by Domino Finn
I considered the lead safe. The wraith would be a powerful ally in the battle ahead. But Connor desperately wanted the Horn. I couldn't risk exposing it to him. I locked up my hideaway and headed out.
The Port of Miami is a bustling island stretch between the beach and the mainland. A flat rock adorned with cement, towering cranes, and cargo containers, it's frequented by hulking cruise ships that sit bow-to-stern in a conga line that runs along the MacArthur Causeway.
Also running off the causeway, and news to me, was the brand new undersea tunnel with direct access to the island. Miami is a city always under construction. I suppose sometimes that construction pays off. As I turned into the tunnel, a slick logo above the entrance proudly displayed the new brand: PortMiami.
"Son of a bitch," I muttered. "It's infectious."
The tunnel, the road it exits to, and the island itself all sit parallel with the causeway to the north. Luckily, my destination was a cargo terminal on the less visible south side. Instead of continuing along the official route, I parked beside a couple work vehicles, hopped out, and pretended I knew what I was doing.
I walked past the highway access and the lampposts. I had to slip off the road and sneak my way by a check-in booth. It wasn't hard. I soon found myself in a field of cement and shipping containers. It was along those alleys of blue, white, and red metal boxes that I strode, hugging their shadows as the sun fell between the skyscrapers of the Miami skyline.
The day was quickly dying. By five the terminals were closed. By six, empty. No cargo ships in port. I wasn't sure if that was standard procedure for an operation like this, but I supposed working the Port was a day job just like fixing cars or stocking warehouses. After that clock's punched, what happens afterward isn't anyone's concern.
The place wasn't a true ghost town, of course—I passed ample workers and security on the way in—but nearing the tip of the island it was looking more and more like the perfect place to make a backroom deal. Figuratively, of course, since the ocean was about as wide open as you could get.
I watched the water carefully. I'm a Miami guy through and through, but the Atlantic unsettles me. Besides the salt content in the water that disrupts my spellcraft, there was a certain mermaid assassin that may or may not want me dead.
It's a long story, but it's enough to say I wouldn't be going for a dip tonight.
But the mermaid was only an afterthought. Tonight, I had two much more pressing concerns.
One was that I was within shouting distance of an illicit deal personally headlined by Connor Hatch. I didn't have an exact location and the Port was huge, but the Bone Saints had given me a bearing. I just needed to find everybody before they found me. In that regard, the shadows were my friend.
Chevalier and the Bone Saints were the other problem. As in, it was a problem I didn't see them. They were supposed to be backing me up out here. At the very least, maybe they had more specific intel to share. Granted, I was late. I hoped they hadn't ducked out of this.
I blew into the silver whistle hanging around my neck. It didn't make an audible sound, but my pet heard me loud and clear. A white bird glided above. By the water, a lot of people might mistake it for a seagull. On closer inspection, they'd probably go with dove. The truth was, the bird was just an albino pigeon. Nothing at all remarkable about it except for the fact that it was dead and I could see though its eyes. I surveyed the grounds until it landed on one of the overhanging arms of a gantry crane.
As I'd hoped, this section of the island was empty. That was a plus as far as onlookers were concerned, but this wouldn't be much of a heist if I couldn't locate Connor. My scout above showed me clear rows of shipping containers, several areas that were private enough for a meeting without drawing eyes, but nobody was around.
Metal scraped quietly. I spun around with my shotgun ready. Chevalier leaned against a red shipping container. Its door was open enough to let a man at a time squeeze out. In the darkness within, I saw the whites of at least two other men's eyes.
"You sure love making an entrance," I said, dropping the weapon to my side.
The bokor remained stoic. He was dressed in full battle garb: silver gloves and earrings. He wore a loose tunic over his open chest, revealing layers of tattoos that would glow as it grew darker. His face was whited out with the features of a skull. Cracks and shadows under blackened eyes and nose. The teeth painted on his closed lips freaked me out the most. When he smiled, it looked like he had two sets of them, like a shark.
