The Supernatural Bounty Hunter Files: Special Edition Fantasy Bundle, Books 1 thru 5 (Smoke Special Edition)

by Craig Halloran

  “Can I freshen you up, honey?” asked an older woman holding a steaming pot of coffee over the table.

  “That would be great, thanks.” Sid shoved her mug over and watched the woman fill it to the brim.

  “No cream or sugar?”

  “No.”

  “There you go. Anything else?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She checked the clock on the wall. 10:32 am. Ted was late, and he wasn’t normally late. She shifted in the booth and pulled up a website on her iPad. www.nightfalldc.com. It was more of a tabloid than anything else, but it had a strong following. There were stories about crimes that never got reported. Strange happenings at the nightclub scene. Sidney had spent a couple of hours scanning the past year’s worth of articles and stories. Russ Davenport’s name was on most of them, but that wasn’t all she learned. Russ Davenport wasn’t his real name, rather a pseudonym. And to make things more interesting, she still didn’t know what his real name was.

  A text popped up on her iPad from her sister, Allison. It read:

  Can you watch Megan this weekend? Need serious help. Mom and Dad in Florida.

  “She must be joking.” Sid started to reply no but pulled back. A weekend with Megan might be just what she needed. She didn’t want Allison to know that, but why punish the kid? Megan probably needed a break too. She texted back.

  I’ll think about it.

  Great. It could be a career-defining moment. Thanks, Sis.

  That’s odd. The nature of the text almost seemed cheerful. Positive. She’s probably high. Sidney sighed. I guess I’ll find out soon enough. She checked the time. 10:36. Where is he? He could at least text or something. She took out her phone and pulled up Ted’s number. Screw this. I’ve got things to do. A bell rang on the old restaurant’s front door, and a man in an overcoat, suit, and tie entered. Sidney frowned. It wasn’t Ted, it was Cyrus Tweel.

  CHAPTER 7

  Cyrus sat down in the booth and dropped a paper satchel on the table. “Hey, Sid.” He raised his finger up and half-shouted at the waitress. “Coffee. Two creams. One sugar.” He drummed the table and settled himself into the booth. “I hate this place. Smells old. Feels old. Never understood why Ted’s so fond of it.”

  “Probably because people like you don’t come here.”

  “Oh-oh,” he said, drumming the table. He pushed back his round wire-rimmed glasses. “Why the frosty reception?”

  “I was expecting Ted.”

  “Ted was called into something bigger—we can only assume—and hence, he dispatched me, your supervisor, to have this little meeting with you.” He plucked a piece of bacon off of her plate and bit into it. “Man that’s greasy.” He dropped it back on her plate and wiped his hands off. “You should switch to turkey bacon or no bacon at all. That would be wise.”

  “And you should keep your hands to yourself.” She straightened up in her chair and locked her fingers together and rested her hands on the table. “What’s the meeting about? I assume it involves the incident from yesterday?”

  “Never assume anything,” he said, smiling. “No, I’ve been briefed on the incident and so has Ted, but this is entirely different.” He shoved the paper satchel her way. “It’s the next Black Slate assignment.”

  “Really?” she said, staring at the file. She fixed her gaze back on him. “You seem almost chipper about it.”

  “Oh, not really. Look Sid, I’ve gotten wind of some of the reports, and maybe I haven’t been very clear about what I think, but I will be now.” He pecked his index finger on the file. “This is a career killer. Get away from it.”

  “It’s my assignment. I’ve been picked for some reason, and truth be told”—she pulled the file toward her—“I like it.”

  His face deflated a little and he said with a shrug, “It’s your career.” The waitress delivered his coffee and set it on the table. He took a long sip and made a sour face. “Good lord, this coffee tastes as old as the building.”

  Sidney stared at the file. It was sealed shut. She began tearing it open.

  “Ah ah ah,” Cyrus said, pinning the folder down with his hand. “You can look at this bullshit after I’m gone. I don’t want any of this supernatural crap rubbing off on me. I’ve got big plans for tonight.”

  “Oh I see. You have a date then?”

