Dead Man (Black Magic Outlaw Book 1) (19 page)

I fired up my shield and retreated, searching for the threat. My black cat peeked out of the open, back-door window of the white Hummer limo. Either he was trying to guide me or he was moving up in the world.

I made a break for the pretentious vehicle, skirting the building to keep it between me and the gunfire. Since my pursuers had to run through the structure's shadow, I waved a hand and the ground tugged at them, gumming up their movements. For a perfect moment, I became an Olympic high diver, careening through that open window in rare form.

I didn't stick the landing. Despite hitting a soft seat, I managed to flip around and kick bottles and glasses off a shelf. I came to rest upside down with my hand in a plate of oysters. The high life, all right.

I righted myself. No one else was back here, not even the cat anymore. Strange since I'd just seen it. I started to get the feeling it wasn't a normal zombie cat.

Bullets peppered the limo and I kissed the floor again. What sounded like hail hammered on the windows, but nothing got through. The freaking Hummer was bulletproof. I rose, raised the open window and checked the locks, and allowed a half smile.

Then the entire back windshield exploded.

Gunfire ripped through the cabin. Enchanted rounds again. Had to be. Or maybe your garden-variety, armor-piercing rounds. I didn't want to test them against my shield to find out.

I threw myself to the floor again. The oysters had the right idea. As I crawled toward the front cab, I noticed movement. There was a driver. "Get out of here!" I yelled.

Bullets swept over my head. Windows spiderwebbed. Expensive decanters of single-malt whiskey shattered. The interior of the limo became the Normandy invasion, but the freaking Hummer still didn't move.

"Namadi's dead!" I screamed. "Get us the hell out of here or we will be too!"

When the car didn't shift into gear, I shimmied to the front like I was navigating a trench. Between bursts of gunfire, I checked the driver.

The dude was wearing comically large headphones and jamming to music. I swear, ten years ago, cell phones were smaller, limos were smaller, headphones were smaller. So much for a future of miniaturization.

I ripped the bright red monstrosities from his ears and repeated myself. I don't think the startled driver understood a single word I said. The next argument he heard was more convincing: automatic fire ripping apart the newly-waxed chassis. He threw the Hummer into drive and floored it.

The driver weaved over the driveway to avoid the guards. I squeezed through the little window to the front with only one uncomfortable bump in the groin to show for it. It was better than a bullet, anyway.

The guards at the gate raised their weapons. I grabbed the wheel and forced a hard right onto the grass. The tires peeled through the lawn and sped across the property toward Second Avenue. The driver understood the plan and picked up speed before crunching the Hummer right into the green metal fence.

I tell you, the perimeter fence was firmly rooted to the ground. Impenetrable. But Hummer limos at speed don't mess around. The irresistible force met the immovable object. We won.

As we sped away from Little Haiti, both our heads ducked safely below the windshield, we traded glances.

"Not bad driving," I commended. "How do you feel about whiskey and oysters?"

 

 

 

 

What did I think was gonna happen? It wasn't just a single person I'd gone after, it was an entire gang. No shame in retreat under those circumstances. Hell, it was outright cocky to think I could've handled everybody at once. I guess old habits die hard.

If I kept it up, I'd die hard too. Again.

My breach of the Bone Saints compound (besides the undignified end) actually accomplished a lot (besides pissing off a collective Little Haiti). I now knew who my real enemy was. Not the Saints. Not Baptiste or Max or Namadi. It was all Tunji Malu. Everything had been Tunji Malu. The asanbosam. The West African vampire. He was the one who had cursed me. Knowing that was some mark of progress.

The smug look on his face as he accused me of assassinating the gang leaders drove me to anger. I demanded the limo driver turn around and take me back. He refused and reminded me that I was the one who had convinced him to run in the first place. I knew he was right but I was too amped up to like it. I hated turning my tail between my legs once again.

We drove south and the shock wore off. I realized I was sitting on a gold mine. Here's a life pro tip: if you want to get at affluence's dirty laundry, ask the hired help. The limo driver was quite enlightening.

For one, he was totally creeped out by Tunji. The driver didn't know anything about magic, but he was superstitious enough to be scared. He didn't hesitate to believe my account of what had transpired in the meeting. Not only that, he was smart. He recognized that he was a liability now. The poor guy decided to head straight for the Port of Miami and flee the country.

