At the end of the day, I still had trust issues.
We broke the grip on each other’s hands at the same time. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve got it.”
“You change mind, you know where to find.”
“And I always will, Ivan.”
I didn’t mean for it to sound like a threat. Really, I didn’t, it had just been one of those nights.
7
I was fucking freezing. The wind whipped through the loading dock with the viciousness of a jilted lover. I was back in the shadows, looking around the corner at a kid guarding a door. Slowly, carefully, I eased the green canvas bag I was carrying to the cement at my feet.
It had taken us almost an hour to get to the address Ivan had texted me. It was on the other side of the airport. Dawn pressed heavy on the night now, the sun still below the horizon but creeping closer.
This was a desolate part of town. Clogged with industrial parks that used to be busy moving freight in and out of the South. Now most of those businesses had failed, or been driven out to better areas, leaving this part of town abandoned. The old factories had been scavenged by drug dealers and gang members who used the big buildings and proximity to the airport to move guns and drugs through the South. Windows were busted out, paint peeled away by the sun and neglect, grass and kudzu growing through broken brick and cement. The area was so depressed it was on suicide watch.
There weren’t even any homeless around.
The building I had my back to was huge, nearly a city block’s worth of brick and mortar. It began life as a cotton mill. The cotton gin sat out front, a tangled, rusted wreck. The windows were either boarded up or painted over, making it impossible to see inside.
Ivan had told us this warehouse was controlled by the Blood Ghosts, a street gang of Asian kids, disenfranchised and dropped out of the system. They had thrown off the shackles of the Tongs, the Triads, and the Yakuza to make their own conglomeration of death and drugs. They controlled most of the buildings in this part of town, driving out the Hispanic and Jamaican gangs, and leaving only the Mafia for them to wrestle with.
The guard was a dead-eyed Japanese kid. He leaned against a steel door smoking, white nicotine mixed with the steam from his breath. He rubbed his hands together against the cold. An AK-47 hung around his bird chest, barrel pointed down. His winter coat was a hoodie with some swirls and skulls on it. Baggy pants sagged to his thighs. Cotton boxers stretched above the low waist of his jeans. He had to be literally freezing his ass off. I watched him fidget in the cold and glanced at my watch.
Laughter rolled around the corner at the end of the building. His hands flew to the AK-47, head jerking around away from me. I looked past him to see two girls stumble out of the shadows and into the street. Arm in arm, obviously drunk, and still out from a night on the town. The shorter one stumbled, little black dress falling off one shoulder. Black lace over lush flesh peeked out. Her friend caught her and pulled her back upright. She laughed as the other girl fell against her.
The kid raised the assault rifle. He didn’t point it at them, but his finger was near the trigger. He turned his body toward the girls.
I eased out of the shadow I was in.
The girl who stumbled pulled her friend to the wall of the building. Pushing the other one against the wall, she moved close, hands grabbing the hem of her skirt. She pushed herself against her friend, pressing their bodies tight. Her skirt rode up, exposing a long length of thigh. More black lace peeked under the lifted hem.
The guard went completely still, engrossed in the display in front of him.
The two girls leaned into each other, the tall one bending down, the shorter one stretching up. The tall one dipped her head down, pressing close. Their mouths locked in a deep kiss, lips dancing around each other. Hands pulled at clothing.
The guard was standing, completely transfixed until the moment I stuck the stun baton against the back of his neck.
One and a half million volts arced from the end of the baton, crackling blue across his skin with the chemical smell of burnt ozone. There was a quick, buzzing crack! He spasmed from neck to heels and dropped to the ground like he had been shot. He lay unconscious at my feet.
Tiff and Charlotte walked up, both of them pulling their clothes back in place.
“Took you long enough to drop him,” Charlotte said.
I cocked an eyebrow at her. “You complaining?”
She glanced over at Tiff, giving her a long, appraising look from top to bottom. “Not at all. She’s a good kisser.”
