Bond of Darkness (37 page)

He sat back on his haunches and beamed. Beautiful piece of work, especially given these conditions and his total lack of time.

Nice, half-pound chunk of C-4 to make sure the interfering bastard and everything around him for a hundred feet was destroyed, plus a very short bit of det cord, and his cell phone.

All he had to do was find one of the other guys and borrow a cell phone.

After that, once they got anywhere near the little twerp, just toss the package in his direction, dial Yoshi's number, and presto! That asshole would never cause trouble again.

Maybe Viterra would loan him his cell phone. He was the only one, other than Devol—Yoshi shuddered reflexively—who had any appreciation of explosives' beauty.

Yoshi's phone lit up, displaying Viterra's name as if the man had heard himself asked for.

Yoshi started to smile. An instant later, letters began to spill across its display and he scrambled onto his feet.
Kaboom
!!!

Ping
! A bullet splatted against the rock above Rafael's head, sending deadly shards flying in a dozen directions.

One of his compañeros grunted briefly, the small sound laden with pain.

Rafael's mouth thinned. He didn't need to be a vampiro mayor to smell all the blood in the air, or know how many of his men had been injured. More so than necessary, since his personal guard had to be present in order to protect him.

He cursed himself yet again for being an arrogant fool. What had he gained by being here, so far from Grania? If he died on an errand which a compañero could have done better—after being suitably warded against vampiro mind probes, of course—he would have failed his duty, because he'd denied his esfera the union of its finest duelist and his cónyuge in an unbeatable team.

Lightning hurtled through the sky, its green fire mocking him. It blazed for a moment against the mountaintops, showing the black buckets which poured water over their shoulders and any man daring enough to lean out when he fired.

Were there shapes standing amid the rocks, after the lightning faded, forms edged in fire?

He cursed the tattletale under his breath and shoved another magazine into his M-4T. At least they'd forced El Gallinazo's convoy to remain on the pass's far side, beyond the bluff which the arroyo swept around. There'd been enough rain to make Rio Oso's waters gleam in its old bed. The old river was running fast and sweet now, concealing its depth as always. Three inches or three feet—who knew without checking it in person? And who'd willingly try that, given Rio Oso's uneven footing?

Another lightning bolt struck the ground, hitting the riverbed.

Everything shook, even the armored Suburban Rafael had arrived in. He ducked, instinctively grabbing anything handy for stability and slicing his hands on the jagged rocks, just as his neighbors did.

Upriver, the ancient cairn melted into the river, frothing water marking its killer's jaws. Boulders flexed against the water but who could judge their true size or the water's depth at this distance or in this light?

But with the plug gone, how high would the water rise now?

For a moment, the shooting stopped. When it resumed, El Gallinazo's men were more vicious, as if desperate to prove their right to cross.

Rafael fired again and again, forcing his enemies to fight for every inch of ground. Guiding his men to their best advantage. Thinking about the ostentatious duty he'd foolishly chosen, not about where he should be.

Lightning sparked and swirled across the sky, while thunder pounded the clouds and the ground. The air sizzled with electricity, rain hissing angrily as it bounced off the ground.

Suddenly all of El Gallinazo's Toyotas began to roll forward together, charging at the barricade's remains.

A single massive lightning bolt burst from rock to sky, splitting the darkness in a single, glowing sigil which burned itself deep into Rafael's eyeballs. He instinctively flung his hand up to protect himself, muttering an ancient Arabic charm against the evil eye.

High above, between the walls of rock, came a wall of white, flecked with darkness. A flash flood was racing down Rio Oso, taller than a man and strong enough to roll over semis.

"Run for the mountains!" Rafael shouted. "Climb, everyone!"

"You heard the man!" Posada joined in. "Take cover!"

The Texans ran for their lives, trusting their native earth would protect them. They scrambled up the slope, diving into cracks between the boulders, eager to reach safety above the tumult to come.

