He scooped up the card and inspected it: Halligan’s Steak House.
Weylock was familiar with the Brooklyn establishment. He and Avery had dined out there back in the day. The place was expensive but worth every penny as long as you weren’t a vegan. Their ribeye and prime rib were to die for.
The dead were steering him to the restaurant.
And who was he to refuse them? Besides, Weylock would never say no to a good steak.
Chapter Eleven
An air of wealth permeated the steak house. Muted lighting created an amber glow around the thick leather chairs and expensive wooden tables, while soft jazz played in the background. The place had what Yelp reviewers like to call “real ambiance” and “old-world charm,” whatever the fuck that meant.
The Death Whisperer was spiking his cholesterol level with one of his favorite indulgences. Bagging such a lucrative mark demanded a special treat, and he was enjoying an A5 Japanese Wagyu Ribeye. The perfectly charred and marbled steak ran about $400 for 12 ounces, but hey, he could afford it.
The serrated knife sawed through the buttery, tender piece of meat. Kulok shoveled the cube of steak into his eager mouth. Several undead minions watched him eat from a respectful distance, the waitstaff walking through their transparent forms, hands loaded with trays and plates, oblivious that the dead haunted their establishment.
Basking in their longing gazes, the hitman chewed the piece of meat loudly and smacked his lips. Kulok thought the steak was fucking delicious. Was it four hundred bucks’ worth of delicious? Who the fuck knew, but seeing those spirits hunger for a taste was priceless.
Some might say he was playing sadistic games, but there was a method to his cruelty. He was showing off his power and superiority, breaking the will of his undead servants and reminding them who was boss.
“Mind if I join you?” a voice asked.
Startled by the unusual request, Kulok turned away from the parade of ghosts. He took in the tall man in the black suit and tie and picked a strong whiff of bacon. The man was a Fed, through and through. A familiar mixture of cocky arrogance and moral superiority oozed from his clean-shaven jaw and military-style buzz-cut.
As their eyes met, Kulok felt the man’s unwavering gaze judging him. I’m an agent of the law, and you’re criminal scum.
“What if I mind?” Kulok countered, his attention fixed on the Fed as he continued to size him up. “I like to eat alone. If I want to be social and start a fucking party, I hang out at the bar.”
“Don’t worry. I just want to ask you a few questions, and I’ll be out of here before you know it.”
The man in the suit slid into the booth before he could further protest. Kulok tensed, one hand reaching for the pistol in his shoulder holster while the dead watched the exchange with growing interest.
They’d seen no one challenge Kulok’s authority before.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The FBI agent flashed his badge in response. Kulok’s instinct had been right on the money.
“Special Agent Jaxon Weylock. Maybe you’ve heard of me? I caught some major bad guys back in the day. The Butcher of New Orleans, the Death Whisperer—”
Kulok froze, and his hand gripped the butt of his pistol so tight that the bones stood out against his skin.
The bastard knew. Somehow the Feds had figured out who he was. He must’ve made a mistake…
The man in the black suit slapped himself on the forehead, gobsmacked. “Sorry, did I say the Death Whisperer? I meant the Shadow Stalker. Sometimes even I can’t keep all these psychos straight.”
“What the fuck do you want from me?” Kulok said, his voice dripping with menace.
“No need to get hostile. We’re just having a friendly chat here.”
There’s nothing friendly about you, motherfucker, Kulok thought. He offered the FBI agent a fake smile.
“You better make this fast. My four-hundred-dollar steak is getting cold. What do you want from me?”
“Does the name Jay Hollow ring any bells? He was an NYPD detective.”
Kulok maintained a poker face as he shrugged and said, “Should it?”
On the outside, he was cold as ice. On the inside, he was boiling. He’d made a mistake, missed something, and now the law was on his ass. That explained what was happening here. The Feds wouldn’t play their cards like this unless they had solid evidence on him that would hold up in court. But if they were that close, why didn’t this asshole just arrest him? Something was off here.
