I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2) (42 page)

Only one stood between the hordes and the
peoples of the Five Lands.

A raised doorway in the wall stood open, a
lone figure filling it. The wooden staircase connecting the doorway
to the ground beneath had been brought down early on, to further
stymie the savage hordes. There was no gate. The wall had been
constructed to keep things like these out.

From the relative safety of the doorway,
Tamarak watched them advance.

The barbarian’s flesh blackened from heat and
grime, the shafts of arrows projected from his shoulder and thigh
where he had broken them off. In his hands, a double bladed battle
axe, its face ocher-stained and knicked.

His own people had sold him out, condemning
him to slavery. T’lina, the woman he loved, was married off to
another. He had stood and fought while others had fled, stood and
fought while the others who had stayed to fight died. The enemy had
suffered in numbers incommensurate to his lone self. And now he
stood among the dead, facing the encroaching mass, a sea of
monsters and evil beings intent on further depravity.

There was still time to run. True, he had
freed his mare days earlier, sending her from the wall.
Nevertheless, if he left now, he stood a chance of eluding
Mazalan’s armies. Mazalan had suffered heavily to take this wall.
His troops would need a day or two at least to lick their wounds
and mount their next assault. When they were rested and equipped,
they would sweep across the Five Lands like a plague, bringing
death and destruction to every corner of the civilized world. If he
fled at this moment, without further hesitation, Tamarak stood a
chance of escape. If he fled.

Never
.

Stepping forward, he dropped to the ground,
landing in a crouch, absorbing the fall. A collective growl went up
among Mazalan’s armies, spying the lone figure. They saw how the
raised doorway loomed way above the man’s head, out of reach.

Tamarak of the Yurek-Ungaar rose from his
crouch, battle axe gripped in both hands, a sneer of hatred and
defiance writ across his soot-stained face. He’d come down off the
wall to face his destiny, one man against the bloodthirsty
multitudes, fear absent his person. The barbarian had banished
thoughts of his own demise, banished images of his beloved T’Lina
from his mind, because when a man went to his death, he went to it
with his mind set and his head straight, intent on the task ahead
of him. Tamarak raised the axe in both hands and snarled back at
the hordes, inviting their attack.

“Damn.”

DeAndre’s stomach growling brought him back
to reality. He put Jablonsky’s book down on his bed and sat there,
his back against his bedroom wall.

“Damn that’s a good book.”

Goddamn fat-fuck Ronald, eating all his
Chinese food out the ‘frigerator the other day. And Luke, taking
his food like he did after that. What had that been about anyway?
Just thinking about it, DeAndre felt the heat rise in his cheeks,
the shame.

His metronome did its thing, ticking off the
beats.

DeAndre had read this book, read this part
before. Knew what Tams was going to, coming down off that wall.
Defiant to the end, never once scared. Tams facing all them mugs,
while DeAndre was afraid to go out and get something to eat.

tic
...
tic
…
tic

It was getting late, true. And the Moses
houses weren’t the best place to roam around in after dark, true
that. But Terrence and his boys did so regularly when their momma
was at work, and nothing bad ever seemed to come of it…

DeAndre’d be damned if he ate another grilled
cheese. This time of night, the only thing nearby that was open was
the Chinese place.

What’d he have to be afraid of anyway? He was
hungry.

tic
…
tic
…
tic

His mind made up, DeAndre pulled on his
hoodie and jeans, tying his sneakers. He’d keep his eyes open,
avoid Luke and Yuri, any other shady characters. He’d go out and be
quick about it, be back in his room with his food in a half hour
tops.

Goddamn if he wasn’t hungry.

“I’m telling you,” Declan, the one with the
Franz-Josef mustache, was saying to Gritz, “you don’t have to worry
about us.”

Gritz pulled against the handcuffs securing
his wrist to the railing, anchoring him to the bench on one side of
the bread truck.

No luck.

Declan sat across from him, decked out in
black tactical gear and body armor, a mess of pouches, belts and
holsters, black helmet with NVG goggles. The goggles were flipped
up, only his mustachioed face showing. An assault rifle with a
vertical grip rested in the man’s lap, his gloved hands resting on
the buttstock and barrel, his legs stretched out in front of him,
booted feet crossed.

