by L. K. Hill
Desolate Mantle
Book 2 of Street Games
By L.K. Hill
Copyright 2016 L.K. Hill
Cover art by Kealan Patrick Burke
www.kealanpatrickburke.com
Discover more titles by L.K. Hill at her Author Website or on her blog, Musings on Fantasia
For my brother, Scotty. Such a shining example of a wonderful father. I’m so proud of all you do, Bud!
http://www.authorlkhill.com/storysquad
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Author’s Note
Connect with the Author
Also by L.K. Hill
About the Author
Chapter 1
There it was again. The feeling of being watched. Kyra’s heart slammed ferociously against her ribcage. She slid into shadowy niche of the alley and fell into a squat. She was a small woman, alone in the most dangerous part of the city at night. The feeling of being watched was never a good sign. Kyra always felt that way in the Slip Mire, but tonight was different. Fear dug at her stomach like sharp icicles, no matter how she tried to smother it, and she could swear the icy wind actually blew inside her clothes. Creepy-ass wind.
She peered into the darkness around her from her hiding place. The alley, from which she’d entered M street—the Mirelings would have said it was only one layer deep—had no lighting of its own. Murky red light spilled into it, along with the slightly more industrious lights of M Street.
A tall figure, only a scant shade darker than the shadows he hid in, stood twenty feet away, looking directly at her. Kyra cursed silently, the icicles digging in more deeply. It wasn’t paranoia when someone really was following.
Ruthlessly crushing the panic in her gut, she rose smoothly and stepped into an intersecting, soot-black alley. Now two layers deep, she scurried along it for fifty feet and ducked behind the first object large enough to hide her: a rank dumpster.
Late as she already was, she didn’t have time for this. It was the same man she’d seen three times in the last week. Had to be. He must be keeping tabs on her. Her work tonight was too important to risk a tail. She’d have to shake him before heading into Josie’s neck of the Mire.
A silhouette appeared at the mouth of the alley. It was definitely the same man. The strong jaw and broad shoulders were unmistakably masculine. He turned his head to the side, looking toward M Street at things Kyra couldn’t see from her vantage point. His profile, with aquiline nose and hair gathered into a thin pony tail at the nape of his neck, was distinctive.
Kyra smothered a frustrated sigh. She needed to figure out who this guy was, and why he was following her. Just another worry. She had so many, they’d begun to feel like a physical weight. This stalker had nothing to do with where she was going tonight—she didn’t think—so he needed to mind his own business and stay on the back burner until she could find the time to deal with him.
She shivered, despite the flippant thought. Thinking of him as a minor annoyance helped her deal, but the chill in her spine refused to be ignored.
Thankfully, the man with the pony tail didn’t enter the alley. After peering in for a moment, the silhouette disappeared. Each time he’d followed her, she could feel his intelligence seeping out of the shadows. He must have realized she’d seen him and that he’d never find her in the darkness. He’d cut his losses for the evening. Good.
Unfortunately, he’d also slowed her down considerably. She didn’t dare leave the alley the way she came in—he could be waiting to see if she re-emerged. Instead, she’d have to venture into the deeper unlit recesses of the Slip Mire and make her way back out onto to M Street farther south. From there, she could get to Josie’s lair. Moving through the dark took time though, and it was already after eleven. Kyra needed to be in place to observe Josie by midnight.
Barely suppressing a growl of frustration, Kyra turned and plowed into the darkness, to which her eyes had long since become accustomed. The smells of grubby streets, unwashed bodies, urine, and less-than-legal substances all mixed together to fill her nose. When she’d first arrived in Abstreuse, she was sure she’d never get used to the lurid smell. Now, it was just part of nightly life.
Though her eyes quickly grew accustomed to the scant light, moving through the unlit alleys still unnerved her. Dark masses loomed up as she neared them. Most often they turned out to be dumpsters or other stationary objects. Smaller masses might be homeless, sleeping Mirelings. They might be other kinds of people, too.
