I shrugged, admitting defeat. “I’ve killed a bunch of vamps in the past few weeks, I can stake a few more before I start feeling bad about it, if I have a capable team.”
“You need equipment, not a team,” Lotus countered. “You have sufficient training. Lethal equipment and effective direction will be the difference between your life and death.”
“I’ll take the blessed rifle,” I said, agitated. “But I’d rather have more shooters.”
Lotus shook her head. “More shooters will attract the wrong kind of attention. Investigators attuned to the paranormal will be able to put things together. One nosy detective could set off tensions between Heaven and Hell. And, if you take a group of us, those we are affiliated with could pay the price.”
“Heaven’s gal in St. Paul is a war hawk,” Josiah said. “She’s looking for an opportunity to pounce.”
“And, obviously, my coven would find an all-out, supernatural war unacceptable,” said Lotus.
“I guess I can’t use my VP9, then,” I said. “It was a gift from the Patron.”
Lotus rolled her eyes. “It’s a gun. As long as you’re shooting mortal-made bullets, no police investigator is going to say ‘Hey, I bet this shooter got his gun from a devil.’ Use your brain!”
I frowned.
“I’ve got some stuff,” Josiah said, defusing the tension. “And considering the favor you’d be doing me by putting all those bloodsuckers down, I’ll give it to you for free.”
“What kind of stuff?” I asked.
He got up from his camp chair and went inside his RV. He came out with a khaki-colored bag, about the size of a typical hiking backpack. It was stuffed full of something, but I couldn’t tell what.
“This is something you might like,” he said. “My kids called it a ‘bag of holding’.”
He tossed it to me. I caught it, and it was much lighter than I’d expected from its bulk. I opened it and looked inside.
The first fifth or so of the bag was khaki cloth, like the outside. After that, it became the tan floor of what looked like a bunker. I reached in, and my hand felt warmer. In the cold breeze, it was a welcome feeling.
“It leads to a bunker somewhere in North Africa,” Josiah said. “Don’t know how or why. I’ve been storing extra guns there, the kind of stuff I don’t want Uncle Sam knowing about.”
We looked at him.
“Hey,” he said, defensively. “I’m not the guy who worked for the Devil of Bureaucracy. It’s clear to me which side the ATF is on.”
“Even with Josiah’s magic bag of anarchy,” I said, “I’m still one guy. Individual vampires don’t frighten me much, but the idea of going after 10 or 40, at once, is terrifying.”
My mind filled with visions of 10 mouths, each leeched on to a different artery, rapidly draining my blood. I shuddered.
“I’ll assist you,” said Lotus.
“Wait,” I said. “No Chimera support, but a hopping Chinese vampire is something a rival vampire clan will never expect?”
Lotus rolled her eyes. “You, stupid boy, I will assist you through intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance, as well as by being your command and control. Do you understand what that means?”
“Sounds like cop talk to me,” I said.
“Military,” Josiah corrected.
“Yes,” agreed Lotus. “And easily accessible to you, had you read any of the strategy texts I sent you.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t schedule reading Clausewitz between getting my house burned down, fleeing from a vampire coven, and enduring Josiah’s personalized boot camp sessions. Oh, and I almost forgot, wondering how much longer I can put off a suicide mission against a duke of Hell.”
Amalfi mumbled something I’m sure was a condemnation of the odds I’d presented.
“You made time to investigate the contents of Collette’s underwear,” Lotus said, icily.
Collette blushed, as did I.
“Grandmother,” Collette said, lightly tapping Lotus on her arm.
“Your distorted priorities are a matter for another day,” said Lotus, looking directly at me. “For now, let’s agree on the decapitations. Are we all in?”
There was a brief pause as we looked around, gauging each other’s intent. Josiah and Lotus seemed confident. Amalfi seemed a bit uncertain. I assumed she was thinking about demanding that I go directly after the Patron.
“I agree to destroy the coven,” said Amalfi, “even if I only get to drive the getaway car.”
“Lyndale’s got to go, and Nick’s the guy to take ‘em out,” said Josiah.
