The Chaos Order (Fanghunters Book Three) (32 page)

T
he battle for the I-Sore Tower was reaching critical mass by the time Nixon made it down to the fifty-second. Once there, he received intel on the operation. The stocks of Ambrosia on the upper floors were secure for now, which, the Dragons believed, was the main purpose of the battle. The Dragons were convinced the Chaos Order were after the Ambrosia. Whether to destroy it or use it themselves, they didn’t know for sure. But, they were certain Chaos either wanted to suppress the supply or fuel it themselves. So, it was vital to keep the Ambrosia on the upper floors safe and to stop Chaos agents from getting up there. So far, so good.

Nixon didn’t get all the vamp politics; he didn’t care who wanted what for what reason. All he wanted to do was blow heads off and get paid for it. He wasn’t even sure what this Ambrosia crap was for. He had an idea that it was some kind of mind control drug but didn’t get the ins and outs. All he knew was that Leviah wanted it before, and now the Dragons and Chaos wanted it. Whatever. Nixon could care less; as long as his team won, he couldn’t give a crap about the unimportant stuff.

The Dragon unit he now called his brothers had spent the last day making their way down the building floor by floor, cleaning out any Chaos agents who were floating from the ground up. It felt like every goddamned floor was a mini-warzone. Some were in the grips of victory, others just getting started. The whole building stank of blood and cordite, a nasal mix that was like an aphrodisiac to Nixon. Forget the horny goat weed and the rhino horn, all the Husky Flamingo needed was the smell of war in his nostrils and he was hard and ready to party, baby!

After proving his worth, Nixon was ordered by his superiors to get his ass down to the ground level where the most vital battle of all was ongoing. Nixon jumped down the stairwells with glee, pump-action shotgun in hand, popping brown heads like it was going out of fashion. The small crack unit he was heading had his back; they followed his orders to the tee, respecting his acumen and brass balls out in the field. Nixon was earning his stripes in this new regiment with every head he blew off. And there was still more to come.

He led them out of the first floor stairwell, the all-day café and restaurant level above the lobby. It was the floor where they first lost Trixie the bullfrog after he tagged her finger; he wasn’t about to lose there a second time. He burst out of the stairwell, his gun pointing at everything. All around him was chaos; shouting, pounding, gunfire, and in a flash, he was back in the Gulf during Operation Desert Storm, up against Saddam and his legion of sand dwellers. The memories stirred in his mind like a witch’s brew. Nixon could now almost smell those burning oil fields, the bitter tang of sand on the air, the sun burning down on him like a torturer, turning the back of his neck bright pink. In his mind, he could see those dunes of sand in the distance, rolling like mountains, the sky beyond them like a pot of blue paint.

He scanned the battlefield. The first thing he laid eyes on was a cartel thug grappling with an I-Sore security guard. The sight of that scum hurting an employee sent a deluge of rage crashing up into Nixon’s chest. He released a hot roar before charging toward them both like an incensed bison. He swung out a boot, throwing every ounce of strength into it. He connected with the meaty part of the thug’s calf. The thug’s head snapped back and he squealed in agony. His leg gave way; he fell to the polished floor. Nixon didn’t give him a chance to breathe; he sent another hard boot to the thug’s face. He was sent flying, his back slamming onto the floor.

Nixon aimed his shotgun. Without mercy, he blasted the punk in the chest; it caved. An ever-expanding pool of blood spread across the polished floor from beneath him.

Nixon helped the guard to his feet. “Go get to safety!” Nixon barked in his face, before he rushed over to the railing overseeing the lobby. He leaned over and scanned the area below. His jaw dropped.
Jesus H. Christ
.

It was like some kind of biblical war. The whole of the lobby was steeped in water flooding in through the smashed front doors and windows. Windswept rain poured through the exposed entrance, pushing and pulling against the water already inside the building.