Kyra hurried past them, praying they weren’t Prowlers. Not that she was truly deep enough for Prowlers. Most parts of the Slip Mire had passages five and six layers deep. Five or six turns from the more public streets. Kyra never went more than three layers deep. Four if absolutely necessary. Bad things happened in the deeper alleys. The Prowlers lived there, and she didn’t even know what else.
Kyra fingered the small gun she had concealed in her armpit, and then the knife strapped to her thigh. She could defend herself if need be, but it would make her even later than she already was, and run-ins with the Prowlers never left a person unscathed. Or so she’d heard.
Twenty minutes later, she peered out of a narrow alley, scanning M Street. It already bustled. Hookers lined the dimly lit sidewalks, chatting together and waving seductively whenever a vehicle passed, which wasn’t often. There would be more cars as the night wore on. More than once, Kyra caught glimpses of transparent plastic bags changing hands. Hobos gathered around garbage cans or husks of cars, many of which had fires going in them.
Kyra moved down the street, keeping to the shadows while observing the people around her. The weather had turned chilly over the past few weeks, and she imagined she’d see more make-shift fire pits as fall wore into winter. She’d come to the Slip Mire nearly four months before, when the chill of spring still clung to the gritty air. Since then, with the exception of a rain storm or two, she hadn’t dealt with bad weather. She could only imagine how miserable life in the Slip Mire must be in the winter. This region of Nevada was dry desert, so she doubted there’d be much snow, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t get cold.
There was no sign of her stalker. Relieved, she dismissed thoughts of him for the moment. He was a worry for tomorrow. Walking quickly, she put her head down and kept as close to the buildings as she could, hiding in the shadowy overhangs. She passed mere feet from hookers and street urchins who knew her as Supra. Most were engaged in their own activities, though, and didn’t spare her a passing glance.
Putting her head down, she hurried on. She had to get into position on time.
Supra. Not her real name. Just the one the Mirelings knew her by. Only one person in the entire city knew Kyra’s both her aliases. At least, she thought he did. That he’d figured it out. Which was why she’d carefully avoided Detective Nichols since the night she’d shot Norse, saving the detective’s life. A wave of emptiness passed over her. She squashed it vengefully. She was a creature of the shadows
, now. No one saw her. Not really. Tonight, she didn’t even need her alias.
Kyra looked different than she did most nights. As Supra, she usually wore makeup that made her skin paler than it actually was. In contrast, tonight she wore dark makeup on her hands and face. Her hoodie, thicker and heavier than usual, made her look bulkier than was true. Unless those that knew Supra peered directly into her face, they wouldn’t recognize her. That’s how she wanted it. As Supra, she had spiky black hair, and even now her wig sat in place below the dark hood of her sweatshirt. Just in case. Below the wig, her real, sandy blond hair was plastered to her head. Layers of disguise. Layers of identity. Even layers of names.
Passing a more brightly lit alley than the one she’d come from, Kyra glanced into it. The blood-red light so prevalent in the Mire revealed a tall blond woman wearing a flashy, sequined tube top and mini skirt. She had her back to Kyra and retreated, via slow, drunken stumble into the alley, leaning heavily against a man who wore no shirt. Even from behind, Kyra recognized the woman. This prostitute worked K Street more often than M, though she wasn’t an altogether uncommon sight in this part of town. Her name was Marna. Kyra had never spoken with her, but knew of her thanks to Sadie.
“Stay away from her, Supra,” Sadie had warned. “She’s a sleepwalker, and not above thievin’ and vi’lence to get ‘er next fix.” A prostitute herself, Sadie knew everyone in the Mire and could be easily persuaded to divulge the latest gossip. With an eight-month-old daughter to support, what little Sadie earned was too valuable to risk some high-strung junkie stealing it, so she avoided Marna at all costs and encouraged Kyra to do the same. Kyra didn’t need to be told twice.
