First Do No Evil: Blood Secrets, Book 1 (3 page)

“Never fuck with a man holding a Colt 1911. You know what this baby can do?”

“I’m not fucking with you. Just let me remove my—”

“Letterman or Leno?” Blackbeard tilted his head.

“What?”

“You must be a Leno fan. Me, I like Dave.”

The guy really was psycho.

“If you think I’m gonna let you reach down and draw on me, you seen too many of Jay’s ‘stupid criminals’ bits. You think I don’t know you’re packing ankle heat? I may be a criminal, but I ain’t stupid.”

A standup comedian motherfucker. Swell. “No gun. I swear on my life.”

“Not good enough. Swear on hers.”

Danny winced as mascara streaked down Nevaeh’s face. “Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money. You can have it all.”

“No shit, Sherlock. I’ve got the gun. But if you did have that kind of cash, why would you tell me about it?”

“Like I said, I want all of us to walk out of here alive. That simple. Just let her go, and you can get rich without getting your mitts dirty. I’ll keep my hands in the air, and you can come get the bills yourself.”

“I’m not putting my face in your boots for you to kick the shit out of me. In fact I’m not coming anywhere near you. So whatever you’re trying to pull, you can forget about it.”

“You don’t want the money?”

“We didn’t find no weapons of mass destruction in fuckin’ eye-rack, and I won’t find no ten Gs in your fuckin’ boots.”

“You’re right about Iraq, but I’ve got ten one thousand dollar bills toasting my toes. Five in each boot, and I can prove it. Look out the window. See my sweet little Mustang out there?”

Fuck it. Danny’s mouth had gotten away from his brain. They didn’t make one thousand dollar bills anymore. Hopefully, this guy wasn’t a counterfeiter or currency expert or…

Blackbeard glanced sideways out the window. “That a 1965?”

Apparently he was no currency expert, and he liked cars, maybe Danny could use that to form some sort of a bond. “Yep. I see you know your automobiles.”

“What’s that got to do with your boots, fuckhole?”

Or not. “I’m on my way to a classic car auction. Cash only. Just stopped in for a bite on my way.” Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. “I’ll show you. May I lower one hand?”

Seconds ticked by with no objection from Blackbeard, so he reached his hand to the counter and picked up the newspaper article he’d torn out earlier.

Dragging Nevaeh with him, Blackbeard inched closer. Danny laid the torn article on top of the folded newspaper and slid the whole thing real easy across the floor. The gunman stuck the pistol on the back of Nevaeh’s head and ordered her to pick up the paper. They were no more than a few feet away.

Blackbeard studied the scrap of newspaper and growled. “This don’t say nothing about no car auction. Just some shit about breast cancer.”

Got the bastard
. “Other side.”

Blackbeard turned the paper over and cackled. “Son bitch. You really got ten grand in your boots?”

“I do. If you’re worried I’m packing ankle heat, just send the girl over to get the money. You can watch her raise my pant leg nice and slow, and she couldn’t out shoot a bad-ass motherfucker like you anyway, now could she?”

“Not this motherfucker.”

Danny had him all right. But it wouldn’t be long before this stupid criminal, and yes, he’d proven himself to be exactly that, would realize he’d been played. The truth of the auction advertisement had confused him, but he’d figure things out soon enough. All he needed was for Blackbeard to release Nevaeh, then he could make his move.

“You better hurry,” Danny said.

“Okay, but I’m warning you, any funny stuff and I’ll blow your brains out.” Jerking his fingers out of Nevaeh’s hair, Blackbeard let her go with a shove. “Go get Daddy’s money, honey.”

He’d planned to count three before jumping Blackbeard, but he had to go early because on two, Edmond leapt to his feet for his own charge. Before Danny could spring, Blackbeard whirled and pointed the Colt at Edmond.

A muzzle flash.

A second too late, Danny’s high-kick sent the gun sailing. Danny lunged. His chest cracked against the floor as the cold muzzle of the pistol jammed beneath his ribs.

Gripping the handle, he rolled.

From a prone position, he locked elbows and raised the Colt, pointed it dead-center-motherfucker.

