They Call the Wind Muryah

by Gregory Marshall Smith

  Chapter 2

  Louis Riordan was not happy.

  Standing by one of the specially-tinted, full-frame windows of his high-rise office, he ignored the dying rays of the sun to look out over the cityscape of Fort Worth. It looked so peaceful to him; though he knew down on its streets, thousands of men and women were just beginning the hectic race to make it home from work. He also knew his people would be down there, to begin a new day while most others were ending theirs.

  Riordan was more than 400 years old and never felt as unsure of himself as now. Other than looking at the silver creeping into the temples of his jet black hair or trying to count the scant few age lines around his eyes and mouth, one could not tell his age. Such mental discipline had helped him weather countless crises from his days as a thief in the mean streets of 17th century Paris, to a new life in Montreal, to the violent days of two worlds wars and, now, the 21st century.

  He’d built a vast clan in Canada only to see it fall from within because of jealousy. He’d taken those lessons, built up over centuries, and created his new clan in Texas. Here, he ruled the streets with a hand that was only iron-fisted when it needed to be. And, it helped him become one of the largest vampire clans in North America.

  He had a net worth north of $3.2 billion, owned twenty percent of the office buildings in Tarrant County and had no fewer than five homes across the state. He had personal relationships with most of the area’s politicians and celebrities, though only a few knew his true nature (in reality, most of them only cared about was how much green he had).

  But, for all that he owned and all the power he possessed, Louis Jean-Marie Riordan was about to give it all up.

  Why?

  Because he had to.

  Sighing heavily, he glanced at his watch and then walked over to the large oaken desk that dominated his spacious penthouse office.

  “Allison, have you heard anything yet?” he asked into his voice-comm.

  “The first guests have just landed at DFW, sir,” the lovely voice of his secretary Allison came back.

  “Please let me know when they’re en route.”

  He plopped himself into his leather, high-backed chair and slouched as he picked up a portfolio, containing information about the previous night’s actions. He did not care if he wrinkled his suit. He would change into a fresh one – for he was always impeccably dressed for business – before his guests arrived. He went back to looking at the information, if only to get his mind off his looming problem. Right away, he noticed one disturbing item in particular – the name of that problem had been Kane.

  “Allison, please send Travis up here immediately,” he ordered.

  He did not need this kind of distraction. It was best to nip it in the bud before any of his guests got wind of it.

  The nightly meeting had just finished and, remaining on the dais, Jesus watched his people mill about the room. He glanced at his watch and saw it was only 30 minutes before Patel’s latest experiment took place. He sighed and thought about what his wife said, about stepping up their operations to a new level.

  It was true, he often thought about it; it was just that circumstances kept them out in rural areas, rousting vampires out of barns and dilapidated cemeteries. It certainly wasn’t a voluntary decision as Ryker had implied.

  The membership of his hunters had always been liquid. He hadn’t pressed for commitments because hunters, by nature, tended to be loners who didn’t stay in one place for too long, lest they become the hunted themselves. The loose-knit feel of the group had worked for years, but, in light of recent developments, seemed to be wholly inadequate.

  For one thing, a bunch of loners staying in touch by Internet or cell phone, getting together once in a while, like relatives at Christmas, could not hope to accomplish big things. Any military historian could show that D-Day was not a spur-of-the-moment event. No, the Allies had to claw their way across North Africa, through Sicily, past Monte Cassino and into Rome. All to gain experience before tackling the monumental task of invading Adolf Hitler’s Fortress Europe.

  Likewise, Jesus imagined it would be the same for his young team. They needed to be blooded as a cohesive unit and slowly work their way up to bigger targets. In turn, that would mean particularly harsh responses from their enemies (upon which his people would have to learn to accept the possibility of death). Hopefully, they could remain together long enough to, at least, put some fear into Louis Riordan and his ilk. Otherwise, it would all be a senseless waste.

  “Fifteen minutes, Jesus,” said Patrick Wesley, a tall, broad-shouldered, mountain of a man, bringing Jesus out of his trance-like state of deep thought.

  Jesus thanked his training officer. He’d nicknamed Wesley “Elvis” because his surname rhymed with the King. He’d recruited Wesley away from a dead-end job running security for a supermarket giant in San Antonio. The man was once a Marine, until a drunk driver clipped him during an early morning jog.

