Blood Conspiracy (Brooklyn Shadows Book 2)

by Brock Deskins

“Nope, every Thursday like clockwork. Ladies’ night, baby!”

  I brake hard in front of the main doors to the medical examiner’s office and storm inside. It’s late, and the cavernous halls are nearly deserted. A thin white man in his early thirties waits in the foyer.

  “Parker, thanks for coming in.”

  “No problem, I love being woken up at two o’clock in the morning to do blood work that can’t possibly wait five more hours until my regular shift.”

  “Quit your bitching, and let’s get to your lab.”

  “I don’t need an escort.”

  “I’m not letting these out of my sight.”

  “It takes a few days to do a complete run-up, you know that, right? Are you going to lurk around my lab for an entire week?” Parker asks.

  “I’ll leave when I see them put in the cooker. No one touches these other than you, and I want every test and every movement logged. If it moves so much as a millimeter, I want it logged.”

  “We have a term for anal-retentive quality control. It’s called SOP.”

  “Look, I’ve been chasing this guy for half my career and I don’t want to lose him again because of a lab mistake. I need this to be your sole focus in life until you can get me enough information to at least hold my perp until you get a full analysis.”

  “All right, I’ll call you the minute I have anything.”

  I leave Parker once he begins the process of extracting the sample. I find Angel in the lobby talking to someone on the phone.

  “Angel, you get my warrant?”

  “I have Judge Reinholt on the phone now. He’s less happy about being woken up than Parker. He wants you to tell him that you personally ID’d Malone at the scene.”

  “Give it to me.” I put the phone to my ear. “I saw Malone at the scene before he fled.”

  “Do you have any physical proof?” the judge asks me. “I’ve issued you three warrants for this guy in the past, and he’s walked every time.”

  “I have blood evidence, one of which I am certain will link him to the scene.”

  “Why can’t you just pick him up and bring him in for questioning?”

  “Because his scumbag lawyer is really good and will have him out in minutes without something stronger to detain him. He also lives in a goddam fortress and practically never leaves it, so it will be all but impossible to pick him up on the street.”

  “All right, Castillo, but this is the last one you’re getting from me unless you have him on video committing a murder and performing a running commentary as he’s doing it, so you best make it stick.”

  With any luck, it will be the last one I ever need. The phone chirps the moment I hang up and hand it back to Angel.

  “Lab guys found the bullet.”

  The smile spreading across my face is a true Kodak moment. You won’t likely see another one until I see Malone strapped to a table as they push a lethal cocktail of chemicals into his veins. “I got you now, Malone.”

  CHAPTER 2

  (Leo)

  Avoiding the influx of cruisers is easy enough as I make my way back to where I stashed my old Yamaha. Seeing as how my loft isn’t far from the scene, it doesn’t take long for me to get home even when I drive a circuitous route to get there. I wouldn’t put it past Castillo to have my place staked out already, so I stash my bike a block away and sneak in like a thief. I use the steel stairs running up the side of the building to my office to get inside despite failing to find anyone watching my house.

  I follow the inner stairs down to the ground floor and pull the hidden lever to open my secret workshop. A section of concrete lifts up and rolls back to reveal another set of steps leading into an old water, gas, and electrical conduit I use as a workspace and armory. Putting my phone on speaker, I call my lawyer as I replace Shalonda’s barrel.

  “Christ, Malone, what now?” Will Stepanek grouses.

  “I’m probably going to need you first thing in the morning if not sooner.”

  “What does she have this time?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Far less than she thinks.”

  “Like what?”

  “She saw the back of a guy’s head wearing a hood.”

  “No, she saw the back of a person’s head unless you opened your mouth and spoke.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good, what else?”

  “She may have seen a sword, oh, and possibly a recovered slug.”

  “May have?”

  “It was dark.”

  “So she saw a shiny piece of metal. What do you think ballistics will say about the slug?”

  “It won’t match anything I own.”

