“Get in the tunnel now,” the vampire rasped at Lou, “or your families will be slaughtered tonight in their sleep.”
PART TWO
* * *
Into the Shadows
CHAPTER FIVE
* * *
Lazarus lay face down under the tire, the entire weight of the gray delivery truck crushing down on him. He’d been injured before—hell, getting injured was a way of life for him—but he couldn’t recall ever feeling quite this bad. Normally, his muscles were loaded with a staggering amount of energy and raw, tensile strength. His joints and bones were durable, often astoundingly so. And the nanites, though no guarantee of immortality—not by a long shot—made killing him a very difficult proposition. Yet this situation was different. This wasn’t like one of the bullets he’d taken at the Guggenheim. This wasn’t like the fractures in his shoulder blades or the splintered ribs he’d sustained in his diving tumble from that delirious five-story height. Those traumas had been painful, yes, but they’d been quick, like a vicious hive of wasps. They stung you and maybe left some of their poison inside, but they didn’t remain on you the way the delivery truck tire did. The delivery truck was more like a mad dog, the kind that took a bite out of your arm but didn’t just let go, instead held on, growling and ripping and snarling while you writhed in pain and struggled to break free. On top of that, the impact of the truck’s grill had given him the worst case of whiplash he’d ever experienced. His neck throbbed and refused to move. If not for the fact he could still manipulate his fingers and toes, Lazarus would’ve suspected paralysis. A normal man certainly would’ve been killed by such a horrific collision.
The tire and the entire weight of the truck pressed down on his back.
Lazarus endeavored to sip in a little air, but could not. Good God, that was the worst of it, the inability to breathe. Funny how a little thing like being able to draw an unobstructed breath could become so important. If he was able to extricate himself from this hideous trap, he would never take breathing for granted again. The treads of the tire seemed to be squeezing down on him like he was in some gigantic trash compactor. Lazarus could feel the ridges and crevices of the hard rubber becoming one with his flesh, the vehicle transforming into a sentient creature, sadistic and unrelenting. He could no longer breathe at all, the mere thought of drawing a breath absurd beneath this unutterable bulk. His ears filled with a rainy, soughing sound, like he was trapped in a giant storm drain. He tasted his own blood, an unnatural mingling of enzymes and ozone. The taste of deadly lightning. The gray world around him turned gauzier, the soughing sound grown louder. It was a roar now. Lazarus could almost feel the cold needling of spray, the lowering truck choking out the last of his air, tattooing him to the grimy asphalt … darkening … roaring … smothering …
With an animal cry Lazarus gave one last heave, his limbs planted on the asphalt and driving him up and away from the crushing tire. For one horrible second he was sure it had been in vain, that his life would finally end under this filthy delivery truck tire, a death so inglorious and mundane that perhaps it was what he deserved.
Then he was flopping over, released from the tire’s killing weight. The truck jounced down violently, rocking and bouncing like some spoiled and wicked king in the throes of a tantrum. Gradually, the truck ceased its rocking. Lazarus lay there on his back, gasping for breath and staring in amazement at the narrow rectangle of sky visible above the towering brick buildings.
The movement of escaping the tire had flayed much of the skin from the middle of his back, and the tissue there felt as if it had been set aflame. Yet he was alive. Yes, he was alive, and though his lungs—which hadn’t even fully healed from the high dive at the museum when they were crushed by the delivery truck—were alight with searing spires of pain, he could at least take in enough air to remain conscious. If he was conscious, he was still alive. And if he was still alive, he told himself, that meant the nanites would have a chance to do their work.
Lazarus lay without moving. A couple feet away the gray delivery truck loomed over him, shadowing him. Lazarus glanced up at its badly dented grill, the wall of window above that, and imagined some large and battle-scarred cat that has found, played with, and grown bored with a mouse. The truck seemed to peer down at him with weary interest, perhaps disappointed that Lazarus could not provide it with more entertainment.