He wished he’d made waffles for Katie this morning. “Police! Freeze!”

But the gunman didn’t freeze, and time stretched into slow motion. The room went quiet, as if all sound had changed into a butterfly captured in the palm of his hand. In contrast to the soft focus around him, the motherfucker at the end of the gun barrel came into sharp relief.

Blackbeard ducked, fumbled with his pant leg. In the palm of his hand, a Glock glinted in the sunlight. The motherfucker was the one with a backup weapon.

Nevaeh’s mouth opened in a scream, drawing Blackbeard’s attention and his aim. Danny didn’t hesitate. He squeezed the trigger twice. His elbow buzzed.

A double flash.

Like tie-dye, blood spread onto the front of Blackbeard’s shirt, but the motherfucker was still standing. With his Glock aimed at Nevaeh, Blackbeard’s hand jerked.

A flash.

Nevaeh went down. The stench of burnt powder drenched the air. Danny kept firing at Blackbeard. In time with the rapid squeeze of the trigger, his jaw twitched. His forearm recoiled from the power of the Colt. At last, Blackbeard grabbed gut and folded to his knees.

A cottony sound penetrated Danny’s consciousness, and he turned his head left. There he saw, more than heard, the violent sobs that racked Sky’s body. There he saw a bloodied Edmond cradled in Sky’s lap, pieces of skull scattered like eggshells on a breakfast plate. There he saw, descending from a high window, ropes of sunlight braiding through the center of Edmond’s chest like a ladder to heaven.
Oh Christ
.

He jerked around, inched over to the spot where Blackbeard lay sprawled on the floor, lifeless, or at least critically wounded. Stomach retching from the metallic scent of spilled blood, he crept closer.

Blackbeard raised his head and arm off the ground.

Danny squeezed the trigger. No more ammo.

The motherfucker laughed.

Danny knew he’d never make it to the pillar, but he kept moving, dodging, ducking his chin to protect his windpipe.

A muzzle flash.

He heard a flutter and felt a dull thud in the vicinity of his heart.

Chapter Three

Not a scratch on her.

Sky still breathed in, still breathed out, still lived. The one dearest to her heart lay motionless in her arms, yet she’d survived.

Again
.

Burnt smoke thickened the air and stung her nose, causing fluid to leak from her nostrils onto her upper lip. Her heart squeezed in odd pauses and rapid runs, at times banging so hard she feared it would discomfit Edmond, whose cheek rested against her left breast. Coated in warm viscous fluid, her fingers stuck in Edmond’s hair as she examined his wound. A fist-sized chunk of his skull had been blown off. Where his left eye had been, now gaped a pulp-filled socket. His body slumped against her, a heavy, lifeless mass.

Edmond was gone.

She knew this, but she couldn’t stop herself from checking for a pulse. She’d been repeating this ritual—examine wound, check for pulse—since the moment the bullet shattered Edmond’s skull. She considered gently moving him off her lap to perform CPR, but was afraid what remained of his skull would come apart without her support. She couldn’t let Edmond go.

“I’m here, Sis. I’m here.” A low, comforting voice penetrated the fog that cushioned her mind—Garth.

A broken wisp of breath escaped her lips. Her big brother was with her, and she thanked God that he was okay. Then remembering that other, terrible Halloween, she curled her fingers tightly around Edmond’s collar. She clung on to him with every ounce of her being, but she couldn’t hold on to the present. Time started skipping like a scratched record played on an old phonograph.

She didn’t want to go back there, to that other time and place. But there was no way to stop it. The room went dark around the edges; the atmosphere grew dense, palpable. Disoriented, she batted a hand through heavy air, tried to get her bearings. She was seventeen again, and she wanted nothing more than to rush into the safety of Garth’s arms. Her head throbbed. Her eyeballs vibrated in their sockets. Black. So black here, in this place. She wasn’t sure if it was day or night, whose corpse she rocked—Edmond’s or Papa’s.

But then, a soft moan, drifted from across the room. “Help…me.”

