by Rob Cornell
But if she is my...
He bit the thought down before it could slip, full-formed, into the light. Better to leave it half-realized in the shadows at the back of his mind. If he fully contemplated the possibility, it could hamper his ability to focus on the greater good.
He peeked over the counter top toward the back entrance and thought he caught a glimpse of a dark figure moving behind the curtains. Seconds to decide his next move. Up to her or straight out to them?
“Fuck the greater good,” he growled under his breath and duck walked out of the kitchen. Halfway up the stairs he heard the front door splinter, the sound like cracking bones. Then the shattering glass from the back entrance.
He powered his way up the stairs to the loft, found the girl hanging out the window by the waist and heaving in the fresh air. “They’re in,” he shouted as he approached. “We’re going out.”
She looked at him over her shoulder. “Out where?”
He pointed at the window with the barrel of one of his Glocks. The girl’s eyes locked on the weapon in his hand and a deeper shade of fear colored her expression.
“Do you know how to shoot?” he asked when he reached her.
She shook her head, her lips so tight it almost looked like she didn’t have a mouth. He reached into his back pocket, drew the crucifix, and slapped the long end into her hand. “Then hold this out in front of you toward the stairs like your life depended on it.”
Her brow creased, some measure of confusion able to break through her total mask of fear.
“Trust me.” He jammed each Glock into one of his back pockets and swung a leg out of the window. “When I drop down, you come after me. I’ll catch you.”
“This is crazy.”
Footsteps thundered into the house below. Voices, slightly inhuman and distorted, called out “clear” as the attackers moved in and searched for any inhabitants.
“You’re with me or them.” He didn’t wait for a response before swinging his other leg over the windowsill so that both hung down with his abdomen and hands braced against the sill. Gripping the sill, he lowered himself as far as his arms would allow, then let go and dropped the remaining four feet to the pavement.
He relaxed his body for the impact and felt only a sting up through the flats of his feet and into his ankles, even managed to stay standing. He looked up to see if the girl was following and heard her scream. Damn. He should have tried lowering her first. The crucifix could stall the attackers—assuming he was even right about their nature—but they were armed with fully automatic weaponry. They could close their eyes to the symbol and fire enough rounds to take her down if they wanted.
“Hey,” he called, not knowing her name and thinking he might never learn it now. He had only felt this feeble and helpless once before. Dolan was behind it that time as well, managing to change the entire direction of Lockman’s life. “You have to jump. Just jump. Now!”
She screamed again, this time the sound cut in half.
Lockman’s whole body went rigid and cold. He waited a second more for a sign she was coming out the window. Silence answered him.
No. Not this time. Not again.
Suicide, his mind answered to what he planned.
Irresponsible.
Treason.
He drew the Glocks and ran around to the front of the house.
A black SUV with fully tinted windows sat at the curb, all four doors and the back hanging open. His front door hung cockeyed from one hinge like a loose tooth. Bullet holes dotted a mostly straight line along the house’s façade, high, fired at an angle probably from only as far as the cracked sidewalk. It did look like they meant to take him alive. Which gave him a little leverage. Not much. Probably not enough.
Weapons at the ready, Lockman crept to the porch and ducked behind the shrubbery under the picture window. Sirens whined in the distance. Someone had called the cops, but a quick scan of the street showed no sign of watching neighbors. Gang shootings happened enough in these parts of LA that folks knew when to duck their heads and stay out of sight. Any other suburb, you might have a dozen nosey people or more poking their heads out or even wandering over, just asking to get caught in some crossfire.
Lockman had never considered such an advantage to living in a shit neighborhood.
The wait felt like an age. Enough time for Lockman to go back and forth a dozen times about the sanity of trying to save a girl he suspected might be his daughter based on her own suggestion and little evidence to back it up except a feeling that prickled over his scalp every time he pictured her face, that note of recognition even though he’d never seen her before. And he had to admit, it wasn’t just his own face he saw in her. He saw Kate. He saw a whole lot of Kate in that young girl. Take out the piercings and clean up the black makeup—her expression, that cocky I have the world in my palm and plan on playing some ball determination.
Sounds of movement in the living room. The shuffle of boots through debris. Then the low, snake-like voices behind the masks.
“No sign of him,” said one.
“The girl claims he left through the upstairs window,” answered a second.
The obstruction from the masks made it hard to be sure, but Lockman felt more certain of his original assessment based on their voices. The crucifix should have worked. Should have at least bought the girl enough time to get out the window.
“Does he know who she is?”
“We’re questioning her further, but he might not. Even if he did, that does not mean he would still not abandon her.”
“We’ll all see the light if that’s true.”
Bolstered by the confirmation of his suspicions—only vamps thought that “seeing the light” was a bad thing—Lockman wiped the sweat off his upper lip with a wrist and checked that he had a round in the chamber of each Glock.
He swung around into the doorway, brought his guns up, and sighted one barrel on each of the pair standing in his living room. He pulled both triggers in synch and landed one head shot on the vamp to his left. The one on his right dodged, too fast for human reflexes. The silver-tipped round grazed its arm, tearing through the fatigues and exposing a sizzling and smoking wound.