Tiff blushed but didn’t say anything.
Kneeling beside the guard, I used zip ties from my pocket to secure his hands and feet, yanking his pants up over his ass while I was at it. Ripping a piece of gray duct tape off the roll from my other pocket, I slapped it across his mouth. Standing, I looked up at the Were-spider. “I just told you two to make a distraction by acting like silly, drunk, club girls. Everything else was improvisation on your part.”
Tiff put her hands on her hips. “Are you complaining?”
I looked her up and down and then over at Charlotte. Both of them were lovely, even if they looked nothing alike. Tiff was average height, trim, and built like a gymnast. Lean, but strong and graceful. She had the tousled magenta hair, big sky blue eyes, and creamy skin.
Charlotte was tall for a woman, almost 5’10”, and painfully thin in a way that looked elegant instead of anorexic. Her dark semi-beehive hairdo added to her height. She had bright hazel green eyes, full lips, and deep mocha latte skin.
I could appreciate her beauty, and there was no denying my attraction to Tiff.
Had I minded seeing them kiss?
I smiled at Tiff. “Nope, not at all.”
She nodded with a little grin as I dragged the semiconscious guard into the shadows I had been hiding in. Picking up the rucksack, I pulled open the top of it and reached inside. Out came two ballistic vests. They were thin, made of some ultra-modern carbon fiber laminate backed by ceramic plates. Mine was already under my jacket. I handed one to Tiff and one to Charlotte. Tiff shucked off her coat and began Velcroing the body armor in place. Charlotte held hers, giving me a look.
“Put it on,” I said.
“Do you really think I need this?”
I picked up the kid’s AK-47, stripping out the clip. My fingers pushed bullets into the open rucksack. They fell in a rain of brass, clicking against each other as they tumbled in. The cheap steel clip was tossed away into the darkness. I jacked the bolt, catching the shell that flipped out. I held it up so she could see it.
“This is a seven six two bullet. It punches a two-inch hole through flesh.” I held up the rifle. “This will spit thirty of them at you in about three seconds. What do you think?”
“Are they silver?”
“I’ve shot enough lycanthropes to know that plain bullets still hurt like fuck-all even if you can heal it.”
She began undoing the Velcro straps.
I tossed the rifle aside with a clatter and reached in the bag again. Three more stun batons came out. I handed each girl one, keeping two for myself. Thank you very much, Ivan. It’s a good thing to have acquaintances you don’t kill who have access to really cool toys.
I looked at Charlotte. “How are we doing on time?”
She closed her eyes. Her humanity washed away, leaving behind the spider-lady form. The bulletproof vest gave a series of quick jerks as her spider legs ripped through the fabric on her back. “Time is short. Very short.”
My hands tightened on the grips of the stun batons, thumbs flicking the switches, and rewarding me with a crackle of blue energy from the silver electrodes at the end. I shook my arms to loosen them up.
“Okay, we have no idea how many more gangbangers we’re dealing with. According to Ivan there shouldn’t be too many at this time of the morning and they should all be human. That’s why we are using these”—I held up the stun baton—“but if they start shooting, all bets are off. Do NOT put you
rself in danger. These kids all are drug dealers and killers, so do not hesitate.”
The girls nodded.
I looked up at the windows high up the wall. “Charlotte, you go topside and work that angle. We’ll take the ground. Everybody’s phone is on vibrate; if you find the egg sac or Ronnie, buzz us.”
Without a word Charlotte turned and began scaling the wall using the four spider legs that jutted from her back. Her body looked like it was levitating as she rose up the wall. Reaching the top, she pulled away one of the plywood sheets and slipped inside.
I turned to Tiff. The Kevlar vest was a bit big on her, bulking under her coat. It made her look ... delicate, downright damn dainty. The urge to tell her to wait in the car clawed its way up into my brain. She was too innocent, too small, too fragile. She hadn’t had a transfusion of Angel blood. She wasn’t a lycanthrope. She wasn’t anything besides stock-from-the-factory human. I didn’t want anything to happen to her. Not on my watch. Not at all. The urge lunged forward and tried to scratch its way out of my mouth.
