by Declan Finn
The strange thing was that there were no other guards. None. If they weren’t on the first floor, they weren’t going to be anywhere else in the house, which was bizarre, at the very least.
I swept back through the house, working back towards the central stairs, when Alex fell into the kitchen through the other end, thrown.
And there stood our target, Bokor Baracus. The Deputy Mayor for Social Justice stepped into the doorway, filling it. He wasn’t so much broad as he was tall. And he was tall.
I didn’t care. I drew on him. “Freeze, sucker. We need to talk.”
I couldn’t even make out his facial features. But when he smiled, I could see each gleaming white tooth.
“I do not think so,” he said in his deep, lyrical Haitian accent.
On my right was a soft click. I spun into a crouch. Another gunman had appeared within feet of me. I fired three times—two to the head, one to the heart. I turned back to Baracus, but a knee was already heading for my face. I barely had enough time to throw up my arm to block the strike.
Even with the block, the impact sent me sprawling. I slapped the floor with my hands and swung my legs over my head, adding to the momentum. I came up on my feet. My gun only came up forty-five degrees from my body when Baracus clamped his hand down on my arm, locking it in place.
He smiled right in my face. “So good to see you again, Detective Nolan.”
I bounced on the ball of my foot, springing up with my knees, driving the crown of my head into his mouth. His head recoiled, but his hold on me didn’t break. He whirled around, lifting me off of my feet, slamming me into a French window.
“You think you can come to my home!” he roared as he yanked me close. His right hand clamped over my throat. The unholy, malicious gleam in his eyes bore into me as he slowly closed his long fingers on my throat. “You think you can defeat me in my place of power? How stupid must you think me be?”
Alex groaned from the kitchen. He was slowly making his way to his hands and knees. He still had his weapon in hand.
Baracus snarled and hurled me at my partner. We crashed into each other and went down in a tangle. Baracus was on us in an instant, kicking both of our guns away. He reached down and grabbed each of us by the throat. He had me in his right, Alex in his left. With an ease that contradicted his slender frame, he hauled both of us off of the floor. We dangled in the air as he slowly choked us.
“I would ask why you came, but I don’t think you have the time!” he said with a manic laugh that shook my skull.
My left hand went up and over his hold on my throat, wrapping my fingers around his thumb. This was the standard anti-choking procedure. Breaking the grip would normally be easy. The victim being strangled didn’t need much-added room to breathe. And four fingers versus one thumb almost always worked.
However, Baracus was a bokor in name and in deed. The unnatural strength of the undead ran through him as if he were Frankenstein’s monster.
But my hands were free, leaving me able to bring up my knife from my belt and slice into his forearm.
Baracus dropped me with a shout of surprise. He was immune to pain. He was immune to death. But he wasn’t immune to the laws of body mechanics. Slashing his forearm had cut the muscles operating the fingers. Even if he were a zombie, he needed those muscles to close his fingers.
I shot in, driving the knife up into his armpit, forcing the tip of the blade into the shoulder joint. He screamed in pain but couldn’t swipe at me with his free arm. He tried to swing Alex at me like a club, but I bent my knees, dropping into a crouch. As I dropped, I slid my knife down his ribs and all the way to his hip. I pulled back the knife and drove it into the inside of his right thigh, just above the knee but below the femoral artery. I twisted the knife in his leg, then shot forward, dashing behind him.
I dragged my knife along the way, slashing open his thigh muscles.
Baracus’ right side collapsed. He let go of Alex so he could grab onto a counter. Alex was still conscious enough to stagger back, remaining on his feet.
Since I didn’t know how long he would even stay wounded, I grabbed a fry pan hanging on the wall and swung it down onto Baracus’ head. He swayed to one side.
It wasn’t the damage the pan could have done. I used an old wrestling trick meant for metal folding chair shots to the head. The crown of the head was tougher and harder than the sides, meaning that a wrestler could dent a chair with his head, but still be upright without a massive concussion.
I couldn’t risk that.
I planned to be in and out quickly, not with Baracus. After our first confrontation with him, we couldn’t tell what the upper limit of his strength was, making restraints pointless. Even breaking bones wouldn’t work if he healed quickly.
And we had no idea what reinforcements were at his beck and call. If he had revenants in the basement or zombies on speed dial, we needed to be there and gone again quickly.
Since we couldn’t take him with us, he needed to remain conscious.
We grabbed the knives from the kitchen block and proceeded to pin Baracus down like a butterfly. Except instead of wings, we drove knives behind his kneecap and pinned him to the floor through the shoulders.
We were not surprised when Baracus didn’t cry out or bleed.
I stomped on his chest, not to hurt him, but to add to the restraint. Alex stepped on his hand, keeping that pinned as well.
“Are you the warlock? Did you put the hit out on me?”
Baracus looked at me a moment, then laughed. This is not a sound I’d expect from someone pinned to the floor with cutlery through joints. “Is that what you think? I am not your Warlock. I serve a different master.” He moved as though he shrugged, but the blades kept him down. “I merely consult.”
“Is that what you were doing with the Women’s Health Corps?” Alex asked. “Consulting?”