For now, though, Kulok had no choice but to go along. Stay cool.
“We have security footage of you staking out his property on the same night Detective Hollow, his wife and son were murdered.”
“Is that so?”
“The detective had recently installed a Ring Home Security System. A precautionary measure following a recent threat by MS-13.”
Kulok stared at the agent, still uncertain what game the bastard was playing here. The Ring story was setting off Kulok’s bullshit detector. He wasn’t some rank amateur who would have missed a cheapass security system designed for catching kids stealing Amazon packages.
Then again, nothing in this world occurs in a vacuum. The asshole knew Kulok was the Death Whisperer, and he knew about the detective.
“Perhaps it was just a coincidence that you happened to be in the neighborhood that day, right?”
The FBI agent’s ashen gaze remained fixed on him. Kulok reached for his glass and took a deep gulp.
“What are you drinking?” the Fed suddenly asked. He reached over to turn the bottle that Kulok had ordered. “Amarone, huh? Superb choice.”
You betcha it’s a superb choice at $600 smackers a bottle.
“Mind if I take a sip?”
Kulok wasn’t easily fazed, but the brazenness of this FBI agent caught him off guard. Before the hitman could respond, the special agent reached over to the next table for an empty wine glass and filled it to the brim.
Kulok looked at him, stunned. The asshole had just helped himself to half his very expensive bottle.
What happened next was even more disturbing. The agent held the full glass up, almost as if offering a toast to the dead men and women lurking nearby.
Without hesitation, the Fed’s magnetic gaze never leaving Kulok, he drained the glass in one deep swig.
The hitman felt like his eyes would pop. He’d killed assholes for less than this shit. But there was nothing he could do with all these witnesses around.
“Well, it was a pleasure meeting you. I don’t want to take up more of your time, and it would be a shame to let that steak get cold. A wine that good deserves to be enjoyed with food.”
There were only a few ounces left in the bottle, not even enough for half a glass.
The FBI agent rose to his feet and flashed Kulok a farewell smile, his steely eyes without warmth.
“Until we meet again.”
Kulok glowered after the cocky son of a bitch, comforted by the icy certainty that he was looking at a dead man.
Chapter Twelve
Jay stared at the FBI agent who’d interrupted the hitman’s dinner. He’d listened in on their conversation in growing amazement. What sort of agent confronted a suspect in an ongoing investigation like that?
Before the agent walked through the exit, he paused one last time and turned toward him and the other spirits. He’d done it earlier when he raised a toast, and he was doing it again. Did he share the hitman’s psychic ability?
A moment later, Jay received confirmation that this man was no ordinary FBI agent.
The man spoke to him.
Spoke to them all.
A single word that resonated through the minds of all the dead spirits who lingered in the steakhouse.
“Soon.”
A loaded word that promised payback for the grave injustice they had all endured.
As the FBI agent disappeared into the night, Jay experienced an emotion alien to the dead souls who served the ps
ychic assassin. For the first time since Jay shuffled off his mortal coil, hope flared in his chest.
Chapter Thirteen
The cocksucker’s name was Jaxon Weylock. And yes, he was a star at the bureau. Three years ago, that was. Following the death of his wife, he quit his post and disappeared. According to Kulok’s sources, no one had heard from Weylock in all this time. The guy had become a ghost. Talk about some rich irony.
A few of Kulok’s contacts speculated that Weylock had moved to another country, while one guy even thought he’d become a Buddhist monk or something in some foreign land.
The asshole who’s fucked up his dinner sure was no monk. And if Weylock wasn’t working for the Bureau, how did he know what he knew? What was the former agent hoping to accomplish here?
The Ring camera was bullshit; Kulok was obsessive about disabling security systems before making a move. If security was too tight for a workaround, Kulok would just let his ghosts deal with it. The best camera in the world couldn’t record the dead no matter what those fucking bullshit paranormal reality shows tried to sell to the gullible public.
