Alex Rains, Vampire Hunter (Book 1): The Devil's Mouth

by Matt Kincade

  “He knows where she is. We should be—”

  “Well we ain’t.”

  Carmen crossed her arms. “This is boring.”

  “Can’t argue with that.” After a minute or more of silence, Alex said, “Tell me about her.”

  “What?”

  “Your sister. Tell me about Mia.”

  “Okay,” Carmen twisted in her seat, leaning against the passenger door. “She’s…willful.”

  Alex laughed. “Guess that runs in the family.”

  Carmen smiled and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, maybe. She’s stubborn as a brick, when she gets an idea into her head. But she’s…I don’t know. She just shines, you know? She’s got this energy to her. She’s got it in here.” Carmen tapped her chest. “She’s got so much potential. She’s like that girl in high school that was beautiful and good at everything, and you wanted to hate her for it, but you couldn’t because she was just so damned nice.”

  “Sounds like quite a girl.” Alex’s milkshake was empty, but he still tried to get more out of the cup.

  “She is. She could do anything, if she had the chance. If she wasn’t stuck being dirt poor in Juarez. If she’d been—”

  “Hold on a tick.” Alex held up his hand. “Here we go.”

  The glass door of the law office swung open. Manuel Sandoval strode out, holding a cell phone to his ear with one hand and unfolding a pair of sunglasses with the other. He walked into the bright sunshine of the parking lot.

  “Well,” said Alex, “least we know he ain’t a vampire.”

  Sandoval used his key fob to unlock a tan Jaguar. He got in and closed the door. As the Jag backed out of its parking space, Alex shifted the SUV into gear. He merged into rush hour traffic a few car-lengths behind the sedan.

  Carmen rolled her eyes and tapped her fingers on the dash. “Now we’re following another car to another house.”

  “Look, you wanted my help,” he said gruffly. “This is how I do it.”

  She let out a wordless growl of frustration. “You heard what that vampire said. Mia is alive. God, with every minute that passes, she could be—”

  “I know, goddamn it. Don’t you go thinkin’ I don’t.”

  The Jaguar pulled into the garage of a sand-colored mansion in a tony subdivision on the edge of town. It was a two-story monolith of a house with a red tile roof and a two-car garage. Alex continued past and around the corner, before pulling a U-turn and coming back. He parked across the street at a safe distance, with a clear view of the lawyer’s house.

  “Now we go?” asked Carmen.

  “Now we wait.”

  Carmen crossed her arms. “God damn it.”

  ***

  An early-evening rainstorm cut loose. Water ran in sheets down the windshield, throwing dappled shadows inside the car. Alex sat silently, watching the house through his binoculars. The raindrops made a steady patter on the roof. He kept his window cracked open, and the smell of fresh rain on hot pavement wafted in.

  “Sorry there ain’t a quicker way to do this,” said Alex.

  Carmen sighed. “I just don’t know how much more time we have.”

  “We’re gettin’ there. Don’t you worry.”

  She shook her head. “This is silly.”

  “Let me ask y’all a question. Sandoval. Does he live alone? Does he got an alarm? Does he answer the door himself, or has he got a maid? Does he own a gun? A dog? He got company over? He expectin’ company? We don’t know none of that, and it makes all the difference.”

  An hour passed. The Chevelles played softly on the radio. Nobody entered or left the house.

  Alex took out his infrared scope and focused it on the lawyer’s house. The infrared showed one man, sitting alone in an easy chair, sipping a drink. “All right,” said Alex. “looks like he’s gettin’ ready to spend the evening alone. That’s what we’re lookin’ for. Pretty soon we can go and have a chat with him.”

  The rain stopped, and the sun briefly peeked out through the narrow band of pink sky on the horizon before disappearing behind the mountains.

  Alex spent several more minutes looking through the binoculars then switched back to the infrared. The heat vision showed the same person, in the same chair, holding the same drink. “Yeah, looks like he’s still alone.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” asked Carmen. She leaned her back against the passenger door to face him.

  “Don’t rightly know,” said Alex. He switched to the binoculars again and scanned up and down the street. “I just got a funny feeling.”

  “We don’t have time for this.”

