by Declan Finn
The priest nodded. He took a sip of his scotch, put it down, and straightened. “Back when you first approached us, you mentioned to me a name: Mikhail.”
Amanda nodded. “I had heard of one called Mikhail the Bear. A vampire who liked to nest. Often. What I heard? He’s a master vampire with a set pattern. He usually nests, clusters a family, trains a replacement to be his equal, and then moves on to repeat the cycle.”
“Now he’s here,” Rodgers said, a flat statement.
Marco raised a finger. “Point of order. How do we know for certain? I heard the name twice, once from Amanda as a rumor, and once from Lily while she was insane.”
Rodgers gave him a half-smile. He and Amanda both knew that Kalsey, the vampire bar owner of The Platelet, had dropped the name when Amanda prompted him. It was decided that it was best if Marco didn't know that there was a guardian angel over him last night. “You mean aside from the description of the vampire who ran off with Lily? What did you say, Amanda? He was built like a bear?”
“That is good description of him.”
“Everything else fits his pattern. He's come in and set himself up. There are routines, patterns almost militaristic in fashion. The last time that any Vatican troops caught on to a nest of Mikhail's, it didn't end well.”
“Should I ask?”
“Tunguska.”
Amanda had to hold up her hand at this one. “Wait. Nyet. That event in Tunguska resulted from something above? One air burst. Comet? Meteor? Something?”
Marco coughed as though he choked on something. “Whatever it was, it was more powerful than the Hiroshima atomic bomb. About a thousand times more powerful. A thirty megaton airburst that leveled over eight hundred square miles. Are you telling me that one vampire did all of that?”
The priest held up his hands in mock surrender. “I only know that the last time we heard from that particular group of Vatican operatives, they were headed towards Tunguska. That's it.”
Marco rolled his eyes. “Okay. So you're certain that this fits in with his usual M.O.?”
Rodgers frowned. “If this is Mikhail, then I have no idea what he’s doing. He hasn't touched a city this size…at least, not since cities this size came into existence, and going after the FBI agents is completely out of bounds for him.”
Amanda blinked, leaned forward, putting a hand up. “Agents? More than one? There was only one in January.”
“Didn't you read the updates I sent you both?”
The vampire and her man exchanged a glance, and as one they pulled out their cell phones, tapped a few buttons, and frowned briefly.
Rodgers rubbed at his forehead. “Tell me that it didn't go to spam.”
“Okay,” Amanda told him, saying it like Oh. Kay.
“We won't,” Marco added.
The priest sighed and took another healthy sip. “We're now on FBI agent number four by now. Possibly five.”
Marco frowned, releasing a heavy breath. “Okay. We don't know what the FBI agents were doing in Greenpoint in the first place. Right?”
“I don't,” Amanda confirmed. She looked to Rodgers. “You?”
He shook his head.
She nodded. “So, no. We do not know.”
“We know that if Mikhail likes his secrecy,” Marco said, “killing the Feds meant that he didn’t have any choice in the matter. If he doesn't generally do cities, then there's a reason why he's here.” He sighed, and leaned back, almost as though he were bored and falling asleep. “What are the geographic profiles of the attacks? How far through Brooklyn are they?”
The priest shrugged. “There seem to be some disappearances in Queens, but for Brooklyn, they're stymied around Greenpoint.”
Marco's eyes snapped open and he sat up straight. “You're joking.”
Amanda shrugged. “That is good? Yes?”
“Oh, great, wonderful. But I didn't think we'd actually halt all progress.”
Father Rodgers smiled. “Aside from the occasional death in the middle of Bensonhurst, there hasn't been an issue outside of this area.”
Amanda and Marco both looked at him. “What?” she asked.
Marco concurred. “Why Bensonhurst?”
“It is farther into Brooklyn,” she continued.
