by Declan Finn
Amanda found it odd to imagine hoods like these managing to find their way into Hector Vega's neighborhood, kidnapping him, and vanishing, all without Marco hearing of it from Vega's Tigers.
Marco's eyes narrowed. “Let him go.”
“Why should we?”
“What did you hear about some bombings lately?”
“Some bars were destroyed in the city last month. Why?”
“That is what happens to people who hurt those who belong to me.” Marco jerked back on Guido's collar, starting to choke him with his own shirt. “My men. My women. They are mine. They belong to me, and I don't take kindly to those who would break my toys.”
Enrico leaned forward, his eyes narrowing into slits. For the first time, he seemed annoyed. “Do you know who and what I am, little man?”
“No, but I know where you're going to live after today. I hear Mount Olivet cemetery is nice this time of year. ”
Amanda noted facial ticks in the mobster's face. “I don't take kindly to threats.”
“Threats? Did anyone else hear a threat?” He smacked Guido upside the head with the butt of the gun, leveling it immediately on Enrico again. “Did you hear a threat, schmuck?”
“You think you're funny,” Enrico asked. “Don't you?”
“I don't know. Did you think you can intimidate me in my own playground?”
“This is Brooklyn. We own it.”
“I'll be sure to tell the Russians in Brighton Beach,” Marco replied immediately. “Didn't they carve up one of your boys last year?”
Enrico's eyes glanced to the thug nearest Doctor Catalano. “I'm going to have my men start hurting your father–”
“Because evidently you're unable to do it yourself,” Marco spat.
Enrico stood, using his height in an attempt to be imposing. “Don't make me do something I may regret.”
“Too late,” Marco answered. “You're here.”
“Listen. You're either going to cooperate or–”
“That's just what I was going to say,” Marco interrupted, adjusting his aim somewhere around the man's belt buckle. “Give me my father, and Vega, and you can walk out of here. Alternately, you can be carried out.”
“Who do you think you're dealing with?”
“Someone not nearly as frightening as what I've been dealing with for the last few months.”
“And what might that be?”
“You beat the crap out of Vega enough to get here to me, so you already know.”
Enrico scoffed. “He tried to tell us some fairy tale about vampires. No matter how many bones we broke, he didn’t change his story.”
Marco reared back with the pistol and cracked Guido over the head. The human shield fell over like a tree, and Marco readjusted his hold on the gun to a two-handed grip. His eyes went dark, and his voice dropped an octave. “Then you already know the answer.”
Enrico rolled his eyes. “Now I'm just going to start hurting your father.”
“No you're not.”
The mobster smiled. “Or else what? You'll have your girlfriend beat me up?”
“No. I'll let her eat you and your men.”
Guido Number Two, nearest Marco's father, chortled. “I'd let her eat my sausage any night.”
Amanda didn't even need to look at Marco. She could feel the frisson of rage next to her like a sudden flare. She caught only a glimpse of his face in the window. Whatever it was, the situation, the comment, everything together, finally sent Marco into “tilt.”
“Amanda,” he said, his voice suddenly deathly calm. “You feel like Italian tonight?”
“Nah. Too much bruschetta in their diet. Gives me heartburn.”
“Pity. Try not to kill them, if you can. They might feel like talking after.”
Enrico growled this time. “Now, look, kid—”
“Something's been killing your men,” Marco interrupted.
All three mobsters tensed. Enrico leaned over the desk, hands down on the blotter. “What did you say?”
“Something is killing your men. They are assassinating wiseguys. You know what's been killing your men? Vampires.”
Enrico grit his teeth. “Shoot him in the kneecap.”
“Wait a second.” Marco took one hand off the gun, and put it around Amanda's waist. He drew her to him, hip to hip. It didn't even take her a second to follow Marco's lead. He was playing the tough guy, the feudal lord, Alpha male, macho B.S. What macho fellow would have a woman like Amanda along with him without having her fawn over him? Her arm went around his upper back, her head lolled against his shoulder, and her hand pawed at his chest.
