He slashed his finger over his throat, an international symbol if there ever was one. "Police," he said. "We'll get the police. The police will help Oksana, Margaritka, Olga, Kat...Kat--"
"Katyushka, Marya," Yuliyah finished impatiently. "Po-leese?"
He shushed her, and dragged her out the door, into the warehouse. She was clearly unimpressed with him for being a lily-livered wuss, but fuck it, he wasn't even armed, except for Ava's clippers. They'd stripped him of his gear. He was only one guy, and he was tired, and scared, and Edie was out there, being stalked by some huge metaphorical arachnid from hell. Enough already.
A big metal door right in front of them burst open. Kev was already in the air as big guy leaped out, took aim--
Bam, the shot went wild as a front kick to the point of the guy's chin sent him spinning, thudding against the wall. The gun dropped.
Another guy leaped out at him with a club. He ducked the swing, grabbing the man's arm and using the momentum of his swing to fling him headfirst into the door. He whirled just in time to kick the gun from the groping hand of the first guy, who had revived.
An elbow smash to the temple, and Kev grabbed him from behind and put his thumb to his carotid artery, pressing until he went limp.
Both men down. A splotch of blood on the door matched a corresponding splotch on the second guy's head. Blood poured in rivulets over his slack-jawed face. Too easy, once again. He assumed they'd been saved by the fact that the guys were under orders not to kill them, should they escape. They were worth more alive than dead.
Kev pulled out the cuffs he'd put in his pocket, and peered into the room the guards had come from. It was full of security screens, showing the corridor he and Yuliyah had been creeping through, the doors and various vantage points from outside. The author of their strange luck sat there on the table, wrapped in brown paper; two big paper-wrapped deli sandwiches.
The dickheads had been focused on their meal. The sight of all that sliced lunchmeat turned his stomach, after what he'd seen downstairs.
Kev dragged the two men into the room, and used the last plasticuffs to bind them to the radiator. He gathered up their weapons. Two guns, a knife. Car keys. He grabbed an oversized black sweatshirt he found on a table for himself, and draped a leather jacket off the back of a chair over Yuliyah. It hung down to midthigh.
He grabbed her hand, pulled. "Let's get the fuck out of this place."
As soon as they walked in to Lost Boys, Miles knew Con and Davy were going to be useless. They stood there, staring up, mouths open. Flabbergasted.
Even for someone who wasn't hunting a long lost brother, the Lost Boys reception area was pretty special. The room had a high ceiling with lots of glass, and the entire space was filled with kites strung on wires, wild colors, crazy designs. The walls were painted with blown-up details of the mandalas. Kev's mandalas.
Miles left the McClouds to their gawking and walked over to the cute receptionist, who flashed him an I'll-just-be-a-sec smile. He pondered his opening gambit as she concluded her conversation. It was a curious challenge. We're looking for a guy whose name we don't know who looks like a goth comic book hero. Hmm. Or he could hold up a Fade Shadowseeker book and say have you seen this man?
Yeah. Right. That would go over great.
"Hi, can I help you?" she asked brightly.
"I hope so," he said. "We're looking for information about the man who designed these kites." He gestured toward the aerial display.
The girl's smile vanished. "Oh. I can't give you any information."
She probably took him for a headhunter. "Who can?" Miles asked.
"Our CEO, Bruno Ranieri, I guess," she said.
"Can we see him?"
"Nope." She looked triumphant. "He's out of the office. All day."
Miles groaned, inwardly. "Can we make an appointment to see him tomorrow?"
"I'll check with his assistant." She dialed an extension, covered the phone with her hand and shot him sidelong glances as she muttered into it. A moment later, she looked up. "Sorry. She has no idea if he'll be in tomorrow. He's taking some personal time."
Davy and Con sauntered over to the receptionist's desk, doing their silent looming routine. Her eyes got big as Con leaned over the counter.
"Personal time?" he said softly.
Davy pulled a business card out of his wallet, put it on the counter. He tapped it with his finger, and shoved it toward her. "Our business with Mr. Ranieri is very personal," he said. "It is also extremely important. Please have him call. As soon as possible. In fact, if you have a number where he can be reached, you might call him right now."
