A Forced Disappearance: A Lawson Vampire Mission (The Lawson Vampire Series)

by Jon F. Merz

  A Forced Disappearance

  A Lawson Vampire Mission

  Jon F. Merz

  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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Also by Jon F. Merz

  1

  I was drinking coffee.

  Or at least that’s what it looked like as I sipped from the styrofoam cup emblazoned with the logo of the donut chain that had been started in Massachusetts before spreading like wildfire all over the country. In reality, I was drinking hot chocolate because I can’t stand coffee. And I might have tipped a bit of juice into the hot chocolate to keep me primed for what was about to go down. Frankly, after waiting for over an hour, I was bored out of my mind.

  Surveillance sucks.

  I was parked outside of Gate 32 at Terminal B, just before the security checkpoint, awaiting the arrival of Southwest Airlines flight 90 from Tulsa. The airline and plane didn’t matter as much as one of the passengers on it.

  Henry Collins, better known to his friends as Hank, was due to arrive and I was extremely interested in seeing who he was in town to meet with. A vampire with the sort of skill set that Hank had didn’t just happen to come to Boston for sightseeing. Especially in November. Novembers in Boston are cold, rainy affairs. It’s the sort of weather that makes you want to curl up under a thick duvet and sleep until Spring rolls around. Preferably with an attractive person next to you for extracurricular activities in between naps.

  Flight 90 had been forced to circle a number of times due to the unusually crowded conditions in the air this morning. All of which put me in a surly mood. I hate waiting at airports. It sucks. Plus, between the TSA, State cops, and assorted plain clothes spooks, the potential for attracting a pair of eyeballs was fair higher than it normally would have been.

  But flight 90 finally managed to land, probably on fumes, and a dribbling stream of passengers started coming through the checkpoint before heading off toward the baggage carousels to grab their stuff.

  Niles had tipped me off about Hank. Turns out that Hank had been abroad in the past year - vacationing, if you could call it that, in eastern Turkey. That’s what his old itinerary said, anyway. But if you look at a map of the area, eastern Turkey provides a ton of easy access to Syria.

  And given the fact that Hank spoke a dozen dialects of Arabic perfectly and was one of the foremost experts in Babylonian and Sumerian history, alarm bells went off in Niles’ head when he started piecing things together. I’d returned from Syria a few months back after heading there to rescue a STA-F team that had been ambushed and taken captive. The real reason was to set a trap for me planned by a guy named Shiraz. He was after me because I’d put his two brothers in the ground for their crimes against our people.

  Shiraz didn’t like that.

  But he didn’t have the means to pull off the Syrian op without someone on the inside feeding him intel and data about our resources and capabilities. The Council was supposedly launching its own investigation, of course, but I knew how they’d do things and that didn’t sit well with me.

  So Niles told me he’d keep his ears to the ground and see what he could find out.

  Hank was piece number one of the puzzle to unmask the traitor or traitors in our midst.

  I knew from the picture Niles had forward me that Hank looked less like the college professor he was and more like a linebacker in the NFL. Thanks to a CrossFit addiction, Hank could apparently juggle refrigerators for fun.

  Unfortunately for Hank, I also did CrossFit and could probably deadlift his ass without breaking a sweat. Plus, I was packing heat, so unless Hank was going to throw those refrigerators at me, I wasn’t all that concerned.

  I spotted him almost as soon as he moved toward the checkpoint. He was about my age, wider, and maybe an inch taller. He wore his light brown hair cropped close to his skull. If I didn’t know better, I would have pegged him for a former military guy. Maybe he liked trying to cultivate that image. A lot of guys do. They think it’s “tactic-cool” to look like an operator, grow a beard, and wear dark sunglasses, as if that’s all it takes to be out on the tip of the spear.

  Idiots.

  All the airsoft play in the world won’t replace actual combat experience.

  I had no idea if Hank liked airsoft or not. And I didn’t much care. All I knew was he and I were going to have a serious little sit down and chat session. If Hank didn’t play ball with me, he was going to learn that I could be far worse than the most dreaded of CrossFit workouts.

  He headed for the baggage claim area and I rose from my seat after he passed, taking up a slow amble in his wake. I continued to sip the hot chocolate, feeling the effects of the juice hitting my bloodstream. I felt energized and primed for whatever might happen. Hank might not want to go quietly, but I didn’t plan on making a scene here. Too many cameras everywhere and I don’t like being on television anyway.

  If I hadn’t known that his reasons for coming to Boston weren’t legit already, I definitely would have suspected something was wrong when Hank didn’t head for the taxi stand. Instead, he waited for the shuttle bus that would take him out to the long-term parking garage.

  Not exactly the sort of place a tourist coming to Boston goes to.

  I hung back and then just before the bus closed its doors, I swung on and grabbed a seat toward the front of the bus. With my sunglasses on, I could watch the rest of the bus without focusing on Hank. For his part, he seemed unconcerned and flipped through a magazine.

