It ricocheted off of one of the metal supports.
He fired off a second round.
It struck the cement just to the right of the tank.
The vampire hoisted itself up onto the fence and pushed through the opening.
Drake fired off a third round.
It punctured the acetylene tank.
Drake covered his head with his arms and braced himself as the acetylene ignited. An ear shattering explosion rocked the sewer, flinging the jack hammer and generator down the line and ripping the chain links off of their support. Drake felt something heavy hit his back as the shattered remnants of the crates collapsed upon him. A massive fireball tore through the sewer and storage area, incinerating the vampire. Not even ashes remained.
An eerie silence descended over them. For a moment, Drake thought he was dead. After a few seconds he became aware of the crackling of flames and the clump of falling debris, and smelled the charred odor of burnt wood and leather. Crawling out from under the pile of wood, he checked himself. His jacket had been charred, and he had second-degree burns on his hands. Despite that, and a body that ached all over, he appeared to be all right. Tomorrow he would be in agony. But at least he was alive.
Alison! Stumbling over to where she had taken cover, Drake pulled off the wood that covered her. After what seemed like an eternity of digging, he saw the back of her leather coat. She lay motionless. Drake prayed she was just unconscious. He shook her shoulder, but got no response. Becoming increasingly worried, he removed the rest of the debris, then sat beside Alison and rolled her over. Wrapping one arm around her back, he used his free hand to gently slap her face. “Wake up. You can’t die like this.”
Alison moaned and twisted her neck. Her eyes opened, and she focused on his face. “Are you all right? Say something.”
She looked at him and smiled. “You don’t pay me enough for this shit.”
Drake pulled Alison close and hugged her.
2.
Drake usually enjoyed his morning walk from his apartment to his office in a three-story Victorian-house-turned-office-building on 13 Street near Franklin Park. Not today, though. After yesterday’s cluster-fuck in the sewers, most of his body ached. Fortunately, the only serious injuries he had suffered were minor first- and second-degree burns to his hands and face from the acetylene explosion, plus a score of badly bruised muscles. The Emergency Room had given him ointment for the burns, but not even the pain meds did much against the aches. Even after a double dose of pills washed down with a large shot of Baker’s Bourbon, a steaming hot shower, and a full eight hours of sleep, his body screamed at him when he got out of bed this morning. So, instead of his normal routine, Drake opted to take a taxi to the office.
As the taxi turned off of Pennsylvania Avenue onto 13 Street, Drake took a long sip of his Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee. He had asked the driver to stop and wait for him to pick up one on the way to work. Some routines were too important to break.
The taxi stopped in front of his 13 Street office. After paying the driver, Drake painfully stepped out onto the sidewalk and laboriously climbed the front steps to the entrance. It even hurt to punch in the access code to the security lock and to push open the front door, the one with the glass panel bearing the words DRAKE MATTHEWS, CONSULTANT.
Inside, he found Alison talking with Mr. Smith. At least that was the name by which they referred to him. Smith was just as mercurial as his boss, their anonymous benefactor. He showed up when necessary to finance their operations, or bail them out of jail when those operations failed to turn out as planned, yet he never once revealed his true name or the slightest hint of personal information. Smith wore his typical black Savile Row suit, neatly-pressed white shirt, and expensive silk tie. Drake could not recall seeing Smith dressed in anything different. He wondered if Smith’s closet contained seven identical suits and sets of shirts, with the only variety being in his collection of power ties. He sat in a leather wing-back chair facing Alison’s desk, the two talking amicably.
Despite having nearly been incinerated the day before, Alison looked beautiful this morning. She cut her raven black hair in a shoulder-length bob that perfectly complemented her sensuous brown eyes. She wore tan slacks and a matching blazer, with a black silk blouse underneath, all of which nicely accentuated a physique well-toned due to months of battling the undead. Alison was one of the few women he had known who could make a traditional business suit look sexy.
Upon seeing Drake, Alison broke into a radiant smile that lit up the room. “Morning, boss. I wasn’t sure you’d make it in today.”
“Never underestimate the power of caffeine.” Drake held up the half-empty cup of iced coffee. “Besides, how would it look if I lounged around all day doing nothing and let you run things here?”
“It’d look like business as usual.”
Drake frowned in mock frustration, then turned to Smith and extended his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise.” Smith stood and gave it a firm pump. “This is a first for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Usually I’m bailing the two of you out of jail, not your colleagues.”
“Alison and I can keep out of trouble.”
Smith allowed himself the barest hint of a smirk. “And I suppose you don’t know a thing about the acetylene tank explosion not too far from where the sewer workers were attacked?”
Drake changed the subject. “I assume you had no trouble getting Jim and Jessica out?”
“Jim wasn’t a problem. The police weren’t too happy about releasing Jessica, though.”
“Why?” Drake took a drink of iced coffee.
“The main charge against her was assault on a police officer.”
Drake choked on his coffee. “Are you serious?”
“He’d parked his squad car over the open manhole, and refused to move it when Jim tried to escape. So Jessica kicked him where it hurts. While the officer lay doubled over in pain, she moved the squad car.”