She stared at the card. Her eyes darted from Davy to Con. "Um. I, um...don't?" she squeaked. "Have any number. I mean."
They gazed at each other and turned to go. Thwarted by their own macho manly code of conduct. There was only so far a McCloud guy would go to intimidate an innocent woman. Miles certainly couldn't do it. He sucked at intimidation. He couldn't even intimidate his girlfriend Cindy's jealous cat into not pissing in his shoes.
They headed for the door, but Con stopped, blocking their way, to peer at a framed magazine article. Big color photos. A black-haired guy flashed an ain't-I-cute smile from the pages. Lots of dimples, movie star teeth. Con pointed. "That's Ranieri."
They stared at the face, memorizing it. The receptionist started muttering nervously into the phone again. Calling the cops, maybe.
They went down the stairs. As they reached the lobby, an angry male voice was suddenly amplified as a man shoved the door open.
"...was I supposed to do, for the love of Christ? Hold her at gun-point? Her dad just got offed! I had to take her home!"
It was Ranieri, without the dimples or the smile, dressed in a fleece shirt and jeans and growling and snapping into his cell phone.
"...sure, if he'd ever answer his fucking phone, so get off my case!" He walked past them. "How should I know? He didn't tell me where he was going! He has to face the monsters alone and all that macho shit...if you have a better suggestion, I'd love to hear it!"
"Bruno Ranieri?" Davy said.
Ranieri spun around. "Gotta go," he muttered into the phone. "Call you later." He clicked the thing shut. "Who wants to know?"
"I'm Davy McCloud. This is my brother, Connor McCloud, and our friend, Miles Davenport," Davy said.
They looked for a reaction to the name, but Ranieri didn't exhibit one. He just stared, slit eyed. Sizing them up. "What do you want?"
"We're looking for the guy who designed your kites," Davy said.
Nothing changed on the surface of Ranieri's face, but Miles could feel the temperature plummet. "Can't help you. Sorry."
Davy looked like he was grinding his teeth. "Just his name."
"Nope." Ranieri turned toward the stairs.
Connor grabbed his shoulder and spun him, blocking the punch Ranieri aimed to his midsection, and shoved him against the wall.
"We're not fucking off until you give us some information," he said.
"Wrong," Ranieri spat.
A quick, slashing flurry of tight blows and blocks followed, only a fraction of which Miles caught, they were so fast, and then Ranieri did something quick and twisty with Connor's arm, followed up with an elbow whack to the point of his chin that Con barely evaded. He hooked a leg around Con's bad leg, jerking him off balance. Con stumbled back.
Ranieri backed toward the exit, panting, still on guard. "You assholes want some more?"
Con waved his hand. "That's OK," he said. "I've had enough."
Ranieri backed out the door. Miles stared after the guy as he loped away, and at Con and Davy.
"What, you're just going to let him leave?" he squawked. "Why the hell aren't we following him? We know he knows Kev, right? Don't we know that he knows Kev?"
"Yeah, we know." Con held up a little square of gray paper. The backing off one of the slap-on tags, the Squeaker. The smallest of the battery operated tags from the SafeGuard catalog. It h
ad a limited amount of juice, but it was flat, light, hidden in a square of dark mesh fabric with an adhesive back, and could be swatted onto someone's back and not noticed for hours. "And you bet your ass we'll follow him. Did you see those mantis moves? And the white crane?"
"Saw it," Davy said. "He's good, too."
Miles was sick of not getting the mysterious significance of all the monosyllables. "What does this guy's technique have to do with Kev?"
"That's one of Kev's favorite strikes," Con said. "Kev trained that guy."
"Ah...oh." Miles's mouth snapped shut.
"I want to attack him again," Con said. "See what else he likes."
"You're starting to sound like Sean," Miles observed.
Connor lifted his eyebrow. "Miles. You wound me."
"And we're wasting time!" Miles yelled. "Let's go run that son of a bitch to the ground! Let's squeeze him like...like a lemon!"
Davy's laugh sounded freer than Miles had ever heard it, in all the years that he'd known the guy. He gave Miles a slap on the back that jolted all of the organs inside his rib cage into a new alignment, and they took off running, as fast as Con's limp would allow.
