Vigilante 01 - Who Knows the Storm (5 page)

Cade found the girls in the massage room were terrible gossips.

As the meeting went on, all attention turned to Anniversary Weekend and the level of service expected of the models.

“What?” Zed said, stopping in the middle of a point about the add-ons to the various “acts” they were allowed to perform. Behind Cade, Alec had raised his hand.

A collective groan went up.

“Curious about a thing,” Alec said sweetly, kicking his legs out to tangle with Cade’s chair. “I’m assuming Herr Volder is one of the guests for the Anniversary Weekend.”

Zed didn’t even turn in Alec’s direction, he just indicated to Damian he should answer.

“Yes, he was part of the original two hundred,” Damian said, scowling. He didn’t like Alec, for many reasons—mostly centering around Alec’s refusal to do his time sheet properly.

“Marvelous. And can I ask who is assigned to keep Herr Volder company?”

A second groan, and Zed narrowed his eyes. “Rachel?” He threw it over to her; Cade knew how much she loved insulting the talent in front of large groups.

“He knows the answer.” She toyed with the hem of her sleeve, the epitome of bored. “And he knows why.”

Alec kicked Cade’s chair. “Ah, of course. Well, then, I offer my protest at not being considered. I do speak German, after all,” he said, all politeness and an accent like an action movie Euro-villain.

“He’s not really interested in my conversation skills,” Cade drawled, rocking his chair back suddenly, so Alec had to pull his feet away.

A titter of laughter.

Rachel clapped and then stood up, apparently unwilling to grant Alec the floor for his regular attention-seeking song and dance. “Do what you’re told and make your money, Alec. You know the goddamn drill,” she said with finality. “Improve your cocksucking skills and I’ll see if I can’t upgrade your skinny ass.”

She said it with the sweetness of a kindergarten teacher, and someone in the back snorted loudly.

The meeting was over—which Zed realized a second later.

“All right. See you on the floor at nine,” he said. Rachel was halfway toward the door. No one else moved a muscle until Zed turned around.

They were dismissed.

Zed, with Damian, left in a flurry of murmurs, no doubt Damian giving a rundown of how much money they were expecting to take in over the next three days. Long weekends were good for business, and the advertising cycles were pushing the glamor and glitz of the upcoming Anniversary Weekend like crazy.

The staff filed out, headed for the coiffing that would fill the time before they were due upstairs. On-site they enjoyed a salon and specialists catering to them looking their best. Half a floor was just wardrobe.

But Cade didn’t move, and neither did Alec.

“Don’t you get tired of repeating yourself?” Cade asked, tangling his fingers over his stomach. He didn’t bother to turn around.

“Don’t you get tired of being the shiniest whore in Whoreville?”

“You need new insults.” He sat up and turned around to see Alec grinning delightedly.

“You love them.” Alec elongated the
l
sound and batted his long eyelashes. He made most of his money off their female clients—wives and girlfriends who kept busy while their men were otherwise occupied. Female executives and politicians who wanted all the trappings of their stature, including paying for sex. The occasional threesome for their more bicurious guests. He and Cade performed together now and again, but Cade—well, he was primarily a solo act, and his prices reflected that.

The mixing of a Costa Rican mother and a French father produced Alec’s exotic look, which initially turned heads—and the constant work he did on his body caught their second glances and their money.

The competition between them had started in their first days together—both young and beautiful, both anxious to find job security in a world that chewed up and spit out models on a daily basis. And oh, the pretty boys and girls who couldn’t cut it in the first year, who didn’t earn enough to cover the four grand for their plane tickets home—money wasn’t easy to come up with when you were out on the street, and beggars got jail quicker than they got spare change.

“Come on, Farm Boy—I’ll buy you some coffee before we get rouged up.” Alec winked, tucking a line of black hair behind his ear. “You need a little extra help today. What the hell did you do to your face?”

“Sweet-talker.” Cade stretched out, hearing his spine crackle and pop as he ignored Alec’s comment. “I need a nap.”

“Mmmm… is that an offer?”