“Impressive.” Drake looked over at Alison. “Don’t you think?”
“I didn’t know Blondie had it in her,” said Alison with a tinge of begrudging respect.
Drake turned back to Smith. “What about the sewer worker Jim rescued?”
“Patterson? He’s not being charged with anything. Though the police kept him half the night for questioning.” Smith became serious, straightening his stance and adopting a more business-like demeanor. “Which brings me to the reason I dropped by.”
“Come on in.” Drake used the cup to point toward his office, the coffee and ice cubes sloshing around inside the plastic container. Once in his office, Drake slid into the leather executive chair while Smith sat in one of the two leather armchairs opposite him.
“What’s up?” asked Drake.
“Something’s bugging me about yesterday. Everyone involved in the event reported seeing only three vampires.”
“The two Alison and I took down, and the one that nearly got Jim and Patterson.”
“Could more have been hiding inside the row house?”
Drake shrugged. “Possible, I guess. But given the ferocity of the attack, I doubt it. I don’t know if they were in a feeding frenzy or just defending their nest, but if there were any more of them in there, I’m sure they would have come after us, too.”
Smith said nothing as he mulled over Drake’s observation. Drake waited a few seconds before asking, “What’s bothering you?”
“It’s been almost a week since you destroyed the nest out at Wolf Trap and that one master got away.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Assuming the master returned to Washington to rebuild the nest, why were there so few vampires in it?”
“I don’t know.” Drake placed his iced coffee on the desk, suddenly more interested in the conversation than his drink. “Has there been an increase in the number of missing persons or unexplained disappearances?”
“The numbers have dropped sin
ce you wiped out the nest.”
“Alison said the master was torn up pretty bad when it escaped. Maybe it’s just laying low until it recovers, which is good news for us.”
“Why’s that?”
Drake ignored the question. He leaned back in his chair and propped his legs on top of the desk. “Do you know which row house they found the nest in?”
“Patterson is a twenty-year employee of the sanitation department. He knows those sewers like his own neighborhood. I’m sure he’ll give the police the exact location.”
“Can you get me a transcript?”
“It’ll take a day or two, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Good. I need all the information about that row house I can get.”
“Why’s that?”
Lifting the iced coffee off of the desk, Drake went to take a drink, pausing just long enough to answer. “Because we’re going to clean out that nest once and for all.”
* * *
Jessica skulked into the editorial office of The Washington Standard. She had been doing a lot of that lately. Peering around the door jamb, she raised herself on her toes to look over the cubicle farm into the office of Dan Philips, her editor. Unfortunately, a crowd of men gathered around the cubicle of one of the young, buxom interns blocked her line of sight. She could only hope Philips was at his usual late-morning meeting with the senior editors. Slouching, so as to be inconspicuous, Jessica darted into the office and wended her way to her cubicle. Still crouching, she slid off her jacket and draped it over the back of her chair, then plopped down in front of her desk. She switched on the computer and monitor, impatiently swiping the mouse back and forth across the desk until they powered up.
Avoiding Philips had become part of her daily routine. She attributed it to her survival instinct. She had been on thin ice with Philips ever since being assigned by him to investigate Drake Matthews and find out what exactly he was doing in Washington. That ice grew thinner by the day.
She first heard the name Drake Matthews three weeks ago after he rescued an eleven-year-old boy from being attacked in the restroom at Union Station. He earned his notoriety among the local media following a chase through the streets of Washington on the back of a tanker truck, a chase that resulted in a dozen traffic accidents and the burning out of the Woodrow Wilson Bridge. At the time, she accepted the assignment in the hopes of exposing an out-of-control bounty hunter or vigilante. Of writing a series of articles about the consequences when private citizens take the law into their own hands. Of finally receiving the recognition and respect for her writing that she deserved. With luck, she hoped to finally break away from this pseudo-tabloid and hook up with a real newspaper. Instead, she faced a greater evil than anything she could have imagined, nearly got herself killed, and wound up being arrested three times.
The first time occurred when she attempted to interview Jason Clark, the boy Drake had rescued from a vampire attack at Union Station. Jason had tried to tell her what really happened, that he had been attacked by a monster, not a pedophile. Jessica heard him, but did not listen. Like most of the other adults who had talked with Jason, she assumed the story was an embellishment by the imagination of a young boy trying to reject the horrors of the real world. Instead of being smart enough to realize that she sat on a goldmine of a story, she spent a night in jail for harassing a minor. Philips bailed her out, but made it clear he was not happy about one of his reporters getting arrested.
Jessica’s second arrest took place a week later. The masters of the Washington nest had kidnapped her and taken her to Wolf Trap, the performing arts center in northern Virginia, using her as bait to lure Drake and the hunters into an ambush. Despite a four-to-one disadvantage, the hunters showed up to rescue her. They wiped out the nest, except for one female master who escaped, but in the process burnt out half of Wolf Trap, earning them another night in jail. Even though she had been the proverbial damsel in distress, the police detained Jessica along with the hunters.
