With Just Cause

by Jackie Ivie

  Deandra swiped the moisture gathered in both eyes, donned the glasses, and squinted at the view.

  Whew.

  It wasn’t clear, but she could see. Sort of. She needed to move to the next phase of any situation: data gathering. It looked as if Rosa had an excellent staff. They even kept it dusted beneath the bed. And that was a stupid thing to notice. It looked to be past noon, the sun working its way toward late afternoon. She’d slept that long? And the rest of the 2100 Radical Society had let her?

  Sounds of another burst of gunfire came through the window. Then some guttural remarks she couldn’t make out. They were loud. Masculine. And harsh. Whoever was attacking the hacienda this time sounded a lot more organized than the coyote fellow from last night. What she wouldn’t give for her Beretta. It was probably still sitting on the floorboard of Len’s pickup. Deandra scooted to the door frame and hugged the side of it before poking her head out.

  The corridor was empty. She raced it, making very little noise despite moving so quickly it resembled flight. She’d never run that quickly and silently in her life. And while that was odd, it wasn’t something she’d turn down at the moment. The hall hooked left into another hall, took a couple of doglegs to the right, a right angle turn to the left, and then it spewed her out into the kitchens. Wondrous smells emanated from every pot, while the aroma of freshly baking bread mixed in. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday sometime. Her belly growled, reminding her. Deandra grabbed up a loaf, pulled off a large chunk, shoved it in her mouth, and spat it back out. They’d changed their recipe or something. It tasted worse than sawdust might.

  Fine. She’d eat later. First she had to find out what was happening, who were the perpetrators, and how many there were. She entered a hall containing more light than the others. She sniffed. It smelled like they were burning something rotten in the fire pit. It wasn’t wood. The stench grew stronger and more pungent the closer she got to the big gathering room, the one with the funnel fireplace where Edna had been telling spooky stories.

  A lifetime ago.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  That sounded like their new friend, Len. He didn’t sound nonchalant and self-assured. He sounded angry. Frustrated.

  “Len. Len. Len. I can call you Len, can’t I? Doesn’t everyone?”

  The voice sounded feeble. Old. And a lot closer. If that was the perpetrator, it sounded easy to take him. Deandra reached the end of the wall and hugged the edge. Held her breath and waited, listening with a sense of hearing that exceeded her wildest imagination. If she concentrated, she could hear actual sounds of breathing. Some bits of sobbing. Sniffing.

  Unreal. She had super powers? She watched the opposite wall for shadows. They shouldn’t have lit the fire. It gave her shadows to work with. And then she remembered the makeup compact. And the mirror.

  “Hell no, Lord General Beethan. You can call me Mister Griggins.”

  “Ah. You know my name. And our mission. Good. Very well. Mister Griggins it is. Want to cut through all the nonsense... or you want to do this the hard way?”

  “There are women and children here!”

  “That is hardly my fault.”

  “Assholes.”

  There was the sound of guns getting cocked. She estimated ten. At least. Shotguns by the sounds of it. The effect was intimidating and meant to be. Deandra slid the mirrored compact from her pocket, clicked it open with one hand. Held it out, tipped toward the room beyond.

  “Name calling is not necessary, Mister Griggins. And completely unwarranted. You know why we’re here and you know what we want.”

  “Says who?”

  “Why be stubborn? We know he’s around. And we want him. So what say you just give him over and save a lot of useless bickering... and you some skin.”

  There was a stifled cry following that. It didn’t come from a male. It came from the chunk of shadows at the edge of the wall. That was probably her group. And maybe the girls from last night. Deandra caught their reflection in her mirror. Just as she thought. It was the entire 2100 Radical Society group, their hostess Rosa and her staff, and eight young girls. All huddled on the far side of the room.

  Deandra moved the mirror, picking up eight. No... ten. No. She counted thirteen. They were all large, fit-looking men. All dressed in some tan shaded camo material. All sporting crossbows and guns. All standing with feet shoulder-width apart, guns at the ready. Looking extremely efficient. Something the 2100 Radical Society would likely never achieve. At least, not while she belonged to it.

