by Mel Odom
Buffy swallowed hard. Her mom had been involved in her Slayer activities a few times, and even with Angel after he’d turned evil again for a short time. But that wasn’t where moms were supposed to be. As good as she was, Buffy knew she couldn’t protect everyone.
“Why are they chasing us?” Joyce asked.
“I don’t know.” Buffy felt guilty about not telling her mom that the Asian gang members had carried pictures of her. It hadn’t broken in the news either, and somehow it just wasn’t the kind of thing that lent itself to casual conversation. Gee, Mom, would you believe the new bad guys in town are carrying around my picture?
“Hang on,” Joyce warned, then pulled a hard right again, blitzing around a slower moving car making a right turn as well. Rubber shrilled on the street, drawing the attention of pedestrians and sending them scurrying back for the safety of the sidewalks.
Buffy braced herself, glancing at her mom briefly in surprise. “Remind me never to go up against you in bumper cars at the amusement park.” Mom as wild-eyed woman stock car driver—who knew? Buffy glanced at the side mirror, thinking for a moment that they had lost the van.
Then the van came barreling around the turn, skidding wildly out into the oncoming traffic lane. Horns blared and the van knocked bumpers with a Sunnydale cab, only rocking it a little where the driver had braked to a halt.
“I should have left you at school,” Joyce said. “You’re only in danger because I brought you out here.”
“I’m in danger,” Buffy said, “because I’m the Slayer. There’s nothing you could do about that.”
“They don’t want you,” Joyce said. “They want the crate.”
“How do you figure that?”
“If they’d wanted you, they would have tried for you at school.”
Buffy thought about that. “Okay, point.”
Without warning, a sedan in the oncoming lane ahead suddenly slewed sideways, filling the two-lane street.
Buffy glanced around wildly, then spotted what she was looking for. “Alley!” She pointed.
Joyce followed her directions immediately, pulling hard on the wheel and tapping on the brake. The SUV’s rear wheels skidded momentarily, then followed the pulling power of the front ones, straightening out as Joyce roared down the alley.
The alley was narrow, covered in a thin, crumbling blacktop that hadn’t seen better days in decades. It was sandwiched in between an older apartment building and an abandoned office building hung with signs that promised renovation.
No direct sunlight touched the alley, and Buffy knew that was not good. It also made her more curious about what was actually in the crate. Why would an ugly stone dragon be so important?
Before they reached the end of the alley, another van suddenly pulled into it, blocking the way.
“Brakes!” Buffy said.
Joyce stomped on the brakes, bringing the SUV to a shuddering halt at the end of the alley.
Buffy opened the passenger door and climbed out with Mr. Pointy in her fist. There was barely room in the alley to get to the rear of the SUV. Not my mom, you creeps. Nobody hurts my mom. But she knew that wasn’t true. She waited by the bumper.
The van trailing them had parked less than twenty feet back. The tinting on the windows was too dark to allow any visibility inside the vehicle. Then the doors opened on both sides.
Two men got out, both of them carrying metal softball bats.
“If you’re looking for Larry’s Line Drives,” Buffy said helpfully, “you missed it by miles.”
Both men morphed their features, revealing their vampiric natures. “Step away from the car,” one of them ordered. “We only want the crate.”
“Right. The crate.” Buffy glanced at her mom, then at the three vampires who climbed from the other van. “The crate’s all yours.” She walked around the SUV and took her mother’s hand. She hid Mr. Pointy in her other hand as she guided them to the wall and out of the way.
The vampires converged on the back of the SUV.
Chengxian Zhiyong glared through the polarized window of his limousine and watched the warehouse burn despite the best efforts of the Sunnydale Fire Department. Four trucks continued to spray water onto the warehouse, but they lost the battle as they had the two others during the night. Even as Zhiyong watched, the warehouse’s ceiling collapsed, revealing the structure’s metal bones. Smoke continued to curl up into the sky, drifting by the news chopper covering the fire.
“The loss isn’t so great, Mr. Zhiyong,” the man seated across from him said.
Zhiyong spoke without looking at the man. “Those were not your goods, Mr. Wallace.”
“No, I suppose they weren’t.” Terry Wallace was a model of American efficiency. He was trim and athletic, dark hair in a military cut, six feet five inches tall, and liked using his height to intimidate others.
Zhiyong had learned long ago that the best tools to intimidate others were money and power. When he was much younger, he used to think money and power were one and the same, branched out at times through religion and politics as a person used either of those to acquire wealth.
“I hired you and your people to guarantee things like this would not happen,” Zhiyong said. “I do not want to live in a world of acceptable losses.”
“I understand that, sir, and I—”
“Yet I find myself on the cusp of a dangerous situation despite your best efforts. Had I not taken proper precautions, and had this event taken place a few hours earlier, I would have risked disastrous exposure.” Zhiyong paused and glanced meaningfully at the man. “You know about exposure, Mr. Wallace, and how bad such a thing can be.”
Wisely, Wallace didn’t say anything.