“Why jump so far on the map if they're securing whole regions at a time?” Marco sprang to his feet and started to pace, a feeling of dread coming over him. “Right now, we're fighting them piecemeal, not wholesale. Not to mention that we're at least aware of something going on in Queens, if only because of the Mount Olivet tip we got from our bar-hopping sojourn. If we provoke them enough, they'll probably try coming in force.” He waved it away, as though brushing off someone else's objection, and resumed pacing. “Doesn't matter, had to happen eventually, but I didn't think that we'd have this much success so soon. If they kill any more FBI agents, we're going to have a boatload of them storming around the area, which is so many kinds of not good.”
Amanda smiled, as though she thought this mental brain activity binge was cute. “Da. Having them see men with arrows, wooden stakes, and playing with fire would be bad. We’ll be the ones they take in for questioning.”
“Take one FBI incursion, add the Queens issue, and the curious incident of Bensonhurst…Why Bensonhurst?”
“Why Howard Beach?” Rogers countered.
“What about them?”
“If Bensonhurst is the aberration in Brooklyn,” Rodgers elaborated, “then Howard Beach is the one for Queens.”
“But that's the other end of the universe, comparatively speaking.” He rolled his eyes at his own slowness, and said, “Bensonhurst is the midst of Brooklyn, as opposed to Greenpoint, which is the end nearest Manhattan.”
Amanda chimed in. “But there is something they have in common.”
Marco blinked a few more times, his pacing completely halted. “You mean Mob ties? Bensonhurst, realm of the Gotti clan; Howard Beach, also with connections. It works.”
“Though I should ask,” Amanda added, “why not Brighton Beach? They have some more vile mobsters lately, with mafiosky, Eastern European mafia.”
Marco ran his fingers through his hair. “Yes, but the Russians are too out of control. The Italian version isn't much better, but they do as they're told. Okay, so we have issues with Queens, the mafia, possibly the Feds, and, soon enough, a massive first strike on our resources.”
Rodgers cocked his head to one side. “What was Lily then?”
“A warning,” Marco said. “One we're going to completely ignore. We're going to keep killing the bastards.”
“If you can.”
“Don't underestimate the power of utter nutcases in large groups.”
“Speaking of which, several bars were blown up last month. The Recovery Room? The Bloody Mary? The Platelet?”
“Oh, let's just say that I have access to chemicals. Mostly Styrofoam.”
Rodgers was struck dumb, then looked to Amanda for clarification. “Homemade napalm,” she said with a smile. “Spread liberally around the bar. Mostly the liquor supplies.”
Rodgers coughed, nearly spilling his drink.
Marco chuckled. “Oh, that reminds me. We've brought you four bottles of Johnny Walker Blue, and several of Black, which looks like it was bottled when they started working on the Blue.”
What would FBI agents be doing in Greenpoint, anyway? Is there really anything here worth our time? At least with the Secret Service, I can make up a reason, such as counterfeiting. The DEA would be hanging around the docks. But the FBI? What would be around here that they would be interested in? We don't have that many terrorists, unless you want to count the occasional tinfoil helmet squadron. So, if we can find out why they're here, maybe we can find out why the vampires are here.
“Father, do you have any contacts with the FBI? We're going to need to know what they're doing here, and I’m not sure I can convince them with my charm.”
Rodgers shook his head. “I'm only in contact with the Vatican str
ike team. I'll have to send word to the Cardinal, and find out what he can do.”
Marco's cell phone rang. “Hi, dad,” he answered, then paused. A moment later, he said, “Sure, I'll be right over.”
Marco cleared his throat, and looked at Rodgers. “Well, I have to go over to the clinic now. Someone is making my father an offer he can't refuse.”
“Are they trying to buy it from him?”
“I mean the Mafia have my father hostage.”
Chapter Twenty-One: Negotiations, Vampire Style
April 4th, 7PM
Amanda Colt sat across from Marco Catalano in the back of the Vatican-Ninja assault van. The two of them had taken their time getting to Father Rodger's parish; coming by train after his classes were over, but when the call came in that a mafioso was threatening Marco's father, they knew they needed something quicker.