Baracus bobbed his head from side to side, again, as though he were shrugging. “After a fashion. I set up their Moloch worship.” He looked at Alex. “Some people must pay frequently for their power. They may pay ahead, but even that may run out. They paid frequently to keep ahead.”
Alex looked at me. “He talks quickly. I didn’t think he’d be this chatty.”
Baracus scoffed. “Oh, please. I personally have no loyalty to this Warlock. None of us ever really have any loyalty. We will all turn on each other eventually. We don’t even need a supernatural leader or source. Ever see Communists? Nazis? They slaughter their own people by the score.”
I didn’t know at the time if it was nerves or supernatural prodding, but I felt the need to hurry. “How about we go into this convoluted plan of his?”
He gave me the sweetest smile. “Whatever could you mean?”
I pressed down on him with my foot to get his attention. “The warlock’s plan. Death cults. Demons. Prison riots. What the Hell? Isn’t all of that a little convoluted?”
The Bokor shrugged again—or tried to. “It’s not really that convoluted. It takes a lot to destroy a city.”
I filed that away for later. Pressing him for minute details seemed like a waste of time. “And what about the hit? Seriously, I’m just a cop doing my job. I didn’t have anything on you. I didn’t have anything on the warlock. Putting a hit out on me is just overkill.”
Baracus sighed. It was the exasperation of a consultant who knew better than the employer but had been ignored. It was an “I told them, but they never listen” sigh. “The Women’s Health Corps – ha! – overreached when they took their revenge on you. They failed. And while the warlock I work with has paid for his power in advance, it is hard to keep up the payments. It is especially difficult when one burns through power and no longer has a mechanism for sacrifice.”
I nodded, tracking along with this insanity. “Where do I come into it?”
“Ah, you, Detective Nolan? A prophet? One who could become a saint when he died? One who has thwarted the forces of Hell not once but twice? You are more valuable than y
ou can imagine. You will pay the warlock’s debt in full. Your death may not come at his hands, but it does not need to. He merely needs to arrange for it.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Damn it. Alex, get our guns. We need to get out of here.”
Baracus blinked. For once, we had surprised him. “What? Didn’t you want to ask anything more? Is that all you wanted?”
I wanted to tell him that we had all we needed. I wanted to tell him that answering our questions would cost us time we didn’t have. He may not have had any loyalty to the warlock, but the longer he talked, the longer we were in one place. We had already cleared the floor of gunmen, yet someone had nearly jumped me.
“We don’t need you anymore.”
Alex took me at my word, came back with our guns, and stomped the Bokor in the head. He looked at me. “Don’t we need to know who the warlock is?”
“We do know. He’s underneath one person, working for one guy.”
Alex arched his brows. “The warlock is Mayor Hoynes?” He shrugged. “Huh. It explains so much. No way a guy that incompetent wins elections.”
That’s when the doors blew in, and the vampires attacked.
Chapter 15
Darkness Falls
The French doors at the front and the back of the house blew in. Alex and I dove behind the kitchen island. Bullets flew from both directions, tearing up the kitchen. We couldn’t see anything, and we could barely hear each other over the noise.
“Maybe we should have gotten the Hell out of here,” Alex screamed over the bullets.
One of the attackers jumped over the island and landed between us. He ignored Alex shooting him in the back, reached down, and grabbed me.
Then his hands burst into flames. He roared and fell back. His eyes turned yellow, his teeth extended into fangs, and he hissed like Christopher Lee in a Hammer film.
I sprang forward (not up, I didn’t want my head blown off) and grabbed him by his belt. His waist started to smoke. I yanked him into the island and shoved him over. It burst into flame, and he went up like flash powder.
I unslung my backpack and pulled out the MP5 submachine gun. “I guess that was a vampire.”
Alex looked up from his own backpack, blinked, then nodded. “Sure. Of course. Why not? They’re allergic to you?”
“Apparently.” Because why not? “Alex, we have to—”
Alex sent a grenade sailing over the kitchen island and the rear doors, and hurled another one towards the living room in the front. When the grenades went off, he leaned around the kitchen doorway and fired.
I bobbed up. The dining room was cleared of people still standing. Some were zombies torn apart by the grenade. Some were creatures I couldn’t identify.
However, the real problem was the gunmen still out in the backyard, firing inside with automatic weapons. They were all heavily-tattooed Hispanic men.
In the midst of them was Rene Ormeno.
“Seriously, why can’t he get a hobby?” I muttered to myself as I fired in three round bursts. One of the gang thugs dropped. I ducked immediately as they all focused on my muzzle flashes.
Alex patted me on the shoulder. He pointed out the front. I arched my brows. He spoke at me, but I couldn’t hear him. This time, it wasn’t over the bullets. I couldn’t even hear the bullets.
A fist punched through the floor from the basement. The hand was covered in a black glove, and the arm was covered in tattoos.
I fired into the hand as I jerked away from it. More hands burst through the floor. Instead of us, they were near Baracus. They reached over and jerked out the knives pinning him to the floor.
They were freeing him. Crap.
Alex reached over and slapped me on the arm. I read his lips as he screamed, “Now!”