  He looked around the room, taking note of the others. Talking to Wesley was Angelica Morales; a brunette whose beauty was only outdone by her muscular yet sensuous physique and was one of two people, in the group, who did not object to Ryker’s presence. She’d sponsored Ryker, feeling Jesus needed the experience and because she’d wanted Ryker to come in from the cold, so to speak.

  Sitting at the back of the room, was a short man who looked as if he hadn’t shaved in a month of Sundays. He had a full beard that was already showing a little gray, although Jesus knew it was more from stress than age. Michael Lee was only thirty. As the group’s computer expert, he often let time get away from him and needed to be reminded of such simple things as eating and trimming his beard. But, he was excellent at what he did and Jesus tolerated his sometimes-unkempt appearance.

  As usual, Marcus Van Niekerk was studying. Tall and muscular, he cut a mean figure, which was needed for his profession. He was a mercenary and not afraid to let anyone know it. His reputation counted a lot with Dolores Montoya and played a crucial part in Van Niekerk sponsoring Ryker’s membership. The pair had worked together a few times, though not hunting vampires. They’d gone after a werewolf, a devil cult, an Aztec mummy and a good old-fashioned zombie – a voodoo zombie, not a Hollywood one.

  Van Niekerk had taken extensive notes of the debriefing following the previous night’s river patrols. Jesus liked that the mercenary was thorough. If this group was to take a big step forward, it needed someone like Van Niekerk to properly train it.

  And, last but not least, was Kelly White Cloud, who was, perhaps, the group’s most hardcore member. She’d once been a “half-dead” until Ryker rescued her from the clutches of Lin Tang and persuaded Dolores to help convert her back to be fully human. “Half-deads” were humans who had been bitten by Lin Tang, but just enough to remain addicted to the bite. Weaning Kelly off Lin’s influence had been tortuous at best, involving a vicious form of delirium tremens that would have made the most experienced drug rehab technician quit. Yet, Kelly had pulled through, driven by an intense desire to get back at the woman who had kidnapped her off the streets and made her into a virtual slave.

  The only people missing were Jessie Kellums and Horace Garvey, who were on duty in the monitoring room, watching the security cameras that covered the surface of the compound. And Jesus knew Ryker and Patel were in the lab.

  The door to the meeting room opened and leaning in, Dolores simply nodded and Jesus sighed. It was time.

  “Okay, people, let’s do this.”

  While Jesus awaited Patel’s experiment, Aurelia Hernandez waited patiently at table outside her favorite bistro in downtown Fort Worth. It was not that busy, despite only being a few blocks from Sundance Square, Fort Worth’s main entertainment district. She sipped an espresso and nibbled on some nacho dips, electing not to have the queso dip.

  Within a few minutes, a portly man, with very white skin and neatly cropped sandy brown hair, took a seat at her table. Her ordered a Bloody Mary from the waitress and grabbed some c
hips. He said nothing, until after the waitress delivered his drink.

  “Thanks for making it sundown,” Tanner Coleman said. “You know how I hate getting sunburned.”

  “You and a thousand other people,” Hernandez commented, snidely.

  “Hey, I’m a familiar,” Coleman objected. “I can still enjoy the sunlight, just like you. I just get sunburned easily. Now, what can I do you for, Detective?”

  “It’s all these missing persons,” Aurelia started. “The list is huge and I suspect it’s growing far too quickly.”

  “My boss is very careful, Detective Hernandez,” Coleman countered, testily. “You know they keep their numbers low to draw little attention to themselves. When they feed, they take just enough to satiate themselves. They leave behind saliva, which heals the wounds to two small marks, which the victim barely notices when they wake up. And being bitten does not turn one, you know. More than twenty-five percent loss of blood begins the process, which can be stopped if the victim receives a transfusion or antibiotics. Only when blood loss approaches fifty percent, does the victim turn almost immediately.”

  “So, your boss is not responsible for this horrible murder rate then?” Hernandez queried, clearly not convinced. “Gunshots, strangulations, and stabbings, I can understand, but do you know how many bleeders we’ve had in the last month?”

  “Most likely copycat,” Coleman offered. “Riordan bucks no rogues.”

  “Then maybe some of Tang’s people are practicing,” Hernandez suggested.

  “Half-deads can’t turn anyone, not even themselves,” Coleman whispered, fiercely. “Are we done here? I have to get ready for tonight.”

