Six Times Deadly: A Lawson Vampire Story Collection (The Lawson Vampire Series) (4 page)

Correction: Stegman apparently did.

“You’re chasing a legend.”

He shrugged.
 
“You think so?
 
I don’t.
 
I found Despar’s journal, written after he successfully made his way home to Florence.
 
He left specific instructions for locating the cloak.”

“And you know where it is?”

Stegman frowned.
 
“Almost.
 
I have one or two things I need to acquire before the exact location can be discerned.”

“Hence the money laundering operation you’ve been running.”

“The collapse of the Soviet Union left a power vacuum.
 
Now there are people coming to power with no knowledge of how to grow their money.”

“Or hide it.”

“Naturally.”
 
Stegman grinned and looked out of the window.
 
“Corruption is a natural by-product of chaos.
 
The Russians need someone they can trust.”

I shook my head.
 
“You’ll attract too much attention.
 
You know the Council can’t allow that.”

Stegman eyed me.
 
“You’re out of your league here, Lawson.
 
The man on the roof will kill you the moment I give the signal.”

“He’ll need a bit of luck to take me down through the plate glass window here.
 
I figure the distance is at least a thousand feet.
 
Plus wind.
 
He’d better know his stuff.”

“He does.”

The way Stegman said it didn’t fill me with much confidence.
 
It was entirely possible he’d tracked down someone who knew how to make that shot easily.
 
There are a lot of vampires who wouldn’t mind taking a Fixer out.
 

We’re so unappreciated.

I stared at Stegman.
 
“So, you get the cloak and then what?
 
You keep laundering money for other people?”

He shook his head.
 
“I’ve been funneling most of it into an offshore account in Grand Cayman for months now.
 
The money buys me the life I want.
 
The cloak affords me the security I need.”

“Not much of a life always looking over your shoulder.”

Stegman glanced at his manicured nails and shrugged.
 
“You manage.”

I smiled.
 
“Most of the people I meet end up dead very quickly.”

“Except me.”

I hefted the large cup of Pepsi and shook my head.
 
“Don’t count on it.”

As Stegman frowned, I jerked my right hand, launching the Pepsi all over the window even as I already started to slide out of the booth around to where Stegman sat.

The plate glass window shattered as the first round crashed through, scoring a line across the back of the seat and impacting the floor inches from my foot.

I yanked Stegman down and out of the booth, using his body to shield my own as another bullet slashed through the air.
 
Those sniper bullets would fragment lignum vitae wood into my bloodstream and that would make for a real unpleasant day.
 

The two people behind the counter screamed and high-tailed it for the back door.

My exit.

“Let’s go.”

Stegman put up a fight until I drew my pistol and thunked him on the side of the head with it.
 
His body went limp.

The sniper would need to break the rifle down and stow it before coming down.
 
We made the back door and I risked a look outside.
 
I’d only have a problem if Stegman had back-up.
 

But no bullets shattered the doorjamb and I eased us outside, keeping Stegman’s body in front of mine.
 

The wail of sirens told me my time was limited.
 
Human cops would swarm all over the area, looking for the culprit who shot out the windows at the pizza joint.
 
That meant the sniper would run.

Stegman started to come around.
 
I jerked him up by his collar.
 
“Who’s the shooter?”

He shook his head.
 
“You’ll kill me if I tell you.”

“You’re dead either way, buddy.”

I could see the look in his eyes.
 
Stegman had never impressed me as much of a big fish and the look of acceptance now confirmed it.
 
Not all of the bad guys I chased were impressive.

“He washed out of a Specter unit for drug use.”

I frowned.
 
Specter teams were the guys who didn’t make the cut to become Fixers and instead served as security for vampire towns and villages.
 
Drug abuse wasn’t limited to humans, though.
 

“Thanks.”

Stegman looked up at me, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk anymore.
 
I pressed the barrel of my pistol to his chest and squeezed the trigger.
 
A single pop sounded and Stegman’s face contorted in agony as the wooden fragments exploded into his bloodstream.
 
His fangs extended their full length and then began to retract as death came for him.

I let his body slide behind the dumpster and glanced around.
 
The sirens were about ten seconds away and I needed to be anywhere else.
 

I hoofed it around front then slowed, finding my way to my car two blocks further down as the first cruisers screeched to a halt behind me.
 
I gunned the engine and slid out and away from the commotion.
 
Better for me to be elsewhere.

My cell purred in my pocket.
 
Niles, my Control.
 
I flipped it open.
 
“Yeah?”

“You at the airport?”

“No need.
 
Stegman found me.”

“Interesting.”

“He brought a friend.
 
He got away.”

There was a pause.
 
“That’s a bit unlike you.”

“Guy was a sniper.
 
Had the drop on me from a thousand feet.”

“We know who he is?”

I smiled.
 
“Not yet.
 
That’s where you come in.”

“I assume you’ve got details.”

“Former Specter.
 
Washed out for drugs.”

“We can work with that.
 
What happens then?”

“Only so many holes a guy like that can climb into.
 
Just a matter of me finding the right one.”

“Before he finds you.”

I smirked.
 
“There is that small possibility.”
 
I hung up the phone and cruised down Commonwealth Avenue toward the city.
 
As the evening descended, one more shadow would slink across the city tonight.

At least until I found him.

Red Tide

The gunfire, went it started, came from the place I least expected: behind me.
 
The first two rounds shattered the back windshield, showering the seats and my head with bits of glass.
 