Sleepwalker. Mire slang for heroin addict. People like Marna were too unpredictable to approach. Even if Kyra wanted information the woman had, she’d never be able to trust it.
Kyra moved past the alley, wondering why on earth you’d take a guy into a well-lit alley for sex when plenty of dark ones loomed close by, empty. Then again, people like Marna weren’t the greatest on-their-feet-thinkers.
Most hookers weren’t exactly understated, but the red light in the alley made Marna’s sequined top flash like Vegas lights. The eyes of anyone looking into the alley would be drawn straight to the couple and their salacious activities. Marna’s top looked purple to Kyra’s eyes, but was probably a deep blue. The Mire’s red light cast everything in its own sheen. Marna’s hair, which Kyra knew to be platinum blond, looked bright pink.
Shaking her head, Kyra moved on.
“Hey you! Stop!” The deep, boisterous voice froze her in her tracks, and Kyra spun in alarm. The voice stood out in the Mire like a fussy child’s in a quiet cathedral. Kyra immediately relaxed again. Big Johnny, standing near a fire pit barrel, motioned in an animated way while speaking to several hobos. Another staple of the Mire, Johnny was mentally handicapped and built like a linebacker. It amazed Kyra he managed to keep himself fed. From what she’d seen of him, he could do simple, odd jobs, and the Mirelings—the mildly decent ones, anyway—looked out for him as best they could. Even now, as his voice carried from down the street, several of the working girls approached him. Kyra couldn’t tell what had him all worked up, but the girls would calm him down.
Normally, Kyra might have stuck around to see what was going on. She couldn’t spare the time tonight. She spun and kept going.
Moving down M Street, she crossed into another maze of alleys, and headed toward the Carmichael District. Her destination sat on the outskirts. If she couldn’t get into the area unnoticed, she’d have to leave and come back next week. She winced at the idea of an entire week wasted, and quickened her step, practically power-walking now.
When she reached the right part of town, the street was dark and quiet. Both ends of the alley that housed Josie’s lair were guarded by his goons. Experts at blending in with their surroundings, and too alert to be junkies, they milled about in one small area, looking bored. Once Kyra learned to recognize them, they stuck out like sore thumbs. Their nondescript clothes were in better repair than most people in this part of town. More importantly, their hawkish eyes took in everything, rather than shifting nervously as the eyes of most Mirelings did.
Kyra made her way to an alley entrance two blocks up. From there, she could make her way through the black passages until she came to her niche. Really more of a perch, a forgotten fire escape leading to nowhere was tucked away in an alley facing Josie’s front door. Utter blackness permeated the space, so there was little chance of being seen. Climbing to the lowest platform of the fire escape kept her fifteen feet off the ground. Even if someone happened by, they wouldn’t stumble upon her in the dark.
Josie’s security guards never bothered to watch the small, unlit alleys. When Kyra first arrived in Abstreuse and found this to be the case across the board, she’d thought it stupidity on the Sons of Ares’ part. As time went on, though, she realized it wasn’t. The kind of people who skulked in the unlit alleys of Abstreuse weren’t the kind that would threaten Josie’s business. Quite the opposite. Those kinds of people, too messed up to function without their substance of choice, were the gang’s number one customers. In Josie’s mind, there simply wasn’t any threat coming from those dank, filthy places. From what Kyra had seen, he was right. If someone staggered out of them, his guards would firmly see them on their way, but wouldn’t be threatened by them.
Kyra reached the fire escape, climbed it quickly, and settled into her usual place. And just in time, too. Even as she got settled, a pale yellow SUV pulled up in front of Josie’s residence. Like most other structures in the Slip Mire, Josie’s building was a rat hole of a place that looked like it ought to be condemned. The building wore a brick exterior, with large chunks missing, broken, or merely crumbling away. She had no idea what the inside looked like, nor did she care.