Zhiyong waited, staring at the man’s expressionless face. Before turning to the private corporate sector, Wallace had been with the Central Intelligence Agency. They’d met in Thailand and done business together before and after Wallace’s government career had gone down in flames.
Terry Wallace had been shepherding governmental black ops in Asia, and had gotten greedy. Once his sideline business practices had been discovered, the American government had quietly put him out of business, but had been unable to publicly acknowledge the affair. It had left Wallace in a position to deal with a number of people around the world, but always on the outside of wealth and power—looking in. Hungry men were good to have around.
“Mr. Zhiyong,” Wallace said with studied seriousness, “I can assure you that none of the local or state law enforcement agencies were involved with this. The payoffs we had were accepted without hesitation.”
“Then who,” Zhiyong asked, “would have done such a thing?”
Wallace hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“It is your job to never allow yourself to be in a position to tell me you don’t know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I pay you very good money for your services and those of your men.”
“Yes, sir, you do.”
“I expect very good service in return.”
“And you’ll get it, sir.”
Zhiyong looked at the man. “I should have gotten it from the very start.”
Wallace appeared as though he was about to argue, then caught himself and said nothing.
“I want the people responsible for this.”
“Yes, sir. They’ll pay, sir.”
“No,” Zhiyong said. “I want your people to do nothing other than to find out who is responsible for this.”
The firemen around the first truck broke and ran back as the front of the warehouse suddenly exploded, sending twisted metal and flaming concrete chunks through the air. A large amount of the debris landed out in the harbor a hundred yards away. The ships had already been backed to a safer range. Explosions continued to buffet the general area for a moment. The Sunnydale police moved the lines back immediately. The news chopper dropped down lower, swooping through the smoke.
“Munitions?” Wallace asked, a little surprised.
/> “A few things,” Zhiyong admitted. “I knew there would be some resistance from certain parties here. Sunnydale is privy to very interesting business. Did you know the town was built over a Hellmouth?”
“I’ve never even heard of a Hellmouth,” Wallace admitted.
“Pity. I think the subject would fascinate you. There’s a lot of power here. For the person strong enough to bend even a part of it to his will.” Zhiyong stared through the window and watched the rescue workers rush to the aid of those injured by the flying debris. He had no idea what the casualty rate was. Nor did he care.
“I’m always ready to listen, Mr. Zhiyong.”
Zhiyong smiled. “Are you? I know you still have trouble believing in vampires, even after you have seen evidence of them yourself.”
“I’ve seen what I’ve seen.”
“But you don’t believe in arcane forces, Mr. Wallace.”
“I . . . struggle with the idea of magic.”
“Not magic,” Zhiyong corrected. “Magic is a parlor trick, a sleight-of-hand. I’m talking about true power. Money pales by comparison. Where I see vampires, creatures fueled by darkness and demons, you see what you refer to as madmen or genetic anomalies. You cannot accept what is before your eyes. That’s why you will never find yourself in a position as I am.” He looked back at Wallace. “I hope I have not offended you, for that definitely wasn’t my intention.”
“No, sir.” But the set of Wallace’s jaw indicated otherwise.
Zhiyong didn’t care. Money bought Wallace’s pride and loyalty twenty-four hours a day every day of the week. He ordered the driver to return to the offices he’d secured there in Sunnydale. He switched on the television set and watched the local coverage of the warehouse fire.
The phone rang and he answered.
“Master, it is Hang-Ki,” the voice said in their native tongue.
“Where is Bunseng?” Zhiyong demanded. Bunseng had been in charge of the warehouse operation and the lawyer, Collins.
“He is injured, Master.”
“If he is conscious, I want to talk to him.”
“Master, his tongue has been shorn from his head. He will need much healing before he is able to talk again.”
“What happened?”
“We were spied upon, Master.”
“By whom?”
“A vampire.”
The answer surprised Zhiyong. He knew vampires could move around in the day as long as they avoided direct light. The surprising thing was that any of them, let alone one, would choose to interfere with the warehouse operation. “Only one?”
“Yes.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No. But I will know him if I see him again.”
“What of the lawyer?” Zhiyong deliberately didn’t use Collins’s name. Wallace understood the language, but he didn’t need to know all of the details or the names involved in the Sunnydale operation.
“The vampire freed him.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, Master.”
“Did Bunseng get the information from the man that I requested?”
“Sadly no, Master.”
“Where are they?”
“They escaped into the sewers. We are searching for them, but the fire and police rescue units make things more difficult.”
“Did this vampire know our guest?” Zhiyong asked.
“Master, I don’t think so.”
“Yet, the vampire saved this man at the risk of his own life?”
“Yes, Master.”
“A vampire with compassion, then,” Zhiyong said. “That will certainly narrow our search. I will be in touch with you soon.” He broke the connection and looked at Wallace. “I need you to talk with Mayor Wilkins again. Tell him I’ll need those files he offered earlier. Especially the one pertaining to a vampire named Angel.”
“Yes, sir.” Wallace didn’t bother to write the name down. He never wrote anything down.