I frowned and drew my own pistol, trying to keep the car steady with my other hand.
 

That’s when I felt the sudden bump - my car started to spin left.

Giving up on the pistol, I jerked the wheel with both hands, steering into the skid.
 
No joy.
 
The driver behind me knew how to execute the PIT maneuver well and kept the pressure on.
 
The car spun and I found myself facing backwards.

Ordinarily, the PIT maneuver works because the people the cops do it to haven’t been trained how to get out of it.
 
Instead of trying to steer my car around, I simply slapped it into reverse, stomped the gas and shot down the road tail first.
 
Once I gained some distance, I jumped on the foot brake locking the front tires as I spun the wheel around hard.
 
My car twisted in the J turn shooting around, facing front again.

The Chevy Caprice I’d been following was gone.

In the rearview mirror, I saw lights as the car that had tried to immobilize me got back into the game.

Distracted, I never saw the sudden reappearance of the Caprice until it barreled right into me from the side, knocking me senseless against the window.
 

I heard the crunch of grinding metal.

Smelled scorched rubber.
 

Saw stars.

And I had the sensation of sliding across the asphalt.

I was going off the road and passing out.

***

Ducky’s Pizza sat on route 151 just outside of Mashpee, Massachusetts.
 
It served pizza, cold beer, and desperation.
 
On the Saturday night when I strolled in, the singer fronting the house band looked like a piece of driftwood pockmarked by years of cheap booze and cheaper women.
 
Yellow curls drifted past his shoulders – a decaying perm slowly being conquered by white strands that underscored a bad aging process.

Ducky’s was the kind of place that kept a well-stocked bar that no one in the know ever ordered from.
 
Guys here ordered piss-yellow lite beers to go along with their pickup trucks, beer bellies, and lack of hair.
 
And the gals drank rose wine or maybe a Scotch and soda while they pretended to be at least a dozen years younger than they actually were.
 
It was strictly a dive joint, despite any claims to the contrary.
 
Everyone in Ducky’s was searching for something, although most of them had no clue what it was, only a vague notion that they might recognize it if it happened to bump into them one buzz-induced night.

Tonight, in addition to the wailing Sammy Hagar wanna-be, the widescreen TVs showed Ultimate Fighting Championship matches.
 
Anderson Silva came out and promptly reduced his most recent challenger to a pile of bloody rubble.
 

If only real combat was as easy.
 
Rings, rules, even referees.
 
I might never have to step foot inside a joint like this.

But I did.
 
All because my Control Niles had informed me that one of the shooters in last weekend’s kidnapping attempt was rumored to hang out here.
 
The plot was strictly amateur hour and the Specter team guarding the Council member’s family had quickly made the other shooters look more like Swiss cheese than actual threats.
 
But one had gotten away.

My target tonight.

Knowing Niles, he was probably enjoying a good drink in a far classier place.
 
Probably he had his arms around some young love stud who had no idea that a vampire was cozying up to him.

And I was here.
 
Lucky sonofabitch that I am.

Looking at Ducky’s didn’t exactly instill me with confidence that the intel tip Niles had passed along was sound.
 
That wasn’t Niles’ fault.
 
A lot of times we got tips from scumbag informants who’d sell their mother’s soul for a buck, all because they’d managed to screw up their own pathetic lives despite the Council’s best efforts to make sure no vampire ever wants for much.
 
Some people are just born losers.
 

I know enough of them.

From that perspective, Ducky’s looked like a perfect fit.

Two guys at a nearby table looked almost as out of place as I felt.
 
One nursed a darker beer and the other had a rum & Coke.
 
The beer drinker was commenting on the UFC matches, telling his friend now that action always beats reaction and the guy who’d been beaten had his guard too low to be able to fend off the roundhouse kick that had knocked him out cold.
 
He was doing all of this while giving a blonde a searching look, trying to figure out if she’d be a worthwhile lay after a few more beers had reduced his high standards to crotch level.

They took off and I had the place to myself.
 
Just me and the losers.

The band took a break.
 
It was a three-piece outfit; the singer who strummed a guitar, a younger drummer who seemed fairly capable, and a bass player who looked like he and the Grim Reaper had each other on speed dial.

Better music filtered out of the overhead speakers, but it did little to improve the place.
 
The bar staff circulated, asking people if they wanted another drink.
 
No one came over to take my order so I flagged one of them down with a twenty, which probably looked more like a fifty in a joint like this.

A tall dude sauntered over wearing a baseball hat backwards and a T-shirt that had more grease stains than actual fabric showing.
 
“What can I get you?”

“Did I see a bottle of Bombay Sapphire on the back bar as I came in?”

He shrugged.
 
“Probably.
 
Lots of stuff back there that hasn’t been cracked yet.”

“Well, open it up.
 
Pour half into a highball with half tonic over ice and squeeze a chunk of lime in.”
 
I handed him the twenty.
 
“That’ll buy me one more and leave you with a nice tip if you make it properly.”

He eyed me, trying to decide if coming up with a lame retort was worth the effort or if it was just easier to take the money, make the drinks, and pocket the difference.
 
Smart guy that he was, he chose the latter.

I scanned the crowd again.
 
Ducky’s looked like the kind of place you could score without even trying.
 
And there was something almost scary about that.

My drink arrived three minutes later and I sipped it, surprised the guy had made it well.
 
I let the flavors roll over my tongue and down the back of my throat, enjoying the subtle pleasure a well-made drink brings.