The vamp on the left dropped to the floor. The hole in its head sputtered and gurgled, bubbles of blood popping inside like boiling chili.
The surviving creature brought its automatic weapon to bear on Lockman, but Lockman never stopped moving, spinning across the open doorway to the opposite side. He pressed his back against the brick wall. The vamp’s weapon chattered. Chunks from the doorframe snapped and scattered. A splinter nipped at Lockman’s cheek.
The thing with automatic weapons, you could drain your ammo fast in a single panicked burst of fire. Lockman heard the dry click when the vamp’s magazine went empty. He swung back into the doorway and fired a shot meant for the head, but caught the vamp in the throat instead.
The vamp’s weakness to silver exaggerated the effect of the round. Its neck exploded like a blood-filled water balloon thrown against a brick wall. Its head toppled to the floor, body not far behind. The headless body still tried to fire the weapon clutched in its hands for a moment before finally giving in to death.
The battle had brought the attention of the four vamps still up in the loft. All four of them stood at the railing and started firing.
Lockman jumped backward through the front door and slammed onto the cement slab porch. The impact on his back knocked the wind from his lungs. For a second he didn’t think he could make himself move. Too long since he’d seen action like this. And fifteen years, no matter how much you worked out, aged a person. Suddenly, Lockman faced the possibility he wasn’t as strong as he thought.
To hell with that.
He rolled off the porch and into the shrubs, clinging to his guns despite the pain in his back and the thin breath in his lungs.
The rain of bullets from the loft shredded the living room carpet and the cheap floorboards underneath.
&
nbsp; So much for them taking him alive.
The barrage ended after an inhumanly loud shout from inside the house. It sounded like a cross between an eagle cry and a bear’s roar, but with a voice.
“Stop!”
The silence that followed was so absolute, Lockman could hear the blood flowing in his ears and the rattle in his lungs as he tried to regain his breath. The distant sirens were less distant.
“Craig Lockman,” the same vamp called, his voice not as loud, but every bit as inhuman. “We have your spawn. Obviously, you know that or you wouldn’t still be here. My men are hungry. Do you want us to feed on her?”
Lockman didn’t bother answering. Bargaining with vamps, especially those under the employ of Otto Dolan, would get him nowhere. Instead, he stayed crouched between the house and the shrubs and thought through the situation. He’d downed two in the living room. At least four remained upstairs. Maybe five since he didn’t see the girl and one of them had to be holding her. That made a total unit of seven vamps. A perfectly capable taskforce to take in one man, even excluding their supernatural prowess. But an odd number. A number that felt wrong.
The hot barrel pressed against the back of his neck proved that feeling right. “Drop your weapons,” said a serpentine voice behind him.
Chapter Three
The seams of Kate’s life had started to split again. She felt those seams tear almost like her insides were coming apart. Eventually, she would be left empty. She pressed her fingers against her mouth. God, get a hold of yourself.
Alec sat at the kitchen table with her. Would hold her hand when she let him. Would sigh sympathetically when she looked at him. But he didn't glance at the clock as often as she did, didn't seem to feel the gravity of each passing hour.
“It's after noon,” she said. “How much longer are we going to wait?”
“Last time she was gone two full days before she came back. The time before that was a day and a half. She's only been gone since yesterday.”
She stared at him, hoping her expression showed how ridiculous a thing that was for him to say.
He squirmed under her scrutiny, looked away. “Kate, I'm just saying. She's holed up with one of her so-called friends and she'll come back when she misses regular meals, clean clothes, and a comfortable bed. Just like before.”
Her face grew warm. “So I should go about my day, not worry about a thing?”
“No.” He heaved another one of those sighs. How come she had never noticed that annoying tick before they got married? “But if we call the police, drag them into this again, and Jess shows up, we'll look like fools.”
He tried to take her hand, but she pulled away. “I'm not worried about looking like a fool. I'm worried about my daughter.”
He leaned back in his seat and played chagrined.
To Kate it came across false, condescending even. It was one of those rare times where she wanted to scratch his eyes out. How dare he belittle her feelings?
“I'm worried, too.”
“Not worried enough.”
“Look, I'm not going to panic every time your daughter pulls a stunt like this. You might be blinded to her faults, but what she really needs...”
“What, Alec? What does she really need that I don't give her?”
His shoulders sagged. “You'd give her the world, Kate. No matter what. You'd give her everything except the discipline she deserves.”
Kate felt her face muscles tighten, her jaw set. She spoke through clenched teeth. “When did you become the expert parent? I raised her on my own for ten years before you were ever in the picture.”
“Don't. This shouldn't turn into that kind of argument. We're together now. I'm here. Jessie is both our responsibility.”
“Except, I don't live up to your parental expectations.”
“I didn't say that.”
“Practically.”
“Don't put words in my mouth.”
“Don't tell me how to raise my daughter.”
She said it before she could take it back, with that slight-but-obvious emphasis on the my. Now it sat out there between them, as ugly as a hocked up glob of phlegm. His rigid expression showed none of the hurt she expected. Either he was holding back his feelings or he really didn't care.
