Night's Fall (Night's Champion Book 2)

by Richard Parry

  She opened her hand, the cue balanced on her palm, and looked over at Caribbean. She saw a small smile playing at the man’s mouth. A sound caught her attention again, and she saw 38 Special starting to rise. The gun was in his hand and pointed in her direction. Carlisle closed her fingers around the cue, planted her free hand on the side of a table, and rolled over the top. The cue came with her, she tucked it under her body as she rolled and the side of it knocked against her hip then — goddamn — her face as she rolled. She heard the gun fire, a bullet hitting somewhere above her as she moved. Her feet came down over the edge of the table, the cue in her hand, and she spun across the distance between the two of them. Another shot went off, tugging at the sleeve of her jacket. Carlisle reached 38 Special, his eyes were wide with fear. The gun was still in his hand — no way he can miss at this range. She saw it in his eyes, the moment before he made the decision to kill her, and she brought the cue down against the side of his head in a two-handed strike. It splintered against his skull and the man hit the ground, the gun firing blind. Carlisle felt her heart hammering in her chest, her ears ringing from the shot.

  She let the broken cue go, then turned around, the movement slow and deliberate. Okay Carlisle. You’re still alive. This time. She worked to bring her breathing under control. “Okay,” she said after a few lungfuls of air, “now I’ve finished with them, I’ve got time to deal with you three.”

  Caribbean had a half-smile pulling at his mouth, but the two men with him looked at her hard. Caribbean thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know if the things we want are at odds with the things you want.”

  “I think,” said Carlisle, “that if you want to send a group of assholes against me and mine, we’re poles apart.” She stepped forward, her foot crunching against some broken glass on the ground. “I think,” she said again, “it’s a problem we should work out, right here. Right now.”

  “This isn’t really your style, Detective,” he said to her. The two men at his side hadn’t moved. “I know you—”

  “You don’t know shit.”

  “I know you graduated with good marks. Not top marks, but good enough to land you the job you wanted. I know your father is dead.”

  “So you read the papers.” Carlisle took another step forward, aware of the Eagle still snug against her back. She wanted to reach for it, feel the comfortable weight in her hand, but there was something here that made her pause. It wasn’t just that she didn’t want to kill a man who hadn’t pulled a weapon on her, no matter what it might prevent. There was something about him that was … different. You’ve seen a lot of assholes in your time, and this guy just doesn’t have his asshole dial turned all the way to 11. “Lucky you.”

  “I’ve spoken with him.” Caribbean dropped the four words into the sound of Johnny Cash. “He is a man of indifferent quality.”

  Carlisle swallowed, something pulling at her guts. “You what?”

  “We spoke,” said Caribbean, “about you.”

  She didn’t realize she’d pulled it out before she saw the gun in her hand, leveled at him. Carlisle could see the barrel shaking slightly, her fingers white with tension. “Say that again. I fucking dare you. No. I double dare you.”

  The men at Caribbean’s side started to move, but Caribbean held a hand up. “Can we start again? I feel like we’ve … I’d like to start again.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” Carlisle held her weapon in front of her like a shield. “I mean, aside from the question I just asked.”

  “Please.”

  “Let’s say you meet a girl in a bar. Do you ask her about her dead partner, then maybe talk about her dead Dad, or do you take her out for a few drinks first?” Carlisle could feel the sweat cooling on her face, and she wiped it away with her hand. “Because if this is your usual style, I can’t see you getting laid all that much.”

  Caribbean blinked at her, then laughed. “Raeni knew you were different.”

  “Who’s Raeni?”

  “You would call her … my boss,” said Caribbean. “Can we sit and talk about this? You can keep pointing your gun at me, if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

  “You don’t look concerned.” Carlisle shrugged. “I don’t see there’s much to talk about. I want you to get back in your truck and drive the hell on out of here.”

  “I’m not concerned,” said Caribbean, “because I know where the dead go once they die.”

  Carlisle looked at him, her head tipped to one side as she thought about it. Talks to dead people. Looks good in a suit. Could go either way. “Sure, what the hell,” she said. “Let’s talk.” She used her free arm to sweep the glasses and plates on a table aside, heard them crash as they hit the ground. She sat in a chair facing Caribbean, the gun held in her lap, then gestured with her free hand to the seat opposite her. “Have a seat.”

  Caribbean nodded at the other two men before stepping away from them and sitting in the chair. “My name’s Ajay.”

  “What’s the J stand for?” said Carlisle. “I mean, the A … you look like an Adam.”

  “Not ‘AJ,’” said Ajay. “Ajay. One word, four letters. Fourteen points in Scrabble. Ajay Lewiss.” He was smiling at her, something easy in it that made her want to grind herself against him.

  Carlisle looked away, licking her lips and watching as one of the two men behind Ajay took a call on a phone. She let her eyes flick back to him. “You play a lot of Scrabble?”

  “No,” he said. He seemed to think about something. “What is it you want from your life, Detective Carlisle?”

  “Champagne and happiness,” she said. “One drives the other.”

  “I want to live in a world where we’re not hunted like dogs,” said Ajay. “That’s the story of my people. My family. Do you understand family?”