El Gallinazo's fighters charged faster onto the riverbed, eager to take advantage of the gap in shooting. The bluff hid the oncoming flood from their eyes. They fired again and again, leaning out of their Land Cruisers' windows or running alongside. El Gallinazo led them himself, easily identifiable by his protective cordon of bodyguards.

The Texans began to shout warnings. "Go back! Flood!
¡Inundación
!" But laughter and bullets were their only answers.

The waters rose only slowly around the trucks' tires at first. Foam began to dance, tumbling pebbles and small rocks end over end like a dangerous children's game. Little could be heard of the true danger, given the steady hail of bullets—until lightning splintered the night again.

Somebody screamed in one of the trucks. El Gallinazo shouted a string of profane orders.

The trucks tried to speed up but couldn't, given the treacherous sand and gravel underfoot. They slipped sideways or became stuck, their tires spinning hopelessly as their doors sank lower and lower. El Gallinazo pistol-whipped his bodyguards, demanding they carry him out. They dropped him and turned to run, like so many others.

The flood crashed over them, whipping through them like a gigantic hand of fate. In less than a minute, there was nothing left but a boiling froth of muddy water with a few large boulders, which had once been called Land Cruisers. A handful of men spun helplessly in the torrent, facedown and arms limp. There'd be dozens of corpses washed up in the desert, fodder for El Gallinazo's namesakes.

El hombre propone y Dios dispone
. Man proposes and God disposes.

Rafael crossed himself and bowed his head in prayer, giving thanks his companions were healthy.
Sabe Dios
, his other men were safe.

Steve withdrew a little deeper into the old building's shadows. From here, she could see all the way down Main Street to the courthouse and across that big intersection to the still smoking hole. She could see anybody moving but they shouldn't be able to see her.

She didn't know why the construction office had blown up, killing its two vampiros in that long, complicated explosion. She was only thankful she hadn't needed to figure out how to destroy the little bastard inside with his explosives smorgasbord, without killing herself, too.

Four down, two to go, with one for Ethan.

Anybody walking into the courthouse would have to pass in front of her sights. Anybody trying to reach the ATVs in their trailer or the expensive sports cars sinking into the mud would probably go down the road on the right, to the parking lot. Given the sparks flying from tonight's electrical storm, she might be able to see their shadows.

It was a good hide, too, made from hefty granite blocks as if its original architect had planned for a siege. They provided a dark interior, allowing her to look out but permitting almost nobody to look in. It was also reasonably unlikely anybody could smell her from outside, since she was still downwind of the courthouse.

She eased a little deeper into its depths, eyeing the courthouse square. Four entrances to that building but only one working staircase to the second floor, where Ethan fought that devil behind the big windows. If she stood sentry at the foot…

She flinched, terror's ice freezing her hand on the trigger. She could still be turned against him.

She closed her eyes and fought for breath, forcing her pulse to level out. She couldn't help Ethan if she had hysterics. Calm down, calm down.

She blew out a last, slow breath and rechecked her perimeter. Twelve o'clock, three o'clock, six o'clock…

Shit, a black shadow was working its way down the street toward the courthouse, dodging from side to side in an irregular pattern—probably to avoid the unknown sniper who'd left the Barrett lying in the road.

She grinned and gave her beloved M4 a congratulatory pat.

But this guy sported an even nastier silhouette, thanks to the LAW antitank missile he carried on his shoulder. That little bastard could take out the courthouse's entire second floor, assuming they were at a high enough altitude—which they probably were. Shit.

She sighted down the barrel, easing her pulse and breathing into steadiness. He should be crossing again—now!

She fired, crosshairs perfectly aligned on his heart.

But his free arm came up, pointing directly at her through the window—and he pulled the trigger on an MP5.

She dived sideways, her heart in her mouth. A bullet splatted into the wall behind her, followed by cascading rock shards. Fire burned her arm and she squirmed, coiling herself into a tighter fetal position, protecting her neck. Her skin flushed cold, then hot again.

A loud thud sounded outside.

Thunder boomed again, shaking the walls, and rain continued to pour.

