Primacy of Darkness (16 page)

“It looks like he is talking about the bedlam in Queens last night.”

“Bedlam?”

“What? It’s a word.”

Trinh snorted. “If you’re a Victorian-era drama author.”

Carol huffed through her nose. “Philistine.”

“I’m from Vietnam, not Palestine.”

“I said Philistine not—ugh, bitch. Anyway, Mo’ Money created a thread with some rather detailed information about that brouhaha—”

Trinh grinned, showing her too-white teeth.

“Tumult? Goddam it! All that shooting and shit in Queens. Stop laughing at me. I can’t help it. I’m an old soul.”

“You’re twenty-five. I’m the old soul.”

“You’re just old and menopausal.”

“I am not menopausal! I just haven’t had a period since that sonofabitch Malone infected me.”

“Is that what they called it back in your day?”

“Shut up and tell me what he said.”

Carol turned back toward her screen. “It’s just that some of the details are pretty specific.”

Trinh read over Carol’s shoulder. “That is awfully detailed. Can you open a private chat with him?”

“I can try.”

“Good, do that and try to get him to admit that he knows Malone personally. If he does, we need to find out where he lives so he can lead us to him.”

Carol stared at her screen, gathering her thoughts on how to best approach Mo’ Money. Hackers and minions of the dark web were a flighty bunch who scattered like roaches when the light comes on if anyone started asking too many questions. It used to be a safe place for her kind to hang out and get a look at the real world, but ever since the NSA and Homeland Security sent their tendrils into it, people have become nervous to the point of paranoia.

There was little else to do. Trinh was not the patient type, so she sent a private chat request to Mo’ Money. Her computer chirped, indicating that someone had entered the “room”.

Mo’ Money:
Hey, what’s up?

Circe:
Mo, that shit sounds wild!

Mo’ Money:
I live a wild life.

Circe:
Were you there?

Mo’ Money:
Naw, but I know a guy who was.

Circe:
Friend?

Mo’ Money:
Connection.

Circe:
How connected is he?

Mo’ Money:
VERY.

Circe:
People say it was a terrorist. Prob Muslims.

Mo’ Money:
Def not Muslims.

Circe:
How do you know? Maybe he’s just a vamp glory boy like the rest of these idiots.

Mo’ Money:
He’s not.

Circe:
How do you know?

Mo’ Money:
He was there.

Circe:
That what he said?

Mo’ Money:
That’s what I know.

Circe:
How?

Mo’ Money:
Because I been there.

Circe:
GTFO. Queens thing?

Mo’ Money:
No. Penn.

Circe:
Do you live in Penn?

Mo’ Money:
No, NY.

Circe:
OMG, me too! Can I meet him?

Mo’ Money:
Not possible.

Circe:
What about you?

Mo’ Money:
Not a good idea.

Circe:
Come on! You’re like a superstar. Don’t leave a girl hanging.

Mo’ Money:
Yur prob a forty y/o fat guy.

Circe:
NOT!

Mo’ Money:
Catfish.

Circe:
I’ll prove it.

Mo’ Money:
How?

Circe:
Pic.

Mo’ Money:
Like I’m going to open a pic from a stranger.

Circe:
Pussy.

Mo’ Money:
That the pic?

Circe:
Close ;)

Marvin’s fingers hovered above the keyboard. Accepting any kind of file was risky to the point of being stupid. But… He double-checked his defenses and felt secure in his cyber prowess.

Mo’ Money:
Send it.

Carol lifted her shirt, covering the lower half of her face and exposing her pert breasts and took a picture. She injected a tiny snippet of code into the image and sent it.

Mo’ Money:
Aw shit! You a ho’ :)

Circe:
You saw mine. Show me yours.

Mo’ Money:
Show you my what?

Circe:
Your face. No girl likes a dick pic.

Mo’ Money:
But everyone likes titties?

Circe:
I don’t make the rules.