Lazarus drew in shallow breath, felt the icy trickle of blood near his lungs. He didn’t know if he’d be getting up from this one.
Closing his eyes, he rued his overexcitement, his carelessness during the pursuit of Jillian. He’d been so caught up in wresting her away from the mobsters’ clutches that he’d failed to see something so obvious as a massive gray delivery truck. He chuckled at his own foolhardy behavior, but that brought on a wave of such body-racking pain that he found himself moaning and pummeling his fists on the asphalt until the pain subsided.
Yes, Lazarus had really done it to himself this time, and further pursuit of Jillian and the scientist’s assistant, Philip Wheatley, was currently out of the question. He’d need time to heal, time for his ribs to knit and his lung wounds to close. He had much to do, but since he was out of commission for the foreseeable future, he reasoned that he might as well put the time to good use.
What do you know, Lazarus? he asked himself.
I know Jillian and Philip are with killers. Eddie Maza is one of them, and even if the others that took Jillian and Philip turn out to be pussycats, Eddie Maza is enough to make the situation very bleak.
Lazarus replayed Maza’s actions in his mind, with the execution of the museum director Kelly Carr receiving even greater clarity.
Lazarus tried to swallow, but his throat was a desiccated husk.
Focus, he told himself. Control what you can control. The rest is just fretting. Jillian doesn’t need you to fret. She needs you to be strong.
And smart.
Lazarus took another breath, a deeper one this time. His lungs and the areas around them were still a pulpy stew of ground tissue and bone fragments, but there were changes going on in there, the nanites reconstructing his innards little by little.
Think, he reminded himself. Forget Eddie Maza for a minute and focus on the driver that almost turned you into roadkill a little while ago. What did you see?
Frowning with the effort, Lazarus shut his eyes and watched the incident unspool:
The limo lurching forward, just out of Lazarus’s reach.
A quick glimpse of Jillian’s fear-pinched face in the back window.
A gray blur rocketing out of the alley.
The glancing impact of the delivery truck on Lazarus’s left side.
The cool, impersonal feel of the grillwork against his flesh.
His body being hurled forward as the truck abruptly slowed.
The moments before the truck rolled on top of him, the terrible moments when he realized what was about to happen and how powerless he was to prevent it. The truck slowed down, rolled onto him.
And then … and then …
Lazarus screwed up his eyes, willing the memories to come.
The truck had been on top of him. There had been a slight rocking motion as the driver’s door opened and someone hopped out.
The driver had come around to the front corner of the truck to make sure Lazarus was good and pinned.
Lazarus concentrated. He remembered …
… the driver’s face looming nearer, nearer. The face slathered with flesh-colored makeup, the eyes protected by large-lensed sunglasses. Heavily tinted sunglasses. The thick white clothing had been more appropriate to colder weather. Brown gloves had covered the hands, the narrow swath of neck that showed also slathered in that heavy beige makeup. Above the face had been a hat—not a baseball cap like the kind a deliveryman might wear, but a winter hat with earflaps, the kind people wore in a really bad Canadian snowstorm.
Then the driver straightening and wheeling away.
Moving in the dir
ection the limo had gone.
Yes, Lazarus mused. He didn’t know if any of it was useful, but it was all there. He could store it away for future recall. He closed his eyes and waited, the face of his would-be killer crystalizing in his mind.
Lazarus had been lying there broken in the alley for at least twenty minutes when he became aware of the sirens. He realized he’d been hearing them for a good while, but that he simply hadn’t registered them until now.
The sirens were getting closer.
Wherever Eddie Maza and his buddies had taken Jillian and Philip, they were long gone by now. He’d nearly rescued them earlier—would have rescued them earlier if he’d exercised a bit more caution—but he couldn’t allow his frustration to cloud his thinking now.