And Kulok Yanovitch was many things, but sure as hell he was nobody’s fool.
So, if Weylock wasn’t working for the FBI, only one other explanation made sense. He must’ve been tight with good old Detective Hollow. And that’s why Kulok was using the full extent of his psychic powers to make the dead detective spill the beans.
So far, it was slow going. The pig was playing dumb. Kulok glared at the detective, his pentagram eye tattoo flickering dangerously.
“I will ask you again, and this time I expect you to cooperate. Who the fuck was that guy back at the restaurant?”
The detective shrugged, and the veins in Kulok’s temples throbbed. A second later, the pentagram mark on Jay’s spectral body ignited with a burst of scarlet energy, and he cried out in agony.
“We can do this all day, Detective.”
Death was no escape from pain. You didn’t need nerve endings to endure unimaginable suffering. Just ask all those guys hanging out in the deepest pits of Hell.
The thought put a big smile on the hitman’s face, and he suppressed an amused chortle. Torture was a serious business, and he didn’t want the good detective to get the wrong idea. He wanted Jay to talk.
But no matter how hard he pushed, the detective wouldn’t break. Either the bastard was tougher than he looked… or he didn’t know the FBI agent.
And then another thought occurred to Kulok.
Maybe the agent had seen him scout the place because he’d been on his way over there himself that night. Maybe Special Agent Jaxon Weylock was fucking the detective’s wife and had put the pieces together all by his lonesome. If Weylock was doing this on his own, then there had to be a good reason why he was trying to spook him.
Of course. The bastard was hoping to extort him.
That had to be it. Either Weylock was on some private vigilante crusade, or he was after money.
The hitman shook his head. Did this punk think the Death Whisperer would cave to blackmail?
Either way, Kulok had tracked down the Fed’s address and was ready to brave Queens, a borough he hated, as long as he got to see Weylock squirm under his boots. In case it was a trap, well, he wasn’t stupid and wasn’t going to just walk into Weylock home with his pistol blazing. Why put himself at risk when he had a team of eager, bulletproof helpers?
He eyed the group of ghosts who stood in his enormous living room. His eyes were shiny as silver coins when he smiled.
“Let’s find out if Special Agent Weylock believes in ghosts.”
Chapter Fourteen
Kulok pulled up to the two-story home in Astoria, located right off bustling Ditmar’s Avenue. The lights were still on, which meant someone was home. Good.
The hitman’s heart raced with anticipation. He was looking forward to wiping that smirk off Weylock’s smug face once and for all. But first, he would make the bastard talk. The hitman wanted to know how much the former agent knew, and how he’d put it all together.
The answers were coming, that much was for certain.
Kulok couldn’t remember the last time he went after someone who wasn’t a mark. This kill tonight was for himself. And he was going to enjoy every bloody second of it.
He took a deep breath, focused his thoughts, and released his psychic energy. He did not understand how this shit worked, but somehow it did. The eye inside the pentagram tattoo on his neck came to life and blazed with supernatural energy. Instantly, nine specters materialized around his parked Mercedes: dour, colorless manifestations waiting for his orders.
Alright, boys and girls, time to get to know Special Agent Weylock a little better.
Kulok waved his hand, and the pentagram symbols he’d carved into each of his victims’ bodies lit up against their transparent skin.
Power surged inside the hitman with near orgasmic intensity. He felt his consciousness expand beyond bone and skin as it broke free of the body.
And then he was hurtling toward Weylock’s house, a disembodied spirit leading his pack of spectral assassins. His mind would jump from one ghostly body to the other as they zeroed in on the property like hungry birds of prey.
They pushed through the cement walls, reality reduced for a split second to atoms and molecules, and then they were inside Weylock’s home.
Kulok experienced momentary surprise when he realized the house was empty. Nobody had lived here for a long time. The pack of killer ghosts split up and started combing the deserted property.