Marvin had been in the game too long to shake the feeling he was being catfished or at least trolled. He double-checked the time stamps on the picture Circe had sent. Everything checked out. It would not be impossible to fool his system, but it would be damned hard. He took a picture with his camera and sent it.

“Aw, Trinh, look. He’s so nerdy cute,” Carol cooed. “I love nerdy cute.”

Trinh walked over and looked at the image. “He’s in league with vampires. He’s the enemy. Can you find him?”

Carol opened the picture to look at the source code. “Yeah, my trojan tagged it on the way out with a tracer. He’s using thousands of hops, so it will take me a little while to trace it back to the source.”

“Do it.”

CHAPTER 20

I return to my new home and find my shipping container parked next to the building, courtesy of the enclave cleanup crew.  Despite all the shit they usually give me anytime I put in a request, they came through with a significant amount of haste. I guess that goes to show how serious the enclave is taking this.

The hinges let out an awful shriek as I open the metal doors. I stare inside and can’t help but feel a bit pathetic. All of my worldly possessions barely fill half the box. I try to console myself with the knowledge that the bomb probably destroyed everything in my loft that wasn’t in my workshop, but the truth is that, other than my small refrigerator and a few pieces of shitty furniture, I didn’t own much else.

They put most of my gear in hard plastic cases. Even the heavy ones weighing a hundred pounds or more each I am able to carry with one hand and tote them out two at a time into my new loft. I have no furniture, but there are several sturdy tables scattered throughout the open floor that aren’t being occupied by heavy power tools.

I flip the latches on the cases and start taking inventory. As I suspected, almost everything they sent over is from my armory. That’s a good thing seeing as how that was pretty much the only important stuff I own. Shit. I open every case, but one thing is conspicuously missing.

“Sonofabitch!”

I had three new Miguel Caballeros hanging in a standalone closet. I’m guessing they didn’t make it. The likelihood of me getting shot, probably multiple times, over the next few days or however long it takes me to deal with Jack and my assassin is high, and it’s not as though they sell them at Burlington Coat Factory. I don’t even have a change of underwear.

In the back of the shipping container I find my door, the one that probably saved my life—or whatever the hell you want to call my existence. I leave it there for now. Even I will have a hard time lugging it around.

I take inventory and find all of my guns and even my explosives, so at least I won’t be unarmed. One case contains various bits of electronics and about a dozen burner phones. With nothing else to do, I disassemble every gun in my arsenal and perform function checks to ensure that the explosion and hasty transport did not damage any of them. Being an expert at performing weapons maintenance, I only burn maybe two hours, and that was taking my time.

It grates on my nerves that a lunatic, two lunatics, are out there running amok and I have no plan. I need a plan. I have Marvin looking for my personal psycho, but that doesn’t feel like a good plan. Probably because it requires me to put someone else in control of it. I hate not being in control and I haven’t been in control since the moment this clusterfuck kicked off.

It makes me feel like the end of a whip, snapping at the speed of sound every time the hand holding it makes a move. I can’t remember the last time I was so far behind the eight ball. My every move has been reactive, almost choreographed by Jack or my personal stalker, and I’m waiting for Marvin to take the lead. Oh, how the mighty has fallen.

Thinking of whips, I return to the case filled with my various blades. I own several swords, most custom-made and identical. I select a dagger-sized knife with a thick blade and a smaller knife. I disassemble the smaller knife by removing the handle and using a hacksaw to cut off the tang. I wish I had my forge, but there is enough machinery in here that I should be able to make do.

I find an operational drill press, bore two holes through both blades near the base, and rivet them together so they form something like a lowercase y with the shorter blade jutting out a little less than half the length of the larger.

I look around the room, once again noting that I have no furniture. I clear off one of the steel tables and stretch out, staring at the ceiling with my eyes closed.

***

My phone’s chirping and vibrating wakens me from my torpor. Several times I almost slipped into real sleep, but she was there, as always, waiting to pounce on me the moment I entered her world. I didn’t have the emotional strength to deal with her, so I stepped back into the hazy, mushy realm of half-sleep every time I started to cross the veil.