I bit it back. She was trained. I had trained her. She could group bullets in a one-inch pattern and stand up pretty well against me in hand to hand. For all her pleasant exterior, she was tough.
Still.
“You ready for this, little girl?”
She held up her baton. It spat out a small blue arc of electricity that skittered and glittered bright in her blue irises. “Hell yes. Let’s quit wasting time and go get Ronnie. I’m ready.”
I turned to the door and prayed she was right.
8
The door swung open to a stack of wooden crates. They made a hallway that ran left, the right cut off by a stack of them. They were plain, cheap pine gleaming yellow-white in the overhead florescent lights. Block letters six inches high ran across each of them in different languages. Some were a Cyrillic alphabet; some were in an Asian language. The hallway they formed was so tight that the acrid chemical burn of the spray paint used to stencil the letters crashed over the scent of wood.
I leaned in, putting my nose as close as I could without getting splinters. I pulled air deep into my lungs through my nose. Coffee. Under the wood and the spray paint was the warm roasted scent of coffee.
These crates were full of drugs. I didn’t know what kind, but coffee is used by drug smugglers to throw off drug dogs used by the DEA at the border. According to Ivan, the Blood Ghosts ran two things through that warehouse: guns and drugs. Now I knew that these crates wouldn’t be in any danger of exploding if the bad guys started shooting. They also wouldn’t be cover either.
Bullets would slice right through the crates and the drugs inside them.
I glanced at Tiff just a few steps behind me, glad I let Ivan talk me into taking the Kevlar vests. I side-walked quickly to the end of the row of crates. My ears strained to hear, cheek pressed against rough wood. Music sounded hollowly into the open air above the stacked crates. Some wannabe thug rapping about his bitches and his hos over a crap bass line. I will never understand why real gangsters want to listen to some jackass from the ’burbs cash in on their lifestyle, but they do.
I peered around the last crate. The stacks filled in toward the middle, making a hallway of sorts between rows of stacked crates. At the end stood a tiny gangbanger.
He was about the size of Tiff. His back to me, greasy black hair spilled straight over the collar of a jacket that looked like it would fit me. Big, baggy khaki pants sagged down below them, bunching up over gleaming white sneakers. He would have looked like a joke except for the AK-47 that was slung in front of him, barrel showing over one shoulder, stock showing under the opposite elbow. I motioned for Tiff to stay put and slowly stepped around the corner.
The stun baton was tight in my hand. Body tense, stepping carefully, I put my heel down on the concrete and rolled the bottom of my boot down to the toe to minimize noise. Each step brought me closer to him, making it more likely he would hear me. If I didn’t get close enough, he would raise hell and shoot me before I could stop him.
The urge to run at him breathed down the back of my neck.
Go! He’s going to turn around. Hurry or he will see you. If he sees you, then it’s all over. GO!
Shut the hell up.
I kept myself in check.
One step ...
Another step ...
I was almost there. He was just out of reach. Just at the end of my fingertips. His head swiveled around to the right and then the left.
Quickly, I pressed myself against the crates. The wood bit into the back of my head with a splinter.
My foot scraped across the polished concrete, boot heel squeaking softly.
My stomach sank, falling into a hot, queasy pit.
My mind screamed at me, GO! Strike now! NOW NOW NOW! Before he raises that gun and blows you away!
My finger hit the button on the baton, sparking blue electricity between the electrodes; the muscles in my legs clenched, preparing to leap.
Greasy, raven-wing hair fell away as his head turned.
A white wire ran out of the gangbanger’s ear, bundling above the collar of his jacket. He was wearing earbuds, listening to something that wasn’t the crap music being played deeper inside the warehouse.
