as a shaving mirror.

I hate clubs. The noise and press of people is almost stifling and the smell makes me want to vomit. Too much sweat mingling with cologne and the disturbingly frequent smell of sex turns my stomach. Whether it is due to my presence or Yuri’s, people quickly get the hell out of our way as I easily carve a path towards the stairs that lead to the exclusive seating area reserved for VIPs. Two, heavy-set bouncers follow behind at a discreet distance to ensure that no one disturbs Mr. Poplonovich before he finds his table.

The two shadows peel off as smoothly as they had attached themselves the moment we reach the stairs. Precisely one minute after Yuri takes his seat a very attractive young woman comes and takes Yuri’s order. He does not bother to ask me if I want anything. He knows I will take nothing.

I remain standing and will continue to do so for the rest of the night. I can literally stand for days without so much as twitching a muscle. As a sniper in Vietnam, I often did precisely that. I was assigned to an elite Special Forces unit where I was given leave to act pretty much on my own initiative. I refused a spotter as I preferred—demanded—to work alone. I doubt I could have found one accepting of my peculiar culinary requirements.

Those were the best and the worst days of my existence. I had so much fun I damn near destroyed myself. While everyone else was getting high on weed, hash, heroin, and the medic’s ample supply of morphine, I was glazed to the gills on the very essence of human life. I had developed such a fearsome reputation amongst the Chinese and Vietcong that I had to often move my sniper position, not because of fear of discovery, but because I had scared off the enemy. I was the ghost in the jungle, leaving nothing but blood-drained bodies to be found when the sun came up.