Smoke checked his phone.
There wasn’t a signal, so the beacon on the app had gone dead.
Looks like a great place to do bad business.
He glanced up at the top of the fence. There were three strands of barbed security wire, and the fence had a hum to it. Cutting through it was out. Going over it was better, assuming he didn’t get the piss shocked out of him.
Great Dane.
He followed along the fence until he found the gate that the goons must have taken. At the other end of the high gate stood a brick security shack, and a guard stood smoking outside under the glow of a lamppost. An AR-15 machine gun hung from a strap on his shoulder.
Smoke crept around through the woods to the other side of the small building and concealed himself in its shadow. He could hear a radio or television. A chair scraped over the floor.
Super. There’s two of them.
With only one way in and out, Smoke mulled over his options. He could try to subvert the fence’s electricity system to cut through it, but he figured that would trigger an alarm. He could climb over the fence and pray that his second skin saved him from the electricity, not to mention getting cut to pieces. Third, he could distract the guards and hope they were stupid enough to fall for it. Or, he could wait for someone to leave and sneak in while the gate was open.
It’s going to be a long night.
Smoke hunkered in the shadows for hours. The guards had little of interest to say to each other. They just smoked and talked about one’s wife and the other’s girlfriend. It was clear they were outsiders. Contractors. Not privy to what The Drake really had going on.
Hour after hour, Smoke rehearsed a plan of action. He envisioned what to expect inside the salvage yard. It wouldn’t surprise him one bit if there were deaders wandering around. Guard dogs. Armed men. Then again, he might get lucky. The Drake’s supernatural creatures were often cocky. There wasn’t much for them to fear when they controlled men and women that were undead. The way he saw it, all of the real people, like the gate guards, were just well-played pawns.
Souls bought with money.
He watched the bats attack the moths fluttering under the lamppost’s light. It reminded him of his military days, standing guard hour after hour, his only company the croaking frogs and biting mosquitos.
Sid had shared a similar story with him before, from back in her Air Force days overseas, guarding a wall and hiding in a washout. He and she had some differences, but they had some things in common as well. He missed her voice. Their conversations. The way she looked at everything.
Where are you, Sid?
It ate him up inside. Sid could be anywhere. Florida. California. Japan. But his gut told him she was still in DC, close to her parents. If Allison was near, then so was Sid. Having seen Allison gave him hope. The game Reginald had played did too. Smoke was patient, but he was losing it a little. He needed to hear Sid’s voice. See her face.
Lord, I need a break.
From the inside of the salvage yard, a car approached. The tall wire gate started to rattle open.
Smoke stood up and crept behind the guard shack toward the opening.
Showtime.
It was the black Cadillac Escalade that he had tracked here. The nose of the car eased to a stop just past the gate line. Both of the guards headed over to the driver’s side and started making conversation. The big fella with more gold chains than hair on his head sat in the passenger seat eyeing the road ahead. He was like a statue. Eyes forward, beady.
Come on, fat neck. Say something to somebody.
CHAPTER 18
The conversation between the men wound down. The SUV eased forward, and the gate guards nodded and offered little waves.
Great Dane. Four hours down the drain.
Smoke started to ease back into the shadows. Before long, dawn would come. His mission would be impossible in daylight. He’d have to go home and sleep and then start over again come evening.
Another day down the tubes.
The SUV was halfway through the gate when it came to a sudden stop. About twenty yards ahead of the front bumper, a family of deer had started crossing the road. They froze and stared at the headlights. One of the men in the car snickered. The grizzly of a man in the passenger side swung his arm out of the window and pointed a Desert Eagle hand cannon at the deer. He shut one eye and studied his aim.
Smoke could feel him squeeze the trigger.
But just before he did, the deer jumped away.
The gun fired.
Ka-BLAMmmmmm! Ka-BLAMmmmmm!
The family of deer vanished into the other side of the woods.
