“Léon, you need to stop listening to your dick every second that woman is around,” he said as Shotgun Man unlocked the security door and pulled it open. “She’s going to be a death of you!”
“You’re quite right,” Léon said as he stepped inside the house. Arce fairly gasped when he saw his friend fully for the first time. His skin was pale and waxy, and his hair was lank and unwashed. The dark coat he wore was dirty, and his leather shoes were scuffed. His hands were bunched into fists, and the flesh covering them was almost translucent. Léon had working man’s hands, hands that were scarred but broad and strong. They still looked strong and vital, but something about them troubled Arce. It took him a moment to place it, but he realized it was the absence of veins poking through the skin. The veins in Léon’s hands had always seemed far too big when Arce had noticed them before, and now their sudden absence was puzzling.
“Léon, I’m telling you, enough is enough. Get rid of that whore. Look at what she’s doing to you!” Arce snapped. “You’re gone for days, and now you show up looking like hell when I’m in the middle of business—” Arce stopped suddenly when he noticed Léon’s eyes. They were far, far different than how he’d remembered them being. Who in the hell had black and silver eyes?
Arce’s grip tightened on his M16, and he felt an irrational fear building inside his chest. “Léon—what’s happened to your eyes?”
“I brought some friends,” Léon said, his voice almost a hiss. “I hope you don’t mind Alonzo. But they’re very good friends.” And as he spoke, other shapes welled up in the darkness behind him, shapes with pale skin and silver-in-black eyes.
“Hey, stand back,” Shotgun Man said, shouldering the weapon and pointing it past Léon at the figures that loomed in the doorway. “Stand back, or I’ll—” He froze suddenly, becoming as still as a statue for a moment before the barrel of the shotgun began to dip toward the floor like a wilting flower. Arce watched this with some concern. When one of the figures outside crossed over the threshold and gently pulled the weapon from Shotgun Man’s unresisting hands, Arce felt something very, very bad was starting to go down.
And when he saw Léon’s fangs, his gut reaction was totally confirmed.
He pulled the trigger on the M16, letting the slight recoil assist him in raising the weapon’s barrel even with Léon’s chest. It was set on full automatic, and Léon barely moved as the 5.56mm rounds stitched their way up his legs, crotch, and stomach. Arce stepped back in terror as Shotgun Man was drawn into a deep embrace, the woman (if that’s what it really was) who had disarmed him enveloping him inside her arms as her mouth darted toward his neck like a snake’s. Arce could see with perfect clarity as the large fangs disappeared into his flesh.
“Jesus Christ, save me!” Arce screamed as his M16 discharged the last cartridge in its thirty round magazine. Léon lunged toward him, grinning wildly, his face becoming suddenly bestial, his eyes blazing with hunger.
The rest of the Salvadorans fired their weapons as if of one mind, but they were overwhelmed within two seconds.
***
Lopez and the two women leaped to their feet when they heard the gunfire. One of the women shrieked, but the other kept her cool. She pulled a small .22 caliber pistol from the kidney holster she wore and pointed it first at the door, then pivoted and sighted it on Lopez.
“What the fuck’s going on, you Mexican bastard?” she shouted in Spanish.
“No idea, puta sureño estúpida,” Lopez answered automatically. When she goggled at him, her full-lipped mouth hanging open, Lopez stepped up and snatched the gun from her. He turned it on her immediately.
“Get down on the couch or I’ll kill you where you stand,” he said. He knew that MS13 women were as tough as the men, and he had no doubt that one or both of them would come for him the second they had the chance.
The first woman who had screamed when the gunfire started tensed to charge him. But the gunfire was over now, as quickly as it had started, and Lopez could hear the girl’s frantic breathing as if she were panting right in his ear. He aimed the pistol at her forehead. At a range of less than ten feet, even a puny .22 would kill with a head shot.