  “All right, this won’t be a problem.”

  “I never doubted you. I’ll give you a call when she picks me up.”

  I disconnect Will and finish replacing Shalonda’s barrel. I won’t have it on me when they take me in, but minimizing the number of ballistic matches I leave around the city is just good practice. Even Will would have a hard time getting me sprung if I got picked up carrying a gun that’s a ballistics match to any crime scene on record.

  After locking up my armory, I pull a bag of blood from my refrigerator in the area I loosely refer to as my kitchen. This isn’t the first time I have tangled with Francis, and it has been a while since I had a warm meal. It would probably be a good idea for me to get something proper to eat before I do it again. Francis is on my list because he was staying well-fed and leaving bodies around the area for the cops to find. He might be an amateur but, if I don’t top off my tank, I could find myself on the wrong end of the betting odds.

  Kicking back in my ratty recliner, I think about how he almost got me as I looked like a square peg jammed into a round hole. That was sloppy, and I should have been able to avoid it. It was another sure sign I was past due for a proper feeding. It’s not as if I deny my nature or have some moral objection to feeding on humans. As far as I’m concerned, people rank right along with cows, and the ones I choose are less than cow shit. So why do I go so long between feedings? I used to be a junky, the only difference being that I needed my drug to survive. Any time I feed, I’m afraid the dragon is going to get me. I can’t lose it again and not just because the enclave will hunt me down and kill me if I do.

  I close my eyes and let consciousness slip away. I find myself in the dark, but not the darkness inside my loft or down some alleyway. The smell of wet soil and green vegetation fills my nose. It’s hot and humid beyond belief, but it doesn’t bother me. I shed such mortal concerns long ago. I’m naked and covered in grime. I lope down the narrow path like an animal on the hunt, wet fronds slapping at me like the brushes of an automated car wash.

  I can hear the chattering of voices ahead and smell their fear carried by invisible air currents. They know this is a dangerous place to be. They have all heard about the rừng quỷ, or jungle demon, but life has to go on. After years of war, danger has become part of the norm; life is a privilege that could be taken in an instant. I’m about to show them the truth of that. I slow to the deliberate crawl of a stalking leopard and peer through the thick vegetation. The men are gathered around a small fire. There’s six of them, and although a couple of them are armed with type 56 assault rifles, I know they’re not Vietcong or soldiers. They’re just farmers and scavengers who likely wandered too far from their village to return before nightfall.

  It was their bad luck to run across my path, because none of them will ever make it home. I tense my muscles and lunge. I’m only halfway across the clearing when the ground gives way beneath my feet, a rope cinches tight around my ankles, and I’m hoisted off the ground. The men weren’t here by mistake, they were hunting demons, and I fell right into their trap.

  Two of the men raise their rifles, and gunfire destroys the jungle’s tranquility. I feel the thirty-caliber rounds slam into my body like the stinging of a swarm of hellish bees. I’ve been feral for over a year, and my fingernails are more
like the claws of an animal than a man. I curl up and slash the rope suspending me upside down with a single swipe. I land on my feet with an impossibly fast flip and hunker into a predator’s crouch. Two of the squints are rushing at me with machetes in hopes of liberating my head from my shoulders.

  I kill one with a punch to his scrawny neck. The other one takes a swing at me, but I grab his wrist in one hand and his throat with the other, but I don’t kill him. I lift him from the ground and take off at a dead sprint. His buddies decide that shooting me is worth the risk of hitting their friend and resume firing. Bullets whizz past and snap leaves and branches all around me, but I’m lost within the jungle in an instant.

  Fifteen minutes of running puts a few miles between the hunters and me and my midnight snack. No less than a dozen holes riddle my body, but those are mostly healed before I stop running. They hurt like hell, and now I’m starving. Forcing my body to heal takes an enormous amount of reserves, but I brought a refill. I toss the drained body into the foliage when I’m done with him. Rage courses through me, the anger directed at the men who tried to kill me and at my own stupidity. There’s only one village within walking distance, and that’s where I’m headed.

