Blood Moon Eclipse (The Shadow Lands Book 2)

by Lloyd Behm II

  “Father Salazar, I wasn’t aware you’d be visiting today. Is there something I can do to help you?” Denny asked, rising from behind his stack of monitors.

  Today he was wearing dark blue crushed velvet pants and a checkerboard-pattern lamé shirt—a matching jacket with red edging on the lapels hung from the back of his chair

  “You can come with me,” I replied. “There are some questions we need you to answer.”

  “I…sure, give me a minute,” he said tapping the space bar on his computer. “It may take a little longer than I thought; I need to lock my computer and it isn’t responding.”

  Other denizens of the cube farm were starting to prairie-dog—heads popped up to see what was happening, then quickly dropped back down below the level of their cube walls. I could hear muttering behind the walls, and rumors, which violate the laws of physics, spread beyond the IT center. I knew that was happening, because I could hear the clatter of keys as emails were sent company wide—Denny had insisted we could only buy buckling spring keyboards, and those things are fucking noisy.

  “It’s okay,” I replied. “Step away from the desk, because you’re not going to get it to respond.”

  He reached for the off switch to reboot the PC. Fred grabbed him by the arm.

  “Seriously, Jack, just step away. I don’t know what landmines you’ve planted on your machine, and I don’t want to have to hurt you, but we know what you’ve been up to,” I said.

  Saying he collapsed was an understatement. The only thing keeping him upright was the death grip Fred took on his arm.

  “You don’t understand,” Denny said. “They’ll kill her if you stop me from wiping the data.”

  “Kill who?” I asked. Not that I was going to let him wipe the data.

  “They’ll kill my daughter,” he replied.

  “You’re not married,” I said. Denny was, in fact, rather notorious as a love-em-and-leave-em type of guy, to the point that for a while, his team would play the opening riffs of Dion’s “The Wanderer” when Denny entered the room for meetings.

  “Look, it was a one-time thing at the turn of the century, you know? Arrival of the Millennium and all that. Candice graduates high school next spring; her mother never told me about her, and told Candice I’d been killed in an accident right after she got pregnant,” he said. “She wants to major in criminal justice at UT next year, so she took the one old photo her mom had of us on New Year’s 2000 and used it online to track me down.”

  “You’re certain she’s your daughter?” I asked.

  “Yes…I paid for the DNA test. I paid the back child support, and Candice and I have something of a relationship since she found me,” Denny replied. “But I got a message a year ago that it would be in her best interest if I were to supply information to those idiots with PBR Street Gang.”

  “And you just…” I said, lifting both hands into the air in question.

  “Of course not. I made them prove they knew who Candice was. I got a picture, and a day or so later her mom said she’d had a car accident.”

  “A sixteen-year-old having a car accident in Austin is hardly earth-shattering or proof of diabolic action,” I said.

  “I know that!” he shouted, trying to free his arm from Fred’s grip. “About a day later, the anonymous individuals sent the police report and photos. The crumple mark on the car formed Oeillet’s sigil, and before you ask, yes I made sure it wasn’t fucking photoshopped!”

  Just what we needed. Complications. If he’d just been selling us out for cash, that would have been one thing. But a daughter? Admittedly, the worst thing the followers of Oeillet could do to her would be to kill her. Unless she and her mother were part of the cult—but that would require a level of preplanning and vision one usually only found in B-grade horror flicks or cheesy horror novels.

  “We’ll get someone to pick them up,” I said. “Hell, if you give me their information, I’ll go pick them up.”

  “We can try that,” he said, slumping in Fred’s grasp. “Do I get to take my coat?”

  “Sure, why not?” I replied.

  Fred released his grip; Denny wrote down Candice’s address and slipped on the jacket. The dwarf took the lead, Denny in the middle, and I brought up the rear. Other Dave was waiting outside the labyrinth when I walked out the door.

  “I’ll go over his system and make sure there’s no booby traps,” he said with a grin. “Have fun interviewing him.”

  “I’m gonna leave that for the experts,” I said with a grin. “The last couple of interviews I’ve done haven’t turned out as well as I’d hoped.”