  Preparing to survive the end of society was no longer on Deandra’s agenda. Not anymore. She was going to get a proposal of marriage that she’d accept, she’d become Missus Grimm Bradley, and she was going to be the most ecstatically happy wife ever.

  At least, that’s what she planned to happen, once she got out of this predicament.

  The mirror caught a bit of light, splashed it on one of the men’s faces, gaining his instant glance. Deandra leapt for the end of the hall and then jumped right up into the crossbeam of wood laced through the ceiling. And clung. Without expending one bit of effort. She watched as the guy brought another fellow with him to check where she’d just been standing, their fingers resting on triggers, their eyes alert and watchful. They went to the end of the hall and looked down both directions branching out from there. Disappeared in opposite directions. A few moments later they were back. She watched them shrug before returning to the gathering room. Neither of them looked up.

  She wasn’t even breathing hard. And she still had the powder compact in her right palm. Wow. Unbelievable.

  “I’m not an aficionado of torture, Mister Griggins.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “But I was trained in the arts. All sorts of variations. I think tonight I will pursue the Chinese Dynasty Imperial method. Death by one thousand knives. Do you know what that entails?”

  “I’d rather not, actually,” Len replied.

  Deandra dropped to the hall floor soundlessly using more newly gained skills, much to her surprise. She skimmed the floor in a running tip-toe to reach her prior vantage point. A moment later she had the compact open and trained on the room. The two men had returned to their previous positions. Another tip of the mirror got her a distorted view of Len, and the old man facing him, a weapon-toting guard on either side.

  Two more. She amended her count of bad guys. Fifteen. Maybe more outside. And the old guy looked near ninety. Feeble. It took forever for his next spate of words to finish. He had a cane he tapped on the floor occasionally for emphasis.

  “Do you know your Chinese history, Mister Griggins? There was this man who actually climbed the walls of the Forbidden City, intent on killing the emperor. He was within reach of that goal before the palace guards caught him. He was taken before the emperor and asked why he’d do something so ill-fated. His reply was the horrid life outside the gates. The starvation he faced. The poverty. The squalor. The lack of hope. When they asked him why he hadn’t just committed suicide, you know what he said?”

  “I’d rather not know that, either,” Len replied.

  “Well, I’m still going to tell you.”

  “Figures.”

  Len was hog-tied, or as close to it as a man could be in an upright position atop a chair. They had his ankles roped to his wrists behind the back of the chair, putting him in a forward leaning position. And if that wasn’t uncomfortable enough, the rope was laced around his throat and torso, too. Len saw her. Deandra caught his eye in the mirror. He tipped his chin just slightly and then moved his eyes to the huddled group of women.

  What the hell did that mean?

  “This fellow told them that he didn’t commit suicide outside the gates, because if he had, his name would be lost to posterity. Since he’d breached the walls of the Forbidden City, his name was going to go into the annals of history. Stupid man.”

  “Sounds like it.” Len shifted slightly, motioning toward the women with his c
hin. He blinked slowly and steadily at her. Twice.

  “He reaped the cruelest of deaths and to what end? Nobody remembers his name. Only his transgression. And the method of his death. I don’t suppose you want to know what is it, do you?”

  “Will that stop you from telling me?” Len asked.

  The old man smiled. “Sadly. No.”

  “Well, then, lay it on me. What happened?”

  “He was skinned alive. His flesh removed slice by slice. Not deep enough to kill at first but imagine the pain as he bled to death. In absolute agony as air hit every wound. Over a span of several hours. They knew the perfect method to prolong life, making certain the organs received enough fluid to keep him alive for the longest time possible.”

  “Sounds unpleasant,” Len remarked.

  “I have been taught these methods, Mister Griggins. I don’t like using them. But I will. Please don’t make me.”

  “Tell me one good way to stop you,” Len said.

  “Give us the vampire. The one named Grimm.”