  “Put the word out, please,” Hernandez said, sternly. “If your boss and his people are behind these missing person cases, it needs to stop or we’ll be forced to call in help.”

  Coleman stopped eating his nachos, staring hard at the detective. She met and held his glare, until he looked away. He felt like a worm on a hook, caught between two equally hard masters, either of whom would gladly throw him under the nearest bus. He was just a “familiar,” a human who willingly worked for a vampire, and had to continue to survive the only way he knew how – by walking a tightrope.

  “Okay, okay,” he relented. “We did have a rogue two nights ago. We put the word out to his master, to curb his roaming. His name was Kane. He’s actually an outsider, visiting with some other vampires doing business in Fort Worth.”

  “What was his usual haunt while he was here?” Hernandez asked, suddenly willing to listen.

  “Under the Main Street Bridge,” Coleman answered, glancing around to see if anyone was close enough to hear. “From what I hear, a lot of these rogues love it by the river.”

  “I have a missing person reported by the Main Street Bridge,” Hernandez said. “Name of Heidi Nguyen. My street guys found her driver’s license and a lot of blood, but no body. Any chance she made an appearance in the ranks of the undead?”

  “Not yet,” Coleman replied, calmly. “But, my people did feel a loss last night. Someone killed one of ours. Most likely, it was Kane who got ashed, but don’t quote me on that. They think it was one of yours that did it. Travis heard it straight from Mr. Riordan; and when I told him I was meeting you, he passed it onto me, – to say our boss is none too pleased would be more than the understatement of the year.”

  “No way,” Hernandez denied, vehemently. “Those who know wouldn’t throw away our deal. However, I do have something interesting for your boss – someone has been very active in trying to pin down a schedule for a certain group of half-deads. I don’t know the identity of the person asking, but a name has been on the grapevine. Seems a lot of people, on both sides, know of this mystery person.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be a mystery if you’d give me the name,” Coleman blurted.

  “Does the name ‘Cantrell Ryker’ ring a bell?”

  Coleman almost spit out his swig of Bloody Mary, he couldn’t have gotten any paler. Hastily wiping his chin, he tried to regain his composure.

  “Wow. I haven’t heard that name in almost three years,” Coleman said, as he tossed his napkin down. “Why the sudden interest in Ryker? It didn’t come from my boss’ people – we would have heard it long ago. Believe me.”

  Aurelia took note of Coleman’s last words. Had she struck a chord of discontent?

  “So, he’s not a vampire?” she said. “Interesting that he should elicit such a reaction. I would certainly hope that he is not in town.”

  “No chance of that,” Coleman replied. “He was killed three years ago. He’s as dead as a doornail.”

  “Then, why are you sweating so much?” Aurelia queried, with a sly smile. “It’s been my experience, especially during my time with narcotics, death is not all that it’s cracked up to be. The DEA and CIA fought the drug wars in Colombia by killing agents and then letting those supposedly dead agents operate with anonymity.”

  “Do you have a reason to believe that Ryker might not be dead, Detective?” Coleman asked, looking somewhat suspicious. “Something tangible, besides a feeling?”

  “I’m having it checked as we speak,” Hernandez said. “I still have a few relatives in the DEA, and with some private contractors, they can make discreet inquiries. They can work the government angle; see if he’s listed anywhere clandestine. If he were miraculously alive, he might be someone we could sway to our side. It’s been very lonely in my bed lately.”

  “If I were you, detective, I’d table that fantasy right now,” Coleman warned. “If Ryker is alive, he’s no one to fool with. He was one of the Core...”

  “The what?”

  “N-n-nothing,” Coleman stammered. “Let’s just say that he had a huge target on his back.”

  Coleman glanced at his watch and suddenly pushed back from the table.

  “I’ve got to go. This should cover the snacks and tip. If you hear anything on Ryker, no matter how remote, it would be in your best interest to let us know immediately. We certainly don’t need that maniac messing up things now.”

  Coleman spread some bills on the table, got up and left. Hernandez breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been afraid the meeting would yield very little. She took her phone out and dialed a number.

  “This is Aurelia,” she said, smoothly. “I need everything you can dig up on Cantrell Ryker. C-A-N-T-R-E-L-L. R-Y-K-E-R. I need it as soon as possible. Basic information. Past, aliases, known connections and associates, dead and alive. I need it yesterday. Yes, it’s extremely important. Thanks. And see what kind of connection he had with the Corps. Well, the Marine Corps, I’m guessing, or Corps of Engineers. Hell, check the Naval Sea Cadet Corps.”