  “True dat,” Other Dave said, slipping through the door into IT.

  We perp-walked Denny through the building and were met by Michelangelo and Goodhart at the elevators to holding.

  “Michael thought he’d have a few words with Mr. Denny,” Goodhart said.

  “Ah, then I’ll turn him over to you, get my team together, and,” I checked my watch, “see if we can find Denny’s daughter and her mother.”

  “I’ll get someone to call APD,” Fred said, walking toward dispatch.

  Michael probably started working vampire magic on Denny before the doors to the elevator closed. That shit’s way above my pay grade, and there are several documents employees sign covering supernatural interrogation. Besides, I had a mission, complete with address. We rolled.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty

  We rolled, all right—right into Austin traffic.

  “What the fuck, over?” Johnson asked, looking at the solid mass of vehicles that weren’t moving on 183.

  “Wreck ahead,” I said.

  “Or Austin being Austin,” Padgett quipped from the back seat.

  “Hit the lights and go down the median?” Johnson asked, reaching for the switch.

  “We don’t have a tank to take out the Jersey Barriers,” I replied. “Besides, that would work great right up to the first bridge, where we’d be trying to pull a Dukes of Hazzard. Since I don’t hear Waylon Jennings narrating this crap, we’re stuck in traffic.”

  “I thought we were in a hurry?”

  “There’s in a hurry and then there’s stupid,” I replied as we lurched forward a car length. “Taking the median in this part of town is stupid.”

  It took us twenty minutes to make it to the Lake Creek/Pecan Park exit.

  “Fuck Austin, man,” Johnson said as we took the exit—there was no traffic ahead of us on 183, and the cars behind us were speeding up.

  “Seriously, man, what the fuck?” Padgett asked.

  “Haint,” I replied, shrugging. “Who knows? It’s Austin traffic.”

  I hit the lights and we blew through the intersection at Lake Creek like cops trying to make it to the doughnut shop before it closed on Friday. The light was with us as we hung a left onto Pecan Park, and traffic on the surface street was light—we dodged a couple of slow movers.

  “Left here,” I said as we approached 620. There was a car in the left turn lane, and Johnson hopped the median strip, dodged the light pole, and ran the wrong way on Pecan to make the turn, to the accompaniment of braying car horns.

  “There’s something you don’t see every day,” Wilson said, looking across a gap in the houses.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “A pair of Mercedes G 550s blocking the road to the target house. I mean, I know there are some rich people in Austin, but that kind of conspicuous consumption is usually reserved for the area over by Bee Caves Road,” he replied.

  Autophiles have their uses.

  “You don’t think the followers of the devil of greed might own high end SUVs?” Padgett asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

  “Shit,” Wilson replied.

  “Got it,” I said, keying the radio.

  “Tortelli, this is Malone. Be advised there may be,” I paused searching for a word, “evil doers afoot.”

  Fuck, I sounded like Sherlock Holmes.

  “Roger
that,” Diindiisi replied.

  We finally made it through the maze of streets, and sure enough, the G550s were pulled up in the street, blocking it, albeit sloppily. There was a group of idiots milling around in blue windbreakers with ‘FBI’ on the back in bright yellow. They might have been more intimidating or official looking if the windbreakers had been close to the right shade of blue for Fibbies.

  “Want me to clear the street?” Johnson asked.

  “No, I’m kinda curious to see how this plays out,” I replied. “Pull up and I’ll go talk to them.”

  Johnson and Hiebert had been through QMG’s Tactical Driving course—they both performed the ‘slide turn and block the street’ maneuver perfectly—leaving space between the Tacticool Tahoes and blocking the street at the same time. Popping my seat belt, I stepped out of the Tacticool Tahoe, adjusting my battle rattle before walking toward one of the windbreaker wearers. Except for the mismatched windbreakers, none of their gear came close to matching—one had on jeans and had a shoulder holster on under the windbreaker—as a guess, I’d say he was packing a Smith and Wesson Model 29 with the long barrel, probably because that’s what Clint carried, and Clint was The Man. Two of the others had on dark slacks with their windbreakers, and the fourth was wearing a skirt and sandals.

