Shrouds of Darkness (5 page)

Every night those poor squints found another one of their buddies dead on his sleeping mat, in his watch tower, or even leaning against the tree he had propped himself against to take a piss. I was everywhere and I was living high. So great became my lust, I nearly turned rogue. Hell, there’s no maybe about it. I was a rogue and a bad one. It’s just that in Vietnam at the height of the war no one really noticed, or if they did they didn’t give a shit. What’s one—or a few hundred or thousand—dead squints when there were over a million more pouring over the border from China?

Yeah I said squint, so what of it? I’m from a different time and I’ve fought three major wars against the shifty little bastards. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a racist. I don’t hate them any more than I hate anyone else in this world. Hell, I would have to give a shit about them to hate them and I sure as hell don’t. Not them, not these screaming, gyrating monkeys in this club, and not those walking dead outside.

I’ve seen too much and done too much to care. So why did I save that little girl and that stupid bimbo tonight? Saving the girl was just a side effect of my need to feed. That’s what I tell myself anyway. The little slut? I don’t know. Maybe I like to pretend I still have a tiny shred of a conscience left to help me maintain the slight bit of humanity I possess.

Maybe, and this is a stretch, the pretense is my
not
giving a shit. Maybe I am pretending to be a heartless bastard so that I can go on doing what I do without becoming a complete basket case. How would you feel, with your so-called humanity, knowing that for you to simply exist others must die? A lot of others and the body count just climbs higher and higher, faster and faster the older you get. My shrink hasn’t been able to give me a definitive answer in nearly twenty years of on and off therapy so I doubt anyone else out there will be stepping forward with an answer that doesn’t reek of bullshit.

It’s been twenty minutes and Yuri is on his third vodka tonic. He’s drinking slowly. He must be taking this meeting pretty seriously. My flashback is broken when I spy an immaculately dressed Asian man flanked by two big bodyguards ascending the stairs.

Tommy Hanako. The man is nearly enshrouded in a kind of mystical aura from the club lights reflecting off the suit that must have cost a million silkworms their lives to make. My blood is running hot and it takes more than a bit of my resolve to keep from hopping the table and slapping that ever-present smug, superior smirk right off his face.

I’m sure he feels immune to any sort of overt confrontations next to his two hulking escorts. The one on his right is huge. He is Six foot eight, three-hundred fifty pounds of sheer muscle and bad attitude. The bulge in his too tight-fitting suit jacket is mostly there as added insurance to discourage anyone so incredibly stupid as to still try to make a move. I think I’ll call him Tiny.

The man on the left is another whole magnitude of freak. He easily tops seven feet and has the face of a man that got in a head-on collision with a freight truck only he wasn’t in a car at the time. I put odds on the truck coming out on the losing end.

He too wears a suit that must have been made from five other suits stitched together by a skilled artisan and still they could not get the front to button. His jacket hangs open to reveal his own piece. It is a .50 caliber desert eagle in a quick-draw shoulder holster. I hope like hell he is smart enough to put the weapon on safe because I can see that the finger-guard has been removed to accommodate his sausage-sized finger. In lieu of a hacksaw, I bet he just chewed the thing off.

Oh man, I want a piece of him bad. Normally I wouldn’t care, but tonight I am pumped and one of the few pleasures I can still claim is putting huge, vicious men like these two in their place. Guys like Tiny and Freak go through life with a skewed sense of reality. They think they can do anything they want to anyone they want because they are big, scary men. They don’t know the meaning of scary but I’ll educate them. Just let the bell ring. Class is in session.

All three men look at me like I am a kid at the table reserved for grown-ups at thanksgiving. Tommy’s mouth twists into a derisive sneer so great I think he will tie his lips into a knot. Freak actually snorts at me. I’m almost certain he is about to sniff my ass then piss on the table leg in a show of dominance.

I keep my cool and just smile politely as if I am the only one in on a private joke. Yuri knows the punch line too. Yuri likes a good joke—especially the ones where someone he doesn’t like gets hurt. And I know Yuri doesn’t like Tommy any more than I do. Less even. He actually still cares enough to hate.

“Please forgive me for being late, Yuri,” Tommy says as he takes his seat. “I hope you have not had to wait on me for long.”

Tommy Hanako is original Yakusa, but rumor has it that he fled Japan to save his finger when he pissed off the wrong squint. He is something like fifth or sixth generation Yakusa and such wanton cowardice did not sit well with the rest of his clan. So he packed up and came to New York to start his own little ninja clan. Lucky New York, lucky me.

If you look at Tommy and expect to hear the broken English of Jackie Chan, you are going to be disappointed. Tommy speaks with the clear basso of George Takei without any of the charm. The man is both snake and weasel. I don’t know what part the Chinese calendar that falls on.

I don’t know if it’s a vampire thing or just my own special physiology, but my tongue is host to a small but quick brain that often takes over in the most inopportune times. Like right now.

“Did you get stuck behind one of those slow, Chinese drivers or did you have to stop off for more film for your camera?” I ask without a trace of humor.

I know Hanako is Japanese but Chinese stereotypes are easier and it only adds to the insult. Tiny and Freak’s hands twitch towards their guns and Tommy narrows his eyes at me. I’m not sure if he can still see me or not.

“You would do well to teach your servant some manners, Yuri,” the mob boss warns through his false smile. “It would be a shame if I had to set my dogs on him.”

Yuri nods but does not return the smile he knows to be as fake as the silk flowers that adorn the table. “Yes, a shame indeed. Then you would have to go back to the pound for new dogs. Of course, you would save a fortune not having to feed those two.”