And just the same as a hypnotist can snap his subject out of it on the count of three, Nevaeh’s plea jolted Sky back to the present. That other night was over. Papa was dead. Now Edmond was too. She couldn’t change those things.

But this day, this moment was not yet fully written, and there was still much she could do. The old Sky didn’t belong here; she’d only get in the way. Shaking her head hard, she drove away the ghosts of her past. No time for frightened children today. The girl inside was banished, and in her place stood Dr. Skylar Novak.

As if from afar, she heard her voice reassure, “Stay calm and don’t move, Nevaeh. Help’s on the way.”

Just as she’d feared, when she eased Edmond’s corpse off of her, the remaining capsule of skull fell open. Her heart lurched, but she managed to hold back the scream that rose in her throat. Pressing her palm against the plastic cushion of the booth for balance, she rose on liquid knees. Out of her peripheral vision, she caught sight of a young man racing toward the door. The kid with the hockey mask.

That’s right
.
Run
.
Get away from this place
.

As he barreled past, her hand reached out and clamped onto his sleeve. “
No!
”

He kept running, his jacket slipping down his arm as she held on tight. The jacket fell to the ground, and she wound her fingers around his wrist. “
No!
”

Skidding to a halt, the boy said, “Please! Let me go!”

Her nails dug into his skin. “I can’t. I need your help.
They
need your help.”

She glanced around the boxy room that moments before had exuded the welcoming charm found in small-town cafés across the country. Blue chintz curtains still flounced in the windows, tables were still set with mason jars full of artificial sunflowers, and the requisite photo of the president still hung behind the counter, though knocked off center.

Only now the walls, once the color of summer corn, were airbrushed in blood. Cookie sprawled on the floor, clinging to the shiny aluminum base of a bar stool like a child on a carnival ride. Nevaeh curled in a fetal position, eyes opening and closing as she battled for consciousness. Center stage, the gunman lay prone. And Danny, oh God, Danny sprawled on his back, arms flailed to the sides—a bloody snow angel.

The kid with the hockey mask stopped fighting. He froze, trembled in her grip, gaped at her with a face that revealed not only fear, but a loss of innocence. Until today, evil must’ve been little more than a hypothetical construct to this boy. She wished she could return his innocence to him. She wished she could reclaim her own. The muscles in her throat spasmed around that desperate wish. It was too late for them both.

“What’s your name?” she asked the kid.

“Gabriel.” He stared at the trickle of blood oozing from the spot where she’d clawed his wrist.

Releasing his arm, she cupped his chin in her hand, nudged his head up. Despite the bright daylight in the café, only a thin ribbon of hazel ringed his black pupils. “Gabriel, you can do this. You’re stronger than you think.”

He retched, and a stream of golden bile spewed onto his shoes. His chest heaved a few quiet sobs. After wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he lifted his eyes to hers. “Okay. What do you want me to do?”

Brave boy
. “You got a cell? Call nine-one-one.”

He nodded.

“After, go ask Cookie where he keeps his rubber gloves. Don’t touch anything—anyone—until you put them on. The blood could be contaminated. If you find extra gloves, bring them back here. Bring towels, rags—lots of them—and anything else you think we can use.”

Sometimes the clinic ran short of funds, and she moonlighted in the ER for extra cash. She was grateful for that now. And she had another thing working in her favor—she’d faced down evil before. Maybe she’d fallen apart the first time, but she was only a kid then. This time, she wouldn’t fall apart. This time she’d fight back.

Gabriel took off, and she surveyed the room again. Hard to know where to start. With so many injured, triage was the first order of business, and it was up to her to make the tough choices. Those most in need were Danny and the gunman. She headed straight for Danny.

Catching up with her, wearing a pair of latex dishwashing gloves, Gabriel said, “Only two pair.” Waving a flag of yellow rubber in the air, he handed her a wad of rags.

She stripped the second pair of gloves from Gabriel’s hands and tossed them to her brother. “Garth, I need you to watch Nevaeh. Monitor her level of consciousness, pulse, and breathing. Keep her head perfectly still—if her c-spine is injured, she could wind up paralyzed.”