He and Yuliyah pushed out the door, unchallenged. It was some industrial warehouse complex out in the middle of nowhere, chain-link fences, buildings. It was cold, raining. Apparently deserted.
He looked down at Yuliyah's bare feet, gritted his teeth, and dragged her behind him. Cars were parked behind the building. He held up the pop locks he'd stolen, tried them. Lights flashed on a Mazda CX-9. There was a GPS device mounted on the dash. He ripped it out and loaded Yuliyah into the SUV. It seemed strange, how easy their escape had been, but their opponents had no reason to think anyone could beat an X-Cog crown. Ava had been confident of her supremacy.
His mind raced as he maneuvered the car through the complex, looking for an exit. Yuliyah's pale, bare legs were goose-bumped. He ramped up the heat, gestured at the seat belt, but she was shivering, lips blue. He leaned over, yanked out some slack in the belt, fastened it.
He couldn't leave her at an emergency room. Too dangerous. The paperwork, the questions, the cops. He couldn't afford an encounter with the police, either, if what Ava said about Parrish was true. That was a tarpit he could drown in. Stay away from bureaucracies when people are trying to fuck you, frame you or kill you. But he had to get Yuliyah someplace safe. Zia Rosa? But Zia was compromised already, having rented the car for him. The police might even have already followed that trail of bread crumbs to its source. Rosa, Tony, the diner.
In which case, God help them. The police, that was to say.
He had to stay free, armed, off the grid. He needed cash, a new vehicle. To wash the crusted blood off his face. To save Edie. And he was responsible for Oksana, Margaritka, Olga, Katyushka, and Marya, too. To say nothing of that freezer full of dead girls.
Ah, man. And the day was still young.
He got out onto the road, and drove around until he saw signs for 26. He headed back to Portland, trying to keep it under ninety, but he was so jacked up, it was impossible. He jerked the car to a stop outside Any Port. Yuliyah fumbled with the seat belt, hands shaking. He circled the car, unhooked her, set her pale bare feet on the curb. He pulled her to her feet, but her knees buckled under her. She was done.
He tossed her over his shoulder, ran up the steps, buzzed.
"Who is it?" someone asked.
"It's Kev Larsen. I've got to speak to Dorothea, quick," he said. "It's an emergency. A life or death situation."
The door lock popped open. He pushed into the foyer, up the stairs. Dorothea hurried toward them. "Good God! Who is this girl? What happened to her?"
"Got a bed I can put her on? Some warm blankets, hot fluids?"
"Come in." She led him down a maze of corridors, into a cubicle with a dorm-style bed. Kev laid Yuliyah on it. Tracee, Dorothea's assistant, hurried in, arms full of blankets. Tracee appeared to be fussing competently around Yuliyah, so he pulled Dorothea out into the relative privacy of the hallway. He grabbed her hands, squeezed them.
"Her name is Yuliyah," he said, cutting off the excited stream of words. "She's from Latvia. Find her a translator. She's been kidnapped, abused. She's in danger. You have to keep her hidden. Her enemies are very powerful. Get her a doctor if you have to, but keep it quiet."
Dorothea blinked. "I take it her enemies are your enemies, too?"
"You got it. Look. I'm being framed for something bad. Yuliyah could prove my innocence." He paused. "If she survives."
"I don't need any proof," Dorothea said stoutly. "I'm convinced."
"I appreciate that," he said, meaning it with all his heart. "Just keep her safe."
"Count on me," she said.
He squeezed her hands. "I'm putting you and your organization in danger. I'm sorry, but I didn't know what else to do. I have to go."
"Already? Sure you don't want to rest too?" She patted his unscarred cheek anxiously. "A cup of tea, some soup?"
"No. There are other girls where she came from. I have to help them." He grabbed her hand, kissed it. "Thanks, Dorothea."
"Well, take this, at least." She pulled a small packet out of her pocket. "You look terrible." It was a package of Wet Wipes. He pocketed it with a grin of thanks and bolted for the exit.
"Kev! Wait!" Dorothea huffed behind him as he took the steps four at a time. "I just got this visit from this guy who claimed to be--"
"Later, Dorothea!" He let the door slam, his mind miles ahead.
