Embers & Ash

ALSO BY T. M. GOEGLEIN:

Cold Fury

Flicker & Burn

G
.
P
.
P
UTNAM'S
S
ONS

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Copyright © 2014 by T. M. Goeglein.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Goeglein, T. M. (Ted M.)

Embers & ash: a Cold fury novel / T. M. Goeglein.

pages cm

Summary: “Sara Jane Rispoli is on the wrong side of the Russian mob, but closer to finding her family than ever. And she's willing to do whatever it takes to rescue them—even if the price is her own life”—Provided by publisher.

[1. Secret societies—Fiction. 2. Missing persons—Fiction. 3. Organized crime—Fiction. 4. Violence—Fiction. 5. Chicago (Ill.)—Fiction. 6. Mystery and detective stories.]. Title. II. Title: Embers and ash. PZ7.G5533Emb 2014 [Fic]—dc23 2013042498

ISBN 978-0-698-15839-9

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

For V.K.S., master storyteller

MY NAME IS SARA JANE RISPOLI.

I'm a sixteen-year-old girl—no, woman—which is an age that doesn't reflect how I've lived my life during the past six months.

Disappearance. Bloodshed. Lies upon lies, built like fancy layered pastries.

Terror and isolation stalk me, and violence has become a tool of survival. It helps me stay alive as I fight to locate ultimate power, hidden beneath the mysterious Troika of Outfit Influence.

I've done terrible things trying to discover that hidden place.

My worst sin has been serving as counselor-at-large for the Chicago criminal organization, the Outfit. It's my job to decide how members who break its rules are punished. There are bodies buried in landfills, sunk beneath Lake Michigan, and scattered elsewhere in charred bits and pieces that have me to thank for their deaths.

If it weren't for the Outfit, my life would be what?
Normal?
I don't know what that word means anymore. Normal is a fantasy that belongs to some other girl.

My birthday came and went without notice.

There was no cake or ice cream. Instead, I received the gift of a tattered old notebook bursting with Outfit secrets that I use on my enemies like a flamethrower.

I also discovered cold fury, burning inside me.

It grows colder and more furious the longer this nightmare continues.

My hope is that someday soon, I'll lock eyes with the people responsible for my family's disappearance. When that happens, they will cower and beg for mercy, seeing and feeling their own worst fear.

Me.

THE SKY ROARED AND FLASHED AS A VIOLENT
thunderstorm clustered over Chicago.

By late afternoon, dense clouds made it as dark as midnight. Rain fell like bullets as muddy ponds rose up, engulfing avenues, and electrical lines came down, blacking out neighborhoods. It had been an agonizing month to the day since someone disguised as one of Juan Kone's ice cream creatures—those poor, addicted teens—disappeared into the void with my family.

An ominous Saturday if ever there was one.

I'd just finished presiding over a sit-down and was rushing to my hideout, the Bird Cage Club, when Doug Stuffins, my best friend, sent me an urgent text message:

SJ—Get back here on the double! Major breakthrough in ToOI!

He didn't have to tell me to hurry. Those four little letters did the trick. They stood for Troika of Outfit Influence (I still didn't know if it was an object or a location), beneath which ultimate power was buried. It, too, was a mystery; the notebook spoke of ultimate power and provided a key to its vault, but did not reveal what it was.

I believed in it because there was nothing else to believe in.

Ironically, a mortal enemy strengthened my faith in the existence of ultimate power and its ability to help save my family. Elzy, my former nanny and recent assailant who'd vanished, had been crazed to get the notebook from me; she was certain that a secret existed among those old pages—a secret so strong that it could conquer the Outfit.

I hoped she was right.

I hoped so hard that I stopped paying attention and drove into a trap.

In the street ahead, a fallen electrical line jumped like a cobra on fire, spitting sparks. A skinny ComEd guy in a reflective vest and helmet used a flashlight to divert traffic around it, sending me down a flooded backstreet. I obeyed, driving slowly as water seeped beneath the doors of my car. Between slapping windshield wipers, I peered at a larger, burly ComEd guy waving me to a halt. The utility van sat with its orange siren twirling in the storm. It seemed so real that I stopped, just as instructed, sitting like a complacent fool until I saw his goggles.

They were just like those worn by the other men who'd been chasing me for the past week—actually, less chasing than tracking, as if I were a deer in the woods rather than a girl in a 1965 Lincoln Continental.

My latest pursuers were invisible until the last second, sneaking up in the rolling camouflage of the city—garbage trucks, taxicabs, and other vehicles that blended in unnoticed—until I realized how fast they were approaching. I'd escaped each previous time because I'd been hyperalert, as usual, and driving really, really fast. But now I'd been distracted by Doug's text and found myself sitting stupidly, motionlessly, staring at the burly guy.

If the goggles were meant to block cold fury, they were a weak defense.

Then I saw a claw-head hammer in his hand.

He swung once, shattering the driver's window into jagged bits.

I leaped for the passenger side but the other ComEd guy, the skinny one in the reflective vest, was jerking at the door, battering the window with the flashlight. He wore the same goggles above a gaunt face decorated with a dark goatee.

