"Wait for it," the guy said. "Better to find out the whys."
John knew his buddy was right, so he pulled the parking brake on his body and got busy memorizing the license plate on the chromed-out LS 600h.
The sedan's other doors opened and three guys got out. They were not as pale as really old lessers got, but they were a fair shade of white boy, for sure, and they stank to high heaven.
Man, that baby-powder shit was straight-up nasty in the nose.
With one slayer staying behind to watch the ride, the other two fell into formation with the little cowboy in front. As they walked onto the concrete, all the eyes in the park went to them.
The kid by the middle ramp straightened and put his lighter in his pocket.
"Shit, I wish we had my f**king ride," Qhuinn whispered.
True enough. Unless there was a skyscraper nearby where they could get a roof's-eye view, there would be no way of tracking the Lexus.
The dealer didn't move as he was approached and didn't seem surprised by the visit, so chances were this was an arranged meeting. And what do you know, after some conversating, the slayers surrounded the guy and the bunch walked back over to the sedan.
All but one lesser got in the car.
Decision time. Did they bust into a vehicle, hot-wire it, and take off in pursuit? Did they materialize onto the hood of the f**king Lexus and throw down? Trouble was, both of those solutions ran the risk of a serious disturbance of the peace--and there was only so much mental cleanup they could do on a group of twenty humans.
"I think one's staying behind," Qhuinn murmured.
Yup. Flyboy was getting left in the lot as the Lexus K-turned and started to head out.
Letting the car go was the hardest thing John had ever done. But the reality was, that bunch of bastards had just picked up one of the prime dealers of the territory--so they were going to be back. And they'd left a lesser behind.
So there were things to keep him and his boys busy.
John watched the slayer walk into the park. Unlike the guy he was taking the place of, he was a roamer, pacing off the perimeter, meeting all of the eyes that were on him. He clearly made the skaters anxious and a couple of them who'd made buys the night before left. But not everyone was wary... or sober enough to be concerned.
As a soft ticking sound rose up, John looked down at himself. His foot was tapping in the dirt, going up and down as fast as a rabbit's.
But he wasn't going to blow it. He waited behind the shed... and waited... and waited.
It took the f**ker nearly an hour to wander his nasty ass around, but when he was finally in range, all that foot tapping was so worth it.
With a quick shot of mental will, John canned the closest street lantern to give them a little privacy. And as the bastard looked up, John stepped out from behind the shed.
The lesser's head snapped around and clearly he recognized that the war had just come and knocked on his door: The sonofabitch smiled and put his hand into his jacket.
John was not concerned that he was going to flash heat. The one rule of engagement was that there was no going at it in front of human bystand--
An autoloader appeared and went off in a quick one-two punch, the discharged shot sounding out with a pop that carried loud as a curse through the park.
John dived for cover, a whole lot of what-the-fuck giving him wings. And then more bullets went flying, the lead ricocheting off concrete as humans screamed and scrambled.
Behind the shed, he slammed his back against the wood and pulled his own piece. As Blay and Qhuinn slid into home, there was a split second of who's-bleeding? that coincided with a pause in the bullet shower.
What the f**k is he thinking? Qhuinn signed. Public much?
Heavy footsteps approached and there was the clicking sound of a sleeve of ammo being changed. John glanced at the shed door. The Master Lock on a chain was a godsend, and he reached up with his palm, mentally unlocking the thing and slipping it free of its links so that it hung loose.
Go around the next corner, John told his boys. And make like you're wounded.
Oh, hell, no--
John swung his gun muzzle into Qhuinn's face.
As the guy recoiled, John just stared right into his buddy's blue and green eyes. This was going down John's way: He was going to be the one to do business with the slayer. End of discussion.
Fuck. You, Qhuinn mouthed before he and Blay dematerialized.
With a loud groan, John let himself fall hard to the side, his body hitting the ground like a massive bag of concrete. Sprawling out on his stomach, he kept his SIG under his chest with the safety still off.
The footsteps grew closer. And so did a low laugh, like the lesser was having the time of his life.
When Lash returned from his father's, he took form in the bedroom next to the one he kept Xhex in. As much as he wanted to see her, he stayed away. Every time he came back from Dhunhd, he was a waste of space for a good half hour and he wasn't about to be stupid and give her a chance to kill him.
Because she would. And wasn't that sweet?
Lying down on the bed and closing his eyes, his body was slow and cold, and as he breathed deep, he felt as though he was thawing out like a slab of beef. Not that it was freezing on the other side. In fact, his father's digs were toasty and well-appointed--assuming you were into the Liberace shit.
Daddy-o had almost no furniture, but enough candelabra to sink a ship. The oh-chillies seemed to have something to do with the leap back into this reality and every time he returned to this side, it was more of a struggle to rebound. The good news was that he didn't think he was going to have to go over there as much. Now that his bag of tricks had been fully explored and mastered, there was really no need, and truth was, the Omega wasn't exactly stimulating company.
It was a case of enough-about-me-what-do-you-think-about-me. And even if said demand for ego mast***ation was being thrown out by an admittedly powerful, evil f**ker who happened to be your pops, it got old fast.
Besides, his father's love life was disturbing as shit.
Lash didn't even know what those f**king things in that bed were. Black beasts, yeah, but the sex of them was as indiscernible as their species, and the way they oiled around was creepy. Plus they were always looking for a f**k even if there was company present.
And his father never said no.
As a beep sounded out, Lash reached into his suit jacket for his phone.
It was a text from Mr. D: On the way. Gots the guy.
Lash looked at the clock and shot upright, thinking that the time couldn't be right. He'd come back two hours ago--how had he lost track so badly?
Going vertical threw his stomach in a roll and putting his hands up to rub his face took more effort than it should have. The deadweight of his body, coupled with the aches, made him remember back to a time when he'd gotten colds or flus. Same feeling. Was it possible he was getting sick?
Made him wonder if anyone had come up with a product like Dead- quil or some shit.
Probably not.
Letting his arms fall into his lap, he glanced over to the bathroom. The shower seemed miles away and not really worth the effort.
It took him another ten minutes before he could throw off the lethargy, and when he got to his feet, he stretched hard to get his black blood flowing. The bathroom turned out to be not miles away but a matter of yards, and with each step he felt stronger. Heading over to start the hot water, he admired himself in the mirror and checked out his collection of bruises. Most of them from the night before were gone, but he knew he was going to get more--
Lash frowned and lifted up his arm. The sore on the inside of his forearm was larger, not smaller.
When he prodded it with his finger, it didn't hurt, but the thing looked nasty as shit, a flat, open wound that was gray in the middle and bordered by a black line.
His first thought was that he needed to go see Havers... except that was ridiculous and nothing but a remnant from his old life. Like he was going to show up at the clinic and be all, Hey, could you fit my ass in?
Besides, he didn't know where they'd moved the damn thing to. Which was the problem with a successful raid. Your target took your threat seriously and went deep underground.
Getting under the warm spray, he was careful to scrub the spot with some soap, figuring if it was some kind of infection that had to help; and then he thought about other things.
He had a big-ass night. The induction at eight. Meeting with Benloise at ten.
Back here for some more lovin'.
When he got out, he dried himself and inspected the sore. The damn thing appeared to be pissed off at the attention he'd given it, a thin black ooze welling up over its surface.