This time, we both threw grenades at the back door as we ran for the front. We ran through the living room and burst through the ruined French doors. Explosions ripped through the house.
Only more men stood out at the edge of the driveway. They stood there in black, silent and patient. One in the middle gave a little wave and smiled, flashing teeth.
More specifically, flashing fang.
I smiled this time and ran for them. Alex fired off bullets behind me, and I felt them rattle my ribs.
The vampires closed on me as I ran for them.
I raised my fist, ready to strike. They didn’t even consider moving away.
Dear Lord, I really want that last thing to not be a fluke.
I punched the lead vampire right in the face.
His face burst into flame, devouring his face, then the rest of his body. He was gone in a bright white flash.
The other vampires exchanged looks. One gave the same exact little wave as the previous one.
Then they disappeared. I allowed myself a quick laugh and a smile. I guess I won’t have to worry about vampires anymore. At least not this time out.
I spun to face the driveway, to see what Alex shot at.
MS-13 tried to circle around the house and come out into the driveway. Alex had them stymied for the moment. I grabbed two more grenades and hurled them before I opened fire as well, driving them back.
You might be wondering, How have they not been hit yet? With all of that lead going through the air, most people would think that it would be easy for at least one bullet to hit us.
To which the answer is, have you ever held a gun?
To start with, ignore what you see in the movies, unless it is, perhaps any John Wick movie. Any moron who holds his gun sideways at a 90-degree flip is begging to miss. Brass flies everywhere, even into the eyes, and that’s just if you’re holding it properly, in two hands. In this case, they fired from the hip, which meant that they were barely aiming.
Second, shooting is a skill that you have to hone. Most importantly, you have to hone it with the individual weapon. This requires lots of practice. Unless they were firing their own personal weapons they had never held these weapons before tonight. The guns had probably been stolen and shipped in for the occasion. They’d probably never fired them (where would you fire them in New Jersey? The nearest farm was miles away, and they had shown up within minutes), and thus could never hone their skill with the individual weapon.
Third, controlling a weapon on full automatic is a pain in the ass if you’re doing everything right with a weapon you know like the back of your hand. The recoil would be a pain in the ass on a good day. They were less shooting for us and more shooting in our general direction, hoping we’d get hit.
It’s why most drive-by shootings only work at relatively close range; when the target doesn’t see it coming, and the shooter isn’t busy being shot at.
Fourth, they burned through ammunition like water on a hot day. Full automatic fire meant that they fired at a rate of thousands of rounds a minute.
As for Alex and myself, we had spent hundreds of hours on the range, firing as many bullets as we could afford. And, while we were firing guns we had never used before, we were firing on semiautomatic, one bullet at a time, and we were aiming.
On top of that, we backed up into the dark, unlit street. Flames and lights from the house backlit the gang members. The only thing I could think of at that moment was a prayer to the patron saint of artillery.
St Barbara, you are stronger than the tower of a fortress and the fury of hurricanes. Do not let lightning hit me, thunder frighten me, or the roar of canons jolt my courage or bravery. Stay always by my side so that I may confront all the storms and battles of my life with my head held high and a serene countenance. Winning all the struggles, may I, aware of doing my duty, be grateful to you, my protector, and render thanks to God, the Creator of Heaven, Earth and Nature who has the power to dominate the fury of the storm and to mitigate the cruelty of war.
I suddenly caught a stronger smell of evil than from just the property. I turned left, gun coming with me.
The stock of the MP5 landed squarely in the hand of Rene Ormeno. He ripped the gun out of my hands as he
backhanded me, sending me flying into the street. He carelessly tossed the SMG in the other direction. He had come around the property, over the flora separating Baracus’ home from his neighbor’s. If I hadn’t smelled him, he could have come up behind me and snapped my neck like a twig.
I landed in a roll, coming up with my handgun.
Ormeno closed, grabbing my gun wrist and twisting my arm, shaking the weapon out of my hand. I was a little surprised that he hadn’t broken it. His eyes were dimmer than before.
Because I was praying.
I head-butted Ormeno. Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle—
Ormeno growled and let go of me like I was a hot frying pan. He backhanded me. I staggered, but my head was still attached. My feet never left the ground.
I growled. “Let’s dance.”
I burst in to meet Ormeno. He swung a roundhouse punch, but both of my arms shot up. My left came up in a boxing block, so his fist landed in my bicep. My right lashed out in a cross to the face. The strike rocked him. I grabbed his right shoulder with my right hand and the same arm at the wrist with my left. I pulled him down into a knee. I threw two more knees before he blocked with his left forearm. I kept my hold on his wrist but raised my right arm and drove my elbow down into the back of his neck.
Ormeno dropped to one knee and rolled, coming up to his feet. He pulled his arm from my grip and pushed off the ground, ramming his right shoulder into my chest. I was big, he was bulky. The strike rocked me, but I based out on my right back foot. I clawed his face with my fingers, driving the fingertips into his eyes and my palm into his nose. I drove his head back, making his body bend backwards. My other hand came up, grabbing his forehead, and I twisted on my back foot, throwing him to the tarmac.
Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him we humbly pray—
He pulled out a Bowie knife, taking up a boxer’s pose.
