Bond of Darkness (21 page)

"We'll ask the guys in Galveston to check, of course," added Moyer, the DPS criminalist.

"There are rumors El Gallinazo's pet chemist is cooking up a new brew, something to knock everybody else's date rape drug into the ground. Stronger, faster acting. Could that make a girl pliable and later kill her, Dan?" Posada's voice was far too relaxed.

"Yeah—but it should still show up in the toxicology!"

"Maybe it's also designed to pass even faster through the system, especially if it's mixed with a certain kind of drink?" Steve suggested.

"Like what?" Dan dropped his pen, his eyes widening. "Hell, if that happened, nobody would be safe."

Oh crap. A thousand tiny fingers plucked at Steve's skin and she closed her eyes. Texas wasn't safe.

"Is it possible?" Posada demanded, dropping his pretense of calm.

Dan reluctantly nodded. "Barely, mainly because El Gallinazo's chemist is a genius. He could make a fortune in the legitimate world if he wasn't so greedy and hot tempered."

"In that case, these deaths could be from a test run for such a drug, since they occurred along the interstate highways."

Steve frowned, the connection refusing to come into focus. Her gut said Posada was wrong but why?

"There's enough of a pattern here for me to take this upstairs. Do you mind if I ask Travis County to loan you to us, Schilling? You'd be working with Moyer."

"Of course not. I can show him how to do things right." Dan winked and Moyer snorted comfortably.

"That's it for now, guys. We want you to go back to your home offices and do some research. We'll need copies of the complete file for all these cases, plus any other deaths which might fit this pattern. After that, we'll go through them with a fine-tooth comb, looking for common threads."

Heads nodded, expressions betraying gratitude for having some standard police work to do.

"Any questions? No? Good. This is, of course, to be treated with the utmost sensitivity. God help Texas if the public got the slightest whiff of this."

More people than Steve shuddered at that possibility.

"There have been some rumors, sir, about single women disappearing from bars," a guy volunteered from the back row. "But they were tourists, down on the River Walk."

"Check into it."

"Of course, sir."

"Dismissed."

Cops began to file out of the room, mingling with others to talk more, their expressions both shaken and thoughtful.

"This might help, too, sir." Steve slid the single precious sheet of paper out of its folder and handed it to Posada.

He lifted an eyebrow but said nothing, simply started reading. An instant later, his head snapped up and he stared at her. "Where the hell did you get this, Reynolds?"

"A CI gave it to me, sir. I've worked with that source for almost fifteen years and always found him completely reliable." Well, that was true enough, as far as it went. She kept her head up and her breathing calm, refusing to give into nerves. "He gave me the tip which broke open the Llano Estacado Bank robberies."

"Wow." Posada shook his head. "Cordero!"

The only man in a business suit swung around and came back. Posada handed him the page. "What do you think?"

"Routing numbers look real. I'd have to double-check the account numbers. Inside—" he looked up. "I'm drooling, boss."

Posada slapped him on the back and the two grinned together.

Steve unwound just a little bit, marveling at how the room seemed a bit brighter now that Ethan's gift wasn't a trap. On the other hand, what would happen to her if Ethan ever became the only one who could help them?

SAN ANTONIO RIVER WALK. LATE THAT EVENING

The saloon's DJ cut the latest Keith Urban hit off short, apparently tired of hearing good lyrics. In its place, he installed a high-energy, rock anthem from a new British band, cranking up the volume to stadium levels. How many patrons did he want to deafen with this ode to self-indulgence?

Ethan edged forward to count and bumped against the manager's wooden desk, sending a pile of liquor receipts sliding toward the floor. He slammed his elbow against them, hoping his MP5 would forgive the indignity of becoming a management prop. They settled back into place and he patted them down, stabilizing them against the music's insistent pulse. His beloved submachine gun nestled comfortably back into the crook of his arm, ready to be fired at the twitch of his finger.

He gritted his teeth and cooled his heartbeat, reminding himself yet again what he was here for. He was backup tonight, not primary, since he reeked far more than Jean-Marie did. At least to vampiro senses.

Jean-Marie was a superb spy, capable of learning any bit of information, and an astonishingly good assassin, judging by results rather than skill with guns. His two centuries as a vampiro gave him the ability to blend into crowds, with almost no identifiable scent. Only Don Rafael would have had a better chance to ambush any of Devol's bandolerismo. But he was back at Compostela, with Doña Grania.

Right now, Jean-Marie was concealed high overhead on the saloon's roof, upwind of any bandolero's likely approach. Ethan watched from inside, ready to move in any direction. Madame Celeste had hit San Antonio's tourists brutally hard, stretching the local compañía to its utmost. Hennessy, the Dallas adalid, had brought his compañía down to help, concealing them in the most scented shrubbery along the River Walk. Luis's men watched the police and commercial surveillance cameras, where they'd also ensure no vampiros' faces were permanently recorded.

All they needed now was for one of Madame Celeste's bandolerismo to walk past. For all the reports of prosaico deaths and rumors of vampiro sightings, there were no guarantees one would appear at the fattest nighttime, tourist attraction in Texas—the Crystal Star Saloon on San Antonio's River Walk.

Ethan smiled faintly and subtly flexed his shoulders above his MP5. Should one of those bastards appear, they'd show him a deathly good time—after they got the prosaicos out of the way.