Quickly, Smoke crept into the salvage yard between the gate and the car and buried himself in the shadows behind some racks of wire. From this spot, he watched the black SUV finally roll on and the gate close. Judging by the body language of the guards, no one suspected a thing.
I guess deer are good for more than venison.
Red Mark Materials was a massive complex. The flat blacktop would cover five football fields. There was heavy equipment: cranes, dump trucks, old cars. Huge metal bins full of parts. He climbed on top of a broken-down semi truck’s cargo box, lay flat on his belly, and waited.
About seventy-five yards away near the middle of the salvage yard was a factory-like building three stories high, full of glass windows. It had a smokestack coughing out black vapors. Inside the upstairs windows were some bright, eerie, unnatural glows.
A scuffle caught his ear. A pair of figures lumbered between the rows of cars. They wore greasy mechanic’s jumpers, and each carried a machete. They teetered a little left and right as they walked.
Deaders.
Smoke’s skin crawled. Even as stupid as they were, the faint glow behind their sunken eyes creeped him out. Dead men weren’t supposed to be walking. It was unnatural. An abomination.
Dirty dumb deaders.
One of the deaders sniffed really loud, a deep, bone-chilling snort. The second deader did the same. They walked right up to the truck and started climbing up.
You’ve got to be kidding me. They can smell me?
Smoke’s hands fell on his knives. Killing them was best. Put the automatons to permanent rest. Killing them without a commotion was the challenge.
Options. Options. Options.
The truck wobbled. The deaders clamored up the face of the vehicle. Just as they crested the top, Smoke hopped off and jogged away. He cut through the salvage yard, row by row, turned into a deep pocket of stacked-up scrap metal, and came to a stop. He was reminded of the movie Cool Hand Luke, of the pepper scene when Luke throws the bloodhounds off. He wondered what it would take to throw the deaders off his scent.
Screw it. I’ll just kill them. Some Drake flunky can clean them up in the morning.
About thirty yards from the main building now, he decided the best place to hide would be inside. He just needed to find a way in.
Behind him, a hub cap rolled off the pile and clattered on the ground. Smoke snatched it up. The pile before him shifted like a grinding of metal flesh. A large figure in a suit of welded metal scraps lunged at Smoke.
He dived, rolled, and bounced up again. A deader lurking within the suit of scrap metal armor attacked with a crowbar. Smoke sidestepped and snaked out his fighting blades. The flesh and metal automaton’s chest was covered in metal plates. Every time it moved, it sounded like a jungle gym collapsing.
Great security system. An undead iron man. I hate these guys.
Smoke ran. Thoughts racing, he tried to think of a back-up plan. Deaders were stupid. They didn’t talk well. Who would believe what they saw? He found another hiding spot and listened. More commotion. Men charging their weapons. Boots pounding the ground.
Ninety-nine out of a hundred men would have abandoned the mission. Not Smoke.
I love a challenge. Let’s have some fun.
On fleet feet, he scurried back through the salvage yard until he located the armored deader. It a
nd the others were together now, sniffing him out.
He appeared behind them and whispered, “Hey, jungle gym!”
The deaders rushed after him.
Smoke stopped at a stack of ten-inch iron pipes, cut the ropes, and buried the deaders in an avalanche of metal. The troops merged on his spot, but he was gone. Slunk back into the darkness.
He waited to strike. He heard a leader taking charge and telling men to fan out. Ten minutes into the search, a guard crossed through Smoke’s line of sight. Like a lurking panther, he struck. Seizing the man by the neck, he put the man in a sleeper hold and choked him out.
Good night.
He donned the man’s pea coat and Kevlar helmet, then dragged him to a port-a-john and stuffed him inside. Taking up the man’s assault rifle, he journeyed through the salvage yard pretending to be one of them, using nods and hand signals when he crossed them. He played along for thirty minutes. Finally, he slung the weapon over his shoulder and headed toward the back of the main building, found a door, and slipped inside.
