Midnight Taxi Tango (24 page)

Reza

I
was off the night Angie went missing. I had learned to tame my mind, mastered the once-incessant barrage of
what's she doing?
and
who's she with?
I'd made dinner and was settling in to eat when Charo called.

We tore through the house she'd been sent to, Charo and I. Didn't turn up a goddamn thing and had to pull out when one of the neighbors came by and threatened to call the cops. We burned up and down the block, sent Rohan and Memo and Bri out in a frantic scurry through the whole neighborhood.

Nothing.

Went back to the house later in the night, and I felt the exhaustion of hopelessness grind down on me. My hands shook. It never happens, not in these decades of facing down my own death. But Angie . . . Angie. Someone had her, and the sheer wall of impossibility between me and getting her back cast its shadow over my every move. The house was abandoned, emptied out completely, and I put my back to one wall and slid to the floor while Charo raged silently through it one more time.

I held my hands in front of my face, willed them to still.

They trembled on.

Closed my eyes.

I knew she was gone, even that first night. Everything in me knew, everything held tight anyway. Hope was gone, the whole search a lie. But it was all I knew how to do. Which meant I had to create some sliver of possibility and anchor myself on it.

I stilled my hands, slowed my heart, unclenched my guts, all on the strength of a lie called hope.

Stood.

Followed Charo through the house, eyes scanning endlessly like searchlights, eyes empty as searchlights. Lost. But I had stilled myself, braced by the lie.

And now we're in traffic. On the fucking Long Island Expressfuckingway.

Fuck.

“How long ago did you lose her?” Sasha says. Her eyes are closed. She's been deep breathing since we dropped off Carlos. Trying to calm the urge to destroy everything, I'm sure. I see a little bit of me in her, the me from that night, willing the stillness into my hands. I hope she doesn't have to anchor it on a lie.

“What?”

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I know it's invasive. I didn't mean to . . . I just . . . I need to take my mind off this.”

Right. Carlos had mentioned his weirdo supernatural abilities, the way folks' memories and thoughts swirl around us like little satellites to him, whole histories unraveling from a simple touch. Makes sense that his weirdo girlfriend would have the same skills.

“It's fine,” I say. “I don't mind. Four months ago. The roach guys got her.”

“I'm sorry,” Sasha says. Her eyes are open now; she watches the side of my face.

I shake my head. “Not as sorry as they're about to be.” But it sounds weak, considering we're stuck in fucking traffic on
the fucking LIE instead of storming the fortress or whatever this place is.

I'm just thinking how I don't even know where the fuck we're going when my phone buzzes. I click the earpiece.

“Reza?” a gravelly voice says. “Dr. Tennessee again. How you guys moving?”

“Not well. What you got?”

“I'm at the library, looking through the file now. Seems Garrick Tartus's third structure is located on the marshlands at Caumsett Park. It's a little outlet on the north coast of the Island, connected by an isthmus.”

“An isthmus, huh? Fancy vocabulary for a librarian.”

Dr. Tennessee lets out an amiable chuckle. “That's why they pay me the big bucks.”

“This by Oyster Bay?”

“Yeah. Remote as fuck, marshy, nasty, godforsaken. Home to some obnoxious wildlife and a bunch of scenic outlooks and abandoned little roads.”

“Sounds like my kinda dive.”

“If you're looking to bury a body, yeah.”

“I just might be.”

She sips something, and then I hear a lighter flicker.

“Having yourself a nightcap?” I ask.

She chuckles again. It's a warm, raspy sound. “Rum and a blunt. I'd offer you some, but technology's just not there yet, alas.”

“Alas.” I'm smiling. It feels strange. We're going to find this maniac half-dead dude and save kidnapped twin babies from the wrath of an evil swarm of cockroaches. I shouldn't be smiling. I am though. Soon, Sasha will notice, and I'll feel like shit. She's back to her trance though—eyes closed, hands in prayer position against her face.

“I'm gonna get off this highway and take the local streets,” I say.

“Okay,” Sasha says quietly.

“Great,” Dr. Tennessee rasps. “Lemme pull up the map app on my tablet and see if I can guide you along.”