“Don’t do it,” Lopez said. “You do it, you die—”
The fire door lurched inward suddenly as if an elephant had butted against it. All three of them turned toward it. When the door lurched again with such force that a crack appeared in the wall next to it, all three of them took a step back. Lopez took another few steps, putting the desk between him and the women.
Something seemed to slide against the door, and then there was silence. Outside on the streets, Lopez could hear the pealing of a police siren, then another. The patrol cars were screaming in, balls to the wall. The two women could hear them too, and they started to become even more agitated.
“Police!” cried the first one.
“Keep calm,” Lopez advised her.
The second girl, the one with the full lips and garish lipstick, whirled toward him. “You’re a cop!” she hissed.
“Yeah, I’m a cop here in a bathrobe in an MS13 hideout,” Lopez said quickly, retaining his cover. “Whatever happened out there’s over, and now the cops are coming. What the fuck did you expect, people were shooting fucking machineguns all over the place. Is there another way out of here?”
The girl seemed to consider it for a moment, then pointed toward the door. It was bowed inward slightly. “Only through there,” she said.
Lopez looked at the door. He didn’t know exactly what had gone down out there, but the gunfire was too brief for it to have been a shootout between Arce’s people and his. If that were the case, it would still be going on.
“Open it,” he finally decided. He kept the .22 pointed at her, but flicked his eyes toward the door. The women hesitated for a moment, then walked over and slowly turned the locks. One of them was difficult to budge, but it finally came undone. It took both of the women pulling on the door together to pop it from the damaged frame. It squealed on its abused hinges, and it looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Lopez had rather hoped it was a police battering ram, but that wasn’t the case. He motioned the women out ahead of him.
“Go,” he said simply.
Slowly, apprehensively, they did as he ordered. Lopez followed them but didn’t get too close. He mentally urged the cops in the area to get it together and close in on the house before someone could get their hands on a gun and start another firefight.
The MS13 members were strewn about the living room. Shotgun Man was a heap near the door, limp and unmoving. The Salvadoran with the MS tattoo on his forehead was lying limp on the couch, eyes open but seeing nothing. His companion was facedown by the coffee table, and the two small men were like empty sacks closer to the hallway. The two women hovered over them with stricken expressions. One of them moved toward Arce, who was sitting with his back to the far wall. His eyes were open and staring into infinity, and for a moment Lopez thought he was dead, but then he noticed the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
“Stay away from him!” Lopez shouted to the woman moving toward him. The woman started to argue, then the first cruiser screeched to a halt outside, its lights flashing in the night. The woman grabbed her companion by the wrist and pulled her toward the door—they’d decided to make a run for it, and Lopez didn’t blame them.
“Fantasmas…”
Lopez spun and saw that Arce was looking at him with dull eyes. His breathing was labored, and his neck was torn and bleeding. Lopez stepped closer. The blood was much less than it should have been, he thought, given the severity of the injury. But it didn’t look like either a bullet wound, or a knife wound…
“Fantasmas,” Arce whispered again. Lopez wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard it properly, so he stepped closer. Brass cartridges tinkled when he nudged them with his boots.
“Fantasmas? Ghosts? What are you talking about, is that another gang?”
Arce didn’t answer. He died as Lopez watch
ed.
Ah, hell. All that work…
“Willie!”
Lopez turned and saw José Sanchez and Johnny Mueller, crouched by the door, weapons drawn. Lopez dropped the .22 and held his hands up at his sides, just in case someone had the wrong idea.
“I’m all right,” Lopez said. “The two women—”
“Cuffed and being taken to a car right now,” Sanchez reported. His eyes darted this way and that, and Lopez could tell he was more than a little confused by the fact Lopez was wearing a bathrobe in the middle of what was obviously a kill zone.
“House clear?” he asked.
Lopez shook his head. “I don’t know, man, I’ve only seen this room and one in back—”
Sanchez and Mueller went into action, and two other burly anti-gang task force members followed them in. The two newcomers carried MP-5 submachineguns. The cops swept the house methodically, and found it to be empty.