The caller ID belongs to Vincent. A small part of my brain wants me to ignore it, but Vincent never calls for social reasons. “What?”

“Druitt is attacking a police station in Brooklyn.”

“Jesus Christ, has this guy ever heard of taking a day off?”

“No, and neither have you. If you hurry, you may be able to catch him. I am sending a team to the location now, but you are closer.”

“You still have a team? You must be reaching deep into the third string for these guys.”

“Their primary job is to contain and clean up whatever mess you and Montague make. Your job is to intercept and eliminate him and I do not care how you do it.”

I cast my eyes across the open weapon containers. I smile as I make my choice. Green light.

***

Castillo snapped awake at the sound of her laptop’s alarm. It took a moment to shake herself fully awake. The first thing she noticed was that it was dark out, but her body insisted that the hours of sleep she had gotten were insufficient. She whipped her head toward her computer. Malone was moving away at a high rate of speed.

She turned the ignition with a curse and tore out after him. He was already several blocks ahead and getting farther away with each passing second. Castillo kept glancing at the screen as she weaved through traffic. Malone was starting to slow down near her station house. Why would he be going to her precinct? Did he find her spying on him and was going to report her?

“Shit.”

She switched on the police radio she had turned off in order to get some sleep. The sounds coming through the speaker sounded like a war zone. A dispatcher was calling for all units to converge on the station for an active shooter.

“Shit!”

***

Trinh paid scant attention to the police scanner while Carol continued to make a connection with Mo’ Money. The generic broadcasts turned frantic. The dispatcher screamed into the radio calling for support. Gunshots rang out over her voice as if to punctuate the urgency.

“Carol, where is that station?” Trinh asked, her voice as anxious as the dispatcher’s.

Carol typed it into her computer and read off the address. Trinh grabbed several weapons lying nearby and secured them in the harness strapped across her body.

“Wait up!” Carol called after Trinh as she bolted for the door with her motorcycle helmet in hand.

“No time. You stay here and keep working Mo’ Money in case we still need him to get to Malone.”

“You don’t know what you’re heading into! You can’t go alone.”

“Kid, I was doing this thirty years before I met you. I can handle it. I didn’t even have my superjuice back then.”

“You were also more objective. You keep losing your shit when it comes to Malone.”

“Yeah, it’s dangerous. It always has been and is more dangerous now than ever, but people are dying, and I’m not going to sit on my hands. You do your end, I’ll do mine.”

Trinh closed the door with a slam of finality. She climbed onto her black Hayabusa and streaked across town.

***

It takes me less than ten minutes to get to the precinct. I drop my bike to the ground, not even bothering with the kickstand. I can hear the shots and see the muzzle flashes through the upper windows of the two-story police precinct. Sirens blare in the background as every cop in the city races to the scene to help.

It’s a bad situation for everyone. The cops inside have little chance against a killer like Jack, and I’m pretty much whipping my pasty vampire dick out for everyone to see by coming to the rescue. My only protection against recognition is the neoprene mask I pull over the lower part of my face and nose. It won’t stop a bullet, but maybe it will protect my anonymity in court. Green light.

I hop onto the brick wall at the parking lot entrance and leap onto the second-floor balcony where all the smokers step out for their breaks. The largest volume of gunfire is coming from the northwest corner of the building, with an occasional single shot returned from the eastern end. This gives me a good idea of where Jack is in relation to the cops.

My brain flashes a brief question as to why Jack is still here. He’s had plenty of time to wreak havoc and flee. I push it to the back of my mind. Now is not the time for questions. I kick through the glass of a large window on the southeast end of the building.

I look past the desks and cubicle dividers and spot close to a dozen officers crouching behind the office furniture. Several are down with bleeding wounds. Those not rendering aid are sporadically shooting in my direction. They aren’t aiming at me or anyone in particular. They are providing suppressive fire in hopes of keeping the intruder at bay long enough for reinforcements to arrive.