Writhing in the water were snakes, some of them the size of small tree trunks; hundreds if not thousands of them. In amongst them were groups of thugs and Dragon-stay-behind either popping off shots, engaging in hand-to-hand, or caught in a knife fight like it was Nam all over again. Every now and then, a Dragon or cartel punk got bit by a snake and would crumple down in pain. Once submerged in the water, he’d be attacked by a group of snakes; they’d wrap around his limbs and pull him under. He watched a Dragon guy fighting for his life against the snakes; he screamed for help before his voice petered out into a gargle. And then he was gone.

“My God...”
Nixon gasped, just as lightning lit up the dark sky outside, creating a strobe-like effect inside the dim-lit tower.

Nixon looked up and around; the lobby was a no-go area unless you were on a suicide mission. It meant they were trapped inside the building. The mission was clear: eliminate the enemy, and then deal with the snakes.

From where he was stationed, he aimed his shotgun at a cartel thug standing in the water down on the lobby floor. Nixon caught him in his sights. He was about to fire when an arm wrapped around his neck and squeezed.

Nixon’s eyes bulged.
It’s one of them goddamned snakes!

It pulled him back away from the railing, his shotgun falling from his hands. He grabbed hold of the thing around his neck; it was firm, fleshy. An arm; a human arm. He tried pulling it away, but it was fixed to his throat like a vise. Nixon’s tongue popped from his mouth; blood pressure was building up in his head.

“You’re going down,
pendejo
,” a voice snarled in his ear.

Nixon’s vision shimmered; his brain was beginning to black out. The surrounding cacophony of shouting, gunfire, and the boom of thunder from the skies outside was like torpedoes bombarding his ears.

“Die!” the thug throttling him sneered.

Nixon dug his nails into the flesh of the thug’s flexed forearm. “No... Way!” he managed through clenched teeth. He whipped his head to the side, opened up his mouth and clamped down his jaws. He caught a piece of upper arm flesh in between his teeth. He bit down hard.

The ensuing screech cut through all the other noise. The pressure in Nixon’s swollen head released, but his jaw didn’t. Nixon held on like a determined Rottweiler, biting down harder with an intense growl. There was a rip like tearing fabric, a spurt of blood, a tortured shriek. And Nixon was finally relieved of the thug. He dashed forward, a morsel of flesh caught between his teeth. He spat it out over the railing and into the flood before he whirled around, the thug’s blood running down his chin.

With hot eyes, Nixon watched the thug stagger backward, holding his wounded arm, blood leaking out between his fingers. Nixon raced for his shotgun. He threw himself to the floor, the smooth polished surface sliding him along. In one fluid motion, he whipped up his shotgun, aimed and fired. Half the thug’s head exploded like an over-pressurized canister, his remaining eye taking in every moment of his death. His body slumped to the ground, blood pulsating out of his pulverized head in rapid bursts.

Nixon blew the smoke off the muzzle of his shotgun. “Freaking A,” he cooed, standing up and watching the blood flow from the gaping neck wound ahead of him.

A shiver then raced up his spine like the temperature had abruptly tanked. He frowned, the hairs on the back of his neck springing to attention. There was something behind him, something bad. Cold overcame him like he was standing in the freezers of Meatpack Food Solutions up on the twenty-ninth floor. He rotated on the spot and faced the lobby. He approached the railing with caution, his shotgun ready to go to work. On reaching it, he leaned over; his eyes fell down on the flood, and the snakes, and the bodies floating in the water.

Someone new then stepped into the arena through the smashed glass doors. An unarmed guy in a trench coat. He marched into the lobby from outside like he owned the joint, sauntering through the water, his pants soaked through. He walked amongst the snakes without fear, a contemptuous, shit-eating grin spread across his tattooed face. As he entered the fray, he watched the ongoing battles with glee.

Nixon took one look at the punk and knew he wanted to kill him. From over the balcony railing, he aimed his shotgun right at the sumbitch and let rip. His shotgun boomed in perfect sync with a clap of thunder. His aim was good. The shell pummeled the asshole up and down his body, the shock of the force sending him staggering back.

