by David Welch
He shook his head, a disgusted grimace coming across his face, as if at that moment the whole world was giving him the finger.
“Well, I’m glad Artemis is happy,” he said. “It can be a rare thing to see in her. So, smart or not, it’s good you’re here.”
He moved off without another word. Desmond watched him rejoin his family, not sure what to make of him yet. The group moved inside, and Desmond followed.
“I want you to track this,” Zeus said, tossing something onto the dining room table in front of Dionysus.
Dionysus picked it up. He sat at the table with his father, Hera, Aphrodite, and Ares.
“An ID?” he asked.
“You get us the best IDs in the business,” Zeus said. “And you know more shady people than anyone. Run this down, it’s our only lead.”
Dionysus turned the badge over in his hands.
“It’s a good one,” he said, squinting to examine some of the detail. “Let me make a few calls. I know a handful of people who do work like this.”
“Good,” said Zeus. “The sooner you’re done, the sooner we can find this bastard.”
“Wait,” Dionysus said, looking up from the ID. “Wait. You want to go on the attack?”
“We have no choice—” Zeus began.
“Of course we have a choice!” Dionysus declared. “We hide!”
“He’s already found us,” Ares countered from his seat at the table.
“So he got a lead,” Dionysus said with a wave. “We disappear, change our identities, and move. It was fifteen years between Apollo and Hestia! He won’t last another fifteen—”
“And three years between Hestia and Hermes,” Zeus interjected. “And days between Hermes and Artemis, and Hermes and us.”
“And even if we did manage to hide,” Hera said grimly, “doing so would mean leaving Athena in his hands for years to come.”
Dionysus shot a disbelieving look at Hera.
“You too? Am I the only one here who doesn’t want to get myself killed?!” Dionysus exclaimed.
“It’s not working anymore, son,” Zeus said with a sad shake of his head. “We can’t just stay low—”
“Even if he does have Athena, she doesn’t know where we are now! Or where we would set ourselves up were we to reestablish ourselves!”
“He’d find another way,” Zeus said. “It isn’t just him. Somebody he’s working with had a PI following us.”
“And if he gets any of our aliases, he’s just a reverse address search away from finding us,” Ares grumbled. “Damn Internet.”
“This is insane,” Dionysus grumbled petulantly, crossing his arms. “You’re all going to get yourselves killed.”
At that moment, Artemis walked into the room. The conversation stopped, all eyes on her.
“Bane’s down,” she said. “Des is keeping Melika company.”
“I bet you want to go after Lenka too,” Dionysus grumbled.
“We should’ve gone after him a long time ago,” Artemis replied matter-of-factly.
Dionysus shook his head in disgust, and slumped in his chair. Aphrodite gave him a sympathetic look, but said nothing.
“Any idea where we’re going?” Artemis asked.
“San Francisco,” said Dionysus, catching them all by surprise. Dionysus held up the ID in one hand.
“I’m pretty sure I recognize this work,” he said, his voice going dark. “And ‘lucky’ for us, he’s just a few hours up the road!”
“We go tomorrow,” Ares said. “No use waiting around and giving Lenka more time to find us.”
“Agreed,” said Artemis.
“I’ll give you the name,” Dionysus said.
“You’re not coming?” Artemis said.
“And get killed with the rest of you? Hell, no,” said Dionysus, then shook his head uneasily. “Plus, this guy and me have some bad history . . .”
Artemis sighed.
“Wife, sister, or daughter?” Artemis asked.
“His girlfriend,” Dionysus said. “Well, ex-girlfriend now.”
“Can’t keep it in your pants,” Artemis groused.
“Arty and I will go,” Ares said, a dark undertone subtly creeping into his voice. “We’ll get him to talk.”
The word caught Aphrodite’s attention. She placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder, a concerned look in her eyes.
“What exactly are you planning to do?” she asked tentatively.
He didn’t meet her eyes, only saying, “Nothing that can’t be forgiven.”
20
San Francisco, California
Artemis didn’t like what they were about to do. She’d done worse than shake a man down for information. No, what she didn’t like was her boyfriend following her.
But Desmond had insisted, and Ares was convinced the man could handle himself. After the decision to go to San Francisco had been made, he’d taken Desmond down to the gym for another three hours: an hour of hand-to-hand combat, and two hours on close-quarters shooting with paintball guns. Desmond had come back to her exhausted and covered in red welts.
Yet Ares had insisted he’d done well, and was ready. He’d gone on about how well Des had done against him, and that if he could do that, he was ready for whatever dregs San Francisco could throw at him. Then there’d been Ares’ speech about how if Desmond stayed behind he’d just worry, and blame himself if something happened to her in his absence. She’d objected, pointing out that it made no sense for him to feel guilty about failing to protect her when she was the more experienced fighter.
Of course Desmond had chimed in, saying that inferior or not, a man wanted to be there to protect the woman he loved. And that although her argument made complete sense, he probably would still blame himself if something happened to her.
So he was here behind her now in San Francisco. She grumbled in her mind. For all his talk about being rational, he was still a pigheaded man. Normally that wasn’t a problem. She’d always found it attractive. But if it got him killed?