  He lifted his chin and said with a smirk, “As a matter of fact I do, and I’m pretty excited about it. She’s so interesting.” His eyes were fixed on hers. “Really interesting.”

  Fine, I’ll entertain him. “And where did you meet her?”

  “Work.”

  “Oh, well, I think that’s a bad idea.” Not that I care. “So, what’s her name?”

  “Rebecca Lang, and I believe you’ve met her.”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “She seems nice. Good for you, Cyrus.”

  He reached into his pocket and grabbed his ringing phone. “Oh, that’s her.” He answered. “Hey Rebecca. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Great. Eight it is.” He disconnected and got out of his seat. “Sorry, but I’ve got to get back out on the street. I’m knocking off a little early today.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said to him. “What about John Smoke? Isn’t he going to be a part of this?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care.” He threw a buck on the table. “Read the file.”

  ***

  Back home inside her apartment early that evening, Sidney sat on her sofa staring at the unopened Black Slate file. Something was different. The hand-off from Cyrus for one thing. The lack of discussion about Smoke for another. She picked at the clasp that held the paperwork inside.

  What are you waiting for, Sid?

  Her phone buzzed. It was another text message from her sister. It read:

  I’m waiting.

  Sidney texted her back:

  90 min.

  She’d agreed to watch Megan over the weekend, and that was part of her hesitation with the file. Once she opened it, she’d dive into it, and she just didn’t want to do that right now. But what if the contents inside required immediate action? And wasn’t Smoke supposed to be the bounty hunter, not her? She was just supposed to watch him. The phone buzzed again. It read:Pick up some dinner.

  Sidney squeezed her phone. That’s just like her, not feeding Megan any dinner. It’s 7:10 already. Geez! I suppose I might as well stock up on some groceries. Deadbeat! She tapped the phone against her chin and stared at the file. The last two files had almost gotten her killed, not to mention all the mystery they had unfolded. What would the next file have in store for her? A vampire? The New Jersey Devil or a Mothman? The man from the cemetery who they called Boss had made light about one.

  It’s not like you to be a chicken, Sid. Go ahead. Tear Pandora’s box wide open.

  She ripped off the tape, peeled back the metal clasp, and dumped the contents on the table. The tab on the black folder read Mason Crow. After folding it open, she studied the portrait of a black man in sunglasses and mutton chops. “Oh Lord,” she chuckled, “it’s the Duke of New York.” She pushed the picture aside and glanced at the next one and blanched. “On steroids.”

  The pictures were all labeled Mason Crow. The man was huge. Maybe seven feet tall and solid muscle. One picture was of him towering in the center of a group of men of several nationalities. They were in the bush and geared up like mercenaries. Mason Crow had an M-60 machine gun that looked like a toy resting on his brawny shoulder.

  “I don’t even want to know what kind of monster this guy turns into.” She flipped through a few more pictures, and her stomach turned queasy. Mason Crow stood over a pile of butchered bodies with a blood-soaked machete in his hand. “He’s a monster already.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Congressman Wilhelm? You’re kidding, Allison. Tell me you’re kidding?”

  “No,” Allison said, picking up her luggage and heading for the door. “This job’s paying me seven thousand a month. I can’t pass that up. I can’t afford to pass up anything right now.”

>   Sidney tossed her duffel bag onto the couch and glared at her sister. Allison wore a business pantsuit and she still looked sexy in it, like an airline attendant you’d see on some billionaire’s private jet. “And David? Is he going to be there?”

  “Nope,” Allison said, checking her hair in her mirror. “I’m done with him.” She smiled at herself in the mirror. “Wow, what a great view!”

  “Seven-K a month seems a bit pricey for an internship,” Sidney said, rubbing Megan’s head. The little eyes were glued to the TV, watching cartoons. I might need to look into her pay stub. “And where are you going, exactly?”

  “Oh, some sort of conference in Houston, Texas. I’ve never been there, but I hear it’s pretty exciting. Do you think they still wear cowboy hats?”

  “Sure, and the governor stables his horse at the capitol.”

  “Really?” Allison checked her make-up. “I bet that’s fascinating.” She loaded her luggage onto her shoulder. “Cab’s waiting. Got to go. Kiss kiss, Megan.”