If they hadn't yet discovered that he and Yuliyah had escaped, then they had no reason to guard his place. If they had discovered it, they would be sending someone to wait for him. Just in case he was actually so ass-wipe, dick-brained, asinine stupid as to go back home.
Which he was. He had no choice. He needed those alternate identities he'd grown. Too bad he hadn't had time to grow one for Edie. It took years to establish an identity that held up to official scrutiny.
But if he had at least one, he could work, and they would be able to travel, rent cars and housing while he grew ones for Edie and Ronnie.
And he needed weapons. He felt naked without them.
The tires squealed as he yanked the car around and accelerated in the direction of his home. In and out, hard and fast.
He had to risk it. It was their only chance.
CHAPTER 30
"Someone's been at this thing with a lock gun." Sean leaned forward to take a closer look. "Recently, too. The lock is new. And so are these marks." He looked up at the blank, unadorned brick building, stark against the white sky. "Wait in the car, Liv."
She made an inelegant sound. "Don't be ridiculous."
He didn't even bother to start that battle. He just pushed right on in. The lock had been so damaged, it no longer functioned at all.
They climbed the stairs, finding no clue as to which of the doors on those landings could be Kev's until the top floor, where there was only one, the others having been bricked up. That door hung open.
"Someone broke in here, too," he said.
"What a coincidence," Liv murmured.
Sean poked his head through the door, listening. It was dead still in there. Liv threaded her fingers into his. He kept listening, until Liv started tugging impatiently. He walked in, pulling her behind him.
Huge, open spaces. Vast windows. Raw brick. Wrought iron. Gleaming expanses of teak flooring. Huh. Kev had not done too badly for himself. As if giving fortunes to the runaway shelters wasn't enough of a clue. That metal-toned kitchen with the big tiled central island including sink, gas range, oven...wow. After redoing a kitchen and bathroom in his condo with Liv, he was keenly aware of just how much money he was looking at. His brother had one hell of a decorating budget. Son of a bitch.
The mobiles hanging from wires on the ceiling made his breath catch. They twisted and turned gently in a draft from some open window. Like the ones Kev used to carve from twigs and acorns back home. Models of molecules, from when he was t
welve years old, reading post-graduate-level books on organic chemistry. For fun.
Yup. This was Kev, all right. This place was Kev all over.
"What do you want to do?" Liv's voice sounded hushed and nervous as she looked around. "Wait for him?"
Sean stuck his fingers in his pockets. "I have a funny feeling."
"Funny feelings are the norm for you," Liv pointed out dryly. "If you weren't having one, you wouldn't recognize yourself."
"No. I mean, about him being gone. The locks being forced. The graphic artist's place being tossed. Something's wrong. Something's off."
"What a surprise," she said dryly. She spun around, gawking at the high ceilings, the vast windows. "Think there's anything wrong with looking into the other rooms? It seems, I don't know. Invasive."
He laughed. "No more invasive than letting us think he was a corpse rotting in the ground for eighteen years. That really invaded my peace of mind."
"Sean--"
"I wouldn't worry about it, babe. Really. Root around in his underwear drawer. Let's see if he's a boxers or briefs kind of guy. And while we're at it, let's just see..." He grabbed an unopened envelope from a mesh basket on the desk, ripped it open. He peered at the bill. "Whoa. Look at all those extra cable features for his fifty-two inch plasma TV. Cushy, for a guy who grew up hauling water in a bucket and crapping in a hole in the ground. He's forgotten his humble roots."
"Sean, stop it," she said.
He strode into the kitchen. "I'll check out the fridge, while we're being invasive." He yanked it open, pulled out a bottle of Dos Equis. He twisted the cap off. "About time that bastard stood me a drink."
She draped her crossed arms over her baby bulge, her soft lips gone thin with disapproval. "You're losing it," she snapped. "Cool it."
"Oh, I'm cool. I'll just chug this beer on down, and when it works through the tubes, I'll go take a nice, long piss in his bathroom. Then I'll use his toothbrush to freshen up." He sauntered back to the studio. An envelope had fluttered to the ground. He scooped it up. "What's this? A phone bill. Let's take a look!" He ripped it open, peered at the balance. "Huh. This one's pretty contained."
Fade to Midnight Page 42