It had happened before, several times. She didn’t want to feel that hurt again, and didn’t want to see Desmond throw away the few decades he had.
“This is the place,” Ares said.
She looked up at the neon blue lights of the club. “Club O-So-E-Z,” it read. A handful of women in skintight miniskirts waited near the door, flirting with the bouncer. He was a large, dark-skinned man with a bald head and genuinely intimidating eyebrows.
Artemis turned back to look at Desmond, who wore a neutral expression, no visible fear on his face. He, like her and Ares, was dressed the part. They’d stopped at a swanky boutique and bought overpriced fashionable clothes. They must have been in style, because several men had openly leered at Ares and Desmond as they’d walked down the street. She’d had a devil of a time finding a dress slinky enough for a club, yet long enough so that she could strap a gun and a knife to the insides of her thighs. Women showed so much skin these days, it made clandestine operations a pain in the ass. She’d feel better with a big pistol, but had been forced to resort to a short-barreled Walther that wouldn’t push against the fabric of the dress when she walked. And her knife only had a measly four-inch blade!
She hid any trace of these thoughts from her face, turning on a big smile as she approached the bouncer.
“Hi,” she said, sounding a little more girly than usual.
The bouncer eyed her, his gaze both lustful and businesslike. He nodded, apparently deciding she had the requisite attractiveness to come into such a “happening” place.
“You can come in,” he said. “Those two can’t.”
“Really?” she said, reaching into her bosom. She pulled out a money clip she’d stashed between her breasts, moving her hand slowly, slow enough to draw the man’s gaze. She pulled two hundreds off the clip and flashed her b
est puppy-dog eyes at the man.
His face remained impassive. He took the two bills from her fingers and nodded his head toward the door.
“Thank you!” she said, grabbing his arm in a friendly way. She bounced for the door, her two “friends” following.
As she walked in, she was greeted by a wall of sound. Loud, thumping techno blared away. It was dark, the lights barely illuminating the forms of the people inside. In the center was a dance floor with a small stage. On the packed floor the gyrating bodies writhed under a flashing strobe. A DJ sat on the stage, holding one hand to his headphones, the other fiddling with some equipment.
She made her way around the dance floor. Booths were recessed into the wall, filled with groups of people drinking and carousing. On the far wall the booths stopped, replaced by the bar. Two unmarked doors flanked each side of the bar. If Dionysus was right, that’s where their guy would be.
They made their way to the bar, pushing their way through a gaggle of half-drunk men and women to get near the bartender. He was a sketchy-looking man with purposefully messy hair and a designer beard. She didn’t like him.
“What’ll you have, beautiful?” he said with a practiced smile.
“Xiabo,” she replied simply.
The fake smile vanished.
“Never heard of that one, lady,” he said sternly.
She pulled off five bills, flashing them at the man.
“Have you heard of ‘that one’ now?” she asked.
He seemed to ponder what to do. Painting the smile back on, he snatched the five hundreds.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of him,” he replied.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“Hard to say,” he said with a shrug.
She fought the urge to pull the knife from between her legs and stab the man.
“Tell you what,” she said, peeling off another two hundred dollars. “You go tell him that Ted Balick sent us.”
She handed him one of the bills, but held onto the other, holding it up in front of his eyes.
“That’s your incentive,” she replied.
He paused again, the wheels turning, then nodded. Without another word he ducked off, out from behind the bar and into the back room. Moments later he emerged, followed by a large, thuggish Italian-American. The bartender moved back behind the bar and snatched the hundred from her fingers.
“Good luck, lady,” he said with a roll of his eyes. The thug came over.
“Let’s go,” he said simply, motioning for them to follow.
They did, cutting through the press of clubgoers to one of the side doors. The thug opened it up, revealing a lavish back room. Instead of tallboys, low coffee tables sat in front of plush couches and chairs. Everything was leather. A half-dozen ice buckets, full of bottles of champagne, were scattered about the room. Six men waited inside, including their guide. Four of them were obviously muscle, wearing collared shirts that were purposely tight enough to show off their bulging arms. Two Asians sat on the main couch with a pair of floozies in dresses so skimpy they were practically lingerie.
The two Asians didn’t seem to notice the girls, though. They stared directly at Artemis.
“Where’s Balick?” asked one, his tone grim.
“You Xiabo?” Artemis asked.
“I ain’t answering questions, bitch. I brought you in here to tell me where that bastard Balick is hiding. So tell me, or you get to spend the night as my boys’ plaything,” the man spat.
Artemis nodded, amused by the man’s threats. The muscle had crept closer, to within three steps’ distance. One moved behind them and closed the door. Artemis sighed and looked to Ares.
“You gonna let him talk that way to your sister?” she asked with sarcastic innocence.
A faint smile came to Ares’ lips. Then, in a flash, he dove at the nearest man. She didn’t have time to see how he took the bastard down, as she lunged for the thug closest to her. With muscle memory honed by centuries of experience and training, she shot a chop to his neck before he could react. She felt the cartilage in his throat buckle from the blow. The man, easily two hundred and twenty pounds, fell to the ground, clutching his throat.