  “You’ve talked to my Dad. You tell me.” Carlisle watched the man on the phone behind Ajay, her eyes moving to the second man. He was working his way slow and steady around to her side. “Say. Ajay?”

  “Yeah.” Ajay leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

  “These two guys work for you?”

  “We come from the same place,” he said.

  “That a yes or a no?”

  “The question doesn’t mean anything here,” he said. “You haven’t asked about your father.”

  The man on the phone rung off, then nodded to the other off to Carlisle’s side. She could feel the taste of the room change then, the other man reaching behind him, his hand coming out with something small and black, and Ajay was starting to rise, trying to say something, turning to face the man with the phone, his hands up—

  Carlisle stood in a smooth motion, her chair skidding out behind her. She shot the man to her side three times — one in the head, two in the chest — then turned the weapon on the man with the phone. He was trying to bring something to bear on her, and she fired three more shots, his body tugging and pulling as the rounds hit. His body fell to the ground, the soft tink of her last spent cartridge leaving her sidearm and falling in a trail of smoke. Her eyes found the object one of the men had held, a small taser, not civilian-grade. She fed a fresh clip back into her weapon, turned the Eagle back on Ajay. That same twinge in her gut made her pause, stopped her finger from pulling the trigger. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t finish this right now.”

  “He said,” said Ajay, “to tell you that he’s sorry.”

  Carlisle narrowed her eyes. “Who?”

  “Your father,” said Ajay, “said to tell you that he’s sorry. That if he hadn’t placed his hands upon you, you wouldn’t have run. He said to me that he did it because you—”

  “Stop. Stop talking.”

  “He did it because you have your mother’s eyes. He wishes you’d never seen the heart of the Night. He says it was his hands that pushed your first stumbling feet down this path.”

  Carlisle stood in the middle of the room, the fallen men around her and Ajay. She clenched her hand around her sidearm, hand shak
ing with it, until she screamed out loud, a cry of rage and pain. She pulled the gun to the side and squeezed the trigger again and again, the shots hammering out against the sound of Johnny Cash until the weapon clicked empty. She leaned over then, one hand on the table next to her, gun held to her side.

  Ajay started to move towards her, his arm reaching out. “Are you—”

  Carlisle yanked herself upright, hand palm-out towards Ajay. “Don’t you touch me. Don’t you fucking come near me.”

  “But … Detective.” Ajay looked lost. “He said—”

  “Shut up!” She screamed the words at him. She took a half-step forward, her breathing ragged. “You want to live through the night?”

  “I want to live through the night.” Ajay’s face softened. “Even though I know where the dead go when they die.”

  “Then you promise me, Ajay Lewiss. You promise me one thing.”

  “If it’s in my power.”

  “You promise me,” said Carlisle, her voice shaking, “that you don’t talk to … to him anymore. I don’t know how you do it. Hell, I don’t care. I don’t know how you talk to a man dead and cold thirty years now, but if you do, I swear to God—”

  “I will make a promise,” said Ajay, his arms wide. “You do not need to make a vow to God.”

  Carlisle rubbed at her face, felt her hand come away wet with tears. She brushed her hand against her jacket, angry at herself. “I’m not.”

  Ajay looked puzzled. “You’re not what?”

  She looked at him, then turned to the door, her feet taking her across the room, around broken glass and spent cartridges. She reached the door, the cold and the wind creeping in through the broken window, then turned back to look at Ajay. “I’m not sorry. If he hadn’t given me that push, I wouldn’t have met the best family I’ve ever known. I swear to God, Ajay Lewiss, right here and right now, that if you hurt my family I will fucking end you. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  “I hear you.” He was starting to say something else but she lost the end of it as she stepped out into the cold and the night, the door banging shut behind her.

  You should have just shot him, Carlisle. You should have just put a bullet in him and been done with it. She let her feet take her a little further along, then she looked back at the door of the bar. Ajay hadn’t followed her out.

  She wished it had gone differently tonight. She hadn’t felt that Ajay was lying to her, he thought he was doing something right. She pushed back on the feeling. You’re not a cop anymore, Carlisle. You haven’t been a cop for five years.

  Still. She hated herself for it, but that twinge was still there in her gut. Carlisle wished he’d bought her a drink.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “What is this shit?” John picked up the bun in front of him.

  “It’s brioche style,” said Val. “I made it this morning.”

  “It’s—”

  “It’s divine,” said Sky. She had an arm looped through John’s, the toweling of her robe crisp and white in the morning light. She leaned forward, nipping a bit of John’s brioche.

  “Hey,” he said, realizing the loss of his prize that half second after it was gone.

  “Too slow,” she said around a mouthful of brioche, but her eyes were soft as she looked at John. “You didn’t like it.” Val didn’t remember anyone ever looking at John like that. He deserves it.

  “I didn’t say that,” said John, the Miles Megawatt Smile gone in favor of something softer, more honest. “I was thinking I wasn’t going to eat it.”

  “You were going to eat it,” said Val, “and then you were going to eat another one. Same as yesterday.”

  “I had two yesterday?”