Kulok sensed a pounding heartbeat, confirming that there was a living presence in the house. Weylock. Had to be. Just a matter of seconds before his ghosts located the bastard…
And then the world zapped out of existence, and Kulok experienced an instant blackout.
It lasted for a disorientating second, and then he was back in his physical body inside his parked Mercedes, sweat pearling down his forehead, his meaty hands clutching the steering wheel.
He let out a shocked cry. What the fuck?
Kulok’s gaze shifted toward Weylock’s house sitting across the street, his shaking body still recovering from the surreal experience. The lights were off now.
What had happened?
Everything had gone dark for a moment while he was inside the house, and then the psychic link with the ghosts had shattered. He’d been slammed back into his body without warning. That was a first.
Then he realized that the faint sense of connection he always felt with his ghostly assassins… wasn’t there anymore. He tried to force his psychic senses outward again, but he was like a blind man groping at nothing. How could he have lost contact with the spirits?
“Fuck this!” he growled and slapped the steering wheel.
Anger roaring through his veins, Kulok threw caution to the wind and burst out of the Mercedes. He was one of the most feared killers on the Eastern seaboard. He needed no fucking ghosts to deal with this jerk Weylock.
The car door slammed shut behind him, and his footsteps echoed through the night as he swiftly crossed the street.
He stealthily snuck up to the front entrance and picked the lock. Passing through walls as a disembodied spirit was fun, but he’d broken into countless heavily secured places before developing his psychic powers.
The door snapped open, and Kulok edged into the house, silenced pistol up and ready. His eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. The shadowy house was as silent as a tomb, lit only by the streetlights outside.
Something was not right here.
He sensed it in every fiber of his being, yet he refused to back down and leave. No one got the drop on the Death Whisperer.
Kulok’s temper, which had gotten him into so many scrapes over the years, was cooling as he searched the empty house. Without his ghosts, he couldn’t tell if Weylock was even in the building. The rational part of his brain—the calculating part—urged him to get the fuck out of here, now.
“Look
ing for someone?” a voice said behind him.
Kulok spun around. The silhouette of a tall man was blocking the exit.
Without hesitation, the hitman fired. The silencer coughed once, twice, but the figure had disappeared, the bullets chopping into the wooden doorframe.
Where did the bastard go?
“Behind you.”
The voice drifting through the empty house brought Kulok’s blood to a boil. He whirled and fired into the dark. The silencer whispered. Pffft, Pffft. The bullets pockmarked the walls, sending up tiny clouds of dust.
Once again, the stranger had evaporated into thin air.
“You’re not an FBI agent, are you?” he demanded.
“You think there aren’t other things that go bump in the night? Bigger, badder things than you, Death Whisperer. Or should I call you Kulok Yanovitch?”
Kulok trembled with rage and fear. Weylock’s voice seemed to be coming from multiple directions at once and echoed eerily in the deserted home.
A sound to his left. He pivoted and unloaded the rest of his magazine. This time the bullets tore into three of his ghosts. The bloodless, boneless apparitions were lurking in the room's corner, watching him with blank, sullen eyes.
Kulok stared back at them, his heart hammering against his chest.
The spirits normally kept their heads lowered in deference and respect. Now they raised their emaciated visages and met his panicked gaze with menacing defiance.
“You played with forces you didn’t understand,” said Weylock. “Now, you’ll pay the price.”
He turned toward the voice. The tall silhouette had reappeared near another doorway, features coated in shadows. Five spirits flanked him.
It was almost as if his ghosts now served Weylock and were ready to turn against their master. Kulok refused to believe it. He’d worked too fucking hard to collect them.
“These souls belong to me,” he said.
“Do they now?”
As Weylock posed the question, a familiar symbol appeared on his shadowed neck. It was the pentagram tattoo Kulok used to control his ghosts. The ink blazed with a fiery light.
The Death Whisperer Page 5