  Deandra gasped and dropped the mirror. She watched it fall from nerveless fingers. The sound would’ve been her undoing if several members of the 2100 Radical Society hadn’t broken into squeals and laughter, and all kinds of verbal reactions. Deandra put a toe out and slid her makeup compact back over. Knelt to pick it up. Opened it again. Refocused on Len.

  “Vampire?” Len replied. “You’re full of shit. Vampire?”

  “We’re vampire hunters. And we know he’s close. He had a hit to handle. We even know who his target was. Want to know how we got our information?”

  “Not really.”

  “I should’ve brought my grandson, Chester into a leadership role earlier. It was his plan. The lad has brains and knows how to use them. Vargas Montoya became a target. He should’ve been expecting it. Drug lords have a short lifespan. The fool went underground two days ago. Few knew he’d be sneaking across the border, disguised as an illegal immigrant hungry for a job. Even less knew he had a million dollar hit put out on him. It was fulfilled last night. Want to guess how we know all that?”

  “I’m going to say you’ve been talking to the coyote from last night. The guy’s a snake of the lowest order, or didn’t he tell you he was trafficking?”

  “Of course he was trafficking. He snuck Montoya across the border, didn’t he?”

  “You really need to pay your informers more, Beethan. The guy was into sex slaves. Look behind you. See all those virginal-looking young girls? That was his real cargo. Montoya was just a side job.”

  “No wonder you left him strapped to a windmill. Ron? Go handle it. Deep six.”

  One of the men snapped to attention, swiveled, and left. A minute later they heard a shot. One shot. It echoed. Deandra stiffened. Several of the other women reacted, making various noises, some of exclamation, some of shock, while several started sobbing.

  “Someone quiet those ladies. Ethan. Greg. Gently now. We’re here for the vampire. Not brutality to ladies. Remember... they’re the weaker sex.”

  Weaker sex?

  Deandra didn’t have to see how Edna took that insult. She could hear it in the woman’s huffed breath. The others were right there with her. Being held by a bunch of gun-toting lunatics was one thing. Finding out they were male chauvinistic, gun-toting lunatics was really taking it past the line. Two of the men moved toward the group. Deandra watched them. The women grew louder, rather than pacified.

  “He’s getting a shot to the head and I’m getting skinned alive? What kind of justice are you practicing?”

  Deandra’s attention went back to Len. His eyes widened and seemed to bore into hers through the little convex mirror on her compact.

  “Frontier justice. Pardon the pun. Now... why don’t you just tell us where to find Grimm? Save your skin. I promise we’ll release you. Ethan, will you please quiet those women? I’m trying to have a conversation here.”

  And that’s when Deandra knew what Len had been telling her. Use what she had. She turned her attention to Edna. Flashed the mirror into the woman’s eyes. Once. Again. Finally got her attention. Deandra stepped out slightly and motioned with her hands for the group to get loud. And somehow Edna understood. And started wailing, nudging the others to join her. It was almost amusing.

  “I said, quiet them. Not give them amplification. Ron? You back? Good. Help Ethan and Greg. Yes. With the ladies. I can’t hear myself think. Where was I?”

  “Some guy named Montoya had a hit put on him. The new dead guy out there was trafficking in young sex slaves, and you believe in vampires since you’re hunting them. I think that about covers it,” Len answered.

  Deandra had a hard time to keep from snickering.

  “We had a large donation recently, Mister Griggins. Very large. Million dollar large. Enough to cover a hit with the Vampire Assassin League.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Len answered.

  “As a heart attack.”

  “You got an infusion of a million dollars and all you could think was to pay for an assassination? Man. If that’s Chester’s mind at work, I’m relieved.”

  “Stop stalling. I know he’s close. And I’m counting on you to tell me where to find him. And before I give you some very notable, distinguishable scars. You listening still, Griggins?”

  “Why do the bad guys always have to take so much time just before the torment scene to tell their plans?”

  “We’re not the bad guys, Mister Griggins. We’re human. Flesh and blood. We only hunt and kill monsters. And you know it.”

  “Why are you torturing me, then?”