  Good Lord, she thought after she cut the connection. What the hell have you gotten yourself into now?

  Truth be told, she had to laugh at the situation. Here were two humans working for vampires – albeit for different reasons, but working for vampires nonetheless. Yet, they sought to call Cantrell Ryker a “maniac.”

  She made a mental note of things to check out ASAP when she got to work the next day. She had to know all she could about Ryker and that meant pulling favors she’d hoped to keep a little while longer. More than likely, she realized, this Ryker person was dead, but having had such a big target on his back meant he had been very effective. That usually meant he had help or allies of some kind – people who would provide sanctuary, medical assistance or weapons. Those people might just take it upon themselves to continue his work.

  She also sensed Coleman seemed extremely nervous. What was going on now, that was so important, that Riordan didn’t need an unexpected distraction like Ryker to interfere? And what was he trying to say when he mentioned Ryker had been part of a corps? Why had he suddenly been so tight-lipped? Just who in the hell was Cantrell Ryker and why would vampires be so afraid of a human?

  She frowned at not knowing and went back to sipping her now cold espresso.

  Horace Garvey and Jessie Kellums stared at the bank o
f television monitors relaying feeds from hidden cameras all over the compound. Garvey, a tall, lanky man with a penchant for plaid shirts and generic baseball caps, seemed to be making a game of it, trying to catch sight of rabbits and other animals darting in and out of bushes, like he was back on his family’s ranch in Midland. Jessie, a real spitfire with an attitude to match the size of the guns she loved, had given up trying to find out why Horace wasn’t as bored with guard duty as she was.

  The compound, the group occupied, was vast, but did not stand out in the least. For one thing, most of the working, sleeping and eating areas were underground, in refurbished basements and in tunnels rebuilt from the era of Prohibition.

  “Come on, Jessie,” Horace implored. “Loosen up. Don’t tell me you really wanna’ be there?”

  “I just need some action, that’s all,” Jessie replied.

  Horace had been a Marine, like Wesley, but had been wounded four times in Iraq and Afghanistan. He’d been medically discharged after his last Purple Heart, still able to wield a weapon effectively but no longer having the stamina or endurance needed to be a Marine. Needing a job, he found himself personally contacted by Jesus Montoya, who had somehow heard of his encounter with vampires in Fallujah, Iraq.

  Despite being a jarhead, he never craved action like Jessie. He knew she was the only girl in a family with twelve children. She’d gone whole hog in getting herself into shape in order to do everything her brothers could do – run, climb, shoot, fight. Jessie never seemed to want to let a grudge go; if she knew or thought she was right, she’d keep at her opponent until she was publicly acknowledged as being correct. Now, she used those skills to fight an evil that had reduced her eleven siblings to eight.

  “I wouldn’t advise it,” Horace retorted. “You staked that guy last night, but, you also said you almost puked when Ryker took his head off. Why would you want to see another experiment go bad with our resident mad scientist?”

  “Sorry. It’s what happens when you try to keep up with the Kellums,” she replied, with a shrug. She got quiet and Horace knew she was thinking of her brothers Clem, Luke and Daniel.

  Daniel had flat out disappeared two weeks after taking a job in Lincoln, Nebraska. No one knew what happened until the twins, Clem and Luke, double-dated some girls new to Ames, Iowa and unwittingly joined the ranks of the undead. Only when Jessie learned that those girls were related to the woman who had been Daniel’s new boss, did Jessie begin believing all those weird stories she’d heard around town.

  She never got her revenge against any of the women who had taken her brothers from her, but she had found a way to channel her anger. Patrick Wesley had tracked down the women and killed them. Jessie had been there, shame-faced, as she’d been unable to back up all her proclaimed bravado. It was then, Wesley took her under his wing and tried to make her into as efficient a vampire killer as himself. She’d learned a lot, but still had a way to go.

  “Let’s just be glad for small miracles,” Horace said. “Think of it like a Cowboys-Eagles game – sometimes you just want to find out the score afterward and not have to sit through the game, in case it all goes wrong.”

  “Well, let’s sit back and wait for the score then,” Jessie said, with a heavy sigh.