"I am glad you could make it, Suarez," he said.
I hooked my thumb at the shipping container they were hiding in. "Is this how you book group rates to Haiti?"
He didn't laugh. "A collaborative asset among a few gangs," he explained. "And you aren't far from the truth."
A chill went down my spine. I felt the eyes inside watching me. Suddenly I didn't want to know what the Little Haiti gangs used the box for.
He nodded in the direction of a tall stack of crates that formed two walls into an L-shape. The corner pointed our way. "There," he said, "on the other side. They're meeting as we speak."
I frowned. I closed my eyes again to see through the eyes of my pet.
Cement. Just cement. The clearing is clouded with emptiness.
I flicked my eyes open. "Strange," I said to the Bone Saint commander. "I don't see people there, but I don't exactly see nothing either."
He nodded. "They are using a mirage to draw the eye away from them. It is like a blind spot."
"And like all blind spots," I said, closing my eyes again, "you can account for them by looking from a new angle."
The pigeon took flight.
I approach the empty area. A glare flashes across my eyes as I pass. I am too high to penetrate the field of illusion. I return for a second run, gliding lower. The blur shifts. Movement. I—
"Ah!" I yelped, shaking out of my pet's head. I looked up just in time to see a flaming bird fall to the cement like a piece of aircraft wreckage.
"Fire magic," noted the bokor, concerned.
I gritted my teeth. So much for a bird's-eye view. "At least that confirms Connor's here."
Jean-Louis Chevalier turned to me expectantly.
I scratched the back of my head. "Did I forget to mention that the head of the Agua Fuego cartel is an ifrit?"
It took a moment for my companion to register the statement. "You said he was a man."
I shrugged. "In a manner of speaking. He's a male jinn."
The bokor traded dour glances with his compatriots in the container. I felt bad for the deception, but he never would've helped me had he known our mutual enemy was a jinn.
"Listen," I stressed. "I'm the one he wants. I need the Bone Saints to handle the security. They're gonna have mercs, probably Russians. Keep them off my back and I'll take care of Connor."
"I have never seen a jinn," he divulged.
"I'm not gonna lie. They're no lightweights. But they're also limited to affecting only those who have struck a bargain with them. That's how they work, trading favors for servitude. As long as you or your men don't make any deals with him, he can't hurt you."
The Bone Saint commander pondered my words carefully. "Very well, Suarez. It is no matter to us. But if the jinn proves too powerful and overtakes you, we will be forced to retreat. Do not expect us to triumph where you fail."
"Fair enough. Let's go while I still have long shadows to draw from." Once the sun set and twilight hit, the Port would be without shadows for a brief time. Ideally we could've waited until full night, but if the drug dealers had already started their little party, I didn't want to miss it. I motioned to the container. "How many men did you bring?"
"Only two," he said, waving them out. The bokors exited, both wearing white face paint that did a poor job hiding the fact that they were kids. I was momentarily disappointed until the heavy shuffling within the container commenced. A dozen more eyes opened inside the container.
Chevalier flashed a cold smi
le. "Only two men," he repeated. "The others are men no longer."
A squad of zombies marched out in a disciplined line, each grunting hungrily.
Chapter 20
The undead thralls were no slouches. Men and women, mostly young and black, mean and ready to tear ass. Casualties from the gang war in Little Haiti, I was told. One of the fringe benefits of voodoo was that your dead allies could stand and fight again. Tragic though it was, it was useful as well. The Bone Saints guided their pets toward the target area.
Chevalier was a highly skilled voodoo specialist. His bokor companions... not so much. They were initiates, not unfamiliar with gang life, but new to active contribution to it. It pissed me off to see kids in the grips of violence like that, but I was no saint. The worst person I could think of to save the world was me.
My mission was single minded. It necessitated bad things like death and destruction. As we closed in on our target, I was ready to play the starring role in my own Hollywood blockbuster.
