Chapter 2
A flashbang. Step one of breaching a building. My grip on the rafter loosened as a shockwave battered against me. I reflexively snapped my eyes shut and turned away from the light. Legs dangling, I heaved myself onto the beam just in time to hear wood splintering below. Those were the door supports, still hanging tough.
My eyes burned. The spellcraft that gifted me with shadow sight made my retinas especially sensitive to light. I blinked away the charm, black tears falling from my eyes and restoring them to their normal green color, but when I forced my eyes open I couldn't see anything but white. For the moment, I was blind.
The pounding on the door below culminated in a loud crash, followed by debris skidding along the concrete floor. Booted footsteps marched over what was left of the makeshift barricade that secured me from the wilderness. So much for keeping the spiders out. And I had just fixed that door after a zombie high priest knocked it off its hinges.
The life of an outlaw animist.
I was above eye level and in complete darkness, but still in an exposed position. I slid along the rafter, still blind, hoping to hit the wall before being noticed. I guess it was finally time for something to go my way because I found safety before being brushed with an errant beam of light (or bullet). I nestled snugly into the overhang, resting on the wooden beam, careful not to make a noise by touching the corrugated metal, and drew the shadow over me.
"Clear," came a voice from the front door.
"Clear," answered another officer from the back.
Two brilliant flares pulsed through my already-white vision and I ducked low. They were looking around with their flashlights. At least my sight was returning.
"He's not here," complained one of the men.
"Keep your guard up," ordered another. "Double-check the shadows."
I recognized the voice with the good ideas because he was a friend of mine. Did I not mention that my best friend, Evan Cross, commands the DROP team?
Evan knows I'm an animist. He has ever since high school, when he was the blond-haired star quarterback of the football team and I was that weird kid that played with dead things. He's seen me dabble but doesn't trust black magic. Maybe he's the smart one. Ten years ago, I discovered the Horn of Subjugation. Soon after, a sect of creatures calling themselves the Covey killed me and my family. That's a pretty solid I-told-you-so.
Except, for some reason, I came back. A few weeks ago I woke up in a dumpster in South Beach. Muscles, tattoos, the works. I found out I was a super-powered zombie hit man during my absence. Besides killing the vampire who'd murdered me, I crossed paths with the rest of the Covey as well as one corrupt politician—the city commissioner who happens to be Evan's boss.
So my buddy's in a bind. He totally means well, but he's compromised. Working for my enemies, lecturing me like some self-righteous hard-ass. Admittedly, I don't adhere to the most legal of operating practices, but don't take his side. I may have decked Evan but he shot me. And did I mention he married my ex-girlfriend, Emily? With best friends like him, who needs enemies?
The rest of the DROP team was a different story. I'd never shared beers with them or congratulated their graduating the police academy. The only time they'd ever seen me was a recent confrontation that turned into the scene of a ghost movie. The DROP team saw some things they probably shouldn't have that night. One of their own died. I bet each and every one of them had recurring nightmares. More to the point, each one personally blamed me.
Evan might have a soft spot for old Cisco Suarez, but everyone else on the team wanted blood.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw them up close and personal for the first time.
"This is a wild goose chase," grumbled a squat officer. He was bald but young, with hard eyes.
"Keep it contained, Sergeant," said Evan, pacing to my sleeping corner.
He kicked a fast-food wrapper and shined a flashlight at the lead safe and the metal shelf. It didn't do a whole lot of good. He turned away as if he'd just inspected a blank wall. The wraith's magic was impressive; mine would've failed there.
"I want men searching the perimeter," ordered Evan.
The sergeant clicked his teeth. "He's not here, Lieutenant."
"I know that. I want to check for evidence that he ever
was
here. Our target's been in the wind for two weeks. We need to narrow down his whereabouts." Evan looked past his grumpy sergeant to a skinny detective. "Check the perimeter, Mullen."
"Yes, sir," came the voice. Mullen marched outside with some others, leaving the two alone.
They looked around in silence for a few minutes. Then the sergeant chuckled coarsely and shook his head. "Maybe this Cisco character was never here at all."
From a few feet away, Evan shifted his flashlight beam to his subordinate's face. "What are you trying to say, Sergeant?"
A smile. "Nothing."
"No, Garcia, I'm not letting you off the hook that easily. I want to know what you meant by that."
The sergeant's face tightened and he pushed Evan's flashlight away. "Fine," he grumbled. "It's just that some of the guys are talking. They think maybe you have a connection to this guy. That you're protecting him." Look who had the good ideas now.
Evan's cold eyes burned. "Is it
some guys
talking or
you
?"
Garcia shrugged.
