Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) (5 page)

"No. That's not what happened."

He set his hand on hers. "Yes, it is. That's what you need to tell them. He took the man's gun, let you out, and killed the other two. We need you to say that. Do you understand? Will you do that for us?"

"Yes."

"Thank you." He looked down at Orlovski. "You got the story? They tortured you. You escaped. Got it?"

The hunter resignedly nodded. "Do it."

Malcolm punched him in the eye.

Tiffany tried to grab Malcolm's fist before it smashed into Orlovski's nose, unleashing a stream of blood. "Stop!"

"Tortured him," Malcolm repeated. "Beat him. Now, help me get his gear off."

Carefully, they removed Orlovski's web belt. He stifled a cry as they worked the ballistic vest off of him. An enormous swollen and purple bruise spread out just below his shoulder blade. Several ribs appeared broken, but the impact missed his spine. Thankfully, the individual pellet strikes weren't visible.

Malcolm fished the fake IDs from the Russian's back pocket and took the three spare magazines from his ammo pouches.

Sam spoke in his ear. Panic was gone, replaced by the stone-cold tone of a Valducan. "Mal, we have ten minutes, tops, before we have to be out of here."

"Give me five. Count 'em down." Leaving Orlovski and the girl, repeating their lie again and again, Malcolm ran up the porch and into the house. Trash and grime coated everything in a yellowish film. Empty beer cans and dirty plates blanketed every flat surface, their contents rotting and speckled with roach shit. He dropped the IDs beside a mound of unopened mail atop the dining table. In the kitchen, beside the back door leading to the cinderblock prison, he deposited two of the magazines loaded with specialty ammo in a drawer. Malcolm removed a pair of his own shotgun rounds from his gear and planted them as well. If the police and FBI were going to believe Orlovski got the gun from his captors, they needed to find more of the unique ammo than just inside the dead men's bodies. Buying it wouldn't be too difficult considering everything else they'd find there.

"Four minutes."

Sweat ran down his face as Malcolm hurried out to the cinderblock bunker. Searching the walls, he found a knife with a long curved blade, its handle wrapped in electric tape. Not a perfect match for Hounacier and Amballwa's cut marks but close enough. He smeared the blade in Hobb's coagulating blood pool then rolled the body over to hide the disturbance. After slipping the last of Orlovski's magazines deep into the dead man's pocket, Malcolm pocketed the dead man's pistol and ran back out.

"Three minutes," Sam said.

He removed Orlovski's camera from the grill. "Almost done!" The turquoise fire had begun to wane, revealing a stocky man with buzz-cut hair. Malcolm slid the blade into one of Hounacier's cuts and returned to Orlovski.

"Here." He slipped the tape-wrapped handle into his partner's hand. The latex gloves were already piled with his other effects beside him. "This is the weapon you used."

Orlovski only grunted. Maybe he knew what was about to happen. The hardest part.

"Tiffany, you can't tell them about the monster."

"Why?" she asked. "It's real. I did see it."

"I know," Malcolm said. "But no one will believe you. In a few minutes, any trace of it will be gone."

She shook her head. "But…"

"I have a friend. Daniel. He'll contact you. You can tell him everything. He's the one that found you."

"Two minutes, Mal," Sam urged. "We gotta go."

Malcolm touched Orlovski's other hand, still clutching Amballwa's jeweled handle. "It's time."

Orlovski shook his head, pressing the blade flat against him. "No. No, you can't."

"She's evidence," Mal said, prying the Russian's weak fingers open. "We'll keep her safe."

"Please, Mal," Orlovski begged. Tears welled in the blond man's eyes. "Don't take her from me."

"You'll have her again. I promise." He pulled the bloodied kukri free.

"Please!" Orlovski sobbed. "Don't take her from me!"

Malcolm tried not to look at him as he scooped up Orlovski's effects. It was the only way. Without a word, he hurried back down the drive, stopping long enough to retrieve his own camera, then raced to where Sam waited in the SUV.

She didn't speak to him as he threw the gear inside and gunned the engine. She was still too new to understand. After the first mile, he slowed to more reasonable speed. Locals only slightly sped along the Ozark roads. Two hills later, he pulled to the side, allowing three flashing squad cars room to pass. They had no idea what they were in store for.

Chapter Three

"Jesus, what a circus," Sam said as they pulled into Cox South Hospital.

Three different reporters stood out front, each meticulously placed so that their cameramen wouldn't catch the others. News vans from across the state cluttered the already cramped parking lot, and even more raced toward Springfield to join them. They already knew the name Eduard Lukov, and while the police and FBI were too busy to dig that far into their victim-hero's identity, the press had nothing else to do but chip into Orlovski's already weak alias.

Twenty minutes after leaving the crime scene, Allan and other Valducans had already begun the elaborate and laborious task of transforming Eduard Lukov into a man that reporters and internet sleuths could easily find and then write off as uninteresting. Malcolm's job now was to get the Russian out of there before anyone cracked the tenuous illusion.