Steve would enjoy a party like this, plus her superb shooting skills and uncanny ability to sight opponents would be an incredible asset. But it was far too dangerous to involve a prosaica, even a trained cop.

"Two women are leaving," Rough Bear reported from the saloon's security station. "We're now down to seventeen prosaicos in the main room and two staff. Another woman is standing up."

Reckless female
, Jean-Marie snorted.

Ethan grunted his assent. One a.m. was not when he'd advise a lady to stroll alone through a thickly landscaped park of cypress, palm trees, and other flowering plants and trees, scenically lit by ornamental lanterns. No matter how much the local bureaucrats touted their city's safety at all hours.

At least Rough Bear could see the saloon's classic decor clearly—its rough wooden paneling and brick walls, long bar with the large assortment of bottled temptations, scattered small round tables, bent frame wooden chairs, leather and denim clad waiters and waitresses. And all of it under very modern lighting, sound, and security systems which could be discreetly hired at the blink of an eye. Such as the Santiago Trust had done tonight, to observe the other guests.

"Ethan." Rough Bear's voice sharpened, icily clear through their expensive headsets.

Even the hairs on his arms came to full alert. "Yo?"

"Roald Viterra—that big blond—is dancing with a prosaica. I didn't see him before because the DJ was blocking my view."

Shit. If that torturer got his hands on a girl… "Did you catch that, Jean-Marie?"

"Copy," the Frenchman said far too laconically. He must be evolving and rejecting plans faster than his tongue could tell them.

"Do you want to move now?" He had to ask.

"No, we have to wait until he comes out." Jean-Marie gave the expected answer.

I'm a good enough shot to take out Viterra from here, without harming the girl
, Ethan countered, continuing the argument on a more private channel.
All I'd have to do is step into the entrance hall
.

How the hell would you explain shots fired inside a nightclub?

It's Texas. Somebody lost their head for a moment.

Nobody's that insane.

We're in Texas. We can fix the trial.

No. Women would be hurt
. Jean-Marie slithered forward, the sound of steel grinding over a tile roof barely apparent.

Ethan snarled privately but deferred to his elder hermano.

"He just looked around but didn't seem to see anything," reported Rough Bear. "Now he's got the girl by the hand and is leading her outside, fast. The southern side door," he added.

South side? Crap. That was Jean-Marie's worst view.

"Positions, everyone," Ethan ordered and bolted out of the office, racing for that side door. He had snipers atop several roofs farther downstream. Surely one of them could take out Viterra.

He shoved past a janitor, barely bothering to hide his gun under his denim jacket. Prosaico lives were his concern now, not their delicate sensibilities.

The door slammed before he could reach it and he wrenched it open. The night air was hot, moisture wrapping his throat like an unseen hand. Honeysuckle teased his nostrils, while a woman trilled with laughter over a man's compliment.

Why had he ever thought he wanted Steve to flirt like that with him? Thank God one woman at least had some sense.

"Who has Viterra?" he demanded of the men linked to him.

"I do. But I can't shoot him without hitting the girl," Jean-Marie reported far too calmly. Dammit, there was no time for Jean-Marie to come down from his roof.

Somebody else had to do better.

Would Steve accept the older, more feral vampiro code of justice under these circumstances, when a woman had been kidnapped by a known murderer?

Ethan sniffed, testing the layers of scent for the girl. Where were they? Ah, there!

"Too many trees," said Hennessy from the bridge, undoubtedly cursing the River Walk's curved layout which made it impossible to cover all lines of fire. "Plus, there's the—":

"Girl?"

"Aye, her too, Ethan," Hennessy agreed, in his still fluid brogue.

If Hennessy didn't have a shot… Shit. Ethan ran faster, dropping all pretense of being a tourist until he moved with vampiro speed. He was arriving from a different angle than the others and might have a better chance.

He slid through a clump of plants, saving valuable time and steps on the sidewalk, and ignored signs promoting the gaudy Mexican restaurant nearby. A carved stone bridge gleamed like moonlight ahead, shrouded in foliage but with a few gaudy umbrellas just visible at its base. Cars hummed on the streets overhead, faint reminders of other prosaicos nearby.

A woman was giggling softly a few steps ahead. "Oh, you're so sweet," she purred, clearly anticipating a delightful night.

Ethan bared his fangs. No, not in his Texas. And not where one of these bastards could hurt Steve.

A breeze whispered past, teasing his nose with honeysuckle and other flowers.

A boot scraped on the concrete and the woman's murmurs abruptly became a screech. Ethan glanced up at the bridge.

Viterra stared down at him, his face contorted in rage.

Ethan immediately fired a quick burst from his MP5. The bullets pinged off the stonework and the woman screamed, loud and long.

Viterra was already gone, and Ethan raced after him, tasting bitter betrayal in the honeysuckle's perfume. "Who has a shot?"

Empty silence.

The prosaica cursed him, words gentler than those he used for himself. A quick look over the parapet showed Viterra leaping off a boat and through a cafe's patio, shielded by the bridge's bulk from anyone's vision except Ethan's. He snatched a waiter away from making change and dragged him along, the man's denim-clad legs futilely scrabbling over the tiled floor.

Ethan snarled and leapt to follow, unable to shoot again.

Two steps later, the bastard had rushed into a hotel and was gone, dropping the waiter like a sack of flour.

Ethan ground his teeth and kept going, knowing damn well his chances of success were negligible. Shielded by their sense of smell, nobody could get close to Devol's followers except a prosaica.