  “Darlin’, don’t matter what we don’t have time for. Somethin’s hinky. It’s too quiet. Somethin’ about this is makin’ the hairs on my neck stand up.”

  “So what? You want to call the whole thing off, because of your neck hairs? Sit here and watch with your binoculars for a week?”

  Alex nodded. “Ideally, yeah. I’d like that.”

  “That son of a bitch knows where Mia is, and I’m not going to wait.” She put her hand on the door handle and watched for his reaction.

  Alex sighed. He closed his eyes for a moment. “All right then. If that’s how you want to play it.” He opened his door; Carmen followed suit. They crossed the street and walked up the concrete walkway, through the xeriscaped yard, and up onto the tiny front stoop. After a minute’s search, Alex found a door key under a planter. He eased the door open.

  Inside, the house was dark. An enormous Navajo rug sat in the center of the foyer. A staircase curved upward, rising above the vaulted entrance to the hallway. Neoclassic art lined the walls. The only illumination came from subtly placed night-lights, save for one doorway down the hall, which glowed yellow. Brisk, crisp strains of flamenco guitar drifted down the hallway.

  Alex drew his pistol. Carmen followed him, trying to match his silence as they crept through the grand foyer and down the hall. Alex held the pistol down low at his side. The music grew louder as they approached the occupied room.

  Light from the doorway threw an orange rectangle across the hall. Alex stood on the edge of the darkness. From where Carmen stood, he was silhouetted, his face in perfect profile against the shifting orange glow of candlelight. Alex closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and entered the room.

  Manuel Sandoval sat reclined in a leather-upholstered easy chair. His eyes were closed. He wore his suit slacks and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar and cuffs. He still wore his suspenders. His black-stockinged feet rested on a leather ottoman. Next to him on an end table, a decanter of Scotch sat next to a half-full snifter. There was no fire in the fireplace, but a half dozen candles flickered on the mantle, the only light in the room. On the opposite wall, a small fortune’s worth of home audio equipment pumped out high-fidelity flamenco. A row of level indicator lights jumped from green to red with every crisp pluck of a guitar string.

  Alex stood in the doorway, noting every detail. Carmen came forward and stood next to him. Her foot came down on the hardwood during a lull in the music. Sandoval’s eyes snapped open.

  Only the eyes moved. Otherwise, he was still as a stone. He took in the scene in an instant—his quick, intelligent eyes flicking from Alex, to Carmen, to the guns, back to Carmen.

  “Who the hell are you?” he said at last. He looked more annoyed than frightened.

  Alex was silent for a moment. The shadow of his hat brim in the dancing light made his eyes into dead pools. “Gonna ask you a couple questions, hoss.”

  “And you need guns to ask me questions?” Slowly, Sandoval straightened up the recliner and put his feet on the floor. “You need to sneak into my home?” He reached for a black object on the end table. Alex’s pistol came up. The sweet metallic click was audible above the music as he thumbed the hammer back.

  Sandoval froze, then very slowly picked up the remote control. He turned the music down.

  “Well, if you have questions, ask them.” Sandoval—again, slowly—picked up his glass and drained
it.

  “Tell us about your client,” said Carmen.

  Sandoval chuckled. “My dear, I have many clients.”

  “Your oldest client,” said Carmen.

  “Monesco Holdings,” said Alex. “Where’s the money go?”

  Sandoval looked back and forth between them. He smiled and laughed again. “Is that what this is all about? Monesco? There couldn’t be a more mundane portfolio in the world.”

  “We ain’t interested in the portfolio,” said Alex. “We’re interested in the beneficiary. Who’s been gettin’ all that money all these years?”

  The lawyer shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. Attorney-client privilege.”

  “We ain’t gonna worry about little details like that,” Alex said, taking a step closer to Sandoval.

  The old man sighed. “Okay, no need for violence.” He eased himself out of his chair. “I have all the information you want, in my office.” He picked up the Scotch decanter and the empty glass. “Follow me.”

  Far from the confident stride they’d seen earlier in the day, Sandoval shuffled like a sore old man as he led them two doors down, through the darkened hall. He flicked on a light and entered a miniature version of his office at the law building. A slightly smaller desk. A slightly smaller bookshelf. A slightly smaller row of filing cabinets.