“I'm by Jericho.”

“Oh, I don't even need the app.” She takes a sip and then a drag. “Take Route 25 past Crest Hollow and then head north on West Oakwood.”

“Old stomping ground?”

“I used to fuck this divorced supermodel in Huntington.”

“Ah, of course.”

“She was a volunteer firefighter in her spare time. Some of the best head I've ever had in my life, Reza.”

“You know what they say about divorced volunteer firefighter model chicks . . .”

We both laugh as I pull off the expressway. Sasha opens one eye at me, and I tell Dr. Tennessee I'll call her back when we get closer.

The darkness closes in around us.

• • •

“Listen,” Sasha says as I maneuver us through the endless Long Island nightways, “I know you all have your ways of doing things.”

I already know what she's going to say and I don't like it, but she's right. Memo says, “Whatsup?” from the back.

“And I hate when people tell me how to do my shit,” Sasha continues. “But my babies . . . will be there somewhere. And . . .”

“No guns,” I say. “Until the twins are secured.”

Sasha exhales.

“But, Reza . . .” Bri says. In the rearview, I see Memo put a hand on her arm. She shrugs it off. “We don't even know . . .”

“No guns.” My voice doesn't leave room for debate. “There's machetes in the back. There's a chain in there too. And some other shit you can kill with. And I got some
insecticide grenades. I know we usually roll with more going for us, but I'm not opening up a shooting gallery with two babies in the mix. Fin de cuento.”

Bri sighs and retreats to the darkness of the back.

“Thank you,” Sasha says.

My phone buzzes once. These roads are narrow, and the dense marshland forest rises up on either side. Somewhere not too far away, the ocean roars. I'm doubling the speed limit and praying not to pass any cops, so I only glance at the text. It's a rambling mess from Rohan—Jeremy's dead and that turns out to be a bad thing; something called the “Master Hive” is swarming our way and apparently going to infest one of the twins. That seems to be the gist of the plan anyway. And something about shining people and the spirit world and Kia, but really, I can't be bothered.

I text him Dr. Tennessee's cell number so he can find out where we're going and then pocket my phone.

The Blattodeons are up to some sick reincarnation game. Makes sense, what with Caitlin fake recruiting Carlos to do her dirty work. I can't tease out the whole scenario while I'm driving, but I'm sure Jeremy approached the Survivors with a deal, or one of them anyway. Gregorio must've weighed out the options and put his money on the Blattodeons. Charo tends to let other organizations underestimate us, and that comes in handy during surprise attacks, but in this case . . . well, here we are.

The phone buzzes again, and I click my earpiece.

“Still on the Island?” Dr. Tennessee asks.

“And ain't it fine.”

“You hit West Neck Road yet?”

“Yeah, we on it now.”

“You're fast.”

“That's what they tell me.”

“You'll cross the isthmus soon then.”

The sky opens up to either side of us, dark, dark water spreading out into the night. To the right, trees darken the horizon in the distance. “As we speak, in fact.”

“Great. Hook a right down the first dark unmarked road after you're over. It'll be muddy—you're in swamplands now—and you'll go through a wooded area. Past that, there's an open, marshy field and a lighthouse at the far end. That's Garrick's.”

“A lighthouse?”

“Not on the shore, I know. He was clearly a freak though, so I'm not that surprised. The door'll be on the far side from where you're approaching. Other than that, best I can tell, it's your average random ol' lighthouse in the middle of nowhere. And seems there're some tunnels underneath; don't see them lead anywhere though. All the guy did his whole career basically was build tunnels. Tunnels, tunnels, tunnels. The human fricken mole. And this one tower.”

The turnoff comes quicker than I thought it would, and I have to screech the brakes to pull onto it. In the back, Memo curses.

“Gear up,” I say.

“Who, me?” Dr. Tennessee asks.

I chuckle. “Sounds like you're already set for the night.”

“Yeah, I'm just gonna pull an all-nighter here at the library since y'all got me up at crazy hours and at work anyway.”

“Yeah, sorry 'bout that.”

“Nah, I'm a night owl. Plus I wanna . . . you know . . . make sure you come out alright.”