My friend snorted. "You keep shoveling that BS, Garcia. You want command of the DROP team? Do it based on merit instead of mudslinging. We're all after the same thing here. I have the same intel as you. The local gangs had dealings with someone named Cisco two weeks ago, but all contact was since cut off. A known accomplice, now missing, had once used this site."
Missing. I guess that was the official story they were going with on paper. The vampire was dead in reality. Those were his metal teeth on my shelf.
I eavesdropped intently. Evan was doing what I expected. After all, he couldn't readily admit that his old buddy Cisco was back from the dead, determined to kill anyone with a hand in his murder. Besides a first name, no one knew who I really was except for Evan and the supernatural bastards I wanted to kill. That worked in my favor because they couldn't come right out and reveal my identity without risking exposure. Besides, my ID wouldn't help anybody. It's not like I have an address of record, unless you count Saint Martin's Cemetery.
The real problem was that Evan constantly second-guessed my motives, just as I did his. My ex, Emily, had worked with the Covey. Now she was Evan's wife. I was sure Evan didn't know the truth back then, but I would kill to read his mind now. Where did his loyalties lie?
I guess I'd gotten my answer as soon as he barged into my Everglades hideaway.
Sergeant Garcia scoffed. "You're one to talk about merit. You were gifted this job through your wife's connections. Except I hear Commissioner Alvarez isn't too happy with you these days. It's only a matter of time before you're back in uniform at Central Station."
Evan clenched his jaw and stepped right into the shorter man's personal space. Before he could get a word out, the skinny detective returned.
"Nothing outside, sir. It's just wilderness. No signs of a camp or hunting or anything. Maybe we should call Fish and Wildlife?"
Evan winced. "Don't bother. FWC won't find anything." He glared at Sergeant Garcia. "We have other possible locations and we're going to check each one to rule them out. Cisco's in Miami, and we're going to find him."
Evan Cross stormed to the doorway. Garcia shrugged with a smile, and ran his flashlight over the rafters. I shied away as light washed over me. The shadow could only help so much. I ducked onto the overhang and my alligator boot slipped and echoed against the metal.
The beam of light froze. Evan's came back on and pointed my way, soon joined by Mullen's.
"What was that?" asked Garcia.
"An animal?" suggested Mullen.
I pressed myself down on the corrugated metal eave overhanging the boat platform. The weight made the rotted support beam give way. A steel brace broke free and the entire panel, with me on it, bent and clattered to the cement floor outside the front of the boathouse. A monster truck crash would've made less noise.
Smooth. From eavesdropping to eave dropping. I was on a roll.
Chapter 3
"Someone's there!" yelled Evan, mobilizing his troops.
At the moment, there was a wall dividing me from said troops. Although it had several roll-up doors, they were locked. Evan and the others would run around through the front door, only set back by several seconds.
The cops already outside were a more immediate problem, but I didn't see any on the boat platform. I spun, considering my options. Time was quickly running out. Without really thinking, I made a beeline for the edge of the platform and bounded into the swamp. I splashed down just as the DROP team rounded the corner.
"It's in the water!"
"What is it?"
I kicked my feet and went deeper, thankful the moon wasn't bright tonight. Flashlight beams broke the water. I put the silver whistle to my lips and blew some air into it that bubbled past me. I hoped it would work.
I checked another tree frog's vision. The cops were outside, guns drawn, facing the swamp. They knew something had been in the rafters and jumped in the swamp, but they didn't know what. With any luck they would chalk it up to Everglades creepiness.
I swam further away from their search, kicking up mud from the swamp floor. My chest grew tight. I had to surface. Luckily I found a thick patch of saw grass to come up behind. They don't call it the River of Grass for nothing.
"That was not a damn bird," swore Garcia, after I could hear them again. "It went into the water." Several DROP team officers swept their gazes over the surface of the swamp.
"He's right," said Evan grudgingly. "It was big. We can search the swamp if we need to." Evan pulled a radio to his lips. "Miami, you there?"
The speaker buzzed back. A female dispatcher spoke out individual letters. "QSL." Miami Q codes.
"This is DROP 1. Does SRT have an airboat unit on standby?" asked Evan.
"QRX, DROP 1."
I grimaced. If the cops got an airboat out here, I could never outrun them.
"Hold it," called out Garcia. He pointed to the center of the swamp. A fifteen-foot alligator surfaced and floated lazily past them.
Two of the detectives recoiled from the water. Mullen raised his rifle.
"It was a gator," said the sergeant.
Evan's forehead knotted. "In the rafters?"