Amanda watched Marco's face. There was a new expression, something she’d never seen on him before. Worry. Of course, he tried to hide it, even from her. She was good at this, however. Years of practice helped, and he was too upset to hide it well. He kept his right hand low and out of sight, next to his thigh. It was in a fist so tight it had gone fish-belly white.
She leaned forward and touched his knee. “It will be all right.”
Marco's face whipped toward her, and his smile, this time, looked more like a twitch. “Of course it will. It's only a bunch of mobsters with my father, and not two weeks after losing Lily.” She hadn't realized that Lily's death had truly affected him. At all. At least that is comforting. I think. She motioned towards the others in the van. “But we have backup.”
Six of the Vatican Ninjas were in the van. Two were in the front seat, and the rest were getting their weapons locked and loaded. When the word had come to mount up for a human situation, they had ditched their dark striped pajamas for street clothes.
“That's nice.” He looked to the ninjas. “How many of you have ever done a hostage takeover with vampires?”
One who was tall, dark, and Persian, looked to one who was pale and red-haired. “Last year? Black September idiot?”
The redhead shrugged. “I think so.”
Amanda almost smiled. She recognized the voice of the Persian; that was Ibrahim, the ninja-sniper from the other night. Without his mask on, he was quite handsome. His dark hair was cut short. His skin was the type of dusky bronze that could have been from half the Mediterranean, and there was not one sharp angle in his face, only smooth curves.
Marco scoffed. “Please, the Israelis wiped out Black September for what they did at the Munich Olympics.”
Ibrahim smiled. “A .22 to the head doesn't work if the guy's a vampire. Trust me on that.”
Marco frowned. “Uh huh. Marco Catalano, nutcase amateur. You are ninja…?”
“Ibrahim Javaherian.”
“Uh huh. Can I just call you Abe?”
“Call me Bram.”
Marco rolled his eyes. “Of course. Have we met?”
“You hit me with my own sniper rifle.”
Marco blinked, mouth open a moment before anything came out of it. “Ah. Oh. Sorry.”
“Quite all right. I haven't shot you yet, have I?”
Amanda looked back to Marco, and slid forward enough so she could grab his shoulder and pulled him closer so they could meet eye-to-eye, at six inches distance. His eyes had gone from dark blue to simply dark. “Marco. I know you are worried. But we will get your father out of there alive.”
He gave another, horrible, twitching smile. “I know we will. I don't want to lose him, too. He's one of the few people who actually understands me. He's possibly my best friend.” His breathing was starting to come quick and shallow, like a build up to hyperventilation. “You know what was the best part of Lily?”
Amanda gave a little shrug. “What?”
“Lily made me feel human. Just like you.” He took a deep, slow breath. “I love you, Amanda Colt.”
Amanda was taken so off guard, her heart stopped. Literally; she actually forgot to instruct her heart to continue beating.
He gave another horrid grin. “As a friend, of course, as per our non-involvement treaty.”
Amanda thought she hid her urge to rip out Marco's throat exceptionally well. She didn't even growl.
The van came to a stop. “We're here,” Ibrahim said. “Get out. We'll get into position, so take your time.”
Amanda nodded, and leapt out of the van, Marco second. Which was good, because she still felt the urge to push him into traffic.
Marco marched into the clinic, and slowed to a stop, just short of the main hallway, and then suddenly reached forward and grabbed the wall, as though he were overtaken by vertigo.
Amanda was instantly at his side, grabbing his arm. “Are you all right?”
Marco shook his head sharply. His lips were pursed, as in pain, and he gripped the wall as though he would fall over otherwise. “I can't go in like this.”
She gave him a comforting squeeze. “It is all right. If you must stay here, I can go in and retrieve him.”
Marco shook his head vehemently. “No. I have to do this. I can't have you always watching my back, as much as I'd like to. I mean I can't go in like this.” He grimaced, and pounded the wall so hard, Amanda expected a dent. “Have you ever seen A Bronx Tale?”
“No. Afraid not.”
“Most gangsters take their manners from Scorsese and Coppola films.” He swallowed, as though trying to choke down something. “They think they're modern inheritors of Machiavelli, mainly because they have Hollywood films telling them so. If they have any philosophy, that's it. They preach the gospel of fear over love. Amanda, you're going to have to be ready to back my play. I'm going to have to speak their language. You with me?”