  I’m damn sure the FBI hasn’t cleared male agents to wear skirts with their long Akkadian-style beards yet.

  By the time I’d reached the ‘blocking force,’ I could see past them to the house at the end of the block. Another pair of vehicles were parked in the front yard—another G550, and a Mercedes van. Last time I checked, the Feds were still buying American, so my suspicions ratcheted up another notch. It didn’t help that the ‘team’ by the house was standing around as if they expected something to break.

  “No closer, we’re, I mean, FBI business,” the guy with the Smith in his armpit said.

  “Could I see your ID, please?” I asked, politely for me. I didn’t add ‘asshole,’ after all.

  “What part of Federal Agent did you miss, asshole?” Skirt rumbled, poking me in the chest for emphasis. “Fuck right the hell off.”

  He emphasized each word of the last phrase with a poke to my chest. Not that I felt it through my body armor, but I guess he figured it was the thought that counted. I didn’t move, and he drew back to poke me one more time. This time, as his finger came forward, I grabbed it and bent it back against his hand.

  “I’ve actually got a Federal Marshall’s badge,” I said. “Unless you’ve got ID that trumps that, I’m not moving.”

  Skirt hissed in pain.

  “Dude, you’re hurting him,” Model 29 said, seeming shocked that I’d reacted. The other two just stared; I think it was dawning on them that they were in the deep end, and the water was way over their heads.

  “He probably shouldn’t go around poking people in the chest; it isn’t polite,” I replied as the group by the house at the end of the street had sorted themselves out and started kicking the door to break it in, I guess.

  Model 29 clawed at his windbreaker, trying to get his hog-leg out. The Haggar Action Slacks Duo stood there as if they desperately wished they’d gone to the mall instead of this sleepy little subdivision. I broke Skirt’s finger and then shifted my grip and broke his hand for good measure. He dropped to his knees, moaning in pain. The clown show up by the house continued—one of the ‘agents’ ran at the door full out, bounced off, and lay on the walkway. Model 29 was just starting to pull his iron when I drew my 1911 and pointed it at his nose. The Comfortable Slacks duo hit their knees with their hands in the air.

  “Go,” I said to my team, watching Model 29 try to stare cross-eyed down the barrel of my .45.

  Hovis, Padgett, Holt, and Diindiisi went past me at a rush—Diindiisi and Hovis yipping like coyotes.

  “Looks big enough to swallow you, doesn’t it?” I asked Model 29. “Unlike Clint, I know there’s seven rounds in this gun, and I’m willing to use all seven to splatter your brains on that expensive Mercedes behind you.”

  Wilson and Baxter came over and cuffed the Haggar Slacks twins, and Dalma put a splint on Skirt’s hand.

  “I’m going to sue!” Skirt gasped when Dalma led him off.

  “Now that everyone is clear, I’m going to reach inside your jacket for the weapon you’re trying to get at,” I said. “You might think this is a good time to make a play for mine, and you’d be right. You’d also probably be dead when it was over.”

  Model 29 nodded ever so slightly. I reached under his jacket and removed…

  “Jesus Christ, I thought only a high-class drug dealer or a Hollyweird Action Star could afford to carry a Titanium-Gold Desert Eagle,” I said, watching as Baxter cuffed, well, call him Deagle. Once Mighty Mite had him under control, I holstered my 1911 and cleared the Deagle.

  Holt and Padgett led the ‘assault’ element away from the house. Padgett had what looked to be the start of a beautiful shiner on his left eye. APD arrived at the same time Diindiisi got back from the house.

  “You guys with QMG?” APD asked, stepping from the car.

  “That’s us,” I said, handing the officer the packet with my bona fides in it and reading his nametag, “Officer Barrett.”

  “Who’re the meat puppets?” Barret asked, handing my packet back.

  “They claim they’re Fibbies,” I replied, smirking. “But if that bunch is Fibbies, we can power DC with the current J. Edgar’s throwing off, spinning in his grave.”