  The bus swung out of the terminal and we headed off to long-term parking. I wondered what sort of ride Hank had waiting for him.

  2

  The shuttle bus took a while to reach the long-term parking garage, mainly because of the construction happening near the airport that snarled traffic at red lights where the detail cops took their time having us through. Eventually, we snaked toward the gray, multi-story garage and pulled in. I made a show of looking for my ticket in my pocket while the bus emptied.

  Hank immediately headed for the elevators. That meant I was forced to ride up on the same car with him. Not exactly inconspicuous, but that’s how it plays out sometimes. As long as Hank didn’t know who I was, I was just another passenger anxious to get his car and head home as far as he was concerned.

  At least I hoped that was how he’d view me.

  Two other riders got off on the second floor, but Hank stayed on. He’d pushed the top level button so we rode together in silence. If Hank noticed me, he made no show of it.

  When the doors parted, I moved first to put his mind at ease instead of thinking that I might be following him.

  On the roof of the garage, the Boston sky was a brilliant blue, stained yellow by the No
vember sun. A few wispy clouds broke away in the distance, but otherwise, the cool bright day seemed at odds with what was about to happen.

  Hank headed to my right and I paralleled him as he walked a few aisles away from me. I kept stopping and checking my ticket. Hank seemed intent on heading right to the furthest section of the garage. I followed.

  The entire floor was crowded so I couldn’t pick out which car he was heading for. I’d have to wait and take him at the last possible moment. I scanned the rooftop, but we were moving into an area where the cameras weren’t positioned to capture any imagery. Whoever had parked Hank’s car, they’d been careful to study the layout of the coverage and they had an understanding of the security loopholes that existed here.

  That meant they’d been trained. But by who?

  My gut twinged sightly, but I chalked it up as the adrenaline flowing as I readied myself to take Hank down.

  He slowed by a Honda Accord parked in the corner. I slowed next to a Lincoln Towncar and then started fumbling in my pockets for the imaginary keys.

  Hank had squatted down and was running his hand up into the rear wheel well. I figured someone must have stowed the keys there, presumably in a magnetic box that would fasten itself to the frame of the car, hidden from view by anyone but those who knew what to look for.

  While his back was to me, I moved.

  I had twenty meters to cross and did so quickly, abandoning all pretense of moving quietly. I had to hit him hard and fast.

  He started to stand up as I got within his kill zone - that area of space where either I or he could kill if need be, basically within arm’s length - and the expression on his face seemed confused, almost as if he was about to ask me who I was.

  I delivered a straight shot to his jaw as he turned to face me. It snapped his head around and I thought I’d successfully knocked him out. But then he snapped back and to his credit, he shot an elbow at the side of my head.

  I backpedaled out of range and snapped a kick up into his crotch that should have bent him double.

  But Hank was tougher than he looked. And he looked tough.

  He smiled at me and then shot a jab at my face. I barely had time to duck it and as it was, it caught the side of my head, grazing my temple and tearing through my hair. I shucked off the pain and drove a knee into the side of his thigh.

  That took, Hank grunted and his leg went numb, unable to hold his weight. He dipped to the ground and reached to grab the car to steady himself. I grabbed his lapels, hauled him up and head-butted him above the eye socket.

  He grunted and tried to spin away from me. I followed up with another shot to the same spot I’d just nailed on his thigh. This time, Hank pulled a knife from his pocket. Where the hell had that come from? He couldn’t have had that on the flight. He must have dug it out of his baggage and pocketed it when I wasn’t looking.

  He took a hefty slash at my neck with the blade. I let it arc past then shoved his knife arm away, and delivered a shot to the back of his elbow, hyper-extending it and causing him to lose the blade. It skittered away underneath another car.

  Hank reared back. “Who the hell are you-?”

  The words got cut off because in that moment, I heard something like a small pop and Hank’s chest exploded in crimson. He looked down and then back at me but I was just as surprised as he was. I yanked my pistol free of its holster and whirled around. I couldn’t see anyone, so I ducked and looked back at Hank.

  He was going fast. I reached over and grabbed him. “Who were you here to meet? Tell me!”

  Hank’s eyes were already losing their focus and his incisors had lengthened. He was close to death. He smiled at me. “You’ll never know..”

  And then he died on the roof of that garage.

  I grabbed at the keys to the car and pocketed them before taking a quick look around the edge of the car I’d been using for cover.

  I heard the click and froze.

  “Hands.”

  I lifted my hands. “All right.”

  “Lose the gun.”

  I let my pistol slip to the floor of the garage.

  “Turn around, Fixer. Slowly.”

  I stood and turned. Never expecting to see what I saw standing before me.