Lazarus drew in breath. About half of his lungs functioned the way they were supposed to. He exhaled. Fifty percent would have to do. The cops were coming, and they were coming fast. They might not blame him for the murders of the two cops in the museum—there had been witnesses after all—but the NYPD would certainly not be in a good mood, and what help they might provide could take days.
Lazarus didn’t have days. Jillian was alone with monsters.
The thought got him moving. He rolled slowly over, a symphony of pain erupting in his chest and back. Lazarus ignored it, pushed gingerly to his feet.
Jillian, he thought. You’ve got to save Jillian.
His body aching, the police sirens whining ever closer, Lazarus limped down the alley. He had no idea where Jillian was, no idea how to save her from those thugs. There was only one place he could think to turn, but intuition told him he would find the answers he needed there.
Lazarus limped faster down the alley.
In the direction of Malcolm’s apartment.
They’d been slogging through the tunnels for over an hour. When they’d gotten down the ladder they’d found a gym bag containing several flashlights and some flares. Since then they’d not only trudged down several declines, they’d descended four more ladders, a couple of them so long Jillian wondered if they’d ever end. And always, close behind them, they heard the driver following.
Making sure they didn’t try to escape.
A few minutes ago Lou had drawn his gun and asked the vampire, “What if I just shoot you?”
The vampire had merely given Lou a penetrating look and said, “Need I remind you of what happened in the basement of the club?”
Jillian had no idea what that meant, but it had changed Lou’s attitude right away. He and the other two mobsters had exchanged pale looks and had not touched their guns again.
Now Lou shook his head, disgusted. “Now I think I understand why they chose me for this job. Jeez, and here I thought it was because they trusted me more than the other guys.”
“They do trust you,” Eddie said quietly. “You think your uncle wants to be killed in his sleep tonight? You think anybody does?”
Your uncle, Jillian thought. Your uncle … something about those words had triggered a memory, one she’d been wrestling with since they’d abducted her.
“Your last name is Carboni,” she said to Lou.
She hadn’t been given a flashlight, but the ones held by her three captors produced enough light to show plainly how unhappy he was at being identified. “It doesn’t matter what my name is,” he muttered.
“Don’t tell her anything, Lou,” a voice said. It had been Frankie. In sharp contrast to his attitude in the limo, the big, bearded man had spoken very little since they’d entered the tunnels.
She turned to look at Frankie now. Her tone was wondering. “And you’re a Canelli, aren’t you? Frankie Canelli, nephew of the famous Gino Canelli. The one Lazarus killed in self-defense.”
Something dark and dangerous flared in Frankie’s eyes. “It wasn’t self-defense. It was cold-blooded murder.”
“So it is you.”
“So what if it is?” he demanded. “My family is one of the oldest and most respected in New York.”
“And you’re the black sheep,” Jillian said.
Pain exploded in her stomach. Then she was doubled over on her knees, coughing and gasping for breath. Frankie’s quick with his fists, she thought. No doubt about that. And even shorter with his temper.
“Remind me about when I asked for your opinion,” Frankie growled down at her. “Cause last time I checked, you were supposed to keep your mouth shut.”
In the corner of her eye, Jillian saw a black figure materialize next to Frankie.
Frankie eyed their driver balefully. “And I suppose you don’t want me to hurt the hostages, is that it? I’m supposed to let her abuse me like that?”
“On the contrary,” the driver said. “You may handle her however you see fit. She is impertinent, no question, and I don’t blame you for striking her. Not at all.” The driver crept nearer. Jillian stayed down, not wanting to glimpse that grisly white face again. “But allow me to caution you regarding one thing,” the driver said. “However you misuse the young lady or the young man, I’d suggest you not draw blood. That would be … imprudent.”
Frankie sounded uneasy. “Your boss doesn’t want us to harm the merchandise, huh?”
And now she did turn, and when she did she saw the driver was grinning, the tapered points of his teeth gleaming in the indirect glow of the flashlights. “Oh no, that’s not it at all,” he said, laughing. “It’s just that … the sight of blood makes us grow a bit … unruly.” His orange eyes glowed at her.