His face didn’t turn far enough to see me before he leaned his shoulder against the same crate I was pressed against. He slumped, back still to me, and dug into his jacket pocket for something. I couldn’t see what it was. It was hidden from sight by his body, but after a few seconds there was a flare of orange light. White smoke billowed out around him. The acrid, sticky smell of weed wafted over his shoulder and rolled back toward me.
I waited a second while he sucked deep, filling his lungs with noxious smoke. His shoulders raised up as he drew in, pulling deep, and held it.
I swung around, arm snaking across his throat from behind. I shoved the stun baton under the thick work jacket, pressing the end of it hard into his kidneys. My finger rammed the button and the voltage took him at the base of his spine. Every stringy muscle he had tensed against me as I held him up. The buzzing electric shock was muffled under the thick jacket.
After a three count I released the trigger button, cutting the voltage. The kid slumped against me, held up by my arm across the front of his body. I walked backward, dragging him around the corner. When I reached Tiff I dropped him. He sprawled bonelessly on the cement.
“Jesus, he’s just a kid,” Tiff whispered.
I looked down. Black hair had spilled across a round baby face. Chin and upper lip smooth and whisker free, a light trail of acne scars dusted across both cheeks. His almond-shaped eyes were closed under thin, almost feminine brows. He looked about twelve.
“That’s why we’re using stun batons.”
I rolled him over onto that baby face and grabbed his arms. Pulling his hands together behind his back, I cinched a zip tie around them. A shove rolled him back over. I slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth. Before I stood up, I stopped and stared at him.
I had to know.
The earbud was delicate in my fingers; tiny, like I would crush it if I twitched. Pulling it up, I lowered my ear toward it. The music that came out of it sounded tiny, like it was made for the ears of pixies. It took only a second for me to recognize the rich tenor of the King of Rock ’n’ Roll.
Who would have thought a prepubescent gangbanger would be an Elvis fan?
Picking up the stun batons, I jerked my head for Tiff to follow me. I quickly moved back around the corner and down to the spot where I had dropped the kid.
A flash caught my eye, drawing it up to a catwalk that ran along the far side of the warehouse. Charlotte was curled around a gangbanger, stun baton jammed into his neck, she held him as he twitched in her grip. She looked like she was floating in midair above him. I couldn’t see it, but I assumed she was using a strand of spider-silk to suspend from. The gangbanger slumped in her arms. She pulled him close, then rose up like magic to disappear into the shadows by the
ceiling. So she was handling her part of this.
Good.
I peered around the corner, toward the center of the warehouse. It was another pathway through the stacks of crates, but it was clear of anyone. A light shone at the end from past where I could see, spilling yellow across the cement floor. I moved quickly, hugging the crates with batons held ready, trusting that Tiff was following. The music was louder with each step. Midway down, the crates changed sizes and stencils.
Taking a deep breath through my nose rewarded me with the waxy scent of crayons and metal. Cosmoline. It was a sticky paraffin and petroleum jelly mix used to pack guns, and it had an unmistakable smell. The new crates had some kind of firearm in them. I would bet my life on it. The stencils began to read in other languages. I processed all of this as I reached the end of the row of crates.
The music was its loudest now, cut through with laughter that came in fits and starts. Peeking, I saw a cheap table with five gangbangers sitting around it. Their AK-47s leaned against the crates around them. The center of the warehouse was open around them, stacks of crates forming walls around a big area. The music came out of an old, cheap stereo, bass turned loud enough to vibrate swirls through the smoky haze of menthol cigarettes and weed that filled the air spinning lazily in front of hot work lights on stands that illuminated the card game.
Shit.
I pulled back. They were only about ten or twelve feet away from where I stood. It was early in the morning, they were high, and they were engrossed in their game, but there were still five of them. Five stone-cold killers only steps away from loaded assault rifles.
I fished my phone out of my pocket and pulled up Charlotte’s number. The baton hung and swung from my wrist as my thumb bounced over the keys.
When I move, come from above. Shock and awe.
Spider's Lullaby Page 4