A man, a woman, and two children exited the SUV. Accompanied by one of his loyal goons, Josie appeared from inside the building. A tall, skinny man with skin the color of chocolate milk and thick dread locks reaching to his hips, Josie spoke with a thick Caribbean accent that made him difficult to understand. He smiled widely, embraced the man, kissed the woman on each cheek, and scooped up the children, laughing and talking loudly. Due to his accent, Kyra only caught every third word, but she heard something about sweets and new toys. The boy wiggled out of Josie’s embrace, and got his hair ruffled on his way inside. Josie held onto the girl a little longer, smiling affectionately at her as he chatted with her parents. Eventually they all disappeared into the house.
Kyra sighed and got to her feet, making her way down the fire escape. The little girl, Josie’s niece, was his favorite. Josie’s brother-in-law and sister visited him here once a week, always on the same night and in the same car. Three times now Kyra had observed their arrival, and she’d absorbed enough information to have a good idea of the family dynamics at play.
The same goon always accompanied Josie to the door. Kyra’s sources named him Jenkins, and Josie’s right hand man. His head was buzzed and his nose was hooked. Tattoos covered his hands. Kyra knew nothing else. Information about him had been surprisingly hard to come by, but she’d keep digging and figure him out. Eventually.
Having assured herself of the family’s arrival, she headed toward the last place she’d tracked them. They always left using the same route and she had to map the entire thing before she could put her plan into play. It was difficult because she was on foot following a car. Each week, she’d gotten a little further before losing them. She hoped tonight she’d be able to finish the route, at least far enough for her purposes.
The previous week, she’d tracked them to a stop sign beside a small, little-used park, where they’d turned left. By the time she reached the stop sign, even the tail lights had disappeared, so she would be starting there tonight.
She headed there now to wait for them to pass her. In truth, she could have just headed there to begin with and skipped the fire escape all together, but she preferred
not to. There was no way she could define all the possible variables of the situation just by watching, and she needed to define as many as she could. So she always watched them arrive, both to be sure they had come this week and also to make sure nothing had changed. Tonight nothing had.
Kyra plodded through the dark alleys, thinking about Josie.
After shooting the gangster Norse in the chest six weeks before to save Detective Nichols, Kyra had known she’d have to find another way to infiltrate the Sons of Ares. Her brother, Manny, had disappeared into the gang a year before, and the only way to find where he’d gone would be to become part of them. They wouldn’t trust her enough to tell her anything otherwise.
Infiltrate the gang. Figure out where Manny was. Then leave the gang and go get him. Bring him home. A complicated plan—one she had to focus on one step at a time—but it was the only one she had.
She’d wracked her brain and run through all her contacts and connections for two weeks, coming up empty. Not that there weren’t other ways into the gang, but most would require sex or violence, either on her part or done to her, and she couldn’t stomach either. She didn’t mind being knocked around a bit, but she certainly didn’t want to be raped by the gang members. She wouldn’t do violence on the gang’s behalf to gain entry either.
Finally, Big Johnny had given her an avenue. He’d been nattering on about his friend who’d gotten a promotion while Kyra only half-listened. He said his friend was promoted after working for Josie McNeal for only two months. That caught Kyra’s attention. Josie McNeal was a low level drug runner for the Sons of Ares. She asked Johnny more pointed questions, and he told her his friend—Palo, apparently—had simply asked Josie for a job. Chances were it was more complicated than that—Big Johnny was simple-minded, after all—but she’d immediately zeroed in on Josie as a possible way into the gang.
She’d hit roadblocks, of course. From what she could tell, Josie had no women working for him. A few came and went from his place, but she suspected they were his mistresses or else just buying his product. After weeks of observing him, Kyra got the feeling Josie didn’t think women had a good enough head for business to employ them. If she wanted a job, she’d have to start off by making a big impression. She figured it would have to involve his family—those he cared most about in the world.