  Megan waved her pink-sleeved arm up in the air. “Bye, Mommy.”

  “Allison,” Sidney started to say. Her sister disappeared into the hallway, and the door closed behind her. “Be careful.”

  “Are you worried about Mommy?” Megan said. She was leaning over the back of the sofa and looking up at Sid with her hands cupped under her chin. “Because you look worried.”

  Sidney took a seat on the couch and Megan curled up into her side. “Your mommy is my little sister, so I’ll always worry some. Besides, that’s what women do, too much and too often.”

  “Well, I’m not worried.” Megan turned the TV off. “Can we play dress-up now?”

  “How about we eat first? I brought your favorite takeout.”

  Megan clapped her hands. “Chinese?”

  “Uh, no, I thought you liked Mexican.”

  “That was last year. I’m ten now, and I’m all about some Moo Goo Gai Pan.”

  “But you’ll still eat Mexican, won’t you?”

  Megan shrugged her little shoulders and said, “I guess so.”

  “Good.” Sidney got up from the couch and made her way into the apartment’s kitchen. Grimy dishes were piled high in the sink. She stuck them in the dishwasher.

  “That doesn’t work anymore,” said Megan, taking a seat on the kitchen barstool. She held a white teddy bear in her arms. “The landlord won’t fix it because Mom’s behind on her rent. You won’t let them kick us out, will you Aunt Sid?”

  “No, of course not.” Oh, great! Seven grand a month she says, and she can’t pay rent. “Well, you can still clean dishes with soap and water.”

  “I know. But I’ve been feeling kinda lazy lately.” Megan stretched her arms out and yawned. “Plus, we’re out of dish soap.”

  “I wasn’t talking about you.” Sid found a stack of paper plates in the cupboard, but there were water stains on them. “I was talking about your mother.” She took the Styrofoam containers of Mexican food out of the plastic bag and set them on the counter. “Looks like we’re going to eat in a less formal setting.” She fished some plastic utensils and napkins out of the bag. “Is that all right with you?”

  Megan glanced at the trash can in the kitchen corner. It was stuffed with take-out containers. “What do you think?” she said.

  The lukewarm food was good and the conversation light. Megan told her about school and her upcoming science project that she needed some help on. Sid noticed that Megan yawned a lot. She’d been with her niece plenty over the years, and usually, even later in the evening, she was bright eyed and bushy tailed. Normally, she’d be alert until she zonked out.

  After they finished eating, Megan asked again if they could play dress-up, and they’d spent the last thirty minutes applying makeup.

  Staring into the mirror, Megan said, “I look like a hooker.”

  “What?” Sidney gasped. “No, no, you don’t.” She started rubbing off some of the blush on her cheeks. Morning Glory, I haven’t overdone it that much, have I? “What makes you think you look like a hooker?”

  “Because I’m wearing a lot of makeup.”

  “Do you know what a hooker is?”

  “Mommy says hookers are women who wear too much perfume and makeup.”

  “Well, not exactly. There are a lot of women who wear too much makeup, but they aren’t hookers.”

  “Like old ladies that we see in department stores.”

  “Well that’s one kind that aren’t hookers.”

  “So what are hookers?”

  Sidney grabbed a brush and began combing Megan’s hair. “How about we braid it? You always look so cute when it’s braided.”

  Megan said, “Sure. So, what’s a hooker?”

  “Well,” said Sid as she braided Megan’s soft and silky dirty-blond hair, “Hookers are women who sleep with men for money.”

  The little girl’s jaw dropped, and her eyes filled with excitement. “Really? People will pay you to sleep with them? That sounds like a pretty easy way to make money. Sleeping’s easy, but sleeping with boys seems kind of gross.”

  There’s a lot of truth to that. “Well, there’s a lot more to it than just sleeping with them.”

  “Like what?”

  Be straight. “Kissing.”

  “Like sex kissing?”

  Sidney eyed her reflection in the mirror. “Uh, something like that.”

  “Like I see on TV. I see lots of kissing on TV. Are all of those women hookers?”