“This still seems so surreal to me,” said Collette. “But I’m going to remember, forever, how they screwed up my house and tried to kill me for no other reason than being near Nick.”
“I guess you’re waiting on me,” I said. “I’m in. Beats the Hell out of trying to kill the Patron.”
“Do not evade your oath,” said Amalfi. “We’ll kill the Patron after we deal with this annoyance.”
I deliberately avoided her eyes.
“We have three days,” said Lotus. “Time for some rehearsals. We have a lot to cover.”
“Before we go any further,” said Josiah, “I think we need to get some gear out of that bag.”
* * * * *
Chapter Fourteen: Sic Semper Hipsterus
The sun was setting through a light veil of clouds, and the Uptown clubgoers descended on the streets. I walked among them, trying my best to blend in, hoping nobody quizzed me about the difference between farm-to-table and locally sourced food. I overhead snippets of conversations about where to eat and what to listen to, overlapping with a few eager street promoters talking up live acts. Someone was bumping indie music from an apartment, which competed with something bass-heavy from a passing BMW. The streets smelled like a blend of ethnic foods, with the hint of cologne from passersby. The overall vibe was the kind generated when you got a bunch of eager, young people in one place, then overcharge them to get drunk. A bus with a Health Pals advertisement buzzed past, but otherwise, traffic was meager—just a handful of cars heading to park and disgorge passengers for a night of controlled debauchery.
I was loaded for bear, with Josiah’s bag of holding over my shoulder, a small camping rain tarp concealing whatever was peeking out of the bag. I had forsaken my workman’s garb for hipster camouflage—a video game company t-shirt, a pair of sturdy jeans, a leather jacket adorned with patches of various military units, a pair of brow-line glasses, and a set of earphones connected to my phone. The ice blue ball cap that adorned my head advertised a popular local politician up for reelection.
“Stay calm,” Lotus’ voice said through the earpiece. It was one-way comms—I had no way to tell her to fuck off. “You’re approaching the site.”
I had support from Lotus. She’d settled on a technological approach and had wired me to the gills. I was transmitting enough data to her to legally count as a business, while she watched me through drones. Later, she’d use the club’s security system. Vampires tended to live in the past, and they have a pretty poor understanding of technology, but Lotus was an exception and happy to exploit that flaw in her rivals. Lotus had insisted this was the less complicated way, and the other way sounded too much like something between possession and mind rape, and I wasn’t willing to deal with that.
Ever.
So, I’d let her wire me up, which made me feel like a narc in one of those crime movies—someone who eventually gets offed by his mafia buddies. It wasn’t the best feeling going into a firefight, but I had confidence on my shoulders in the form of Josiah’s bag of holding. The bag felt nearly weightless, a side effect of whatever strange magic it used, but what was in there was the source of my comfort and my confidence.
Lyndale Coven’s headquarters was much closer than I’d realized—only a block from the gas station where I’d greased Anders. It was located in the hipster paradise barcade, Lost Boys’ Club. I’d been there in my past life. It was a pretty co
ol place, full of vintage arcade games and televisions playing old wrestling matches or movies. The music was non-stop 80s, except for Thursday’s 90s night, and the whole place was filled with the kind of nostalgia that makes almost everyone feel at home. Drink prices were a bit high, but what could you expect in a major city?
Lost Boys’ Club was located between a hipster-chic deli/café and a halfway decent Chinese place, but the two beefy bouncers at the door clearly marked it as a club, as did the retro neon signs advertising drinks. The windows were plastered with posters for local bands, especially 80s and 90s cover bands, along with a handful of bumper stickers. As I got close, I could hear a Donna Summer remix coming from inside.
The place was split into two levels. The arcade, three bars, and a couple of patios were on the ground floor, and a dance floor with live music was on the upper level. The upper level also had a bar, stocked with higher-grade alcohol than the one on the ground level. If Lotus’ source was correct, the Coven leaders were on the upper floor, in a meeting. I had a good idea of how to get there, but the only way up would be through the Coven’s remaining strength.