“That thing right there, that’s the thing you
should be worried about.”

A boar sat in the cage that took up most of
the rear of the bread truck, eyeing the men warily.

Gritz exhaled. What had he gotten himself
into?

He’d gotten into the bread truck on his own,
which he was now thinking was a pretty stupid thing to do. Brian,
Levon and Dec had been suited up in SWAT gear, looked like they
were about to go out on a raid. Gritz was about to ask about the
pig in the cage when Brian had slapped the cuffs on him, Levon
relieving him of his S&W Model 36 he wore under his jacket.

“Don’t take it personally, mate,” Brian had
told him. “But we don’t make you stay here, ain’t bleeding likely
you’ll stick around. And if you don’t stay here,” Brian had looked
at the pig when he’d said it, “you won’t see what you need to see.
Leave here thinking the lot of us barmy.”

Brian was up front with Levon now, the
sliding door separating them from the rear of the truck.

“Try not to take it personally,” Declan
reminded Gritz, echoing Brian, drumming his gloved fingers against
the rifle.

“That’s a little tough,” Gritz admitted. The
bread truck bounced beneath them. According to Gritz’s watch,
they’d been driving for a half hour. Because they hadn’t taken his
watch or his wallet, not even his flask, nothing but his revolver.
It didn’t make much sense to Gritz.

“It’ll all make sense,” Declan promised him.
“Won’t it?” He raised his voice, asking the boar. The caged animal
raised its head and turned it inquisitively.

“I didn’t know NYPD was into animal control
these days.”

“We’re not. We’re the Monster Squad.” The way
Declan said it, without a hint of a smile under his mustache, the
way he said it concerned Gritz.

These guys
were
barmy.

Crazy.

“
True
Gritz
.” Declan shook his
helmeted head, amused or pleased, Gritz couldn’t tell which. “Who’d
of thought?”

“Yeah. Imagine how I feel. Brian’s a Brit.
But you’re not.”

“No I am not.”

The truck came to an abrupt stop. The boar
continued to sit where it was in its cage, ears back, alert.

“How ya feeling then, detective?” Brian and
Levon stepped into the rear of the truck, sliding the door to the
front closed after them, Gritz getting a momentary look out the
windshield but not seeing anything he recognized.

He answered them honestly. “Bewildered.”

“I know.” Brian retrieved an assault rifle
identical to Declan’s from a storage locker. Gritz noted both
weapons were outfitted with suppressors and shell catchers. “And I
apologize for that, really I do.”

“What’s with the pig?”

“He didn’t tell you?” The way Brian referred
not to Declan but to the boar itself.

Gritz didn’t know what to say to that.
Instead he asked, “Where are we?”

“Sometimes,” Brian had taken a seat across
from Gritz, unholstering a 9mm pistol he wore in a chest rig, “When
you want to catch the cat,” Brian pulled back the slide on the
pistol, peering into the breech, “…you have to go where you know
you’re going to find the bleedin’ mouse.” He holstered the
pistol.

“He thinks we’re nuts,” Declan announced.

“Can you blame him?” In addition to his own
rifle and gear that matched the other’s, Levon hefted a battering
ram by its handles.

“Not one bit.”

“What’d you think of the talk then the other
night, detective?” Brian asked him like he knew he’d been there.
And Gritz knew they knew he’d been there. Whoever these men were,
whatever their game was, they’d been keeping tabs on him.

“It was interesting.”

“Wasn’t it?” Levon agreed.

“Oh yeah,” Brian unsnapped one of the many
pouches of his tactical vest. “I got you this.” He leaned forward
with a plastic jewel case. Gritz took it with his free hand,
studied the cover.

A compact disk.

Phantom Redemption.

“Thanks.”

“Enough fannying around then. We ready?”

“I’ve been ready.” Now Declan smiled,
uncrossing his legs and standing.

“I’m good,” seconded Levon.