“What the fuck happened in here?” Sanchez demanded finally. He was a lieutenant, and the operation was his to run. Lopez was only a sergeant, and therefore just a cog in the bigger machine.
Lopez looked around the room and sighed. He hiked up his shoulders and spread his hands.
“José…I have no freaking idea, man.”
4
More hypnosis.
Acheson watched as Kerr and Julia went to work on Claudia, putting her into the trance on the couch in his office. It hadn’t always started out that way; previously, Acheson had remained detached from such sessions, preferring to go through the reports afterwards. But when it had been suggested to him by Erskine Fiedler that he become more involved not just with the actual operations themselves but with the rather desultory act of intel gathering, Acheson dutifully followed through. Now, he was always present whenever one of his team empaths went over the fence to the other side of consciousness.
As an added distraction, Chiho Hara had joined them. She was perched on Acheson’s desk, her back half-turned toward him. It was not lost on Acheson that Chiho chose to sit on the desk. That was where Sharon would usually sit, and while he was uncertain it was a conscious decision, Chiho was definitely trying to send him a message. As Kerr murmured to Claudia, his deep voice pitched comfortingly low, Acheson regarded Chiho while everyone’s attention was on Claudia. She still presented him with the impression she was a porcelain doll, demure and unassuming on the outside. That inside she was equal parts cold steel and white-hot lava was something only he—and perhaps Claudia—knew for certain. But Chiho was also tactically astute, and had a quick, agile mind that was only occasionally tempestuous. For that reason, he had no real misgivings with her being present.
What did bother him were the pangs of longing he felt whenever they were this close together, pangs that had only intensified since he had picked her up at the airport. Acheson was no prude, but resisting this kind of temptation was something he did not enjoy. He was happy with his relationship with Sharon, and he didn’t appreciate it being tested in this way.
“Names,” Claudia said, her voice a sibilant whisper.
Acheson snapped out of his reverie and leaned forward behind his desk.
“Names?” Kerr asked. “What names?”
Claudia paused for a moment. “Acheson…”
Julia and Chiho both turned and looked at Acheson as if one. Acheson glanced at both of them for an instant before refocusing on Claudia. His only response was to raise one brow.
“And what other names did he mention, Claudia?” Kerr pressed gently.
Claudia hesitated again, her eyes half open but seeing nothing. “Ellenshaw.”
Ellenshaw? Acheson almost repeated aloud. He looked up at Julia and Chiho this time, but now their attention was fixed on Claudia completely.
“What did he say about Acheson and Ellenshaw?” Kerr asked.
“Weak,” was Claudia’s cryptic reply.
“Weak in what way, Claudia?” When there was no reply, Kerr continued. “Physically weak? Incompetent?”
“Can’t tell,” Claudia sighed finally.
And with that, the session began to degrade. When she began to become less and less responsive to questions, Kerr eased her back toward full consciousness. Finally, he brought her out of the trance, and Claudia rejoined them in Acheson’s darkened office in both mind and body.
“Didn’t do so well again, I guess,” she said, after looking around the room.
“You did just fine,” Kerr said comfortingly as Acheson opened the blinds, revealing an overcast day beyond the windows. “This isn’t a contest you have to win, Claud. You just tell us what you can, and we’ll run with it from there.”
“Sorry if I’m letting you guys down,” she said, looking at Chiho. Chiho smiled at her gently as she slid off Acheson’s desk.
“Don’t be silly,” she chided. Chiho reached out and touched Claudia’s cheek gently. “You did well.”
“Keep us advised of these dreams,” Kerr asked. “As a matter of fact, if you could start keeping a written record, that might be helpful. Keep a notebook handy, so when you wake up after having another one, jot down everything you can recall. Don’t worry about whether anything makes sense. Just jot it down, even if it’s just descriptions of images and such.”
“I will,” Claudia promised.
With that, the group began to break up. Acheson caught Julia’s eye.