A flash of movement in the corner of her right eye sent her ducking, spinning on the balls of her feet. Her fist flashed out, slamming into the groin of a charging thug. The man doubled over, but his momentum propelled him forward. Artemis tucked into a ball, and the big man tripped over her, slamming hard into the floor.
She spun back to her feet. In front of her, a thug had Desmond by the throat, and up against a wall. Desmond had pulled his gun, and now hammered the butt of it down on the head of the man. The thug gamely tried to hold on, bleeding from a pair of gashes torn into his skull by Desmond’s blows. Desmond threw three quick whacks, and a crack filled the room. The thug collapsed to the ground, blood streaming down his face from a long new gash. He slumped, unconscious, as Desmond struggled to breathe.
The thugs were down, but the fight continued. Xiabo and his associate were on their feet, brawling with Ares. The two were skilled; clearly they’d had martial arts training. Xiabo came at Ares with a flying kick, a thing of beauty that would make any instructor proud. Ares simply stepped backward, and the kick sailed past him and into the stomach of Xiabo’s associate. The associate doubled over, gasping for breath. Artemis pulled her gun from her dress, darted over, and whipped it across the man’s face. He crumpled to the ground.
Xiabo, to his credit, recovered quickly. He planted a foot and spun around, sending a roundhouse kick toward Ares’ head. But Ares had slid forward, flicking a left in Xiabo’s face, then throwing his right elbow into the man’s leg as it came around. The blows were almost too quick to see. Artemis knew what to look for because he’d done it to her a dozen times when sparring over the centuries.
Xiabo flung up his arms to cover his face, and managed to block another jab. But before he could lower his arms, Ares’ frame torqued around hard, and he threw a crippling right to the man’s gut. The breath came out of Xiabo in a gush, and he fell gasping to the floor.
Artemis listened to him wheeze, fighting for breath. She turned to Desmond, who rubbed at his neck.
“You okay?” she asked.
“I guess,” he replied.
“You got one,” Ares said, in congratulations.
“First real fight I’ve been in in over a decade,” Desmond remarked, shaking his head.
“Me too,” Artemis replied with a smirk. “You got the ID?”
Desmond pulled it from his pocket, flipping it to her. Below her, Xiabo was beginning to breathe again. He still clutched at his chest, and couldn’t get up. So Artemis crouched down in front of him.
“Listen,” she said, pulling his head up by the hair. “Listen closely. Who did you make this ID for?”
He gasped a bit more, saying nothing.
“I have no interest in ending your operation or hurting any more of you,” Artemis said. “All I want to know is who you made this ID for. Tell me that, and we walk away, and you and your thugs can agree that this beat-down never happened. Got it?”
“Ezra,” the man gasped. “Chloe Ezra . . .”
“And who is that?” Artemis pressed.
“Some bitch from uptown,” he said. “Real nervous, like she—”
A loud stomp interrupted him. Artemis turned and saw Ares lifting his foot from the head of one of the thugs.
“He was stirring,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly.
“Keep talking,” Artemis said, turning back to her prey.
“She was nervous, like a legit person . . . not used to this stuff,” Xiabo said. “She wanted a whole bunch made. Some people she needed brought into the country. Paid well.”
“Where can we find her?” Artemis said.
The man shook his head.
“D-don’t kno
w. I don’t ask, you know? Like I said, she looked legit, and she had money. That’s all I know.”
Artemis sighed, and nodded for Ares. He walked over, crouching down in front of the man. He placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, his fingers searching and probing.
“There it is,” he said, and pressed.
Xiabo squealed, contorting painfully as Ares drilled down on a pressure point. Ares ignored the flailing man, keeping up the hold for five seconds or so, then releasing it. The man crumpled back to the floor, hyperventilating.
“Now I ask again, is that all you know about her?” Artemis said.
“Y-yes,” Xiabo whispered between gasps. Tears ran from the man’s eyes. “I swear, I—I don’t know any more!”
Artemis frowned, and looked to Ares.
“What do you think?” she said.
“He’s telling the truth,” Ares replied.
“Damn,” Artemis said, then switched to Vesclevi so none of the thugs would understand. “This could take a while. We better get a room for the night.”
Ares nodded, and said. “Agree—”
A loud slam broke his words. They both turned back to see Desmond pulling his foot off the back of another one of the thugs.
Desmond shrugged, smirked, and said, “What? He was stirring.”
“Turns out there are two Chloe Ezras in San Francisco,” Ares said, looking up from his laptop computer. “One is a ninety-year-old woman in a retirement home, the other is projects director and coordinator of E.H.E.”
“E.H.E?” asked Artemis from the bed. They’d rented out a room in a mid-level motel with two double beds. She sat next to Desmond, her back against the standard wall-mounted headboard. They’d changed out of their clubbing clothes, into something normal. It was nearly midnight, but there was no thought of sleep. Ares had walked in the room, plugged in his computer, and gone to work. It was just like him. When he was determined to do something, there was little you could do to stop him. He kept going. For a man with the name Ares, he certainly did resemble a Scorpio.
“Embrace Human Extirpation,” Ares said sourly. “She’s an eco-nut.”