On the way, he answered anything I asked. Namadi had arrived from West Africa, with Tunji Malu in tow, twelve years prior. It was a rags-to-riches story, but I only got the broad strokes because the driver had only been employed for a few years.

That had been plenty of time to confirm my suspicions.

Apparently, while Namadi had been "the boss," his bodyguard had free reign to make power plays throughout the city. Namadi hadn't been a voodoo priest. As for Tunji, his full skill set remained to be seen.

My West African mythology is rusty, but creatures like Tunji Malu come in several categories. He could be one of the cursed, once human but no longer. They're sometimes called subhumans (but as a general rule never to their faces). Zombies are an undead example.

Conversely, asanbosam might be fae, any of a number of underling races from the Nether. I'm not too keen on the Nether. It's a wild place of twisted life and blackened blood. Anansi trickster spiders fall into that category. With everything I'd seen, I bet Tunji did too. Except he was humanoid. More intelligent. I was guessing he was a silvan or a fiend of some sort.

It didn't really matter whether the vampire knew magic or
was
magic. One thing was certain: he was otherworldly. He didn't fit in the natural world. Several times the driver referred to Tunji as invincible, his words a reverent whisper, as if speaking of a legend. I've learned that legends are overrated but often have truth to them.

On the more practical side of things, I got the address of Namadi's mansion in Coconut Grove.

The driver offered me the Hummer. He didn't need it anymore, but I didn't want any part of it. A respected community leader was now sans a head. The police wouldn't look kindly on whoever possessed his stolen vehicle. I settled for a ride instead and offered the limo driver a word of luck when we parted.

It wasn't until he dropped me off that I thought of the cat again. I checked the back cabin but he wasn't in sight. I couldn't feel his connection either. My best guess was that he'd taken a bullet. The disappearance was a bit unsettling, but I had larger issues to worry about.

I knew better than to stay on the streets. Of all the places to lie low, I ended up at a strip club drinking a twelve-dollar beer, staring at my phone instead of the girls. (Okay, I peeked from time to time). These joints weren't known for their sincerity. Ironically, it might've been the only place in the city I still had a friend.

For about an hour, I tucked myself in the back corner with a shadow over my face. That was usually enough to be left alone, but here a new girl offered me a lap dance every five minutes.

It was dumb in hindsight but, in my early twenties, I used to have fun in strip clubs. I knew the silicone and smiles were illusions, but it was a game I enjoyed. The flirting, the invented stories, the arms around your shoulder. Now I looked around and all I saw was desperation and sweat.

Wow, listen to me. Most people live a lifetime before they start sounding like their parents. Me? A decade flashed by in the blink of an eye and I'd just quoted my father.

It's always hardest to hear when you need to listen most.

I accepted another beer and drank, thinking about friends and enemies. Neither were turning out quite how I'd imagined.

"Care for a dance?" asked a voluptuous bombshell wearing a bikini top three sizes too small.

I leaned forward and let the shadow fall from my face. "Howdy, Milena."

She started. Her reaction was to cover up, which I thought was strange considering the venue. She went from modest to indignant real quick.

"Cisco, you asshole!"

"What'd I do now?"

She smacked my arm. "I don't like my friends coming here."

I threw up my hands in surrender. "I'm not here to start trouble. Honest."

A meathead who put those old posters of Arnold to shame suddenly appeared. "Is there a problem here?"

Before I could renege on my previous promise, Milena jumped in. "Sorry, Mike. We're good. I was just convincing my lovely customer here to buy me a Sex on the Beach."

He nodded and waved the cocktail waitress over.

"You know that'll cost me fifteen bucks, right?"

"Twenty," she said, taking a seat. "And it's watered down to hell. But you gotta pay for my time when I'm working."

"As long as I'm paying—" I started.

Milena cut into me with her finger. "Don't you even make jokes about that."

I shrugged. It was a sensitive issue with her. I could respect that. The waitress returned with what amounted to a juice shot in a martini glass. I gave it a puzzled stare, trying to figure out why someone would drink something like that.

"What's up?" asked Milena. "I can give you five minutes. Then you're outta here."

I sucked my teeth, both impressed and disturbed at the same time. This wasn't the same Milena Fuentes I had known. It wasn't just the meaty hips and generous bust, either. She'd come a long way. Milena was a survivor. Turned a bad deal on its head and made it something—not good, maybe, but better.