The container grouping was shaped like an L from above. The mirage clouded the area between the two walls, within the half box they formed. We stood at the outside corner. Chevalier took half the thralls to the left and the initiates went right. I jumped straight up a double-stack of containers and pulled a tendril of shadow down from above. The manifestation caught my wrist and heaved me up. My boots rang out against the metal wall as I hoisted myself over.
Muffled voices came from the other side. So much for surprise, but it's not like the zombies wouldn't have raised hell soon enough anyway. Besides, I liked the idea of being the distraction.
The shipping containers were stacked three and four high. I vaulted up to the second level before I could overlook the meeting area. A tingling current of energy coursed over me as I stepped through the haze of the mirage. It was more of a flat sheet than a true volume. Once I crossed it, the illusion was gone.
Below me, on the cement of the shipping yard, were five men. Four wore black gear and held assault rifles. The fifth was Connor Hatch, wearing a sport coat and polo. All were silent but alert, looking up at me.
I smiled. "Aw crap. Was I supposed to wear black?"
Four rifles trained on me in unison. There was no click-clack sound like in the movies. These guys were ready with their weapons locked and loaded. My intel from this morning had been correct, too. These weren't the usual Agua Fuego mercs. These guys were Russians. I didn't spot the two from the strip club, though.
Even though the shadows were sparse on top of the container, I let the crew know I wasn't afraid of bullets. I stood over them casually, without fear of their pointed weapons. I noted the heavy wooden crate in the center of the clearing, big enough for a coffin maybe. I'd expected this deal to be about a boat, so my curiosity was piqued.
But the real prize of the day was the jinn. Finally, after months of dealing with flunkies, I had my eyes on him.
"Connor Hatch," I announced boldly. "In Miami at last."
The jinn smiled. He had stark features: sharp eyes, an aquiline nose, even sculpted cheekbones. His shaggy mane of red hair and coarse beard softened his demeanor, as did the white polo shirt under his business-casual jacket. Connor wasn't dressed for battle like his security was. Then again, the jinn didn't concern themselves with such trivialities. I couldn't touch him, physically or with spellcraft. Since I hadn't entered a bargain with him, he couldn't touch me either. His men were a different story.
Connor bowed politely as if I'd just commended him for his humanitarian efforts. "Cisco Suarez," he replied plainly. "After this morning's events, I can't say this was entirely unexpected."
"How about this next part?"
My allies flooded out from both sides of the containers, three bokors and six thralls surrounding the group of five. They had a jinn, but we had easy two-to-one odds.
Hey, it felt good to not be the underdog for once.
The Russians spun their rifles to the more immediate threats. The Bone Saints ducked behind their meat shields. Before a single shot was fired, Connor raised a hand and gestured his men to fall back. They sneered but held their fire. Weapons trained, they backed away from the zombies, closing their ranks. The thralls stood at bay, waiting out the standoff. It was one that could erupt at any second.
The jinn took stock of my allies. He still wore that smug expression like a Christmas sweater, but he was surprised. "The Miami voodoo community," he noted, turning back to me. "You've been holding out on me, Cisco. I wondered whether you would utilize the conquistador, but look at them. They are already your pawns."
Damn it. Chevalier's silver eyes flashed to me. I kept my face a passive mask. The last thing I wanted was for the bokor to know I had the Horn of Subjugation. He'd proven wily before.
Perhaps even more worrying was Connor's knowledge of the Spaniard. To the Covey, the Horn had just been a powerful artifact meant to control death animists. Because of my history, I kind of had a thing against controlling people, so I'd never looked deeply into the wraith's powers of suggestion, but I knew they were scary.
That control was how Connor assumed I'd convinced the Bone Saints to help me. With a single vague statement, the jinn revealed that he knew more about the Horn's purpose. He probably knew more than I did. But it wasn't something I could ask about with the Bone Saints around.
"They're friends," I asserted. "It says a lot about you that your first assumption is that they're slaves."