Steve snatched up her rifle and ran for her alternate exit. A quick check showed no watchers and she dove for the next building, a glorified storage shed. No bullets touched her, no voice shouted at her—and slowly, infinitely slowly, her heartbeat began to slow. Her throat was tight enough to seal a bank vault.

An instant later, she ran again, winding up behind the former livery stable. From here, she could once again watch a stretch of Main Street. It was bare of anything except a LAW missile and an MP5.

Was he dead? Probably, who'd give up an MP5? Count it five down, one to go—and one for Ethan.

She laid her head back against the wall and began to tally up her resources for the next strike. Her left arm was sore as hell, blood dripping into her hand from where that shard had cut her just above her wrist.

M4 assault rifle, check; 11-87 shotgun in its tactical sling, check. A shotgun had always been an old-fashioned town marshal's favorite weapon because it was deadly at close range, without requiring a rifle or pistol's pinpoint accuracy. SIG P229 pistol in its thigh holster, check. Four magazines each for the M4 and P229, plus an autoloader for the 11-87, so she should be set on ammo. Assorted other goodies, check.

She snorted at her own silliness. Who cared how many guns you had when you were about to face somebody who could order you to do anything—and you'd obey?

She needed an advantage, something to make that vampiro so eager he wouldn't bother to put a mind lock on her. So cocky he wouldn't think straight.

Yeah, right, like that was going to happen.

She shook her head and went back to basics.

Well, she was fairly sure the last bad guy wasn't lurking in the courthouse's ground floor. But that didn't tell her where to go.

One thing she did need to do was bandage her arm. It wasn't injured enough to slow her down. But her hand was getting a little slick, which could be a serious disadvantage. Body armor vests were exactly that—molded Kevlar which covered one's torso, nothing more. They didn't do a damn thing for one's extremities and her other portions had gotten rather bloody.

Bloody.

Weren't sharks attracted to the scent of blood?

She frowned, considering her palm. Could she use this? Did she have the nerve to do so?

She swallowed hard, remembering all the generations of her family who'd been lawmen in Texas. The ones who'd fought through prejudice and anger and despair to do what was right for their fellows, hoping one of their family could finally become a Texas Ranger again. She pulled her badge out and pinned it on her chest, flashing the star and the wheel for everyone to see.

Then she began to walk down Main Street toward the courthouse, laying a trail for her last prey to follow.

Ethan shook his head to clear his mouth of blood and fur and circled the courtroom, facing Devol. Ethan was limping but no worse than his enemy. He'd lost some teeth, too, and one of his ears was badly notched. But his nastiest injuries were the broken ribs from that last tumble across the room, making his breath burn his throat like napalm. As for healing any of them—hah! He had better things to do with his energy, like rip the bastard's lifeblood out.

Devol snarled at him, deep in his throat. Death glared out of the yellow eyes and would be eagerly dealt by the bared fangs. Only one of them would leave this room alive—and both were fiercely glad they were finally free to settle the old grudge.

Ethan growled back, squaring his shoulders, measuring his opponent and their setting. Lightning flashed outside, briefly flinging an unsparing golden eye into every corner. The old courtroom still faintly reeked of the combatants, despite how vampiro blood and flesh immediately disappeared when removed from its owner. The land outside smelled of mud and fresh-washed grass, the coming harvest—everything he'd dedicated his life to protecting.

He sniffed again, catching another scent.
Steve's
blood?

What in the name of everything holy was she doing on the courthouse's ground floor, especially if she was injured?

Coldness ran through him, and deadly earnest. The world narrowed to Devol—the hungry eyes, the dripping teeth, the furred throat.

No matter what it cost, he had to kill the brute
now
and get downstairs, before anything else happened to Stephanie Amanda.

Steve considered her hide—or should she call it a nest? Considering she had four doors to watch, she didn't have much opportunity to build defensive walls against any of them. But she'd done her best, concealing herself on the ground floor behind the stairs leading to the second floor. She could see both entrances, which should allow her to control the situation, right?

Yeah, right—even with most of the windowpanes cracked.