"Hey," she commanded, snapping her fingers. "Eyes up."

I nodded. "I need to borrow your car."

She shrugged. "That it? You had me worried."

"That's not it, Milena. I need your help. I know it's a lot to ask, but you're the only one I can trust."

She sipped her "drink" and leaned back. "Now you're just being melodramatic. You have lots of friends, Cisco."

"You'd be surprised. What I did today..." I stared at the beer in my hand. Anything to avoid looking her in the eyes. "It may have hurt Evan. His career. His family. His nice little life."

"What'd you do?"

"Just put the truth out there. It's the fallout that might hurt."

Milena put her hand on mine, drawing my gaze. "Cisco. No one will blame you for wanting answers. Especially not Evan."

"He wanted me to stay away and I didn't."

"He'll forgive you."

"I'm not too sure about that," I said. "He wanted me to get out of town."

"If people are trying to kill you, it might not be a bad idea," she reasoned.

"It wasn't for my safety. It was for his."

She shook her head. "That's crazy." With a gulp, she killed the last of her cocktail.

"I can't trust him, Milena. Not anymore."

"Evan would never betray you. He's a true friend."

I snorted more aggressively than I intended. "He's mixed up in this, Milena. Maybe he was my friend at one point, but ten years is a long time. I can't blame him for having new priorities now."

"This is bullshit," she said, standing up. "Listen, Cisco. My shift ends in an hour. Come back to my place. Relax. You'll realize I'm right."

My burner phone rang. The number was blocked.

"Here it goes," I said, holding the phone up to her. "There's only one other person who knows this number."

"Then maybe you should answer it, douche nozzle. He's probably concerned for you. To be honest, I kinda am too. Let me get my car keys. I'll meet you outside."

She walked away, flashing a smile at the bar manager. I should've known better than to come here. The last thing I wanted was to mess up somebody else's life. I made my way outside, shielding my eyes from the blinding sun. The phone had stopped ringing but started up again. I leaned against the concrete wall and answered it.

"What the fuck did you do?" demanded Evan.

"Do you even wanna hear my side?"

He ignored my tired sarcasm. "They say it was a mess over there, Cisco. A real bloodbath."

"You know me. Go big or go home. By the way, thanks for your intel phone call."

He sighed loudly into the phone, making it clear his decision was arduous. "You're gonna need to come in," he finally said.

I laughed. "And what? Tell the detectives I was a zombie for ten years at the behest of a Nigerian voodoo outfit?"

"We'll tell them you were a prisoner for ten years. It's true enough."

"Then what, Evan? I get charged as a mob accessory? It's either hit man or vigilante. Both spell outlaw." I paced away from a man lighting a smoke and lowered my voice. "I'm not going to the cops."

He sighed again. I guess that's his phone equivalent of hands on hips. "You're not giving me much choice here."

"And what choice did you give me? You knew the Nigerians had the commissioners in their pocket. You knew Namadi was a pawn. And you tried to brush me aside. Your best friend."

Evan's tone changed, like maybe he was repositioning the phone. "What are you talking about?"

"The community redevelopment deal."

"What about it?" he asked. "Namadi contributed to a number of land deals in the Biscayne area. There's a citywide revitalization project underway. How does that implicate Namadi Obazuaye?"

"It's Tunji Malu who's implicated. He was the real player on that end. He killed me, turned me into his thrall, and ordered me to attack the Bone Saints. He wanted the crime up and down Biscayne to be very public. To drive real estate values down."

"Where did you get this from?"

"Don't play stupid, Evan. Who do you think benefits from bargain-valued land? The ones snatching it up. Namadi and your bosses. That's what this is all about. I finally see it. It's not about Nigerian culture. It's gentrification. More money for the rich, in the name of revitalization and safety." I spit on the floor. "You sold me out for a political career."

Evan swallowed calmly on the other end of the line, thinking over his reply. Instead of an immediate denial, he surprised me.

"I can't talk over the phone, Cisco. We should meet in person."

"And how's that different from turning myself in?"

He hissed. "You need to trust me, man. That's how."

My jaw was sore. My fist was clenched. I was wound up.

But I wasn't stupid.

"I'll think about it," I said, and hung up.