Then yesterday’s arrest. By now Drake considered her one of his hunters, even if only honorary, so Smith interceded on her behalf when he got the charges against Jim dropped. That was a good thing, because Jessica doubted if Philips would have bailed her out for the third time in as many weeks. With luck, he would never know about last night.
Copies of The Washington Post and The Washington Times plopped down on her desk. Jessica looked up to see Philips standing at the entrance to her cubicle, arms folded across his chest. She tried to remain collected, but her resolve melted away under his withering glare.
“Sorry,” said Jessica with feigned casualness, hoping Philips directed his anger at her being two hours late. “I overslept this morning.”
“I guess it’s hard getting up on time after you spent the night in jail.”
Shit. So much for keeping a low profile. Jessica’s eyes fell upon The Post and The Times. “I suppose it made the papers?”
“You supposed right.”
Jessica took The Washington Post and pulled out the Metro Section. The bottom right corner held a short, five-paragraph blurb titled “Local Journalist Arrested.” If she harbored any hopes of receiving less of a profile from The Washington Times, they were dashed when she opened the Metropolitan Section. The headline read “Standard Journalist Arrested for Assaulting Police Officer,” accompanied by a feature article that continued on page B5.
“At least it didn’t make the front page.” Seeing the look on Philips’ face, Jessica regretted the feeble attempt at humor.
“The rampage by those crack heads and the murder of that sewer worker made the front pages, a story you would have had an inside angle on if you weren’t playing The Nutcracker with the local police.”
“Inside angle?”
“You were arrested along with James Delmarco, one of Matthews’ cronies. I’ll bet my pension that the two unidentified persons who helped save that sewer worker were Drake Matthews and Alison Monroe.”
“But….” Jessica struggled to find an explanation that did not sound idiotic, but failed. Miserably.
Thankfully Philips gave her an out. “I understand you have a fondness for this Matthews guy. Hell, I admit I might have misjudged him. He did save your life last week when you were kidnapped.”
“So you admit he’s one of the good guys?”
“I’ll concede he’s not one of the bad guys. Good guys usually don’t burn down half the city around them.” Jessica started to speak, but Philips cut her off. “I’ve been in the newspaper business longer than you’ve been alive, and I’ve seen dozens of groups that claimed they supported the common good but turned out to be extremists for whatever cause they espoused. If Matthews fancies himself as Charles Bronson playing Death Wish here in Washington, that’s for the police to worry about. Not me.
“My point is, you have the potential to be a damn good journalist, but you’re blowing that opportunity. You have to report the news, not make it.”
Jessica wanted to explain everything to Philips. Wanted to tell him the truth about what was going on. About the threat that endangered the city, and how Drake worked to stop it. But why bother? Even if she could convince Philips of the truth, which seemed doubtful, what then? Would he go to the senior editors or the publisher and demand they warn the city? Not likely. He’d be lucky if all they did was fire him. Even if they did run with the story, the outcome would be predictable. No one in Washington would believe it, especially coming from The Standard. All they would succeed in doing is making Drake’s job that much harder.
Instead, she offered a half-hearted, “Sorry.”
“I don’t want apologies. I want a story. On my desk. By Friday.”
“Yes, sir.”
Philips went to leave, but stopped. He turned back to face Jessica and spoke in a low voice so no one else could hear. “I admire your loyalty. But you’re going to have to make a decision, and soon, whether your allegiance is to this paper or to Drake Matthews.”
Philips r
eturned to his office.
Jessica logged onto her computer and thumbed through her e-mail, skimming rather than reading each one. As much as she hated to admit it, Philips was right. Her fondness for Drake interfered with her journalistic integrity. Sure, she found it exciting going on hunts with him, and it brought her closer to Drake. But she was a journalist, not a vampire hunter. After yesterday, she doubted if she ever would be a hunter. Yesterday scared the hell out of her, and she did not even come face-to-face with a vampire. She risked throwing away everything she had worked her entire life to achieve for a man who, under ordinary circumstances, would not give her the right time of day.
Jessica had never been the type to accept either-or propositions. She could remain loyal to Drake and maintain her journalistic integrity. All she had to do was write a piece about yesterday’s incident that told the facts, left out the part about the undead, and still passed muster with Philips.
Hell, she might as well add winning a Pulitzer to the list of tasks.
Jessica sighed, relishing the lack of ambiguity of Drake’s job.
* * *
Muggins exhaled loudly in exasperation and leaned back in the folding metal chair. “Let’s go over this one more time.”
“Screw that,” said Patterson defiantly. “How many fucking times are you going to make me repeat myself?”
“Until you tell us the truth.”
Patterson reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He withdrew one and placed it between his lips.
Detective Cassidy, who leaned against the door jamb, motioned with his head toward the cigarette. “There’s no smoking in here.”
Patterson ignored him. He struck a match, placed it against the end of the cigarette, and puffed until the tip glowed red.
“Did you hear me?” asked Cassidy.
“Yeah.” Patterson flipped out the match. “I just don’t give a shit.”
Cassidy started to move away from the door, but Muggins raised his hand to stop him. Muggins leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. “Go ahead and smoke, if you want.”
The Vampire Hunters (Book 2): Vampyrnomicon Page 3