“There, take that, you sissy!” Nixon sneered to himself, about to enjoy watching him fall. But, he never did. Instead, the guy regained his balance, gathered himself, then straightened his trench coat. His eyes flicked upward from where the shot came. He locked eyes with Nixon. They glimmered and spun and whirled; Nixon was drawn in. He gasped. Luckily, he was far away enough for the spell not to work full-on. He shook his head, breaking the hex. He pumped his shotgun and fired again. The shell slammed into the punk’s chest. It tore his clothes, but somehow seemed to vanish into his flesh without any wounds. It was like he was made of putty.

Nixon’s jaw dropped. “What the—?” He pumped again and fired. Same result. Pumped again and fired. Same result. The punk was soaking up the damage like a walking sponge, and instead of being knocked back, the asshole was moving forward.

He’s freaking invincible,
Nixon thought in his mind with acute alarm. And then the penny dropped in his mind. He knew he was looking at a vampire. Those Chaos assholes had sent a vampire to take the I-Sore. Panic began to metastasize all over Nixon. He didn’t have the tools to take down a vamp.

With a dumb stare, Nixon watched the vamp wade through the water, the snakes clearing the path for him, not interested in biting him one iota. A couple of grappling combatants were in his path. The vamp effortlessly peeled the Dragon off one of his own guys and took a huge chomp out of his neck. Nixon winced at the squirting blood. The vamp then twisted the Dragon’s head right off his shoulders and slung it in the water for the snakes to fight over. The vamp wiped the blood from his lips and glared up at Nixon. Nixon was rooted. He knew he should run; he wasn’t equipped to take the vamp on. He didn’t know what to do, where to turn.

The vamp then charged up the stairs toward Nixon.

Nixon’s eyes widened, his legs clicking into gear. He backed up, his feet working hard, his eyes not leaving the scene ahead of him. He took a quick look over his shoulder, the open elevator was waiting for him, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the vamp for too long. He whipped his head back around; the vamp had made it to the top of the steps. His eyes burned with bloodlust. Nixon knew if he didn’t turn and run for the elevator, the vamp would ice him, then tear
his
neck out.

Nixon almost crapped his pants; he spun away and ran as fast as he could toward that elevator, fear juddering through his body. Even though he couldn’t see the vamp behind him, his stare bored into his back; it was like needles. Nixon yelped as he scampered for that elevator, its inner sanctum like a haven. He shoved past a cartel thug, throwing a hand in his face to push him outta the way. If he stopped or slowed, he wouldn’t make it. He pushed on, his chest heaving, his heart pounding. He hadn’t run so fast in years; his man boobs and jiggling pot belly were a stark reminder.

Behind him, he swore he could hear the vamp laughing, reveling in the suffering he was inflicting. Nixon put his head down and focused on that elevator like it was the biggest barrel of beer he’d ever laid eyes on. He howled as he made it and jumped inside. He whipped around and began pushing buttons on the panel in frantic stabbing motions. Out of the corner of his eye, the vamp was storming toward him, licking residues of blood from his lips.

Nixon thumped the buttons on the panel. “Come on, come on!” he gibbered, urging the doors. They began inching closed.

The vamp then dominated his view like the Grim Reaper coming for his soul. The doors edged him out. Nixon’s chest collapsed in relief. The vamp’s hands then shot through the gap. Nixon shrieked.

The hands then flew back out and the doors closed fully. Nixon slammed down buttons. “COME ON!”

“Going up,”
the elevator then told him. It began moving.

Nixon collapsed back onto the far wall of the elevator, a trembling, sweaty bag of nerves. He couldn’t believe it. For some reason, the vamp pulled away his hands and let Nixon escape clean.
Did he mean to? Was he just playing?

Nixon didn’t care. It would prove to be the asshole’s biggest mistake. “You should’ve killed me while you had the chance, punk,” Nixon mumbled.

Cause one way or another, Nixon was gonna wipe the smug grin off that asshole’s face. He promised.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

N
ixon took the elevator back up to Leviah’s chamber. The doors opened up and he was immediately hit with that blast of cold air swishing in through the broken windows. He marched out into the room, a new determination rising inside him. He was gonna make sure he took that punk vamp down. He wouldn’t be caught cold like that a second time.