“That’s good enough for me,” Lou said. “Don’t make ’em bleed. Let’s move on now, shall we? I believe I see another marker up ahead.”
But the driver didn’t move. “And Mr. Carboni, the next time I see you reach for your cell phone, I’ll kill you. The same goes for you, Mr. Canelli.”
Frankie looked like he was about to protest, but he evidently decided it would also be imprudent.
Getting slowly to her feet, Jillian discovered there was indeed another marker on the wall ahead, the red paint just distinguishable from this distance. They moved down the tunnel, drawing closer to an opening to the right, on the corner of which was painted a small red building, the same sign that always told them which route to take. Jillian had several times gotten a good look at the drawing, and though she couldn’t be certain, to her it always looked like the kind of structure you’d find in a graveyard. A miniature mausoleum.
The thought made her hands shake. She moved with Philip around the corner, the three kidnappers behind her. They didn’t even have their guns drawn anymore, had seemingly lost their fear of Jillian and Philip escaping. Jillian didn’t blame them for their confidence. Where were she and Philip going to escape to anyway? Without flashlights, they’d be as good as dead in this underground labyrinth. For years she’d heard stories about the subterranean world that sprawled beneath New York City and had even read a couple novels about it. Now she was seeing it firsthand. There seemed no end to the turnings and various other convolutions of the tunnel system. One could die down here and no one would ever be the wiser.
“You okay?” Philip asked.
Jillian turned to him and smiled, grateful for the distraction. Strangely enough, since they’d learned they were being accompanied by a vampire through this lightless tomb, Philip had seemed to recover a good deal of his composure, as though the worse things got, the greater Philip’s courage became.
“I’ve been better,” Jillian said, “but I’ll survive.”
Philip’s expression went stern. “I’m sorry he slugged you like that. If he didn’t have a weapon, I would have gone after him for hurting you.” He shrugged. “Of course he would have beaten me senseless, but at least I’d have known I’d tried to defend you.”
She shook her head. “It’s okay, Philip. Really. I think it’s very sweet of you to want to protect me.”
“Wouldja look at that,” Frankie said from behind them. “The two rich kids, discovering romance under the streets of our fine city.”
Jillia
n rolled her eyes at Frankie’s mockery, but the words reminded her of Lazarus. No, she and Lazarus weren’t romantically involved … had never even kissed … but the idea of falling for someone, of being romantically linked had made her think automatically of Michael Lazarus.
Of Angelo Mortalli.
Bloodshot.
She hoped he wasn’t dead.
Her father had told her the story of Angelo Mortalli a year ago, just before she met Lazarus, and though her father’s tale had helped her understand the fundamental truths about the way the man behaved and the inhuman feats his body could perform, her father hadn’t prepared her for the man himself.
Or the way she would feel about him.
According to her father, the nanites that had replaced Lazarus’s blood not only enhanced his senses, permitted him to communicate with and to control machinery, and endowed him with the world’s most effective physiological regeneration system, the microcomputers also blunted Lazarus’s emotions, transformed his behavior into something robotic, something cold and remorseless. And it was true she had seen him dole out extreme violence without so much as a backwards glance. Yet …
Yet he wasn’t all machine. Nor did he treat her like he didn’t care about her. The way he pursued the limo through the streets of New York …
You’re just a mission to him, Jillian, a cynical voice in her head declared.
No, I’m not. She thought of his determined face, the gigantic arms pumping as he raced toward them, effortlessly dodging traffic, his trench coat billowing …
You’re infatuated with his muscles.
Jillian smiled inwardly. Okay, perhaps that much was true, but her feelings ran far deeper than physical attraction. And what if she did find him attractive? Was that a crime?
Bloodshot: Kingdom of Shadows (Kindle Worlds) Page 6