  3

  She looked like Monk. I hadn’t seen her in years, not since I tangled with Shiva and a serious conspiracy. Back then, I’d had to go up north to Maine to find Belladonna, an Elder among the lycanthropes. Monk had been her apprentice. But Shiva had killed her and taken up her appearance to fool me.

  Monk was dead.

  And yet, she stood in front of me.

  “You.”

  She frowned. “What about me?” The suppressed HK MP7 rested easily in her hands at low ready. She could flip it up and put rounds in me before I could even move.

  “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “The hell,” she said. “I’m very much alive.” She nodded beyond me. “Unlike that guy.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “Yeah, I was trying to question that guy about something very important.”

  “Were you?” She smirked. “Cuz it kinda looked like you were getting your ass kicked.”

  I held up a hand. “Uh, that’s not even close to being true.”

  “Okay, old timer,” she said. “Well, it doesn’t matter anymore because I took care of him for you.” She paused. “Anytime you want to say thank you is fine.”

  “Thank you? I should be bullshit with you. In fact, I am. I needed him alive.” I frowned. “And just who the hell are you anyway?”

  “My name’s Monk.”

  “That was her name, too,” I said. “Who sent you?”

  She smiled. “I think you know the answer to that question, don’t you?”

  I shook my head. “Belladonna? Why would she want anything to do with me? The last time I spoke with her, I ended up getting her apprentice killed by a maniac.”

  Monk shrugged. “I was sent you get you. What she wants with you, I have no idea. But I was told to drag your ass up north so she could have a few words with you.”

  “There are such things as phones now, you know.”

  “Belladonna doesn’t trust telephones. She says anything that zips through the air can be snatched out of it. And she seemed especially keen on seeing you, so I drove down last night.”

  “How’d you know where to find me?”

  Monk shrugged again. “It’s relatively easy following someone when you can morph into any other person you want to.”

  Lycanthrope. Just great. No wonder she looked like Monk. Belladonna had done that deliberately because she knew it would freeze me and keep me from hurting her apprentice.

  “What’s your true form?”

  Monk smiled. “Not until we get out of here. The cameras saw one woman enter this place and I’ll stay with that until we’re away.” She nodded. “Which, according to my internal clock, should be right about now.”

  “I just can’t leave, Monk. I’m working here.”

  She frowned. “You were working, Lawson. Now you’re coming with me. I don’t want to have to get all nasty on you-“

  “I happen to like nasty women.”

  “So I’ve heard. But seriously, leave the body. I saw you fleece the keys off him, so once you’re done with whatever Belladonna needs you for, you can come back and pick up this investigation again. Okay?”

  “I need to call my Control.”

  Monk shook her head. “Sorry sport, I’m under orders to make sure you don’t use that phone until after this is all done.”

  “I can’t just disappear,” I said. “There’s protocol.”

  Monk let the MP7 slip to her side on a sling. “The hell with your protocol, Lawson. I know you vamps like things nice and orderly, but the fact of the matter is you’re coming with me right now. I don’t care if I have to drag your ass out of this garage, but you’re coming with me. So I suggest you do it peacefully.” She paused. “You owe it to Belladonna. At least that much. Just
hear her out.”

  I sighed. She was right. Belladonna had helped me when I needed to track down the Lunaspe, an ancient lycanthrope relic, and in exchange, I’d gotten her apprentice killed. It was one of those deaths that could have been avoided if I hadn’t gotten her mixed up in it.

  “Fair enough.”

  I heard sirens in the distance and glanced at Monk. “You have a car close by?”

  She nodded. “The Grand Cherokee over there in maroon.”

  “Tinted windows?”

  “They look tinted,” she said as we trotted toward it. “But they’re really not. It comes off in the blink of n eye and it’s just another trick to throw off anyone who’s interested in us.”

  “So you can shapeshift and so can the truck.” I smiled. “Nice touch.”

  “Well, technically the truck can’t, but I can do a few quick things to make it appear different from what any law enforcement types might be searching for.” She climbed into the driver’s side and gunned the engine. “Buckle up, Lawson.”

  I strapped in and could hear the sirens getting closer by the second. I glanced in the rearview as we shot down the ramp and off of the roof, seeing Hank’s body fade from view. I frowned. That hadn’t gone down the way I’d wanted it to. Hank had died without giving me any information. But I still had his keys to the car. Who knew what it might contain?

  The sirens grew louder. “Was there a camera I didn’t spot? One that captured you killing my target?”

  Monk shrugged. “Does it matter? I don’t have to worry about being spotted anyway.”

  I saw flashing blue lights. “They’re close.”

  “So are we,” said Monk. Ahead of us, I saw the exit gate was down. I wondered if she was going to stop and pay with her ticket.

  Instead, Monk punched the gas and we shot through the barrier gate, crashing out on to the street just ahead of the police cars starting their final approach to the garage. Monk immediately threw us down a side street and then another until I was completely confused where we were. She seemed to have intimate knowledge of the surrounding area.