“Look, Bill—you know what, mate, I don’t feel
right calling you Bill.” Brian had drawn back the cover over a slit
window in the rear door of the truck and stood there, peering out.
“
Gritz
.” He said it approvingly, then quieted for a moment,
intent on whatever was outside the truck. “We’ll be back in a New
York minute I believe is how you might say it. In the interim, you
sit tight, Gritz. Time we get back,” Brian cast one more glance at
the boar in its cage, “I’d say you’ll be au fait with this
bugger.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“What he’s saying,” Levon looked warily at
the boar, “is it’ll all make sense by the time we’re back.”

The three armed men jumped down out of the
truck.

“Yeah,” Gritz said to the doors, “see you
later.”

He sat alone with his thoughts and the pig,
tapping the CD absently against the bench he sat on.

“Well,” Gritz set the CD down, taking his
flask out of his inside jacket pocket, unscrewing the cap. “Looks
like it’s you and me, boy.” He took a swallow of what was inside
and gestured with the flask. “Salud.”

The boar curled up into a ball in the back of
its cage, watching Gritz.

94th precinct.

There’s been a shooting. I’m calling to
report a shooting.

Okay, ma’am. May I ask who this is calling
and where you’re calling from?

My name is and I live at .

And you say there’s been gunfire, Ms. ?

Hell, yes. Right down the block from my
neighbor’s house. I saw three men run out of the house and get in a
car.

Who’s your neighbor, Ms. ?

The car drove away from me. I didn’t get the
license plate, I couldn’t see it. I think one of them was hurt, he
was holding his arm. My neighbor’s outside his house now in his
robe, standing there…Holy—he’s got a gun!

Is your neighbor injured, ma’am?

What? No. No, it doesn’t look like it. I’m
calling you from inside my house—the hell if I’m going out there.
No, he looks alright. He looks angry, but he doesn’t look injured
if that’s what you mean.

What’s your neighbor’s name and address,
sir?

He lives in the house up the street from
mine, that would be . He’s got these globe things at the end of his
drive way, I don’t know what they’re called, but you can’t miss
them. Can’t miss it.

What’s your neighbor’s name, ma’am?

He’s on his phone, probably calling it in to
you right now. Yeah, he looks mad. Oh, he’s mad. Real mad.

Your neighbor’s name, sir?

Heinlein. His name is Morgan Heinlein.

Cassidy had another Scotch in front of him.
He’d taken a sip and left it alone. Doules was behind his bar,
polishing shot glasses.

Tony Katonah shuffled in place at the other
end of the bar, knocking them back, the kid feeling good.
Lip-synching the Talking Head’s
Psycho
Killer
,
standing there dancing with one hand on his stomach, the other out
at his side, really only moving his feet.

“This guy comes with his own soundtrack,”
Cassidy remarked to Johnny Spasso. Spasso drinking a soda next to
Cassidy, a bendie straw in the bottle.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Anthony Vella and Bum Aulisi stood with
Katonah, egging him on. “Psycho Killer,
Qu’est
Que
C’est
,” Katonah’s one hand out at his side pointed at
Cassidy now. “Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa better.” Index and
pinkie fingers pointing, almost the devil’s horns but he had his
thumb out too. “Run run run run run run run away,” Katonah spinning
around in place, Sausage and the Bum grinning, Vella slapping him
on his back. Nunz watching them all like they were assholes.

“Is this guy kidding me?” Cassidy took his
eyes off the kid, not giving him the audience he wanted. Maybe if
it wasn’t the same song over and over again…

Sully sat on the other side of Johnny, his
hands folded on the bar, toothpick hanging out of his mouth.

“Nigger won’t even look at me,” Katonah was
saying to Anthony Vella down at the end of the bar where Cassidy
couldn’t hear him. The Sausage encouraged him: “Yeah, that’s right.
Won’t even look at you.”

Katonah finished his Vodka with one gulp,
“Doules!” The alcohol had brought some color to his face, more swag
to his bearing, though he needed little help in that department.
Tony Katonah standing there at the bar, swaying in place as David
Byrne sang in French, Katonah thinking this Cassidy wasn’t all
that. Thinking he could take him out if it came to it. Hoping it
would come to it.

“Remind me again,” Cassidy said to Spasso.
“Who’s he the nephew of?”

“Exactly.”

Sully remained stone-faced, hands on the
bar.