He shook his head, standing up quickly. “Get your juices running with someone else. I’m saving my dick for someone who pays me.”

Alec followed, crowding their bodies close together, Cade’s back against his front. “You’re no fun.”

Cade allowed a moment—just a single second of an embrace. Alec was big and warm, breathing against the back of his neck in a gentle way. Wouldn’t it be nice to do this with someone where money wasn’t exchanged? Wouldn’t it be lovely to be with someone just for the experience?

He’d never had that.

But that wasn’t his life. He had a job to do.

Chapter Four

N
OX
FINISHED
off the last of his coffee and a plate of toast and sausage. When he got home from his little confrontation with the pretty boy, Sam was holed up in his room, and all the knocking and requests for him to come out went ignored. His temper rose, and once again he remembered how out of his league he still was, still winging this parenting thing after all these years.

With a sigh, he cleaned the dishes, leaving a covered plate for Sam at the table.

Outside, night had fallen. The warning sirens sounded on the hour until eight, and then this part of town fell under a tense hush. No one went outside; no cars or people could be found. Once upon a time, people had walked on the street—taking their dogs to Riverside Park or going to dinner, coming home from work, or running out to the theater. On the rare occasion of his father being in town and his mother feeling well, Nox and his parents might walk down to Columbus and have dinner at the little Italian place with the great garlic bread. Nox would sit on the stoop of the townhouse and talk to Lidia, his neighbor and fellow classmate at Trinity. Or he’d go to his room and listen to music while playing video games with his friends.

Simple life, beautiful city.

Sometimes it occurred to him that Sam had never experienced that. He didn’t know the simple pleasures of life. He had no memories of indulgent Christmases or vacations to St. Bart’s.

He’d never been off the Island.

He didn’t know his parents.

Aside from Nox, everyone who’d ever cared for him was gone now.

Well, that was something they had in common.

Nox sat in the recliner, rereading
The Art of War
as the grandfather clock ticked behind him like an ancient sentry. It had survived everything—storms and looters and violence. Every click reminded Nox of the slow and steady road of life. You couldn’t let anything throw you off-balance.

Soft footsteps caught his attention; he looked up to see Sam in the archway of the study, his face drawn and pale.

“I need to tell you something,” he murmured. His glasses were sliding down to the end of his nose, dark curls a mess, like he had been pulling at his hair in frustration. He was still dressed in his uniform, wrinkled and untidy in a way he never was.

“Okay.” Nox closed the book, taking his time to put it on the side table.

“I….” Sam swallowed, fists clenching and releasing over and over at his side. “Someone came to the house today and gave me a letter.”

“I know. I saw him.” Nox waited a beat, folding his hands in his lap. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said, shaking his head. He looked genuinely surprised by the entire situation. “He knew my name and gave me this letter.” A white square materialized from behind Sam’s back.

Sam looked rattled, which made Nox’s heart thump dramatically in his chest.

“What did it say?” He kept his voice even.

Tears sprang to Sam’s amber eyes; he extended the letter as if to give it to Nox but pulled it back at the last second. “It says… it says that they might be able to help me find my parents.”

The room tilted. Nox tripped out of the chair, the furniture crashing and falling around him. It had to be real, not a figment of his imagination, because Sam’s words were amongst the worst he could have heard.

Because he knew that that was impossible. No one could find Sam’s parents because they were dead.

The anvil dropped between them.

Tick, tick, tick.

Nox stood up slowly. He didn’t like to use his size against Sam; the boy was slim and small, and Nox stood a head taller, his wide shoulders casting a shadow over Sam’s form.

Finding his real parents—a quest Sam had become fixated on in recent years. He’d starting asking when he was seven and realized that babies came out of ladies and there weren’t any of them in his life.

“Sam, I’ve told you all I know,” he lied. “There isn’t anything else. That night was pure chaos….” Nox poured every ounce of sincerity into his words. “So many people were killed….”