On one hand, it felt good to be this close to him. She hadn't really had this much physical contact with Marco since January, and she had to bite him on the train to Astoria. He was just as warm and as comforting as she remembered, even if his scent had changed.
On the other hand, she felt like the model for some trashy romance novel.
“This young woman is more than just some Russian sex kitten. There's a mirror in the bathroom over there, just off of the office. Go get it. I'll be happy to show you proof.”
Amanda smiled, lolled her head up to Marco's face. “What do you vant me to do, darlink?” she asked in the worst cartoon Russian accent she could recall.
Marco's breathing blipped. Did he just stifle a laugh? she thought, and had to stifle a giggle then of her own. Then she wondered if the three armed mafioso also noticed…and if they noticed, would they kill Marco and his father before Amanda could do anything about it?
Chapter Twenty-Two: The Oncoming Storm
April 4th, 7:30PM
It took everything Marco had not to laugh at Amanda when she asked him, in that awful, Rocky and Bullwinkle Russian accent, “What do you vant me to do, darlink?”
Then again, it was possibly bad form to start laughing in front of the mobster and his two henchmen…technically three henchmen, but one was sprawled out on the floor. While he had a gun he had confiscated from the Guido on the floor, and he had Amanda next to him–draped over him, to be exact–that would take out two of them. Would that be enough to take out all of them before they did something stupid?
And if I get my head blown off, it might be what I deserve for calling her a Russian sex kitten. What the Hell was I thinking?
“Just stay next to me for the moment. No reason to eat the nice men just yet.” He looked to the remaining two musclemen. “Like I said, go get the mirror. And if you try anything, I still have a gun on your boss.”
Guido Number Three went into the office bathroom. After some grunting and a sharp crack, he came back with the mirror and thumped it down on the desk, pointing it at Marco and Amanda.
Both Marco and Amanda smiled. The mirror showed exactly what he knew it would: just Marco. To add to the effect, she stroked his chest, ruffling his shirt – which made the reflection look like it was shifting all on its own…and made Marco's own heartbeat skip a little.
Crap, why does she have to feel so good against my body? He couldn't believe how much of an affect she had on him.
Then again, I can't believe I backpedaled on Amanda in the car. “I love you, but as a friend, of course.” What kind of moron backpedals like that, especially after the look she gave me? I could have done that after she had an insanely pissed-off reaction. And if I truly needed to back off falling in love with her, I could just say it was the heat of the moment, something that needed nuance…but no, I had to backpedal like coward. I am an idiot.
Guido Number Two and the boss blinked in surprise, unable to say a word. Guido Number Three looked at the mirror, then back to Marco.
“I think it's time that we all sat down and talked,” Marco said. “Don't you?”
Enrico scowled, backing away from the mirror. “No.” He was no longer squared off against Marco, but at an angle, in a combat stance that would be proper for holding a gun–a Weaver stance–and the stately mobster's hand started to slide up the front of his suit. “I think w
e should just ice the both of you.”
Marco arched his brow, forgetting his tough guy act a moment. “Ice? Are we back in the twenties? If you really want to do this, I should probably mention my tactical team.”
Enrico paused. He looked from one thug to another, then back to Marco with a smirk. “Really? You're going to try to bluff me, punk? You're a worthless kid. You don't have anything out there, not even the cops.”
“I just took out one of your guys on guard, and he saw me coming. Where do you think I get that sort of training? Well, anyway, I brought a bunch of Vatican ninjas with us, and they seem rather high-tech. I'm going to assume they have something as simple as a laser microphone. So I'm going to suggest that they shoot out a window, just above your heads.”
A bullet clipped one Guido, then the other, felling them both.
Marco smiled and said, “Or, that could work. Enrico, if you could look at the back of your head, you might find a little red dot. Now would you like to talk, or do you want to invest in a new head?”