You're staking your marriage to a solid man who’s done nothing but help you on this petty argument?
She exhaled slowly. “I'm sorry.”
“Forget it.”
“That was mean. I just wanted a reaction out of you.”
“I know.” One corner of his mouth twitched, almost as if he meant to smile and caught himself. “That's why I didn't.”
“Please.” She took his hand. “You're probably right about where she is, but what if she's not? What if she's in real trouble?”
“I still think we should focus on the trouble she's going to be in when she comes back.”
“Fine. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't call the police. Cover all our bases.”
He raised his hands as if in surrender. “I didn't say you couldn't call the police. If you want to do that? Fine.”
“What happened to Jessie being both our responsibility?”
“That still stands.”
“It feels to me like you've dumped this on me. If I want to call the police, than I can go ahead and do that. Not us or we. Me.”
“You're reading too much into things now.”
She stood. Went to the kitchen counter and took the phone off the hook. She returned to the table, standing over Alec, and set the phone in front of him. “Then call.”
He stared at the phone before him as if it were a slug he'd found in his breakfast cereal. “You're letting your emotions get the better of you.”
“Hey, at least I have emotions. You're sitting there like a cold stone. I don't even know what to think.”
“She'll embarrass us. It's like crying wolf.”
“So that's what you're really worried about. Your fucking ego.”
Alec raised an eyebrow.
She slapped a hand over her mouth. God, how long had it been since she had said the f-word? Her face glowed like an ember and she hated herself for it. Why couldn't she say fucking if she meant it? If she was really that fucking angry at her husband? She lowered her hand and stood straight.
“All right. You stay here and do...whatever you're going to do. But I'm not going to sit around and assume my daughter is safe.” She left the kitchen and retrieved her coat from the closet by the front door.
“Come on, Kate.” Alec stood in the archway to the foyer watching her. “Where are you going?”
She finished buttoning her coat and made sure her keys were still in the pocket. “I'm going to find Jessie.”
Chapter Four
“Or what?”
The vamp holding the gun to Lockman's head made a low gurgling sound that was probably supposed to be a growl.
Time to test how badly they really wanted him alive. “If I make a move, are you going to shoot me? Maybe you think you can wing me? Clip a leg?”
The vamp jabbed with the gun barrel. “Drop them.”
“Again, I ask, 'Or what?'“ Lockman slowly stood straight from his crouched position. The gun barrel remained snug right at the base of his skull. “To stop me, you will have to kill me.”
“I'll take pleasure in draining you before the bullet wounds let you bleed out.”
Lockman smiled. Oh, yeah. Definitely a vamp. As if he had any doubt. But that left the question hanging about why the crucifix didn't work for the girl.
“What would Dolan think if he saw my flesh between your teeth?”
“I don't worry about any human's will. If I want to kill prey, I kill.”
“Nice bluff.” Against every human instinct toward survival, he turned to face the vamp, the animal part of his mind wailing against his will while waiting for the bullet to pierce his brain. Lockman trusted his instincts, but neither did he neglect his intellect.
The vamp jerked back as if
Lockman had cocked an arm to hit him. “Enough. Move again and you die along with the girl inside.”
The muscles in Lockman's jaw tightened. “See. That kind of talk just pisses me off.” He swung his left forearm in a traditional block meant for an incoming punch, but used it instead to knock the vamp's weapon aside. He lifted the gun in his right hand at the same time.
The vamp had the advantage of not being human, its reflexes twice that of even the best trained mortal. In a flash, it had Lockman's right wrist gripped and the gun pushed off target, making the two shots Lockman fired thump uselessly into the ground.
Good thing Lockman had another gun in his left hand. Like the best of stage magicians, he used what he did with his right hand to misdirect from his left. At close proximity, shooting from the hip, Lockman took no chances. He kept squeezing the trigger until the gun snapped dry.
Smoke hissed from the holes in the vamp's torso, but it must have worn some protective armor under the fatigues. It merely staggered back a few steps, its grip still firm on Lockman's right wrist.
Anticipating the next move, Lockman dropped his empty Glock and grabbed for the automatic weapon the vamp still held in its free hand. He tried to yank the gun free. The vamp tugged back, trying to loosen Lockman's hold.
They danced in this tug-of-war stalemate until Lockman let go of the weapon and snatched at the vamp's ski mask. He ripped it off in one fluid motion, the wrap-around sunglasses coming with it.
The vamp screamed and let go of both Lockman and its weapon to cover its eyes. With most of its face covered by its hands, the vamp could almost pass as a bald human with slightly disfigured ears. That is, until its skin began to bubble.
Lucky thing the house faced East, directly in the rising sunlight.
Lockman kicked the vamp in the stomach and shoved him out from behind the shrubs. The vamp stumbled back and fell to the sidewalk. Its head caught fire, the flames bright blue like a propane torch. In a matter of seconds the creature's skull caved in and the head blew away in flakes of ash. Only the burnt stump of its neck remained, and even that began to disintegrate as the exposed flesh met with the sunlight. The rest of the body, still clad in black, looked undisturbed apart from the sizzling bullet holes in the torso.