I walked up to the front of the place. It was still fairly empty, though a handful of neon-clad, college-age kids manned their battle stations at Galaga and Street Fighter II, and a smattering of 20-somethings sat at the bar. A bachelorette party was doing shots at a couple of the standing tables, and a bunch of guys who looked like they were pitching a start-up talked animatedly with a serious guy in an expensive suit. The bartenders mixed drinks, and a waitress delivered a pizza to the bachelorette and her entourage. There were a lot of potential innocents. I quietly hoped they’d bail when it got loud.
“Remember,” Lotus said. “Police response in the area is five minutes or less.”
I hadn’t forgotten. Drawing a deep breath, I gathered myself and walked up to the two bouncers. Both looked like normal, though burly, humans. One was armed with a poorly-concealed handgun, and the other was wearing bulky clothing. As far as I was concerned, they were both enemy combatants.
“Hey pal,” one said, in what he must’ve imagined was a firm tone. “Welcome to Lost Boys’ Club. As a heads up, we don’t allow backpacks.”
“Is that so?” I asked. “I’ll get my ID out.”
I put the bag on the ground and reached into the desert heat. My hand found the pistol grip, and I pulled as hard as I could, sending the rain tarp flying, revealing the instrument of death Josiah had stashed in his far-away bunker. As I levelled the M240L machine gun, an onlooker screamed, and the bouncers stared in open-mouthed surprise.
Anyone who has used an M240, or its original incarnation, the FN MAG, can tell you that the mention of its name is enough to send shivers down your spine.
The gun control crowd likes to talk about conflating guns and dicks. The idea is that gun owners, or people who carry, get some kind of sexual thrill out of guns that they can’t get in the bedroom.
Most of the time, that’s a nonsensical association they use to explain something they don’t understand.
With the M240?
They’re absolutely right.
It’s fucking sexual. It’s the biggest dick extension you’ll ever see, a culmination of the promises of 10,000 shitty, late night infomercials and porn site ads made real by virtue of angry, mid-century Belgians who had the innovative audacity to combine the legacy of John Moses Browning with that of the Wehrmacht. It was a weapon for a more brutal time, a time of colonialism and proxy wars, a time of gunning down dissidents for freedom and commies for mommy, the chosen most-casualty-producing weapon of the mercenary, the Para, and the death squad.
Under normal circumstances, I’d never recommend it for room clearing. Even the L-model is a heavy, clunky beast that’s tough to turn quickly, and the recoil makes it difficult to fire accurately unless the shooter is braced against something or lying prone.
But normal circumstances don’t mean a damn thing when a devil has given you a rune of accuracy that lets your bullets hit within 1mm of the target as long as you say the magic words in the right order.
“Cueing music,” Lotus said, her creaky voice adopting an off-putting, sing-song tone as my finger hit the trigger. Inside, the televisions switched to a smash cut montage of vampires being killed, and the music turned to a raging roar of death metal. My earphones lit up with the pulsing beats of some techno song I didn’t recognize.
The music was Lotus’ idea. When I told her about the vampire hypnosis ordeal, she mentioned that loud music would break my focus and make it harder for them to get my full attention. I was more than a bit suspect about giving up situational awareness to stop vampiric seduction, but she insisted it was a good idea, and I stopped arguing after a while.
As the music raged, my M240 barked, round after round feeding through the machine gun. The bullets tore open both bouncers and shattered the glass in the front door. The belt of heavy ammunition fed through the machine gun, spitting out shells and links. The casings hit the ground at the same time as the bouncers’ corpses, the smells of death and cordite blending into the evening air. I paused for a second to throw the carrying strap over my shoulder then advanced into the club. As I stepped past the two bodies, I kept muttering the Norse phrases Josiah had taught me, keeping my accuracy rune humming.
Most of the civilians freaked out after the first burst of automatic gunfire. Lotus’ hacking of the sound system and TVs hadn’t been overridden, and the blaring death metal layered over the electro music pulsing through my earbuds. No one had rushed out the front door, but I glimpsed the bachelorette and her crew hustling out the back, while the start-up kids sheltered in place. I walked past them, and they bolted behind me. I saw a sobbing woman on her phone, probably calling the cops, but I was absorbed. There were more hostiles.