He managed to find a space in the parking garage. They'd rented a non-descript Toyota on the off-chance that anyone might somehow recognize the black SUV from the night in question. How the hell had such a simple job turned into such a world-class fuck up? Media and police attention were one thing. Hospitals and questionable injuries was another. Somehow, on Malcolm's watch, he'd managed to pull them both off. Thankfully, neither of them were dead or holy weapons confiscated. At least, not yet.

He checked himself in the visor mirror and cinched his olive-colored tie. The black plastic-framed glasses seemed an inadequate disguise, but they'd worked many times before. They also drew attention away from the strip of Sam's makeup, masking the red line from when Hounacier had tried to mark his temple. Long steel-gray sleeves hid his tattooed arms.

"You ready for this?"

Sam nodded, her jaw tense. She stepped out and shut the door behind her. Malcolm followed. Sam's ponytail bounced ahead of him with each step, its curled end forming it into a long, auburn teardrop.

Dual rows of glass doors slid apart, releasing a gust of air conditioning into the June air. Three uniformed police stood near one wall. They glanced at the newcomers for only an instant before their attention returned to their white Styrofoam coffee cups. Malcolm made his way to the reception desk and waited.

A pale nurse dressed in pastel-molted scrubs looked up. Her hair was cut short, shiny, like a smooth, brown helmet. "May help you?"

"We're here to visit Eduard Lukov."

The receptionist's plastic smile cracked. Her eyes darted to the three policemen and back so fast that she probably didn't even realize it.

"My name is Adam Jones," Malcolm continued. "I should be on the list."

She clicked her keyboard a few times, then the smile returned to her pink-painted lips. "I'll just need to see some identification, Mister Jones."

Malcolm drew the wallet from his back pocket. "I understand." He flipped it, revealing the beautiful, two-thousand-dollar Oklahoma driver's license featuring his face and alias.

She squinted at it, not really appreciating the forger's masterful work. "You'll need to sign in." She offered up a clipboard.

"Excuse me," said a female voice.

Shit.
Malcolm turned to see a pretty Hispanic woman in a mint green pantsuit. "Yes?"

She smiled. "Fernanda Guzman, Springfield News-Leader. I couldn't help but overhear. Are you familiar with Eduard Lukov?"

"No comment," Malcolm said, noting the little black recorder in the woman's hand. He scratched his alias onto the log beneath Sam's.

"Do you know of his condition?" Fernanda asked.

"Not yet." He accepted a pair of visitor passes from the nurse, keeping his palm downward to hide the tattoos.

"How do you know Mister Lukov?" the reporter pressed.

Need to move before they bring a camera.
Malcolm clipped the plastic badge on his shirt, smiled at the nurse again, and hurried toward the elevator.

"Mister Jones," the reporter said, her heels clacking on the linoleum behind them. "Do you know why Eduard Lukov was abducted?"

Malcolm stepped into the elevator behind Sam and hit the 'Close' button.

"Did he see—" The doors slit shut.

"Bloody hell," Sam growled "Thought we were made."

Malcolm fidgeted with his tie. "Just relax."

"Relax? They'll be snapping our pictures when we leave."

"They should have a back door they'll let us use."

She shook her head. "And if they don't?"

"They always do." He squeezed her shoulder. "We'll be fine."

The doors opened to the third floor. White halls, their travelers hesitant to make eye contact, low voices tinged with concern and grief. Hospital smell, the scent of cleaners overlaying the stink of humanity. It was the same everywhere but always a little unique, like different women wearing the same perfume. Malcolm slowed his steps, blending in.

A blue-uniformed security guard checked their badges before allowing them in Orlovski's room.

"There he is," Malcolm said before closing the door behind him.

Orlovski lay stretched out in his bed, his leg encased in a blue cast. A purple bruise circled his right eye and down along his bandaged nose. "About time you got here."

Sam bent to give the Russian a hug. "We brought you a friend."

"A friend?"

Sam peeled open her laptop satchel's Velcro flap. "She misses you?"

Orlovski's mood seemed to brighten instantly. Eyes wide in anticipation, he watched her open the bag like a kid opening a birthday present, its contents known and long coveted. His fingers reached forward as she removed Amballwa. Sam gave him the kukri, and he held it against his chest, eyes closed, his breaths long and relieved. "Thank you. Thank you."

"How are you doing, brother?" Malcolm asked, watching the door in case some nurse might stroll in to find her patient cradling a giant knife.

"Six hour surgery removing buckshot and putting a plate in. Three cracked ribs but no serious internal injuries." He snorted. "You broke my nose."

"Police interview you?"

Orlovski nodded. "Over an hour this morning before the doctors kicked them out. They'll be back."

"You hear anything about Tiffany?" Malcolm asked.

"Yeah, sounds like she recanted on your little story that I was a prisoner."

Sam's lips pursed. She shot Malcolm a little glare. "I told you she'd crack."

Malcolm shrugged. "That's unfortunate."

"Unfortunate?" Sam asked.