Marco had a series of thoughts running through his brain as he looked into the eyes of the thug that was still standing. He remembered from an Italian dictionary that mafioso meant “gaudy dresser.” And here I am, taunting him. Life sure has thrown me a curve ball. I can't believe I did that. I just stared down a freaking mobster. I seem to have inherited an entire tactical team. I can't believe any of this. I should get Amanda off of me before everything starts going off in my body.
“Come on. We'll sit down, explain the situation, and then I'll make you an offer that you can't refuse.”
* * * *
April 4th, 10:00PM
Doctor Robert Catalano laughed as he sat down in his office chair with a solid thud. He combed his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, and looked from his son to Amanda and back again.
“So, Marco,” his father began, “when did you inherit the strike team?”
“You see, when I went down to talk to the local church, things got…interesting.”
Amanda nodded in agreement. “It is why we called Father Rodgers immediately after Enrico decided to play nice with us.”
“He would be better at coordinating any alliance, and explaining things,” Marco added. He tried another smile, and it faltered. He was even starting to sound tired, as well as look it.
“I should hope so,” Doctor Catalano said.
Amanda nodded, and looked at Marco, concerned. “Indeed. Speaking of which, what did you do back there?”
“Hmm?”
Doctor Catalano laughed. “I think she means your trick where you decided to come in like an eighties action hero and tried to out-mob the wiseguys.”
“Wiseguys?” Marco snickered. “None of the guys in were I’d characterize as ‘wise.’ As far as changing like that, I think I've always managed to become whatever I need to be. It's almost like method acting. There have been cases of actors becoming the parts they play almost since the start of Hollywood. The simple way to put it is that I'm adaptable.”
Amanda was tempted to ask him just how could he so completely alter his body chemistry and give himself a different scent in a matter of minutes. Who was that flexible?
There was a knock on the door, and Marco almost wished that he had kept the mafioso's handgun. Amanda didn't move, but sniffed the air a little. “Come in, Bram.”
The door opened, and in came the dusky, smooth-featured Persian Vatican ninja-sniper.
Marco visibly relaxed. “Oh, Bram, hi. Dad, this is Ibrahim Javaherian, the sniper attached to the Vatican Ninja team, and the guy who helped us before. Bram, this is my father, Robert Catalano.”
The sniper nodded. “A pleasure.” He looked to Amanda. “We have a problem.”
She straightened in the chair. “What is it?”
“The FBI has just found another agent. Also dead.”
Marco winced. “Oh nuts.”
Doctor Catalano knocked on his desktop like it was a door. “Excuse me. What FBI agent? What do you mean by another?”
Amanda gave Ibrahim a brief glare. “Thanks.”
“Short version?” Marco started. “FBI agents keep popping up in Greenpoint, and they quickly pop up in the East River.”
Ibrahim interjected, “Actually, a back alley—”
“Thank you, Bram,” Marco and Amanda said at the same time, loudly.
The sniper held up his hands in surrender.
Robert shook his head. “That makes no sense. This isn't Brighton Beach or Bensonhurst. We don't have anything around here for the FBI to look at.”
Marco and Amanda shrugged in sync. Even the Vatican ninja startled at how in tune they were.
“That's not the major problem,” Ibrahim said. “You see, they're going to be sending one of their best.”
Marco frowned thoughtfully. “Define best?”
“Okay, how do I put this?” Ibrahim looked off to the side, obviously trying to encapsulate the depth of the problem. “He works for the government as their own private Harry Dresden–”
Marco barked a laugh. The idea of the government hiring a wizard private investigator was amusing. “It must be cheaper than putting together its own 'X-Files' unit.”
The Vatican ninja ignored the crack. “There may be about a dozen people within the Federal government who knows who, what, how, and why he's in government, but let’s say that we know who he is. He's good with locks and, as some have put it, he's good with ‘things transcending everyday human experience.’”
“Are you saying that this is a true sorcerer?” Amanda asked.
“No. He's not a ghost buster, nor he is a wizard. At the moment, it may just be a matter that he has the correct amount of both knowledge and luck. It would be hard to explain any more than that.”