He didn't blink. "And your failure to use your true power speaks to your weakness. Service is not evil. It's necessary. I, myself, have served many men over many years. The experience grows humility and respect. And, quite often, strength as well. You can attest to that, can you not?"
"You can't get wisdom without choice, Connor. Somehow I doubt the heartstone offered true life lessons. Breaking your little toy made my week."
"And now you will break more." The jinn surveyed the Bone Saints and snorted. "Friends. They cannot touch me any more than you can. Watch and learn."
Connor Hatch stepped between his guards and approached the nearest zombie. Chevalier took a step backward, surprised at the bold move. His brainless pet showed no hesitation. She was a guard dog, and she took action. Quicker than you'd expect from a corpse, the dead woman pulled a machete from a strap on her leg and swung it at Connor's neck.
The jinn disappeared for a fraction of a second and reappeared in the same stride. It was so quick I thought I blinked. But it was the jinn's power, to blink in and out of this world. To disperse his body into a rush of air, and just as quickly reassemble. The rusty blade whiffed through emptiness, appearing to pass right through him. Connor snatched the neck of the zombie with hooked fingers and squeezed. His other hand held the arm with the machete at bay.
Mankind can't be hurt by the jinn without striking a bargain, but apparently the undead had no such protections. That said, the undead have something else entirely. They're not powered by muscles and nerves. It's spellcraft that animates them. In almost all cases, they are stronger than they look. I suppose the same is true of jinns because Connor held her at bay with only minor effort.
Voice boxes are notoriously breakable. Connor's grip tightened in a sickening crunch. But again, muscles and nerves only matter when you're alive. The dead don't breathe. They don't control their bodies with electrical impulses. Unfazed, the zombie swiped furiously at Connor with her free hand.
Everyone watched the struggle without intervening. The Russians because they were under orders to stand aside. The Bone Saints because they were playing a defensive game, following my lead. And me? Hell, I just wanted to see what would happen.
The jinn's face twisted maniacally. He shook the machete to the ground, then brought both hands up and spun the thrall's head around. The neck snapped and he grinned victoriously.
A strained groan that almost sounded like frustration came from within the thing. Except zombies don't get frustrated and they don't feel pain. She hooked her arms around Connor's. His eyes widened. H
is hands pressed at her shoulders. Flames squeezed from between his fingers.
I'd never seen Connor fight before. Not really. Not down and dirty. But here he was, grappling with something that wanted to kill him. I knew he wanted to put on a show, but I wondered why.
The zombie's upper body burst into flames. She wasn't done, though. The hardcore bitch grunted with the effort of lifting Connor from the ground.
If this was meant as a display of power, it was backfiring spectacularly. The jinn wasn't truly invincible, he was just really fast. But this zombie had actually done something I could never yet accomplish. She had her hands on him.
He was barely off the floor. His feet touched down as he attempted to shake free. The zombie charged into him and easily took him across the space. The fire spread down her back, but she still barreled ahead, carrying him straight into the wall of shipping containers at full speed.
And then Chevalier's last trick revealed itself. A death throe from something already dead.
The tangle of bodies and fire exploded in a sickening green jelly. Even though I was above the cloud, I cowered from it, moving farther down my perch. I'd seen the bokor's mastery of sickness and disease before. This wasn't the fog that killed my zombies but something much worse. Pestilence. That little number had put me down for the count. I didn't want to risk getting even a little bit of that goo on me.
Besides the spreading disease, a roar of flame engulfed them. Both groups in the conflict watched as the cloud of mist and smoke dissolved. Charred goop settled on the floor. The zombie had chunked into body parts no larger than a leg.
Connor Hatch cleared his throat. Everybody spun to find him sitting casually on the wooden crate at the center of this deal. "A not entirely disappointing effort," he remarked to the bokors. "Your voodoo is potent. But you show an extreme lack of situational awareness when it comes to the power of the jinn."