It was an old factory filled with heavy machinery. A strange light lit up the upstairs offices that overlooked the main floor, but other than that, the place was lit only by occasional dim bulbs that hung on long lines from above. On cat’s feet, he navigated through the complex. There were voices talking. He eased closer. There were several men inside: more guards in pea coats, other men in fine clothing. All around them were racks of weapons, cases of ammo, and stacks of drugs. Pills. Powder. Fine leaves.
Dirty, dirty, dirty. Let’s find out what snake is running this operation.
He headed toward the back of the building and took an iron grill staircase up to the supervising level. From the shadows more than thirty feet high, he could survey everything below. Catwalks crisscrossed from one side to the other, and chains and pulleys hung from the center ceiling, dangling over the floor below. The office complex with that strange glow coming from within was backed up against the exterior wall up here. Staying low, he peeked through a window into the glow. A handful of people robed from head to toe were talking around a table where the strange glow came from. They were several doors down from where he was positioned.
Time for a closer look.
He crept toward the first door he came to and started to twist the knob. Ahead, two more doors down, a robed figure emerged from within the offices. Smoke froze. The person put their hands on the rails and looked down at the activity below. Smoke shoved the door inward. The hinges creaked. The person on the balcony turned his way. Their eyes locked right on him.
CHAPTER 19
Think fast.
Smoke started unlacing his boots.
“What are you doing up here?” said the person in the robes. They came closer.
In the eerie dim light from the office window, Smoke got a better look at the figure. Average build. Wearing a set of heavy dark maroon robes. Face concealed in the shadows of the draping hood.
“I have a message,” Smoke said, standing up. “I was told to update you that everything is under control outside.”
The person’s hands appeared from behind the cuff of the robes. They were oversized, and each one had a Drake tattoo on the back. The man pulled his hood down. He was ugly, with a haunting look in his eyes. Older. Rugged. Creepy. He cocked his head to one side as he approached. “I don’t recognize you.”
Smoke stood at attention. “Sorry, sir. They call me new guy.” He added a stammer for effect. “T-They said for me to tell you, or s-someone up here that it was just a varmit raccoon stirring the deaders up.”
The man leaned his head to the other side and studied Smoke’s face. “My, what a strong chin you have. And your size. Formidable. I’m certain I would have remembered you.” He reached over and touched Smoke’s chest. “What is your name, new guy?”
“Conan.”
“Conan? Like the movie?”
“Yes, the first one,” Smoke said.
The man perched a brow. “What do you mean, the first one?”
Smoke walloped the man in the gut, caught him when he fell forward, and dragged him around the side of the offices. His second punch knocked the man out. Removing the man’s robes and donning himself with them, he said, “You’d know what I meant if you’d seen it, Child of Set.”
In his new disguise, Smoke slipped inside the door he’d tried to enter moments earlier and closed himself inside. The room was hot, almost sweltering. The dim supernatural glow within was the only source of light. He meandered behind the figures that hovered around the table. They were talking in low voices. One of them glanced Smoke’s way for a moment then returned his attention back to the metal table. A man was strapped down on it. Naked from the waist up, the man lay spread eagle with a cauldron of green fire bubbling between his ankles. There was no life in his limbs. Cold, dead, clammy hands. From the cauldron, tubes fed into his body. A small motor was pumping the fluorescent green liquid into him.
Smoke’s palms started to sweat. The hairs on his neck rose.
Not what I expected.
He’d figured there would be men in here governing the ranks and operations. Instead, he’d found a bunch of acolytes performing some bizarre ritual. Unnatural. Evil. Disturbing. Part of the man inside him wanted to run. The other part wanted to destroy. He edged closer.
The naked corpse on the table had a black sun tattooed on his chest. The others around him were chanting words Smoke did not understand. His skin crawled. The words thundered in his ears. He backed away. The man on the table sat up. His eyes were green fires that turned pitch black.
