by DD Barant
“I need coffee. In the sense that fire needs oxygen.”
“I thought you might. In the kitchen.”
I get up, stretching, and stumble into the kitchen. It must be after dark, ’cause Galahad is in there in his human form, dressed in yellow sweatpants and a HELLO BATTY T-shirt, his brown-and-white patched hair standing up in unruly tufts all over his head. “Jace!” he says joyfully, and twitches his butt from side to side in a tailless happy-dance.
“Hey, big guy,” I say. “Still glad to see me, or are you going to go all weird on me, too?”
“Weird!” he says, grinning and nodding. It’s like living with the world’s biggest toddler, I swear. Whatever uncertainty he was feeling toward me, it seems to have resolved itself in my favor. I guess he figures that no matter how strange I might smell, I still feed him on a regular basis.
And then he does something he’s never done before.
He holds his arms up and straight out, looking like he’s trying to do a bad sleepwalking impression, then spreads them a little wider. He looks expectant and a little hesitant.
“Hug?” he asks.
They say a dog’s love is unconditional, that dogs will never judge you. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t capable of judgment; it doesn’t mean they can’t see when you’re down and need some of that unconditional love. That would describe me, right now.
Me, giving my dog a long, ferocious hug and trying not to bawl my eyes out.
So after I’ve wiped my eyes and gotten my coffee and given Gally an entire bag of pork rinds, I open the door that leads between my kitchen and my living room and see Charlie with a knife to his throat.
Holding it and standing behind him is Tair.
Don Arturo Falzo sits on the couch, dressed in a natty plum-colored suit that even Charlie would admire. He’s got his legs crossed, a matching fedora perched on the end of his knee. He looks at me and smiles, an old friend dropping by unexpectedly to say hello.
My jacket is hanging over the back of a chair a few steps away, with both my scythes and gun inside. But the blade of the knife is pressed against the plastic skin of Charlie’s throat, and Tair can decapitate him in the time it takes me to twitch.
Galahad growls, deep in his throat.
“Gally, no.” The last thing I want is for my loyal but not terribly bright dog to be ripped to pieces defending me.
“Hello, Agent Valchek,” Don Falzo says. “I apologize for our rudeness in showing up without notice, but we really needed to talk to you privately.”
He doesn’t sound crazy at all, but that means nothing. He seemed fairly lucid the first time I met him, just before he told me about the demonic footwear conspiracy. “Congratulations, you have my attention. I didn’t think it was even possible to sneak up on Charlie.”
“We cheated,” Tair says. “Black-market stealth spells from Nigeria. I know a guy.”
Charlie doesn’t bother threatening either of them. He just stays very still and very quiet, focusing all his energy on waiting for that one second when Tair drops his guard. It’s something predators do, willing themselves to become part of the landscape, making themselves so unremarkable that the prey forgets they’re even there. Charlie thinks of it as a Zen thing; I tell him he’s just channeling his inner rock garden.
However you look at it, though, I don’t think it’ll work. Tair’s usual relaxed arrogance is gone, replaced by an intensity I can feel from ten feet away, no doubt heightened by the sange ucenicie. No way he’s going to let himself get distracted.
Not when this is the night he decides if I get to live or die.
The Don takes his fedora and places it on the couch beside him. He uncrosses his legs and sits a little straighter. “Before you do anything rash, I should tell you that we’re not here as enemies. In fact, we have a proposal for you—we think you can do something for us, and we have something to offer in return.”
“I’m listening.”
The Don smiles and spreads his hands in the air. “What we have to offer, first of all, are some facts. In fact, we’ll give them to you for free.”
“How generous.”
“As you can see, my mental faculties are sound. They were never disabled to begin with.”
I glance from the Don to Tair. He nods.
“Why?” I ask. “Why go through all the playacting?”
“Because I was in a very precarious position,” the Don says. “Thropes age slowly, but we do age. Every year there’s a new challenger trying to dethrone me and take my place. The last few years, I’ve sized up my probable opponents ahead of time and had them eliminated before they could make their move. But that only works for so long.”
“The families got wise to you,” I say. “They knew a shift in power was inevitable, and they decided to back someone new. Someone they protected from your preemptive strikes.”
“Yes. So I was forced to take a different route.”
“By pretending to be crazy? How does that help?”
“Several ways. It gives you an advantage in that people don’t know how to react, how they should treat you. You become an unknown quantity, and people always fear the unknown. The ones who don’t fear you don’t take you seriously, and that’s good, too. But most of all, it gave me an excuse to meet you.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Because you don’t give up. Because you’re very good at what you do, and once I put you on the trail I knew you’d follow wherever it led.”
Wherever it led … son-of-a-bitch. “The murders. They had nothing to do with you trying to escape the country, or revenge. You wanted me to bust Iggy Prinzini.”