  I find the two gunmen in the village amongst the crowd gathered around a large bonfire set in the center of a clearing created by a few bamboo and grass huts. Everyone is armed with something. A few have guns, but most grip machetes and farming tools in nervous hands. The stench of fear is almost overpowering, and it only heightens my bloodlust. Armed with my dinner’s machete and my inhuman speed and strength, I rush into the mass of human cattle with a bestial snarl. What they had hoped was safety in numbers becomes a hindrance with my brutal tactic. The gunmen can’t shoot without hitting their own, and people knock each other over and trample their friends and family beneath their panicked feet.

  I try to pick out the gunmen first, but I’m like a shark in a pod of seals. I lash out with blade and claw, cutting through flesh and shattering bone with contemptible ease. In less than a minute, there’s not a living soul within the orange ring of firelight. A few fled into the jungle, leaving the bodies of dozens of their friends and family lying in a twisted heap on ground.

  But there’s still life within the village. I can smell the sweat and fear and hear the furious beating of hearts coming from a large hut. I tear the bamboo door off the wall and hurl it twenty feet to land in the bonfire. The wail of infants and the screams of children assault my ears. Children fill the hut, the oldest of whom is a girl probably only twelve or thirteen.

  She rushes at me with a knife gripped tightly in her fist and held high. I lift her from the ground by her throat and hold her at arm’s length, laughing as she stabs me in the forearm and shoulder. I grab her wrist with my free hand and squeeze until she drops the knife. She curses me and spits in my face. I look her in the eyes and see only a shadow of fear hidden behind her fiery rage. The dull thud of incoming mortars or distant artillery breaks my focus. I startle awake and realize it’s not explosions but someone pounding on my door.

  I don’t have any physical need for sleep, but old habits die hard, and I’m pissed for letting myself doze off. The flashback wasn’t unexpected, and I don’t have to be a shrink to know what triggered it. I’ve been through enough therapy I’m probably entitled to at least a Masters in Psychology by now.

  Shalonda is safely hidden in my armory, and I’ve already tossed last night’s clothes in the furnace. I can hear Castillo screaming about a warrant through my half-inch thick steel door. Mentally prepping myself for a verbal prostate exam, and possibly a physical one as well, I swing the portal open and give her my best Lurch impression.

  “You rang?”

  “Stow it, Malone. I have a warrant for your arrest and to search your shithole loft and office.”

  Visits from Castillo are a lot like an IRS audit. No matter how much you prepare for it, it’s still an unwelcome and deeply unpleasant event. I send Will a quick text.

  I open the door with a dramatic flourish. “Mi casa es su escena del crimen.”

  Castillo pushes her way inside with Angel following closely. “Don’t get cute with me, asshole.”

  “Aw, you think I’m cute? I thought I felt some sexual tension between us, but I thought it was just a hemorrhoid. What bit of flimsy evidence that my lawyer will tear apart and make you look like a complete psycho bitch brings you here this time?”

  “You know damn good and well why I’m here. Now face the wall, and put your hands behind your back.”

  “Make sure you read me my rights,” I remind her as a squad of cops storm into my home. “You wouldn’t want me to get away on some sort of technicality.”

  “You have the right to shut the fuck up. If you choose to waive that right, you might fall out of the back of a moving squad car. You have the right to your shitbag lawyer. If you can’t afford your shitbag lawyer, you will be provided one who is not paid enough to scam the system and get you off.”

  “You sound even more bitchy than usual, Castillo. Are you getting enough sleep…or dick?”

  “Don’t go there, Leo,” Angel warns me. “She gets real crotch-punchy when you say things like that.”

  “Keep talking and I’ll throw you both out of the car.”

  “Perfect, you know how we suspects like to be roughed up by heavy-handed cops. I know my lawyer is looking to buy a bigger boat.”

