Enemy Mine (7 page)

“So she injected you with something that you think caused to you become Superman?”

“Yeah. What the hell was it?”

Cross just scowled. “How long has it been since you were injected?”

“A little more than forty-eight hours.”

“And you still feel as potent as you did when you came to?”

“More so. It’s like it’s time-released.”

Cross sniffed the air and stood. Slowly he walked toward Nikko.

Nikko didn’t like the look in Cross’s reddening eyes and barely stopped himself from taking a step back. “Don’t fucking try to bite me,” he warned.

Stone, Satch, and Dante stood and closed in. Cassidy stood, too. Godfather didn’t move.

“Hold out your arm, Cruz, and man up.”

When he refused, Cassidy strode across the room, grabbed Nikko’s right arm, and shoved up his shirt-sleeve. “It doesn’t hurt, you big baby.”

Nikko steeled himself. Cross did his dirty work quickly. His fangs sank into Nikko’s wrist; instantly he jerked away, spitting the blood from his mouth.

“Jesus!”

Nikko ignored the throb in his wrist. He looked down at the bite wound and the blood oozing from it. “What is it?” he demanded.

Cross swiped his hand across his lips. “It’s vampire blood, but something else with it. I’m not sure. But it’s potent as hell and tastes like shit.”

“A mixture of substances?” Godfather asked.

Cross nodded and looked at Nikko, then up at the screen where Selena’s face still beckoned. “If she injected you, she’ll know what’s in it or at the very least where to get that information.”

“If you had to hazard a guess, what do you think we’re dealing with, Marcus?” Cassidy asked.

“Some illegal controlled substance, not of your kind,” he flatly said.

Nikko knew there was more to it. Much more. “Like what, vampire steroids?” he demanded.

Cross’s face had hardened to granite, and Nikko felt his seething anger. “In a word, yes.”

“
Is
there such a substance?” Cassidy asked.

Cross hissed in a breath, then evenly said, “There have been attempts in the past. But it’s strictly forbidden. The penalty is death for producing, distributing, or possession.”

“But it’s possible?” Godfather asked.

Cross nodded. “Possible, and”—he looked at Nikko—“probable.”

“How do I get rid of it?” Nikko demanded.

“A transfusion might dilute it, but like my blood, once it gets into your system, it doesn’t leave, it only wanes. Except it appears to be doing the opposite in you.” Cross stepped closer to Nikko. “Have you had any visions or nightmares? Since you returned?”

“I haven’t slept since I came to on the side of that road in Kyrgyzstan. Why?”

“Curious if you’ve felt the pull of a stranger. When a human receives vampire blood, regardless of how he or she received it, there is a telepathic bond with the donor.”

“What if the donor is dead?” Cassidy asked.

Cross smiled down at her and smoothed away a lock of hair from her cheek. “A very good question, love. In that case there would be no contact.”

“Is it possible that someone or some
thing
is draining vampires, then killing them?”

Cross scowled. “If vampires were being drained and dying for it, there would be an uprising in a world you humans have no idea exists. However”—he strode up to the screen and tapped Selena’s face—“this one attracts the type of people who have their finger on the pulse of the underworld. We start with her.”

Godfather looked pointedly at Nikko. “Pack your bags, you’re going to Miami.” He looked at Cross. “I’d consider it a personal favor, one I will be happy to repay, if you tag along. Cassidy goes with you both.”

“Of course,” Cross said.

Nikko was already headed for the door.

CHAPTER SIX

A
fter Joran’s visit, Selena tried to think of anything except Johnny, her father, and the anger Señor would express when she told him of her failure to secure the cask. Always in control, now she was out of sorts, off-balance. Her office felt like a cage, the air stifling. Too much pressure. Too much to do. And save the world while you’re at it. The urge to bolt and never look back had never been stronger. Her temple throbbed. She rubbed it and sat down at her desk.

She wanted the quiet sanctity of her house. Rarely did she leave the club before closing, but tonight she would instruct Amy Siedlecki, her GM, to take care of it. Selena wanted the solace of solitude and her big, comfortable bed. And sleep.

In minutes, she was at her private dock, then on her Chris-Craft motorboat motoring toward her sprawling Mediterranean manse on Star Island. The mortgage was hefty but the protection priceless. There, surrounded by water, the chance of her father or any daemon getting into her head was nil. Daemons were terrified of water; even big bad Hellkeepers avoided it at all costs. Luckily, she had not inherited that inconvenient trait from her sperm donor.

She docked and disembarked, thinking how nice it would be to have a regular dockmaster/groundsman greet her when she left for work or returned. But that was not in the cards. The fewer people she interacted with regularly, the better. It greatly reduced the chance of her father possessing someone close to her. It was why no one else knew of Marisol’s existence. Paymon could not hold anyone’s mind hostage for that information. Not even Selena’s. While her mother had failed to keep Paymon out of her thoughts and dreams, Selena was half-daemon and possessed the knowledge and will-power to keep her mind closed to the most determined daemon.