“Always.”
Marco took several deep breaths and closed his eyes. He straightened, and took several more. Then something odd happened.
His smell changed.
Amanda blinked. It was odd. It was almost like Marco's entire body chemistry had been shifting over the last few minutes, and he now smelled like a completely different person.
Marco stretched his neck a little. “Come on,” he said, his voice calm and irritated, like he was about to start dealing with a mosquito instead of a mobster. His amused little smile returned to him. “Let's go teach those wise guys a lesson in respect.”
He strode directly ahead, no slowing down, and no hesitation, stepping around anyone who got in his way. He nodded and waved at those people who acknowledged his presence, and went straight for the stairs. He took them two at a time, and didn't wait to see if Amanda was behind him. She was, but only because she was a vampire who had no problem taking three stairs at a time.
When they exited the stairwell, they came out only ten meters from Doctor Robert Catalano’s office. The secretary was gone, and there was an obvious Guido parked in front of the office. Marco moved for the office at a brisk pace, not even a run, more like a man in a hurry. The Guido tensed, and reached into his jacket.
“Hi, I'm Marco Catalano. I'm expected.”
The Guido hesitated, and that's when Marco darted in. He burst forward, his left hand clamping down on the wrist the Guido had in his coat. Marco's right fist came up next to his ear, elbow cocked back all the way, and shot right into the man's nose.
The Guido's head rocked back, smacking into the wall. The arm cocked back again, then smashed forward, this time with the elbow to the face. Marco then shot his hand into the jacket to grab the handgun itself. With the weapon firmly secured, Marco proceeded to shoot his knee into the Guido's groin. Three times.
Marco twisted the gun, the muzzle towards the Guido, then pulled back on the gun, keeping the grip pointed towards himself the entire time. He pulled back, keeping the semi-automatic's barrel in his fist, reached back, and jabbed forward, stabbing the muzzle into the Guido's face over and over again.
Marco grabbed Guido and spun him around, took him by the collar, and used his body
as a battering ram for the office door.
There were three mobster types watching over his father. Two were undeniably muscle, big-bodied and about as suave as a ball of steel wool. If they used any more product in their hair, they would leave a slime trail.
Marco swung the gun straight to the third man. He was tall, but more elegant than the other two. He didn't seem to have a weapon, and he was relaxed in Doctor Catalano’s desk chair like he was there for a business meeting. He leaned back, hands behind his head, relaxed as a beach-goer. This man was less DeNiro and Pacino of Mafia movies, more Michael Rennie of the original Day the Earth Stood Still. He was of medium build, with thick cheekbones.
“Hi, Dad,” Marco said to his father. “You okay?”
Robert Catalano sat in the guest chair. He seemed unharmed, and stared at the gun in Marco's hand. “I think so. Though I may be hallucinating.”
Marco's little smile was perfectly in place this time. “I believe you were expecting me?” Marco asked the others as Amanda smoothly slid into place next to him.
The third man smiled easily. “Yes, we were.” He casually waved a finger at the Guido Marco had just used as a blunt instrument. “And you, Mikey, you should be more careful.” He looked to Marco. “My name is Enrico. You do not need to know my last name.”
Marco poked his head out from behind his human shield just enough to show the mafioso his smile. “You assume I care.”
Amanda could sense that the others in the room were also taken aback by Marco's entrance and attitude. What was he thinking?
Enrico showed no signs of noticing this disrespect, and the two hoods–while they obviously took notice–didn't think it wise to rush the man with a gun on their boss. “We've had some associates hurt in a fashion reminiscent of what's been happening in Greenpoint. We understand from one of your boys that you know what's been going on around here lately.”
“Which of my boys would that be?”
Enrico waved it away, as though he were dismissing a dessert tray at a restaurant. “The initial one is of no importance. We learned who his boss was and took him. It did not take long to make Mister Vega talk to us.”