  “Officer! Officer, I demand you arrest that man!” Skirt said, stomping over to where Barret stood. “He broke my hand.”

  “Broke his finger too,” I admitted.

  “He admits he assaulted me twice! Why aren’t you arresting him and freeing us?” Skirt asked.

  “Any papers on them?” Barret asked his partner.

  “Nope. None of them has a concealed carry permit, either,” his partner replied.

  “Why’d you break his finger?” Barret asked, turning back to me.

  “He was poking me with it at the time, so I grabbed it to stop him. His buddies back there decided they were going to commit a little breaking and entering, probably coupled with some ritual crime and murder, so I figured the quickest way to take him out of the fight was to break his finger and wrist.”

  “A bit cold, but it makes sense,” Barret replied. “You guys going to press charges?”

  “Probably. If they’re lucky, we’re only going to hit them with the impersonation charges, but that’ll be up to the bosses,” I replied.

  “I’m taking his word over yours because he’s got papers that show he’s got permission to do what he’s done so far, and you’ve got a bunch of badly printed windbreakers that don’t prove anything,” Barret replied, turning back to Skirt.

  “Who’s got the car keys?” I asked the assembled cultists.

  They all sat there in silence.

  “Look, either you guys rented these things, or you own them as a status symbol. If you rented them and I have to use alternative methods to open them, you’re going to have to pay the damage. If you own them and you get to keep them after the Feds finish reaming you out for impersonating FBI Agents, you’re going to pay to have them repaired,” I said, trying to be reasonable.

  One of the cultists started rocking rhythmically, then threw back his head and howled. To quote the old joke, ‘and then the fight started.’ The other six started expanding. Skirt started screaming.

  “You crazy fuckers! Get me out of here!” Skirt screamed as the cultists around him shattered their cuffs and started transforming.

  Barret didn’t blink—he dashed over and grabbed Skirt, dragging him to safety.

  “Johnson, get on the horn to HQ and tell them we’re going to need backup, ASAP!” I said, drawing my 1911 and wishing I’d brought my UMP from the SUV. “Go Hot!”

  Quoth Dorothy and her gang, ‘lions, and tigers, and bears, oh my,’ with a couple of werejaguars thrown in for good measure. Honestly, they should have
cleaned our clocks, but none of them was as coordinated as a newborn foal—standing was an issue for the werebear, and the weretiger moved as if he had a foot nailed to the floor. The jaguars were closest to being able to perform in their new forms, so we shot them first, and then shot them again while they were regenerating. I shot them a third time to be on the safe side when we started taking heads to make sure all the therianthropes were dead.

  Through it all, Skirt sat there screaming. I walked over, covered in blood and other things, and slapped him, hard. Dalma went around giving everyone shots of colloidal silver, including the cops, and Diindiisi gave both of them business cards in case they were interested in making more money than they were with APD.

  “So, want to talk about it?” I asked Skirt, squatting down in front of him and dropping the magazine from my pistol.

  “Talk about what?” he asked, watching me reload.

  “Your friends over there,” I replied.

  “Look, man, they’re not my friends,” he said simply. “I got instructions to meet with them last week.”

  “And?” I asked, holstering my pistol.

  “And what? Plant over there,” he pointed with his foot at one of the Action Slacks Twins, “sent out a message to all of us that we were to meet him at work. That’s where the Mercedes are from—he sells them for a living. Anyway, Plant said he’d been told there was an issue with the informant, and we were to make sure QMG paid for it.”

  “Yeah, devil worshippers are kinda sticky about the paperwork,” I replied.

  “So we all get to where he works, and he hands out the windbreakers and shows us this box of guns and shit. We grab what we wanted from the box and headed over here. You, ah, you know the rest of it, I guess,” he said.

  “Who gave you the instructions to meet them?” I asked.

  “My priest,” Skirt replied. “I had my DNA checked by one of those services, and it turns out I’m part Iraqi, so I really got into the ancient religions from there. Islam is too mainstream for me, but I was able to find some stuff online about…”