Doctor Catalano shook his head, then turned to his computer. He called up Internet Explorer and asked, “What's his name?”
“Merle Kraft,” Ibrahim answered. “But it's not like you can find a government agent for the supernatural on Facebook–”
“Merle Kraft, San Francisco,” Robert Catalano read. “Owner of the Art of Kraft magic shop in the Embarcadero. One second.” He tapped a few more keys. “The Art of Kraft magic shop has two other stores. There's Tal Kraft, of New Orleans, who owns one store, and a Dalf Kraft of Boston, whose store is 'Dark Krafts.'” Robert looked at Ibrahim with his dark eyes and said, “What was that about not being able to find him?”
“That must be his cover.”
“Maybe.” Robert tapped a few more keys. “Hmm, I don't think they're related.” He turned the screen to them. Three internet windows were open, each had a photo. One was a large black fellow in a long, loose-fitting dress shirt; the second was a “black Irish” Caucasian dressed in an opera cape, top hat and dress suit, looking like a classical magician; the third was a short Eurasian in a dark blue windbreaker.
“Those are the three Krafts who run the stores,” the Doctor told them.
Marco leaned forward while Amanda could see perfectly well from where she was. After a moment, they both said, “They're related.”
“How do you figure?” Ibrahim asked.
“Elementary, my dear ninja,” Marco stated.
“They have the same eyes,” Amanda completed.
Marco looked to her. “Dark blue?”
“Midnight blue, I think,” she concurred. “Which one is Merle?”
“The Eurasian.”
Marco leaned forward, studying the short one. Black hair, dark blue eyes. He held himself casually and confidently. He was relaxed, he knew where he was, and what he was, and if you didn't like it, he didn't care.
“Merle Kraft. Secret Agent Man, is he? Makes you wonder who he dragged into the world of the weird.” He glanced at Ibrahim with an amused smile. “I mean government work, not vampires. Right now, I think that politicians are a worse enemy than vampires.”
Amanda giggled. “I have met a few of them. I can believe that. I have met vampires who suck less blood than politic
ians.”
The ninja-sniper rolled his eyes. “Has anyone suggested that you two deserve each other?”
Marco's father cut in. “Ah, Mister Javaherian, you've pretty much said what I've been thinking for the past few months.”
“Please, call me Bram.”
“How about you go find someone to stake?” Marco said. “It shouldn't be that hard, the UN is right across the bay from Greenpoint, you should be able to find a few blood suckers there.” He stopped short. “Son of a bitch. Do you think that's why the FBI keeps sending agents here?”
Amanda cocked her head. “Because of its position to the United Nations? Not impossible. Why would vampires want to kill them, though?”
“Bad timing?”
“Well, if they're parked near a nest of vampires, that would be more stupid than anything else, for the vampires, of course, not the FBI.”
Marco looked at Ibrahim. “When is this expert coming?”
“Tomorrow.” Marco grimaced. “Lovely. I have to ask. How good is your ability to shape shift?”
Amanda shrugged. “I can match Dracula in the novel. Why do you ask?”
“Because if this guy is as good as he seems to be, we're going to need something he won't expect. A vampire.”
* * * *
April 5th, 6:00 PM
The agent sat back on his haunches as he looked into the open maw of a gouged out throat. It was a remarkably dry wound, almost no blood at all.
“What’s that white thing in the middle, Mister Kraft?” a cop asked over his shoulder.
Merle didn’t even look at him as he answered. “Call me Merle. You say Mister, I expect my father. That’s his spinal column.”
Even worse, it was an oddly intact spinal column. Literally, there wasn’t even a scratch on the vertebra. Merle wondered aloud, “Exactly how did the bastard rip out the throat without even leaving tool marks on the bone? The gouge goes straight to the bone, but there’s not a scratch? The skin is ragged, so the throat was torn out, not surgically cut. And where’s all the blood? There’s the initial spatter pattern on the wall, but after that? Normally I’d say they moved the body, but that’s arterial spray. If it’s his, he was killed right here.”