Tommy looks at me then studies Yuri’s face for a tell that would reveal the joke he must have intended. He doesn’t find one but laughs as if he gets it anyway. Freak grins at the top of my head as if I am a dessert he desperately wants to break his diet for. I pucker my lips and make a kissy face at him.

I‘m sure he is going to pull his piece. I smile, a real smile, as his massive hand shoots inside his jacket and the handle of the .50 cal. disappears under its ridiculous amount of flesh.

It’s starting to look like I am going to have a good time after all. I was so afraid that I would be bored to tears. Tommy wrecks my fun with a quick twitch of his head. Nobody lets me have any fun. Oh well, time to be a professional again. I blame my bad manners on the blood. Too much blood in one night. Have to work harder on my manners.

Yuri is talking to Tommy again. A man like Tommy never wastes so much as a single word for a hired gun like me—a bullet perhaps—but not something as important as showing that I am worth even the slightest moment of his attention.

“Mr. Malone is a professional and I am sure he will act as one from here on out,” Yuri assures his guest.

He says it to Tommy but I know a reprimand when I hear one. My bad.

My mind starts to drift, again, as the two gang leaders begin to discuss business. I have very little interest in their discussion beyond wanting to see the look on Tommy’s face when Yuri politely tells him to eat shit. I know Yuri well enough to know that he has no interest in doing any sort of business with the likes of Tommy Hanako. Only professional courtesy got Tommy this meeting.

It’s not easy for me to ignore the pervasive scent of the two goons flanking me and our boss’ table. Both of them wear the aroma of barely suppressed violence. I really struck a nerve tonight with my charming personality. I smell it oozing from their pores. I can smell how much they want to hurt me and how confident they are that they can do it.

I receive a sharp look from both Tommy and Yuri as a small giggle escapes my lips at the thought. I am as chagrined by the visual rebuke as I am that I actually giggled. I don’t giggle. Not ever. I silently sigh as once more I come to the realization that I drank too much tonight. I wish I could hold my blood as well as Yuri holds his vodka. I try to forgive myself. It is the first real mistake I have made in a long time. Surely I can allow myself this small error in judgment?

I distract myself once more with fantasies of going toe to toe with Tiny and Freak. Bare-handed and two on one, it could provide a good twenty or thirty seconds of entertainment. Vampires are strong and really fast but we are not unbeatable, and those two goons bring a lot to the table for normal humans. Well, normal by comparison to present company.

I let myself get distracted, which is my second mistake of the night. That mistake quickly gets elevated to full-blown fuck-up when I fail to notice the two men climbing the stairs and approach our table. By the time I notice the intrusion, guns are already drawing a bead on the two distinguished occupants at the table.

It takes me a fraction of a second to take it all in. There are two men. One is a large, hairy man with a thick, brown beard covering a powerful jaw. He is a heavily built man with a stern, focused look upon his face. He seems surprisingly calm. He is raising a mean-looking .44 revolver. I track his eyes to Tommy Hanako.

The second man is a squirrely little shit and almost certainly tweaking on something. His movements are fast but spastic. I would have dismissed him as the lesser threat if it weren’t for the mac 10 he is pointing in Yuri’s direction. Not that it matters much where it is pointing. With the fire-rate of that weapon and a clip nearly long enough to use as tripod, he could take down Yuri, Tommy, Freak and Tiny along with half the people occupying the upper floor of the club in seconds.

I peg him as the bigger threat right now. That is my third mistake and second major fuck-up of the night. Before Tweaker’s half-glazed eyes can even focus on his target, my .40 cal. appears in my hand as if I’m Chris Angel or some other street corner magician. I don’t even see my front site post. Instinct tells me I have him dead to rights.

I feather the trigger and put a bullet right between Tweaker’s barely-focused eyes. A neat little hole sprouts in his forehead and makes him look like a man that just discovered Hinduism. The back of his head erupts in a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter. I am sure the people on the dance floor below do not appreciate this in the slightest.

I catch Furball’s movement out of the corner of my eye. I figure that with my reflexes I can even save Tommy’s useless hide before the hairy man pops him. I’m wrong. For a big man he moves with incredible swiftness. He instantly takes notice of my speed and the destruction of his partner’s head and realizes that if he is going to finish the job and come out of this alive, I need to go. His barrel shifts away from Tommy as he swings the hand cannon my way.

There is a sudden shift in the air currents and I instantly realize why the guy can move so fast. He’s a gods-be-damned half-werewolf—a freaking mongrel. This just keeps getting better and better. Half-weres, or mongrels as most call them, are not nearly as strong as their full-blood kin, but it’s a big mistake to take them lightly. This guy would give Freak a beating in a three-round cage match. They’re quick too and that is the biggest problem at the moment.

Had the guy been human I could have easily beat him to the punch and dropped him before he can discharge a single round. But he isn’t and this is going to be problem. For whom, is still up in the air.

I don’t have time to line up a perfect shot so I stroke the trigger as soon as my gun is pointed at flesh. My hollow point strikes him high in the chest—just where the left arm attaches to the torso. He looks more pissed than hurt. His eyes widen as he now realizes I am more than human myself. We both know now that he is not going to walk away from this table alive.

With that realization, he stops the traversing of his gun and points it directly at Yuri. A swift sidestep puts me between my employer and 240 grains of flesh-rending, bone-shattering copper and lead. The cacophonic boom of that big hog’s leg puts the sharp crack of my .40 cal. to shame. I grunt as the slug punches me low in the ribs.