The robed men stopped chanting. They’d given life to a deader. The robed men raised their arms and gave praise. “Let the dead rise and serve. Let the dead rise and serve. Let the dead rise and—”
Ka-Blam!
Smoke blasted a hole clear through the deader’s chest. It flopped over off the table and onto the floor.
Instead of fighting him, the robed men let out alarming shrieks and bolted for the doors.
Let them run.
He’d seen enough. Smoke pushed the cauldron over, spilling its contents all over the floor. Whatever was going on disgusted him, turned his guts inside out, and he wouldn’t have it anymore. He scanned the offices for anything useful. Files. Books. Plans. Any clues to where The Drake might be operating. Where Sid might be. On impulse, he’d blown this job wide open.
He found a small leather booklet lying just inside one of the exits. He snatched it up and went out onto the iron balcony. A hail of gunfire erupted from the ground level. Bullets ricocheted everywhere. He found the assault rifle he’d left in the shadows and returned fire. Recon was over. War was on.
He pumped short bursts of bullets down into the tables laden with drugs.
That changed their game plan.
One of the men on the ground level shouted out new commands.
“Protect the merchandise! Protect the merchandise!” the leader said.
The soldiers scrambled, hopped in trucks and vans, and barricaded the goods as best they could.
Smoke ran down one of the metal catwalks. Blasts of gunfire cut off his path. He ran back up toward the offices. He recalled something he’d missed in the moment and went back inside the upstairs office complex. There was a phone hanging on the wall, a landline. He picked up the receiver. There was a tone.
Nothing like a plain old telephone.
He dialed Cyrus’s number and got voice mail. “This is the voice mailbox of Agent Cyrus Tweel, please leave a message. If it’s an emergency, call the FBI hotline at—”
“Figures.”
Smoke left the receiver off the hook and headed toward the back of the room. A huge metal door hung on the wall. The lever for the junction box was there as well. He grabbed the lever and pulled it down. All of the power in the entire facility went out. “Lights out, ladies.”
He took off the robe and slipped back out onto the balcony. Quiet as a mouse, he journeyed down the steps through the pitch black. On
the next landing he approached, someone was making their way up the stairs toward him. Smoke punched the man in the jaw and caught him before he fell. Keen-eyed with the help of the glasses, he made his way down to the main floor.
Orders were still being barked out.
“Get some flashlights!”
Seconds later, light beams were shining up into the catwalks, pinpointing their locations.
Morons.
Car engines fired up and pulled out of the building. He assumed it was those strange clerics making haste. He probably should have killed those sickos, but that wasn’t his way. He’d only kill live people when he had to, but the shifters were a different thing. The deaders too. What bothered him now was who was in charge of this operation. That person could provide answers. Certainly, someone knew something about Reginald. He seemed to be top brass.
I’ve got to get something out of this mission.
Boot steps shuffled over the ground floor and started coming up the steps again.
Smoke made his way behind the men guarding the trucks. He found a piece of scrap metal and chucked it up toward the offices. Metal banged on metal.
Gunfire shattered glass and tore out the windows.
“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” commanded another voice, a woman’s.
Smoke stiffened. His heart beat faster. Toward the middle, a woman moved among the troops with familiar ease. His heart stopped when she spoke again.
“Close all the doors and block all the exits. Whoever the hell is in here isn’t getting out alive.”
Smoke’s throat tightened as he went in for a closer look. Judging by the height and build on the feminine figure, only one person could fit that bill. In the beam of a passing flashlight, he got a quick look at her face. No doubt about it, that was the face of Sidney Shaw.
CHAPTER 20
It can’t be.
Smoke wanted answers. He wanted answers now. He shouted out, “I see him,” and began firing into the rafters.
The Supernatural Bounty Hunter Files Collector's Set: Books 1-10: Urban Fantasy Shifter Series Page 74