“I know—and I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for me, Dad. You saved me, but I just—I just want to know what happened to them,” Sam said, words chasing and tripping over each other, ending with a choked sound. “Or just their names, okay? Like, if I could just have that… I just want to know.”

Nox felt like someone had ripped his chest open, exposing heart and lungs to the cool air. He nodded, though, just a small movement to show he was listening. “What else did the letter say?” Nox asked, his voice measured. “Was there any other information?”

Sam shook his head. “Nothing else. The person just told me he could help me find them.”

“You know this could be a trick.”

“Who would do something like this? I only see the people at work and people here in our neighborhood—and none of them know what happened, right?”

Nox tried to maintain his cool. He tucked his hands deeper in his pockets, glanced at the faded Persian rug under his feet. “They could make an assumption—I’m not that much older than you are.”

“But who do we know that would do something like this? I know people at work, but I’ve never told them anything about me. And you don’t see anyone except for at the jobsite. We don’t have friends! Who would do something like this?”

“Sam, I know how much you want this. But you have to be prepared….”

“Prepared for what?” Sam snapped, annoyance clearly rising. “Prepared to be disappointed? Seriously, I’ve got that covered with the rest of my life.”

Another anvil, hitting so hard between them Sam actually winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

Misery crept over his face. “I’m sorry.”

“I know this isn’t an easy way to live,” Nox said softly. “I wish things could be different.”

Sam stared down at the floor.

Nox couldn’t offer platitudes. He couldn’t tell Sam someday he could leave the city, go to college, live somewhere else. Sam existed in New York City. Outside? He was a kid without a birth record or certificate or anything else to prove who he was. He had a father who was still a child himself when he took responsibility for him. He was a secret no one else could know.

It was what it was, and Sam had no power over any of it.

“Just be careful. And—if you get another letter, I need to see it immediately,” he said, finishing with a hint of reprimand. “People shouldn’t be coming to the house.”

His son nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Thank you.” Nox couldn’t resist the urge—he opened his arms and let Sam trudge into his embrace. For a long time it terrified him, this easy affection his son gave him. His own father had not been a demonstrative soul. His mother had her moments, but when the paranoia and fear came in angry waves, she retreated.

Nox had learned to do this—hugging and soothing and gentle touches to his son’s back as he shook with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry,” Sam murmured again, face pressed against Nox’s shoulder.

“We’re past that. Now you know—rules are important, Sam. They keep us safe.”

Sam nodded, tightening his arms around Nox’s middle.

He believed the lie, and that was all that mattered.

N
OX
GOT
Sam to eat, then sent him to shower. He needed to get ready, but he wanted Sam asleep first—this wasn’t a usual night’s patrol. His skin buzzed with nerves—Nox didn’t like being in the casinos, where surveillance cameras recorded every move you made from the time you set foot in their gilded halls until you walked out, poorer and wrung-out.

The trick was to obscure your looks and keep moving, stick to blind spots and never—
never
—draw attention to yourself.

The Iron Butterfly wasn’t his usual haunt—too shiny, too involved with paying attention to the customers. He played roulette at the Bourbon Street Casino and blackjack at 21. The smaller places generally catered to those with lower credit limits and left you alone to drink and gamble in peace.

The crown jewel of the District was all about personal service.

In his father’s study, he used his tablet to call up specs for the various hotels and casinos in the District. Being an electrician had its perks beyond decent wages—he could get whatever he needed from the city planner’s computer and read the plans with ease. His other work—well, that had the benefit of shaking down folks for codes and access to whatever he might need.

Like an ID to get him into anyplace he wanted in the District….

T
HE
DEALER
’
S
name had been Brownigan, and he’d cried when Nox got him down on the ground one night the previous summer. He wasn’t in physical danger—not of death, anyway—but Brownigan didn’t know that. And he was frightened enough of the looming man in the black hoodie to offer his other services.

City identification. Worker passes. Stuff that looked so real no one even blinked. Wireless that didn’t get routed through the city’s computers like everyone else’s—he could do that too. Passes that got him wherever he needed to be. Access to bank accounts filled with money siphoned from tourists.