  Sandoval set down the decanter and poured himself another glass. “Would you like some?” he asked. “It’s a sixteen-year-old Lagavulin, quite good.” He swirled the glass and smelled the scotch. “Quite good.”

  Alex made a hurry-up gesture with his pistol. Sandoval shrugged and pulled open the oak filing cabinet.

  “Nothin’ fancy now,” said Alex.

  “What could I do?” asked Sandoval. “A bald old man against two people with guns? Please. I’m not an idiot. I’ll give you what you want, and then you, it is to be hoped, will go away.”

  He flipped through the filing cabinet and finally pulled out a thick manila folder. He sat at the desk and opened it.

  “Monesco is our oldest client. It’s the account that made this family. For five generations, Sandoval has been keeping this client and their assets safe and anonymous. And now you just want me to tell you? Why? For some bizarre vendetta?”

  “This client,” said Carmen, “you know what he is. How can you live with yourself?”

  Sandoval knitted his brows. “I don’t follow you. What is he?”

  “A vampire,” said Carmen.

  Sandoval leaned back, held his belly, and laughed. He laughed until he nearly fell from his chair. He rocked back and wiped tears from his eyes. “A vampire? Oh, that’s rich. I don’t know what’s funnier, that you think my client is a…a vampire…or that you think I’d mind! I am a lawyer, after all! Mustn’t we bloodsucking fiends stick together?”

  Alex waved the pistol at the old man. “Don’t matter what he is or what he ain’t. We just need his name and where to find him.”

  Something changed in Sandoval’s demeanor then. A sly grin spread across his face. The lawyer leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs into his suspenders. A look of deadly satisfaction settled onto his face. “I think you’ve probably already heard of him,” he said. “Don Carlos is his name. And, my stupid friends, I think you’ll meet him sooner than you might like.”

  Carmen felt the cold touch of steel against her neck. At the same time, someone snatched the pistol from her hand. She drew in her breath.

  Alex started to turn. “Don’t try it,” said a voice from the shadows. Someone stepped forward, holding Carmen by the collar, a pistol jammed against the back of her head. Alex turned back. Sandoval held a Taser in his hand.

  It sounded like a book dropping on a tabletop. The Taser’s compressed air charge propelled two barbed metal prongs across the room and into Alex’s chest. He felt the sting as they burrowed into his muscle. Then fifty thousand volts hit his nervous system. He screamed, and the floor rose up and hit him in the face.

  Chapter Nine

  Alex spasmed on the floor as electricity coursed through his body. The Taser crackled. Carmen cried out and tried to go to him, but strong hands held her fast and twisted her arms around painfully behind her back.

  The Taser stopped. Alex went limp against the floor. Sandoval laughed. “I’ve always wanted to see what that would do to somebody.” He hit the button again, sending Alex back into convulsions.

  Carmen turned and found herself staring down the barrel of a pistol. Three men faced her. Two looked to be in their early thirties and wore clean, pressed slacks; shined shoes; crisp white shirts. The third was older, weathered. He wore a black cowboy hat and a denim jacket.

  They forced Carmen into a chair. The cold steel of handcuffs ratcheted around her wrists.

  The one in the black hat pulled out a cell phone. He dialed, and then, after a moment’s pause, he spoke into the phone. “We have them. At Sandoval’s house. Of course.” He hung up the phone and put it away. He turned and looked down at Alex while he leaned against Sandoval’s desk. “Well, here we are. Alex, right? I’m Jacob. And you, buddy, are about to have a real bad night.”

  In response, Alex drooled on the carpet. “Nothing to say? Just as well.” Jacob looked down at Alex’s boots, at the hat lying on the floor. “A cowboy, huh? I feel bad for you. The Don hates cowboys.” He tipped his own hat. “Hell, he hates me, and I work for him.” He suppressed a cough. “You hear that? That’s esophageal cancer. I mean, I don’t just want that promotion. I need it. And he knows it. I’ve done damned good work for the man. Ten years I’ve worked for the Don. So when you guys whack his head of security, who does he tap for a replacement? Me? Hell, no. He picks some fucking new guy, some worthless fuckwit, who just happens to be a full-blooded Spaniard. Does that sound fair to you?” Jacob paced the floor. “Oh, no. Anything but promote the only competent one. Anything but promote the white guy who wears cowboy boots.” Jacob stopped himself. He laughed. “Sorry. I’m venting. Anyway, he’s gonna hate you.” He knelt and looked into Carmen’s face. “And if there’s anything the Don hates more than white cowboys, it’s women and Mexicans.”