That had kept her alive all these years, that and Paymon’s being as convinced as the judge who’d sentenced Johnny to death that she was dead. Or so it had seemed. But it didn’t matter if Paymon knew she lived. She was stronger now. Wiser. A seasoned killer.

Laughter bubbled from her chest. “Oh, Daddy, I can’t wait to see the look on your daemon face when you realize it is your daughter who is cutting out your black heart.”

Selena let herself in via the kitchen, and though she wanted nothing more than to climb into bed, she made a detour to her home office. She expected to meet
el patrón
later that day in Little Havana. He would, as he always did, expect a full report. She sighed and plopped down in her chair and turned on her laptop. He was going to be angry. While she could deal with his anger, disappointing him distressed her more. He was a good man, he trusted her, he gave her great responsibility, and she had failed him.

But she still had a chance to redeem herself by obtaining the location of the cask. She smiled as her fingertips struck the keyboard. She hadn’t come home completely empty-handed.

A familiar knock disrupted Selena’s focus.

The door to her office slowly opened. Selena smiled up at Jujubee.

Ten years Selena’s senior, her distant cousin was the equivalent of Dracula’s Renfield. Except Juju wasn’t daft, deformed, or delusional. Juju was the polar opposite: smart, beautiful, and a realist who had brought Selena back from her own delusional dreams on more than one occasion. A dozen years ago, her mother’s third cousin had taken a chance on a better life in America along with fifty other
cubanos
and braved the ninety-mile stretch of Atlantic between Cuba and Florida. Since her mother had welcomed Juju with open arms, so had Selena.

Juju had told Selena just after her mother’s death of her dedication to and involvement with Los Cuatro. Selena had come to respect and love the cause with as much conviction as her mother had.

It was good to trust someone in a world where everyone was a potential enemy. Selena trusted Juju as she had trusted her mother. And Johnny. Once.

Juju cocked her lovely face, her dark-brown hair falling in waves around her shoulders, her milk chocolate—colored eyes snapping in aggravation. “Prepare yourself, Selena.” Juju set her hands on her slender hips and looked pointedly at her. “Señor Balderama et al are docking as we speak.”

Selena sat up ramrod stiff in her chair. “Here? Now? It’s four o’clock in the morning!” She hadn’t written her report. She hadn’t slept in almost two days! She was not prepared to bear
el patrón
’s disappointment. Selena stood up and smoothed her hands down the soft wrinkles of her slinky Chanel jumpsuit. She was still wearing the same clothes from last night. Selena chanced a glance in the mirrored back of her office door.

She might feel like crap, but, thank goodness, she didn’t look like it. As always, she looked pulled together. Expensive. Seductive. She dressed sexily on purpose. As the owner of Lost Souls, she projected sleek, understated elegance wrapped snugly around smoldering sensuality. Like a magnet, it attracted daemons because sex gave them power, just as being sexy fueled her flame. She dressed to thrill so that she could kill.

“Selena!” Juju snapped. “Get your head out of your ass.
El patrón
awaits!”

Selena glared at her friend, but her brain kicked into overdrive. “Send him in.”

“You will not go to him?” Juju asked, her brown eyes bugging as wide as hubcaps.

Of course, Juju was right. Selena swallowed hard and walked stiffly toward the door. Obviously,
el patrón
knew of her failure, and because he was so furious, he could not wait for their meeting later that day. Instead, he had come to personally exact punishment. So be it. She would accept whatever measure of wrath he chose to mete out. After what she’d done, she deserved it. But that didn’t change that she’d do it again if she had to. That’s just the way Johnny affected her. He always had.

The aromatic fragrance of fine tobacco and Napoleon brandy preceded him.

Selena stepped back as she opened the front door. Ignoring the dozen blacked-out bodyguards circled around him, she forced a nervous smile. His dark eyes stared unwaveringly at her.

Roberto Estefan Montoya-Balderama, head of Los Cuatro, was of modest height but was an impressive man. Dressed in an impeccably tailored Italian suit, he carried himself as if he were royalty, his deportment quietly and clearly stating, I am all-powerful, I will not
show
you how powerful, yet if you challenge me, you will pay for it with your life.

“Patrón,”
Selena said, nodding her head in respect. She waited until he extended his hand to her.

“Cazadora,”
he said, his voice deep and reverberating.

Selena smiled easier at the term, and a small amount of tension left her, loosening her shoulders. He called her Huntress. He had saved her life the day Johnny tried to take it. He knew all her secrets but two: what she really was, and that she had a daughter. But despite their close-knit history, and her mother’s work with Señor, Selena was always a little in awe of him.

“Come in,” she offered, taking his hand. As he stepped across the threshold, Selena was reminded of the power this man held. He carried himself as if he were the king of the world, and as far as the Latino world was concerned, he was God. Although most Latin nations in the New World were unaware of his existence and of Los Cuatro, hundreds of thousands of their citizens lived because of his existence.