“Jules, hang back for a sec,” he asked.
Kerr held the door open for Chiho and Claudia, who smiled at Acheson sheepishly on the way out. It was not lost on Acheson that Chiho avoided direct eye contact with him.
“Open or closed?” Kerr asked.
“Open’s fine,” Acheson said. “Thanks, Andrew.”
“Of course.” With that, Kerr turned and disappeared down the hallway.
Julia slid into one of the chairs facing Acheson’s desk. “Well?”
“Deep subject,” Acheson said automatically.
“Funny.”
“No need to drag my looks into this.”
Julia smiled thinly and shook her head. “You’re a regular comedian today. So what do you think?”
Acheson leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “There’s something going down. Not sure how big or how well organized, but it feels that way to me. What about you?”
“Getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we? We don’t exactly have a bonanza of intel to make that kind of assessment,” Julia answered.
“Yeah, I know. But what’s your gut tell you?”
Julia leaned back in her chair and looked out the windows at the gray day beyond. After a brief period of rumination, she sighed and shrugged.
“I don’t know, Mark. Maybe. If you consider the time of year—the days are starting to get shorter and such—and run with it from there, it can start to look like it, sure. But really, all we’re going on are Claudia’s dreams, for God’s sake. And while they’re very interesting, all they do for me is really confirm there are two types of empaths: the shrinking violets, and the outright sybarites, which is what Claud qualifies as.”
“She mentioned Ellenshaw,” Acheson reminded her. “That bugs me. The two of them never met, if I recall properly, and you know how we keep a lid on things that happened in the past.”
Julia smiled and rose. She closed the office door, then returned to the chair.
“Robert Ellenshaw is hardly an unknown quantity in this organization, Mark. That Claud mentioned his name while under hypnosis isn’t anything to get alarmed about, and for all we know, she and Chiho might have been discussing him. Or she and Cecil, or Nacho, or any of the old hands. She mentioned you too, if you’ll recall.”
“Yeah, but she sees me every day, so I’m not too worried about it. But Ellenshaw? That seems to be an odd name to pull out of thin air.”
“So you’re thinking it’s Osric, aren’t you?”
Acheson pushed back in his chair a bit at the name. He was hardly a superstitious man, but no one in the agency menti
oned Osric much anymore. Names like his were better left unsaid.
“I didn’t say that,” he muttered.
“But the last time Ellenshaw was involved with this organization was during the Osric hunt. You think there’s a connection between Claud’s dreams, Ellenshaw, and Osric?”
“Are you satisfied that Osric was sanctioned, Jules?” Acheson asked sharply, defensively.
“I never have been,” Julia admitted flatly. “I never bought into that. Not after what happened to the TOC team.”
Acheson sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Then that makes two of us. Tell you the truth, I’ve always felt Osric’s still around out there, somewhere. Just waiting for the time to come around again.”
Julia nodded. “And you think that time is now?”
Acheson shrugged. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”
“We still don’t have a lot to go on, Mark.”
“That’s because Osric is smarter than any other vamp out there, Jules. Lord knows he’s been around long enough. He’s covering his tracks. Whether he wants to believe it or not, we can kill him.”
“So what do you suggest we do? Start an isolation routine?” Like Army Special Forces, the team would go into isolation when it was time to sanction a track, planning the entire operation to a tee. No one would leave the building until it was time to strike.
Acheson shook his head. “No, not yet. Obviously, we need actionable intel before we can start down that road. But I am wondering if this is an attempt to take us down directly.”
Julia frowned. “You think the vamps are trying to take us out first? Through Claudia, from the inside?”
“Wouldn’t you?” Acheson asked. “If you were Osric and you’d almost gotten your butt waxed by us in the past, wouldn’t it make some sense for you to try and take out this unit as part of your plan?”
“Sure it does. But I gotta ask you again, boss, what do you want to do?”
Acheson reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded set of twenty dollar bills. He counted off three and slid them across the table toward Julia.
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