  Castillo growls, properly reads me my rights, marches me to her unmarked car, and shoves me into the back seat. Angel climbs into the passenger seat as Castillo takes the wheel, and we’re soon cutting our way through morning traffic on the way to the station. I half expect Castillo to taunt me the entire way in hopes of provoking me into saying something incriminating, but it’s a silent ride with neither of us letting our egos take control of our mouths.

  Will is standing in front of the precinct doors when we arrive, a briefcase clutched in one hand and several loose papers in the other. Castillo literally growls like a dog when she sees him and pushes me past.

  “Detective Castillo, why don’t you save us both some time and yourself a great deal of embarrassment and let Mr. Malone go now?”

  Castillo stops and spins to face him, a fierce scowl carved onto her face. “Because I have him this time, and not even your slimy tactics or his girlfriend are going to get him off.”

  “You don’t have anything to hold him on, Castillo, and you know it.”

  “I pursued him halfway across the burg and saw him at the scene.”

  “I got reports from four uniforms who all say they only saw someone in a black coat, and none of them saw a face or could give any kind of physical description at all.”

  “They don’t know him like I do.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “I don’t have time to debate procedure with you, Stepanek. If you want to try and get him out, you know the system.”

  “You’re going to lose your badge one of these days, and a damn shame it will be.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you and Malone will be heartbroken.”

  Will never leaves my side while I’m booked in and processed. It wouldn’t be the first time Castillo rolled up my personal liberties and beat me with them. Most people would be offended by it, but I can respect a person who will break the rules to get the job done.

  I’m processed quickly since ninety percent of the pertinent information is just copy and paste. I’m such a regular I should have a punch card. She sits me down in the interrogation room and begins the typical back and forth of questions and answers. It’s an imbalanced system with far more questions than answers, and all the answers come from my lawyer, which are “my client does not need to answer that.”

  I’m impressed that Castillo is able to keep it up for an hour with nothing more than an angry twitch in the corner of her eye. It’s a good thing Will is here, or she would probably have hit me with her chair by now. An officer steps into the room and drops a Manila folder on the table in fron
t of Castillo. She opens it up and reads the contents.

  “Why is your refrigerator full of bagged blood?” the detective asks.

  Will answers for me. “He has a medical condition that requires frequent transfusions which he prefers to be done at his home instead of a hospital.”

  “What kind of condition?”

  “The kind protected by privacy laws. You have nothing on my client, Castillo, so let’s end this and stop wasting each other’s time before I have to talk to your captain or the DA directly. We both know they aren’t going to prosecute on this flimsy evidence. Hell, it’s not even shaky, it’s outright mythical.”

  “I just need to hold him until I get my DNA results back.”

  “Which can take a week, and no one is going to let you hold him that long with what you have.”

  “Call your lab guy,” I tell Castillo.

  “He won’t have a complete markup yet.”

  “Call him anyway. I bet he has enough to end this interview.”

  Castillo glares at me with a mix of anger and suspicion. “What do you know, Malone?”

  I return her vitriolic stare with a smile. DNA tests are useless on vampires. Our bodies absorb the blood cells of our victims, or hosts, as we like to call them, into our veins, capillaries, and tissue. We have more divergent DNA in us than a porn star.

  She pulls out her phone and taps in a number. “Parker, what’s the status on my samples?”

  “I was hoping to finish running them again before I called you, but they’re a bust.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? I watched them taken myself.”

  “I don’t know who took them or how, but I’ve gotten cleaner samples from a peepshow jizz mop. There’s gotta be markers pointing to at least half a dozen different people.”

  “In which sample?”

  “Both.”

  “I don’t know what the hell is going on, Parker, but if I find you have been compromised, I swear you will never see the light of day!”

  “Hey, don’t threaten me because your people screwed up! You want to come look at the security footage? Be my guest. I have every second of my day recorded, a day that started way too damn early on account of you.”