"For her," Malcolm said. "If she told them that there was a monster, then two mysterious men showed up and saved her, leaving one behind. Then say that there was no monster, and Taras was a prisoner who got free, and then back again to the original story, she sounds insane. The story was as much for her as it was for us. Right now, we have enough information out there that Taras' alibi should check out for at least the next forty eight hours."

"All the more reason to get him out of here," Sam said.

"It's not going to be easy," Orlovski said. "They're not just going to let me go. I killed those men."

Malcolm smiled. "Sure they will. You're a hero. They've got enough in that house to keep them busy for now." He surveyed the cast running from Orlovski's hip all the way down to his ankle. "They give you an idea how long you'll be wearing that thing?"

"A few months." Orlovski's smile drew to a thin line. He glared at the cast like it was some living thing, a parasite that might have latched on to him. "With PT, they estimate a year before full recovery."

#

"A year," Master Schmidt growled. It wasn't a question; it was a scolding. Malcolm's man was out of circulation during one of the hardest times in the Valducans' eight-century existence. With only thirteen active knights and another four known independents, only seventeen hunters protected a world of billions. Two years ago, it was sixty. Now, they were one less.

"Femoral fractures are tricky," Malcolm said. He'd found an empty waiting alcove nestled on the second floor. Tablet in hand, he scanned his latest field report as Schmidt buzzed in his earpiece. "I suggest we allot eighteen months before active field work."

Schmidt sighed. "Any issues with the story?"

"None. Police found charred bone fragments they suspect to be from other victims. Everyone's attention is on that."

"When can you extract him?"

"Hospital won't release him for another few hours," Malcolm answered.

"Then what?"

He shrugged, still scrolling though the report. "Head down to Chile. Should take us ten days. We can hold the fort there. Sam can continue training, and Master Sonu can start her as a Librarian. Give Luiza and Matt some field time for a change."

Schmidt harrumphed. "Luiza's pregnant."

Malcolm paused. "Really?"

"Announced it Sunday. Needless to say, we'll need to keep her off the front line for a while. You and Matt will run point while Taras heals."

"I see." Malcolm frowned.

"That's not going to be a problem, I assume."

"No," Malcolm said. A year before, Matt Hollis had been the black sheep of demon hunters. Possessed with an entity no one understood, he'd been invited, against Malcolm's protests, into the Valducans' fold. Words were exchanged. Even after Matt had more than proven himself, revealing that the spirit inside him was that of his holy weapon Dämoren, the two never quite mended. Malcolm didn't hold a grudge. But given the information he knew at the time, he still stood by his suspicion of the outsider. Matt never really seemed to accept that. They were brothers now. But they'd never be friends. "Not at all."

"Good," Schmidt said. Silence. Car noise rumbled in the background. "We think we have another mist cat in Croatia."

Hounacier's cut tingled beneath Malcolm's sleeve. "Already? It's moving fast." Tiamat's broods had taken the form of flying, human-faced eels. Each one unleashed its own unique demonic breed on anyone it attacked. How many demons one could conjure was anyone's guess. Maybe it would just keep doing it until killed or every demon of that type was accounted for. Malcolm pictured it like some sort of interdimensional queue, or maybe bullets in a magazine, each spirit waiting its turn. If they didn't kill that eel soon, mist cats might become one of the new dominant species.

"We'll need your report as soon as possible."

Malcolm tapped the screen. "Sending it now. The short of it is, brass and amethyst are ineffective. One of the loads in my shotgun worked, but I don't know which. List is included. Judging by the two men, I'd say Allan's theory that they can make familiars is valid."

"Do you think them werebeasts?" Schmidt asked.

"Nothing suggests transformation." Malcolm scanned his other inbox. He'd neglected it the past month since Daniel had first contacted him. He noticed two emails from Ulises. One titled "Great News" from three weeks ago. Six days later, "Call me." They hadn't spoken in months. Once this business with Orlovski was settled, he'd give him a call. Malcolm saw another message from an unfamiliar address but recognized the name. Natasha Luison.

The title read, "Important: It's Tasha."

"Uwe suspects the recent attacks along the coast are from a new lycanthrope," Schmidt said. "Something aquatic."

"Really?" Malcolm said, not really listening. Four years. How had she found him?

"If so, it's going to make them very difficult to track."

He opened the message.

Malcolm,

It's been a long time. No one knew how to contact you, but I managed to find this address in some of Ulises' things. There's no real easy way to say this, but I have some terrible news that you need to know.

"Ah," Schmidt was saying, "Your field report came through. I'll make sure Allan reviews it. Expect a call from him once he does."

"Always do," Malcolm said, still reading. A horrible dread welled in his stomach.
Oh shit.

"Fine, then. Call when you leave the hospital or if anything changes."

Malcolm pursed his lips. "Master Schmidt, I won't be able to go to Chile."

"What?"

"I just received a message." Malcolm drew a breath. Held it. "Ulises…my mentor…is dead. I need to go home."