  “You had four,” said Sky, leaning back but still touching John. “Two at breakfast, and—”

  “Four?” said Val. “The Force is strong with your stomach.” He leaned forward over the counter, the coffee jug in his hand. Sky nodded, lifting her cup. The smell of cinnamon and chocolate touched air already heavy with fresh coffee and baking.

  “Is this some kind of revenge kick?” John took a bite from his brioche, then put it down. “For all those years you were fat. Carbs don’t like me.”

  “Val was fat?” Sky looked Val up and down. “What, when you were born?”

  “Think of it like carb loading,” said Val. Watching Sky and John made him miss Danny, but he kept it from his face. He hoped. “I dunno. Five years?”

  “It’s good hangover food,” said Sky. She combed her hair with her fingers, then shook it out. “Mostly because everything is good hangover food. I need to get to work.”

  “Stay,” said John, “and get fat.”

  “I’d rather go,” she said, “so we can make rent.”

  “We can make rent,” said Val, pulling some grungy notes out of his pocket. “I made a little money last night.” He tossed the bills onto the counter. “If you’d rather, you know. Get fat. Or … something.”

  “Dirtiest thing on planet Earth,” said John, picking through the pile with a finger. “Holy shit. There’s a couple Ben Franklins in here.”

  “Big tipper,” said Val. “Restored my faith in humanity.”

  “I still got to work,” said Sky, “even if you get to sleep all day.” She kissed John on the cheek then flounced off towards the bathroom. The door closed, followed by the sound of running water.

  “So,” said John, turning his coffee cup around. “How did the night really go? And I don’t mean in some vague, ‘Oh I got a couple of C-notes from a random stranger,’ way, I mean—”

  “I know what you mean,” said Val. He turned his coffee around in his hand. “Honestly? I got no idea.”

  “That bad?”

  “I guess,” said Val. He picked up the remote, flicking the TV on, an NBC logo sitting in the corner. The news anchor was talking about a traffic jam — how is that news? — and he tossed the remote back on the counter. “It’s never good when I wake up naked.”

  “Be serious,” said John. “Sometimes that’s good. When I wake up naked, the party’s usually in full swing. Orgies don’t start themselves.”

  Val smiled, but he couldn’t put any heart in it. “I’m just trying…” He trailed off.

  John leaned forward, slapping him on the shoulder, then stole another brioche. “You’re trying to make a difference. I know. We’ve had this talk.”

  “Yeah.”

  “For the record, I’m not a fan,” said John. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

  “If only it were that easy,” said Val. I’ve tried. God help me, but—

  “Hey,” said John. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” said Val. “So, what did you two get up to last night?”

  “Oh you know,” said John, around a mouthful of pastry. “Few beers. Just my birthday.”

  “Christ, again?” Val grinned. “You have one of those every year?”

  “Some of us still get older,” said John. “And this is serious, okay, so — just listen. Last night, she—”

  “Sky?”

  “The very same,” said John. “She says to me, ‘I’m so glad you’ve got younger friends.’ She meant you and Danny.”

  “Probably Carlisle too,” said Val. “She’s in good shape.”

  “Have you been told to get fucked today?” John looked down at his chest, then back up. “I mean, it’s all still in perfect working order.”

  “I did warn you about the younger woman thing,” said Val. “Not my fault if your dick got in the way of the conversation.”

  “You were talking to my dick?”

  “I really think I was,” said Val. His eyes flicked to the bathroom door, checking—

  She has not hunted with Pack.

  —that Sky was still out of earshot. “She’s … you know.”

  John put his elbows on the counter top. “She’s what?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Val.

  “Tell me.”

  “She makes you less
of a complete tool,” said Val. He shrugged, grinning. “Hey! You asked me to tell you.” And she completes you. In a way no one else has, not that I’ve seen. It’s good to see you smile … for real.

  “Let me be the first,” said John, “to say — on this fine morning, sir — to get fucked.”

  Val felt the grin slip from his face as something on the TV caught his attention. He grabbed at the remote and thumbed up the volume. The anchor’s face was calm, her pumped hair — a thing of engineered beauty — somehow at odds with her serious tone.

  “We go live now to the scene. Younger viewers are advised to take special care. Tony? Tony, can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Sure, Zambolina. It’s like a war zone here in down town Chicago. The police have cordoned off the area and aren’t letting us close. Are you getting these pictures?”

  “Yes, Tony. What are we looking at?”

  “I think it’s bits … well, I think it’s bodies. Rumors are circulating of a gang-style massacre, five or more people left dead at the scene. We’re trying—”

  The TV clicked off, and John tossed the remove back on the counter. “It’s not going to make a difference if you beat yourself up.”

  Val swallowed. “Did they say five?”

  “They weren’t super specific,” said John. “Look. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters,” said Val, picking up the remote. He clicked the TV back on.

  “…Other news, a local hero of the downtown Chicago district was caught on camera as he pulled a man from the burning wreckage of this car. These images show—”

  “Hey,” said John. “It’s you. You’re on TV. Kinda.”

  Val rubbed his face with his hand. “This is why superheroes wear masks.”

  “The good news,” said John, stepping closer to the TV, “is that with all the smoke and flames, it’s hard to tell it’s you.”

  “How hard?”