The cops turned and examined the roof of the boathouse. The panel I'd jarred loose was still half attached with its other end touching the cement floor. It was basically a ramp to the roof now.
"Was this overhang like that before?" asked Mullen. An officer shrugged.
Meanwhile, the alligator drifted away from them and towards my spot in the grass.
Evan scratched his head and spoke into the radio. "Miami? 0-7 that airboat request. We're not gonna need it."
"QSL, DROP 1," came the answer as he clipped the radio back to his vest.
"Now I've seen everything," laughed Garcia nervously. He lowered his weapon. "Look how big that thing is."
He wasn't kidding. Fifteen feet of leathery hide, all swimming my way. The police abandoned their search of the swamp, choosing instead to focus on the alligator. It would be difficult to make a move with them watching.
I waited, as still as the unrippled surface of the water. The black creature neared. Its eyes were dark orbs on a barren island. As the gator reached my patch of grass, he lifted his head and revealed a long set of dirty teeth.
I calmly checked the boathouse. Garcia was still watching, but it couldn't be helped. I had to chance it. With a deep breath, I slipped beneath the water. The alligator passed and I reached underneath and grabbed his front leg. Once I was hitched, the gator kicked ahead and swam into the darkness.
Yes, I had an alligator zombie too. Admittedly not the cuddliest pet, but you can't blame me. I'd been in the Everglades for weeks without TV or internet. I couldn't afford to be choosy with my hobbies.
I held my breath as long as I could before bringing my face up for air alongside the alligator's thick body. It was a good angle that hid me from distant onlookers. Not a lot of people know this—hell, I didn't know it until my stint in the Glades—but gators can work up a good clip in the water, something approaching twenty miles per hour. I was one Mr. Toad's Wild Ride away from safety. (No, I didn't name my gator Mr. Toad, although now that I think of it, I wish I did. His actual moniker? Leatherhead. Am I a product of the TV generation or what?)
In no time my chauffeur got me to an embankment far from the action. I scrambled past the mud and did my best to empty my boots, but the grime was staying with me for a while. I tossed my water-logged cell phone into the water and was just coming to terms with my predicament when Leatherhead jerked his head around.
A stray black cat hopped through tall grass and glanced my way with bright green eyes. The gator took a step toward it.
"Not this time," I commanded. "Go distract the boys at the boathouse."
Leatherhead waddled off silently. If he hadn't been a zombie I would've sworn he was disappointed.
I wasn't partial to feeding cats to gators. This cat, specifically, was special. He was one of my thralls, another zombie, except I'd lost my connection with him many miles and a couple weeks back.
"Come here, boy."
The black cat blinked bored eyes at me.
I put my whistle to my lips, blew the water out, and called the cat with a silent chime. It turned away, waved an angry tail at me, and jumped into the brush. Cats.
"Bad zombie," I grumbled.
I took careful steps after him, wondering what the hell was up. Believe it or not, despite my current accommodations, I'm not much of an outdoorsman. Navigating through wetlands in the middle of the night wasn't my idea of fun.
"Is someone out there?" came a crisp voice. I ducked into the grass. Another flashlight. Another officer. His radio chirped and he called for backup.
What was the DROP team still checking the perimeter for?
"City of Miami Police," he announced. "If someone's out there, identify yourself."
I frowned. I wasn't Cisco Suarez, I was a snake. A gator. A woodland creature. I just needed to stay low and he'd give up his search.
The cat made a hacking sound, like a bark mixed with a growl. The officer swept his beam of light across the tall grass. The cat's eyes flashed yellow as the light hit them.
He was staring at me. He wanted to show me something.
I waited till the flashlight scanned another area and crawled ahead. I shoved and shook the tall grass, but it couldn't be helped. Either I moved or I was a sitting duck. Like a cartoon prison fugitive, I froze when the light washed over me and continued moving while in darkness. All I needed what a black-and-white striped suit.
"You sure you see someone?" asked another officer from a distance. "We have lots of wildlife in the area. The lieutenant says we should pull back inside."
The other officer, much closer to me: "They don't got wolves out here, do they?"
A beat. "Panthers, I think."
The officer paused again. I didn't. I continued rustling ahead. I chased the cat to a tree, broke free of the grass, and kneeled in a circle of dirt. The cat was gone.
"Over there, I think," the officer said.
At the base of the tree was a ditch framed by two large roots. A den of sorts.
"You've got to be kidding," I muttered. "He went all Peter Rabbit on me."
The boot steps approached from behind. I checked around for the cat, but I knew where it had gone. With an exhausted sigh, I slipped into the hole in the ground, hoping there was a nook of shadow to hide in that the flashlight couldn't reach.
There was a nook all right.