“Track right,” Lotus said, and the music quieted down so she could talk over it. I saw a large vampire with a retractable baton rushing toward me. He was quick, running in a serpentine pattern as he tried to close the distance. An animal sneer graced his lips, and there was a hungry gleam in his eyes. He had a stupid-looking haircut, one of those undercuts that’s only popular with neo-Nazis and obnoxious music aficionados.
I levelled the machine gun, my offhand on the carrying handle, and held the trigger down. The recoil pushed the weapon up and to the right, but the rounds held true, guided by the eldritch energies of my accuracy rune.
The funny thing about vampires is that they assume they’re invincible because they can regenerate. Such arrogance fades quickly in the face of 10 bullets in a second. The 7.62mm NATO rounds tore through the vamp, and even though his pale skin tried to reform, and in less than two seconds, he was little more than a pile of ashes. He hadn’t even had enough time to scream in agony.
God, I loved that gun.
“Targets, left,” Lotus said. “Stay calm, Nick. Your heart rate is elevated.”
I turned to the left and saw a bartender leaning over a bar adorned with posters of a famous ‘80s wrestler, trying to get a bead on me with a shotgun. He fired wildly and missed. He racked the slide as I stepped behind a Pac-man machine. The shotgun barked again, and buckshot scattered all over the vintage game. I peeked out, spoke the Norse words I’d been taught, poked the M240 around the corner of the machine, and held down the trigger.
My rune hummed as the heavy rounds tore through the thin metal of the bar, ripping the posters and the linoleum to shreds. A few rounds blew through some stacked bottles. The bartender screamed as bullets cut through his body, rending his organs, flesh, and bone. His shotgun fell to the ground as his corpse slumped over. It discharged, and I turned toward the sound, just in time to see buckshot tear through another bartender’s throat. The blast sent a spray of blood toward the ceiling as his head was blown off. The bartenders didn’t turn to ash. They were humans. Too bad—they should’ve gotten different jobs.
I put the remaining ammunition back into the bag of holding. In the godforsaken desert bunker, I had over 1,00
0 rounds linked together. Josiah had mentioned something about being careful about fire rate, but with this kind of power? The only thing I was worried about was calling my doctor in case this erection lasted more than four hours.
“Movement in the kitchen, Nick. Looks like you pissed off the chef.”
I hustled past a knocked over cocktail table, levelling the M240 at the kitchen door.
“Looks like three targets,” Lotus said. “Let me get you some fresh music.”
The sound of The Weeknd’s “False Alarm” rang out in my headset as I kicked open the swinging door to the kitchen.
A vamp dressed in an Old World chef’s uniform, double-buttoned whites and a goofy hat, threw a Ginsu knife at me. It flew past my head and stuck in the door, quivering. I sent him to the floor in a volley of 7.62mm rounds. The kitchen was sparse—a few big pizza ovens, some prep tables, and a bunch of knives and tools hanging from the walls. One of the lights flickered. The kitchen might’ve smelled like food, but I couldn’t tell over the odor of gunpowder.
“Hmm…” said Lotus. “Check the freezer. I think you’ll find them there.”
I swung the machine gun around and levelled it at the walk-in freezer. The door was slightly ajar, and I could swear I saw a face glaring through the porthole. I fired a controlled burst at the door and immediately had to duck for cover as the rounds ricocheted off the heavy steel.
“That was embarrassing,” said Lotus.
I thought about my options. That door was heavy and shooting it was obviously dangerous. If I’d had a thermite grenade or a breaching charge, I could have gotten through, but that would have taken time, and during that time, I’d be vulnerable.
“Still seeing three hostiles in the kitchen, Nick. They’re using that door for cover,” Lotus said.
I focused on the door, again, and rattled a few shots into the porthole. The glass cracked, but didn’t shatter. That gave me an idea.
The Devil's Gunman Page 21