  “Fuck you,” Carmen spat.

  Jacob grinned and winked. “Careful what you wish for.” He turned to Alex. “Now, just so you know. There’s only one reason you’re still alive right now. When somebody pisses off the Don, he insists on finishing them himself. He’s old school like that. Tradicional. And you know what? You really, really pissed him off. I don’t know what he’s going to do to you, but I’m pretty sure you aren’t going to like it. Me? I’m a pragmatist. If it were up to me, I’d put a bullet in you now. But since the Don won’t be here for a while, we have some time to kill. What should we do?”

  Jacob kicked Alex in the face. His nose snapped wetly. Blood spurted onto the Navajo carpet. Carmen screamed and turned her head away.

  “Ah, why on the rug?” moaned Sandoval.

  “Buy a new one. You can afford it.” Jacob kicked Alex again, this time in the stomach. And again. In the other room, a brisk, fiery flamenco track started, at first only the percussive ratatatat of boot heels on hardwood, then hand claps, and then the guitar exploded into a brash, dirty melody.

  Jacob gestured to his men. They picked Alex up and held his arms. Jacob pummeled him in the kidneys, in the face. The men kicked him in the groin then let him drop again. The three of them kicked and stomped him again and again. Sickening, wet thumps filled the room as each blow connected. Sandoval stood and watched, impassive.

  As tears ran down her cheeks, Carmen strained against the cuffs that held her wrists together, threaded through the ladder-back chair. She tried pulling the chair’s slats apart, but they wouldn’t budge. She twisted her hands until they bled, but the cuffs were tight enough to cut off circulation.

  Alex lunged off the floor and took a clumsy swing at one of the attackers. He missed and sprawled over the desk. Papers, blotter, pencil holder, and stapler all went flying. Jacob grabbed Alex’s shirt, pulled him uprigh
t again, and slugged him in the gut. When Alex bent over in pain, Jacob’s knee slammed into his face. He stumbled backward and fell against Carmen. He planted one hand on the chair between her legs and locked eyes with her for a long moment. Blood smeared on her shirt as he slid to the floor.

  Carmen looked down. There on the seat cushion was Alex’s bloody handprint. Next to it, tucked up under her butt, right where the crotch seam of her jeans came together, was a blood-smeared handcuff key.

  Alex lunged again and managed to land a decent punch. His attackers responded with renewed fury. While they focused on Alex, Carmen scooted her butt forward in the seat, stretching her hands down as far as she could, jamming the backrest into her armpits. She fished around for the key. After a moments’ panic, her fingertips touched metal. She gently teased the key toward her with a fingernail, got it between two fingers, followed by her finger and thumb. She oh-so-carefully inserted the key into the handcuff lock. The shackle fell away from her left wrist. She looked around but kept her hands behind her back. Amid the chaos, no one seemed to be paying her much attention.

  One of the henchmen had Alex’s chrome .45 tucked into the back of his waistband. His back was to Carmen. She judged the distance, calculated the odds, and tensed her body to spring.

  Carmen crouched and lunged. Time slowed down. She grabbed the pistol and yanked it free.

  Sandoval sat at his desk and watched her, his mouth shaped in an O of surprise.

  The henchman turned, not yet fully aware of what was happening. As Carmen brought the weapon to bear, his face just started to register the fact that things might be going horribly wrong.

  Then he didn’t have a face. The .45 bucked and spat fire. The henchman’s brains splattered the shelf of leather-bound law books..

  Jacob and the remaining henchman dove for cover while they scrambled for their guns. Carmen bared her teeth as she pulled the trigger again and again. One bullet caught the other thug in the throat. A red waterfall cascaded down his white shirt. His knees buckled, and he fell. Another bullet punched through Jacob’s chest as he dove into the hall.