Jack is holed up near an interrogation room not fifty feet away from me. He leans past a pillar and smiles at me. “Mr. Malone, I am pleased to see you. I was hoping to lure you back into the game and here you are.”

“Playtime is over, Jack.”

I raise the twelve-gauge, AA-12 automatic shotgun from beneath my trench coat and unleash a fusillade of sabot rounds from the thirty-two-round drum. The armor-piercing slugs tear through the brick and concrete. I see a flash of black as Jack bolts away. He tumbles and cries out, letting me know that I at least winged him.

With my finger still on the trigger, I march forward, chasing Jack through the building with a stream of miniature cannon rounds.

“Not very sporting of you,” Jack calls out just before he hurls himself out of a window ahead of my vampire-shredding bullets.

I sprint across the room and lean out of the window in time to see Jack dart through the parking lot and race toward the Community Board 16 building across the street. My shotgun drum is nearly empty, and he is heading toward an area with a lot of apartments. I drop the drum filled with sabot rounds and insert a fresh one loaded with buckshot.

By the time I jump through the window and run out of the small parking lot, Jack has crossed the street and is leaping onto the roof of the Community Board. I give chase, following him around the building from street level. He taunts me by shooting over the side of the building. I return fire with a far greater volume of lead and chase him away from the edge.

The rustling sound of a jacket is the only warning I get. I tuck into a roll as someone drops from the rooftop of the opposite building. Their feet strike softly against the pavement, but they are already moving by the time I come out of my tumble.

I raise the shotgun over my head in time to catch the sword angling toward my neck. Despite the cloth covering the lower part of her face, I know it’s her.

“I see another player has decided to join the game,” Jack calls down from the roof. “Since I am a sporting man, I will let you two have at it. See you in the championship round, Mr. Malone…assuming you are victorious.”

I spring to my feet with a curse, furious that she let Jack get away from me. I push her blade up over her head with a two-handed grip on my shotgun and kick her in the chest. She flies across the alley and strikes the brick wall with a meaty slap and a loud exhalation.

I level the shotgun and squeeze the trigger. She jumps straight up into the air and lands on the roof with a backflip as my buckshot scores a line up the brick wall from the street to the roof. She kicks off the edge of the roof and performs a slow, mid-air cartwheel over my head. I fire into the sky, misjudging the lead by inches.

Her hand snakes out and I feel the weighted cable wrap around my forearm. She lands on top of a dumpster with a clang and jerks the cord. My leading arm snaps away, causing me to lose my grip on my shotgun.

Not this time, bitch.

I drop my gun to the ground, reach inside my coat, and draw the funny-looking y-knife. Taking a knee, I jam the blade into the ground where two concrete slabs come together, trapping the cable in the crotch of the twin blade. Jerking my arm up, I sever the cord.

“Got any other ninja tricks?” I ask.

She doesn’t say a word, and although I can’t see anything other than her eyes, her glare says plenty. She flips off of the dumpster and comes at me with a flurry of kicks and sword slashes. I duck and twist away from the onslaught just enough to draw my sword and parry.

Her attack does not waver. Impossibly, she is even faster and stronger than when we last fought. This woman is a complete enigma, one I can’t spare the brainpower to resolve as I am doing everything I can to keep her from cutting my head off.

She still isn’t as fast or strong as I am, but the gulf that once separated our differences has narrowed enough to spit across. One divide that hasn’t been bridged is the proficiency in our fighting skills and she is using her advantage to kick my ass.

I bring my blade up to block an overhead chop. She whips a leg up, kicks me in the gut, darts behind me, and mule kicks me in the lower back. My arms windmill as the force of the blow sends me stagger-sprinting across the wide alley. I turn and let my shoulder take the brunt of the impact with the wall.

Skill might be the ultimate factor in a ring where everyone is playing by the same rules, but I’ve seen many skilled fighters lose to a brawler whose only rule is to win. I charge across the alley, my sword held overhead, leaving myself open. She runs out to meet me and takes advantage of the opening.