A few seconds of silence pass.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Call me when it's all over, whatever the hell it is. And whoever the hell you are.”

“Thank you,” I say again, this time allowing some warmth into my voice.

“And be careful, Reza. If you get through alive, maybe we'll grab a drink somewhere.”

“I'd like that.” It comes out before I think too hard about it. Which is probably for the best.

“Unless you smell bad. I don't date smelly women—sorry.”

“I don't,” I say through a smile. “Promise.”

“Yeah, you don't talk like you smell bad. Bet you smell like fresh Egyptian cotton sheets and rainy mornings.”

I stifle a chuckle. “And the occasional Conejo.”

“I prefer Malagueñas now that Carlos introduced them to me, but I can get with that.”

I cut the headlights, plow forward carefully. The forest becomes the whole world: shadowy branches blot out the moon, the light from the street behind us, everything. Dr. Tennessee says something, but her voice keeps cutting in and out. An unexpected emptiness settles in me when the call blips off.

“That librarian an old friend of yours?” Sasha asks.

I squint to see the dark road ahead. “Apparently so.”

• • •

“Think they know we're here?” Bri asks.

We're gearing up: long hooded jackets and flak vests, firepower holstered; a belt with various death-bringing goodies strapped to it, including three of my custom-made insecticide grenades; Memo with his ax and chain; Sasha has a monstrous-curved scimitar and a short blade; Bri and I have machetes in each hand. I don't like how little we know and like even less that we're relying on this hand-to-hand bullshit, but there's no other way.

“We have to assume so,” I say. “But realistically, they're short-staffed when it comes to nonroach dudes. By my count, Gregorio only had a small handful of Survivors at his
disposal after he betrayed Marie. Minus Sasha, minus Blaine. And I don't think the roach guys can function as lookouts.”

“Let's go,” Sasha says. She's already at the edge of the forest, peering out into the moonlit field. For a woman with her babies in enemy hands, she's holding up impressively. Sasha's a warrior though; I see it all over her. She knows where to store up that anguish and fear so it doesn't get in the way of what needs to be done. I just hope she knows how to let it out when it's all over.

We move in silence across the field. The marshy soil squishes beneath our feet. Up ahead, the lighthouse forms a towering shadow against the dark sky, one dimly lit room at the top. We keep a wide berth between us: Memo and Sasha on either side, Bri and me in the middle. Feels too easy, but it always feels like that right up until all hell releases and you hate yourself for ever thinking it was easy. It's only when we're about twenty feet from the lighthouse that I remember the tunnels.

Tunnels mean entrances. Which means—

“Watch the grou—” I start to say. The crack of a rifle cuts me off. Bri's head flies back—in the dark I see a chunk of it hurl upward as she falls. Sasha and I drop into the tall grass. The field comes to life around Bri's fallen body. First it's just movement, squirming shadows. I brace myself for another swarm. Instead, a man lifts himself out of the earth, then another.

Then another.

Five, now six roach men rise, converge on Bri. Memo yells, “No!” and another shot rings out—this one I hear thump into the dirt a few feet from us.

Memo is a damned fool.

Bri is dead.

He swings the chain in a wide circle, clobbering two roach guys, then lops off the head of a third. Two lurch forward at the same time, splattering him with their swarms.

Ahead of me, the tall grass rustles and a shadow begins to
squirm free from the tunnel below. I roll toward it, kneel. Both my machetes come down at the same time. Behind me, Sasha grunts and then Memo starts screaming. It's not a sound I've ever heard him make before, and he's been shot how many times now? Then his scream becomes a muffled choke, and I know it's because they've entered him. I bring the machetes down again and again, until the thing beneath me is just a muddled pool of flesh stopping up the tunnel entrance.

The third shot rings out as I'm dropping back into the grass. One of the Blattodeons working on Memo falls backward hissing.

Then I see Sasha. She appears behind the horde of them; that scimitar flashes in the moonlight, and she starts cutting. As they turn, she slides backward into the night, seeming to disappear, and then shows up on the other side with a sharp upswing, decapitating another. She destroys three, four, five of them before another shot sends them all scattering.