Zhiyong relaxed in the plush seat and considered the situation. Losing the warehouse was only a minor inconvenience at the moment. With no exposure at risk, all he’d lost was some merchandise and time.
But he had lost Collins as well, and that would slow the search he was presently conducting. However, now that he suspected who Angel was, pressure could be applied in that direction.
“Mr. Wallace,” Zhiyong asked, shifting to another potential problem area, “have your men made any progress in identifying the young woman who attacked my men last night?” He knew about the Slayer, but this new woman was completely unexpected.
“Not yet. But give them a little more time. They’re very good at what they do.”
“Of course.” Zhiyong didn’t berate the security man over the young woman. She remained a mystery at present, and Zhiyong hated mysteries. However, the woman also represented some of the arcane forces at work in the situation. Her warning to him, about the men he searched for, had come as a surprise. The men he searched for had been lost over a hundred years ago, forgotten by nearly everyone in Sunnydale.
So how is it the young woman knows of them? And why would she champion them?
Silently, Zhiyong gazed out over the city that he was already thinking of as his. Mayor Wilkins had been quite generous. A vampire with a guilt-ravaged soul, a young girl who believed herself to be some legendary force against Darkness, and a few friends did not add up to any insurmountable obstacle.
In his years, he’d faced much worse, and he’d always won. He had no doubts about the outcome now. Then the phone rang again and he answered.
“Master,” the voice at the other end of the connection said, “there has been a problem.”
“What problem?”
“The delivery you made through the art gallery has been intercepted.”
A chill touched Zhiyong’s heart. Sharmma’s statue was integral to everything that he had planned. He could not lose it. “Get it back! At once! Do you hear me? Get it back!”
Hidden on the third floor of a shipping warehouse less than five hundred yards from the burning building, Angel watched the black limousine as it drove away. He hadn’t recognized the Asian man in the backseat.
Angel watched the luxury car till it disappeared. He also heard Collins quietly trying to sneak off.
“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” Angel asked, turning to the man. Both of them stank of smoke and the sewer. Burn marks seared their clothing.
Collins glared over at him, then glanced longingly at the stairway over his shoulder. “Getting out of here sounds like a hell of an idea to me.” Since Angel hadn’t hurt the man, the lawyer had gotten cocky. “Why? Are you planning on stopping me?”
Angel unleashed his anger for a moment, allowing his face to morph into that of the demon. He was confused by the situation, and the man in the black limousine definitely offered a new kind of threat. How much of that threat was focused on Buffy remained to be seen. “I could stop you if I wanted.”
Collins froze.
“I think we both know that.” Angel morphed back into his human features. “What I’m suggesting is that if you try to leave this building by walking through the doorway downstairs, you’re going to have a lot of people in your face wanting to know what you’re doing out here and what happened to you. Are you prepared to answer those questions?”
Fearful frustration twisted the lawyer’s features. “No.”
“Good. Then maybe we understand each other.” Angel crossed the floor. The third story of the warehouse was primarily for long-term storage, for replacement motors, winches, and supplies seldom used by the facility but kept on hand out of necessity. Spiderwebs glazed the corners of the room. Mildew and mothball stink clung to everything.
“You’re not human.”
“And you’re not exactly on the side of the angels.”
“How do I know you’re not working for them? That this isn’t some kind of trick?”
“You don’t.”
“What
do you want from me?”
“I want my questions answered,” Angel replied.
“And if I choose not to answer them?” Collins glared at him like a petulant child.
Despite his flagging strength and the pain that throbbed through his body from the burns and wounds, Angel moved with his incredible quickness, stopping only inches from the lawyer. “You’re all out of choices, Collins. I saved your life, and right now I own you.” The words came from the past, from the time when Angelus had been the most feared vampire in Europe. Angel regretted the ease with which he slipped back into those words, but he needed the threat.
“Oh, God,” Collins choked, crumpling into a seated position.
“You’re at my mercy now, not His,” Angel growled. “And right now that’s what we’d call a limited resource.”
Collins wrapped his arms around himself, crying silently. “What do you want?”
“Who is the man in the limousine?”
“Chengxian Zhiyong.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s a shipping line owner from Hong Kong.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“I don’t know. Zhiyong contacted my office nearly a year ago and had me start setting up his business offices and licenses here in Sunnydale. At that point I thought he was strictly legitimate. Mayor Wilkins asked me to work with Zhiyong, help him get set up.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” Collins wiped at his face, smearing soot and baring fresh burns. “I don’t always know what’s going on. The kind of money I get paid under the table, I can’t afford to ask a lot of questions, you know?”
Angel didn’t say anything.
“People like Zhiyong, they don’t answer questions like that. And God help you once you ask one question too many because the next thing you know your throat’s cut and you’re bleeding on your own shoes.”
“What has the mayor got on you?”
“Enough,” Collins replied.
“What is the mayor getting out of this?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think he counted on things getting this out of hand. We’re a small community here, but we have a lot of problems. You must know that. Everybody knows that. Nobody wants to talk about it. It’s bad for business.”