  The old guy sighed. The women got louder. It would’ve been difficult to hear over them if Deandra hadn’t been blessed with hyper-acute hearing all-of-a-sudden.

  “Because you work for them, Mister Griggins. And we’re close. We’re very close. We can almost smell him. All I want to know is the GPS coordinates. Give over, Len. Please. I really don’t want to cut—all right! Enough! Ron. Ethan. Escort those females out of here. I don’t care where, as long as it’s outside of hearing range. This place probably has a kitchen. Take them there. I should have thought of it sooner. Saved myself the headache. Go. No need to send more. You need help with ten women? All right. Maybe twenty, but who’s counting? Just get them out of here! Greg? You stay. I need your expertise with the scalpel.”

  Deandra heard Len grunt a moment before she shot down the corridor, intent on the kitchens. They wouldn’t have much time before he’d be losing flesh. And maybe telling them where to find Grimm...

  She didn’t care if they were delusional. They were still deadly. The insane were always more frightening. They claimed to be hunting a vampire? Her Grimm? No way. Not the man she was with all night. There wasn’t anything about him that was pale or dead or anything other than raw and manly and—

  Actually...

  Deandra stopped at the kitchen door for the barest moment, remembering fangs; spikes of pain at her throat; cuts to her lip. She rubbed at the sore spot on her neck. And then shook off the thought. The very idea that Grimm Bradley was a vampire was ludicrous. Ridiculous. Fantastic.

  Men.

  Honestly. Sometimes they defied description. Especially that old guy. Actually sending them to the kitchens. What a jerk. He probably figured it was their place. Maybe they’d cook up some supper while they were here. Thank goodness for men. Especially insane, elderly, chauvinistic, misogynic ones. Actually thinking two of his crew could handle the 2100 Radical Society. And Rosa. And her staff.

  Those jackasses were about to get a lesson in modern feminine ingenuity and skill. Weapons tactics. Deadly intentions. Domination.

  And a couple of cast iron skillets should just about do it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Whoever these Hunters were, they really needed a re-education on the sexes. If it hadn’t already been obvious from their leader’s lapses, it sure was now. They didn’t even consider the women a threat and acted accordingly. The two escort fellows even w
alked together, bringing up the rear of the group.

  Deandra stood behind the door as woman after woman walked in, the girls between them. They filled the space between the stoves and prep tables, Edna herding the young immigrants toward the back where they couldn’t see.

  One guy walked past her door. The next...

  Deanna jumped between them, nailing the rear fellow in the solar plexus with the side of one skillet while the lead guy got a broadside to the head. Both dropped, one inert, the other moaning about his gut. She put him out of his misery with another blow to his skull. And then stood there, not even breathing heavily.

  “Fantastic work, Dee. Premium. Remind me to rework your evaluation when we’re finished here. Angie! Escort those young ladies to a back room. Barricade it. Take the hotel staff to keep quiet! And where’s Rosa?”

  Edna’s voice wasn’t above a whisper. It was still spine-chilling as she barked orders. And as much as she hated being called Dee, Deandra let it go as their hostess rushed forward.

  “Si Senora?”

  “You have an armory? That was the understanding? Yes?”

  “Oh. Si, Senora. Well-stocked. Well-maintained.”

  “Then get us there. Nan? You stand back-up. Yes. With skillets. They looked pretty effective to me. Or... you’re in a kitchen, Nan. Grab some knives. Now move. Everybody! Double time.”

  There was a large pantry cabinet against one wall. Unnoticeable. Plain. Painted to match the white walls. It wasn’t affixed to the floor. And it wasn’t near as heavy as it looked. Rosa shoved the cabinet and it slid, revealing a trap door, and behind that was a yawning opening. Someone clicked on a light, illuminating a flight of steps. Fashioned of concrete, they were broad, wide, and sturdy. Someone put a lot of thought and work into this place. This type of construction was quicker and easier to negotiate than a ladder, much quieter and longer-lasting than wood, and pretty much impervious to the ravages of time.