I pushed into the back of the Lincoln, scrabbling at the seats, pulling them down, and rolling inside the trunk. The old car is more than just a vehicle—it's a V8-charged weapon equipped for bad situations, stocked with water, a tire iron, disposable phones, a baseball bat, and the steel briefcase holding the .45. I knew then that the power line hadn't fallen—it had been pulled down to stop me. I grasped for the briefcase, desperate for the gun inside, and cursed myself, remembering it had no bullets. I'd taken Doug to a deserted warehouse to teach him to shoot correctly, and hadn't refilled the clip.

And then my assailants were splashing toward the back of the car.

I heard them muttering, making a plan under the pelting rain.

There was nothing to do but fight.

I grabbed the baseball bat, held tight, and kicked open the trunk top.

It hit something hard—the face of the skinny guy—there was a grunt, and he fell, and then the hammer barreled toward my face.

I held the bat wide, a hand at each end, catching the powerful blow as a metal claw splintered wood. The burly guy reared back for another shot but I dodged it, swinging awkwardly, missing him but knocking the hammer from his grip. He reacted quickly, grabbing the bat. I held on to it and he pulled so hard that I flew from the car. Now he had the bat while I went headfirst into cold water, scrambling away as he crushed the spot where I'd lain seconds before.

The skinny guy with the goatee was on his back, groaning, and I was on my feet, running, when the burly one grabbed my collar and flung me toward the Lincoln.

Spinning like a top, I hit the bumper and fell to my knees, hearing the burly guy sloshing toward me. I plunged a hand inside the open trunk, fingers grazing metal, and yanked out the tire iron. With jelly for legs, I gripped the weapon and turned toward the big man, who grinned. “You're going to lose, girl,” he said, sounding like,
Yoord goink to loose, girdle,
his voice riddled with a thick accent.

“Maybe,” I said, “but when you see your face in the morning, I guarantee you won't feel like a winner.”

He smiled again, lifted the bat, and swung. It was like an opponent in a boxing ring throwing a huge roundhouse right, except that it was a thirty-two-ounce Louisville Slugger instead of a fist. I went low, hearing it whoosh above my head, and came up behind him. He turned and alarm flashed in his eyes as I swung the tire iron. Lightning cut the sky like an electric whip and I saw it clearly—the ComEd helmet circling through the air, the guy pirouetting like a three-hundred-pound ballerina, and his skull. I don't mean his own, which was bald, and bleeding where I'd hit him, but a smaller one, with evil eyes, tattooed on his forehead. There was time for one thought as thunder boomed like a cannon—
What kind of freak tattoos a skull on his own head?!
—before I broke and ran, going headfirst into water again with Goatee holding my ankle. I brought the tire iron down and heard fingers crunch like dry twigs, the guy making kicked-dog noises as I waded down the alley. Soaked strands of hair covered my face like overcooked spaghetti and I spit rain, pushing past downspouts that were puking liquid gunk. It was like fleeing through quicksand, and I heard shouting and the whining of an engine.

I looked behind me.

The van's emergency light made orange ripples in puddles as the vehicle cut through the deluge and halted a few feet away. Skull Head climbed from behind the wheel and slung the bat over a shoulder like a caveman hunting meat. Goatee got out of the other seat and angled around me, pointing a gun with his unbroken hand, until I was surrounded.

His words were plain and cold; he was saying, “It ends now,” sounding like,
Eet ainds now-uh.
I nodded slowly, dropped the tire iron, and raised my hands, signaling surrender, and then rushed him, tucking and rolling like a gymnast as he fired over me. A double
boom!
was followed by the
chik!
of a bullet biting brick and the meatier
thook!
of another piercing Skull Head's skull. He huffed once and toppled into a puddle, dead in a second. The shock of it froze Goatee until he turned his jaw into the freight train of my left hook and went down hard, the gun skidding away. I jammed a knee into his chest, pulled his face toward mine, and saw that I'd been mistaken—a goatee didn't occupy his chin. Instead, it was a dark, angular tattoo of a devil's leering face.

I blinked once, cold fury flickered and burned, and I grabbed his gaze, trying to find the mental swamp where his deepest fear lived, but—

“My own brother . . . I kill him . . . it's your fault . . . ,” Goatee mumbled.

—I couldn't locate a single image, not one looping film clip; his mind was shut off to me. Vibrating heart to bone, I said, “Who the hell are you?! What do you want?!”

Goatee spit, smiled with bloody teeth, and said, “
Eh, fug you, stupid girl!
”

It had to be the goggles—they were blocking cold fury somehow—and I ripped them from his head and jammed them into my pocket. “Look at me,” I said. He squeezed his eyelids, but I pried them open with my thumbs and grabbed his gaze until he was unable to look away. He whimpered once, and I saw him cowering inside a prison cell, surrounded by men tattooed with crude images of stars and skulls, barbed wire, bears, and crosses. The mob converged, holding him down so he couldn't move. One of them slapped masking tape over his mouth, sealing the screams inside his throat, while another lifted a rusty needle dripping with ink over his chin, saying, “
 . . .”

I couldn't understand the language, but its rhythm—and Goatee's horror—was disturbingly familiar. Not long ago, for research, Doug made me watch a foreign movie with subtitles called
Brother,
about a young guy drawn into the gangster life, and how his rivals wanted to murder him. I learned how members were recruited in jail, sometimes against their will, and tattooed to identify their gang affiliation and rank.