  “Only if they’re paid for it.” Oh geez. She stopped braiding. “What kind of shows do you watch?”

  “Just what Mommy watches. I have a TV in my room, but the screen’s all fuzzy. Mommy says she’ll get me a new one now that she has a job.”

  “Okay, listen to your Aunt Sid, and I’ll explain to you a little bit about hookers.” I shouldn’t be having this conversation. “Hookers sleep with men for money, but it’s against the law. They can be arrested for it. So, talking about hookers, also known as prostitutes or call girls, is a bit of a no-no.”

  “Oh, I see.” Megan smiled. “Thanks, Auntie Sid. That clears that up.”

  “Good.” Sid resumed braiding the girl’s hair.

  “Aunt Sidney.”

  “Yes?”

  “What happens if people sleep with each other for free? Is that illegal?”

  Morning Glory!

  CHAPTER 9

  After a restless night of sleep, Sidney rolled out of her sister’s bed and rubbed her eyes. It was daybreak, and a soft light illuminated the edges of the bent mauve-colored window blinds. Megan slept at her side, curled up in a ball. A gentle rise and fall was in the little girl’s chest and her face, despite some smeared makeup, was at peace.

  Sidney kissed her forehead and brushed her cheek with her thumb. Such a sweet thing. She picked her way through Allison’s bedroom. Drawers were half open, stuffed with clothes spilling out. Her closet was cramped with shoeboxes and fancy dresses. Sid rubbed the satin on a pearl-colored evening dress.

  This would cost me a paycheck. How does she get these things? The conversation she’d had with Megan about hookers came to mind. Sid’s neck tightened. No. She wouldn’t. Would she? It would explain plenty of things. The clothes, the shoes… she opened a white jewelry box that sat on the dresser and gaped.

  Look at this stuff!

  She held up a tennis bracelet loaded in bright diamonds and shook her head. And she can’t buy any damn groceries! There was more. More precious stones and fine metals of all sorts. A small hoard. Sidney slipped a ruby band flecked with diamonds over her finger. Hmmm, I might keep this for myself. A gold-leaf brooch studded with rubies caught her eye. She snatched it up. That’s Mom’s! She clutched it in her hand. Is she stealing this stuff, or was it given to her? She plucked another item out of the box. A pair of silver and onyx cufflinks she had seen their father wear. Sonuva—?

  A rustle in the living room caught her ear. She scooted over to the bed and grabbed her Glock from under the pillow.
On cat’s feet, she crept down the short hallway. The back of a man’s head could be seen sitting on the couch. He was leaning over the coffee table. She charged the slide of her weapon, readying a round in the chamber. “Get those hands up where I can see them.”

  Slowly, the man’s big hands rose toward the ceiling.

  “Clasp your fingers behind your head,” she ordered, making her way to the kitchen.

  The man let out a grunt but complied. He turned his face toward hers.

  “Smoke?”

  The man looked amazing even in blue jeans, work boots, and a nondescript brown jacket. He swallowed. “Yeah. It’s me.”

  She kept her gun on him. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  He grimaced. “Just keeping an eye on things, I guess.” He eyed the barrel of her gun. “Do you mind?”

  “Oh, I don’t mind putting a bullet in your head. No, not at all.”

  “Maybe you should call the police.” He started rubbing his neck.

  Now that she looked closer, she noticed that his arm was skinned up. And the thigh of his jeans was torn, revealing a bloody gash.

  He said, “You wouldn’t happen to have a Band-Aid, would you?”

  “No,” she said, lowering her weapon. “But there’s a hospital a few blocks up the road. Did you miss it on your way over here?”

  “Guess so,” he said, leaning his big frame over the coffee table. He clutched his side and eyed the Black Slate file that was opened on the table. “Interesting.”

  “There’s nothing in here for you to see,” she said. She stuffed everything into the file and tossed it onto the kitchen bar.

  “I disagree,” he said, running his eyes up her legs.

  She was wearing only a long black shirt and panties and made no effort to hide it. Instead, she took a seat on the barstool and rested her gun hand on the bar. “Out with it. Why are you here—and why do you look beat all to hell?”