Balderama had created Los Cuatro, a quiet but powerful organization that represented the best interests of all Latin countries. It was composed of one representative from the richest country, one from the poorest country, one from the most populated country, and one from the least populated country. The Four was its own Latino UN, one that doggedly challenged the drug trade that had infected all of Latin America, and, by doing so, kept each country accountable to her people. Only because of Los Cuatro had the majority of countries not been completely overrun by the likes of Colombian drug czar Pablo Escobar and his successors.

Los Cuatro had maneuvered Escobar’s ultimate surrender, then finally his death.

Los Cuatro had backed the bloody underworld war against the infestation of drug cartels in Mexico.

And Los Cuatro was quietly setting the stage to oust Venezuelan dictator Hugo Chávez.

Fate had intervened. Not only was Selena hell-bent on tracking down and taking possession of the cask, but so was Los Cuatro. Thanks to
el presidente
Chávez’s fixation with nuclear weapons, she had been called upon to go to Kyrgyzstan, with a personal side trip to Russia, where she had seen to several serum extractions. Her Los Cuatro mission was clear—follow Chávez’s men, who would lead her to the cask, track it to its final destination, then hijack it. But she’d failed. Now it seemed both Chávez and the daemon king still had a chance to get their hands on the goods.

Balderama was not going to like what she had to report. “Let us talk privately in my office.”

As the door closed behind them, Selena said, “I’m afraid,
Señor Patrón
, I have bad news.”

Balderama moved past her, sat down behind her desk, and steepled his big hands. She knew from experience his hands were firm, yet warm. His appeal didn’t come from classic good looks, but more from his demeanor: powerful, yet compassionate. His skin was the lighter side of café au lait. His dark eyes carried a hint of blue, maybe from a distant European ancestor? His spicy cologne wafted around her nose; his dark brows butted together in a fierce frown. “Tell me everything. Do not leave out one detail.”

Selena drew in a shallow breath and exhaled. “After nearly a week of shadowing Chávez’s men, I was able to get the rendezvous information. On my way, I came across a group of five Americans, CIA I think, backed by a dozen Kyrg commandos, who were waiting for the cask seventeen miles southeast of the rendezvous location.

“I assumed their intention was the same as ours. Why, and for whom, I have no clue, but the takedown didn’t happen. The trailer was loaded with armed mercs. With the help of the double-crossing Kyrgs, they took out the American contingent, then headed down the mountain and turned west toward Osh. I followed. The semi met up with a convoy. The cask was moved from the original transport into another. Still heading west, the convoy drove onto an airstrip two hours out, and into a hangar. Thirty minutes later, one trailer exited. I followed it, stopped it several miles out, and cannot tell you how royally pissed I was to find the trailer empty.”

El patrón
had not said one word or indicated by the slightest facial movement his feelings on the matter. “The driver?”

Selena smiled. “I have him downstairs.”

Señor Balderama smiled, showing a row of strong white teeth. “Then, shall we have a chat with him?”

“I’ve had several since my return. He hasn’t been very forthcoming, and he has a rather high pain threshold. I’ve been letting him stew. I think he might be about done now.” Selena walked to a black-lacquered panel on the wall next to her desk and pressed a recessed button. The panel quietly popped, then slid to the side, exposing a door. Selena opened it and turned on the light, revealing a steep stairway. “Let’s go stick a fork in him.”

Señor Balderama silently followed as she stepped down the concrete stairway. The door at the bottom opened to reveal a small hallway and several doors. Selena opened the first one to the right and flipped the light switch. Harsh light rained down on the lone figure sitting defiantly in a chair, his mouth covered with duct tape, his hands bound behind his back, and his legs bound at the ankles. His right arm was hooked up to an IV.

“
Patrón
, may I introduce Señor No Name, No Rank, No Serial Number. Which I suppose is irrelevant. Because I do know the important facts. From my own recon, I know this man was part of a group of Venezuelans who were engaged in the procurement of a lead cask housing reprocessed enriched uranium, which if strapped to a ton of TNT and detonated could kill or contaminate millions of innocent people. He seems to have no recollection of his nefarious activities and less of who his superiors are and how to contact them.” Selena looked at the uncomfortable man tied to the chair, then to Señor Balderama. “You of all people know I am no fool. He doesn’t have amnesia, he’s just being stubborn. I, for one, am willing to stop playing nice and”—she tilted her head sideways, hoping her casual conversation with
el patrón
would give Señor Silencio the push he needed to cough up the information she wanted—“use more extreme measures to acquire that information.”

Balderama’s compassionate gaze swept the man from head to foot before focusing on Selena. She wasn’t fooled, even if her guest pleaded silently with Balderama for help.
El patrón
was no fool either. Her guest just didn’t know it. Yet.

El patrón
looked down at the man and gave him a reassuring smile before he looked sharply over at Selena. “How hard did you work for this information? There isn’t a mark on him.”

Selena smiled tightly. “I prefer more subtle methods of interrogation,
Patrón
. Fists to face, tooth extraction, pistol whippings, it’s all so uncivilized, no?”