“Ignacio is being groomed—quietly—as my replacement,” Falzo says. “The smuggling operation he’s running is very successful. He’s made some powerful allies, too. My only hope was to discredit him, hurt him enough that he would no longer be seen as a viable successor.”
“So pick up a phone. Drop a dime on him.”
“Please. Informing on a family member to the authorities? It goes against our deepest-held beliefs. No, all I could do was create opportunities for him to fail.”
“And make sure I was there to capitalize on them.”
“Which you did wonderfully well.” He tilts his head in acknowledgment. “You’ve dealt serious blows to several facets of his operation.”
I did more than that. I blew Iggy’s kneecap off, which effectively took him out of the running as far as becoming top wolf went; Mafia thropes are notoriously unenlightened when it comes to employing the disabled. But that means the Don got what he wanted long ago—why keep killing when I’d already taken out his main opponent?
I think I know. “And along the way, you killed a number of Prinzini’s supporters.”
Falzo shrugs. “If I hadn’t, they would have tried again next year with someone else. I needed to do more than eliminate the competition, I needed to change the playing field.”
I shake my head. “Then you failed. You may have bought a few more years, but you’re a thrope, not a pire; sooner or later this will happen all over again, except you’ll be even older and weaker.”
He leans forward. “You think I don’t know that? I do, believe me. A man in my position, he has to be looking at who’s going to be filling his shoes when he’s gone. Used to be it would be passed down through blood; my offspring would inherit whatever it was that I built. But the Gray Wolves figured out a long time ago that wasn’t the best thing for the organization itself.”
I know what he means. Thropes have big families, which means multiple siblings waging war over who gets what. Plus, a powerful parent doesn’t always translate into powerful children; too often they grow up pampered and overprotected, whatever genetic advantages they’ve been given weakened by a soft and indulgent environment.
“I understand the rules,” Falzo says. “Why they are what they are. But over time, any system can become corrupted.”
“You should know.”
He gives me a cynical gr
in. “Yes, very true. And because I know this—among many other things—I should have a say. A voice in the decision as to who will be the next Don.”
“What decision? I thought it was all done by some sort of contest.”
He waves one hand contemptuously. “Pfah. Do you believe everything you’re told? The Trials are as filled with treachery as any other endeavor we undertake. Survival is the only true rule. No, if the other families decide to support a particular candidate, that is the candidate who invariably wins. So far, I have had that support.”
But not anymore. “I take it you don’t agree with their choice of replacement?”
He scowls. “Ignacio Prinzini is not fit to be Don. He thinks only in the short term. The deals he’s struck have made him powerful, but his alliances will not hold. He thinks once he’s in charge he can consolidate his power base, but he’s wrong. He won’t last a year, and then the families will tear themselves apart trying to gain dominance over one another.”
Funny how often people in power are convinced that the world will go to hell unless they’re around to hold the reins. It’s a convenient rationalization, one that lets you think of yourself as an altruist while brutally suppressing anybody who might threaten your regime.
What’s more interesting, though, is that the Don is talking like he thinks Iggy is still a threat. “One thing I don’t understand. Why didn’t you just go after Iggy yourself? Take him out directly?”
“You think I’m afraid of him?” He chuckles again. “Not so. But he’s very good at not being found, which presents problems. In fact, since I put you on his trail, he’s vanished completely. I don’t suppose you killed him?”
“No,” I say, and leave it at that. Better if the Don doesn’t know Iggy has become Limpy—it makes me more valuable to him. “Okay, you admit your time is ending, and you’re not a fan of Iggy. So who—”
Ah.
“Who else?” Tair says.
I sigh. “All right, I think I’m up to speed. I finally know what’s going on and exactly who the players are. There’s just two things I’m still a little unclear on.”
“Ask away,” Tair says.
“Why are you here and why do you have a knife to my partner’s throat?”
“To ensure you would give the proper attention to my proposal,” the Don says. “You see, Tair and I have reached something of an impasse. Ignacio has used his political connections to bring certain outsiders to town. Normally I would have the resources to deal with these individuals myself, but, the circumstances being what they are—”
“—on the run from the law and hunted by your own people—”
“—we thought it wisest to seek an alliance of our own.”
Outsiders. Political connections. There’s only one group in this situation that fits that description. “You’re talking about the paramilitary unit from Panama.”
He looks pleasantly surprised. “She’s as good as you said, my boy.”
“Told you,” says Tair. I wonder if he’s proud enough of his sange ucenicie star pupil to let me live.
“This group,” the Don continues, “are not mere soldiers. They are a death squad, tasked by the Panamanian government with the elimination of military insurgents. They are not assassins; they are butchers. Their job is not just to murder rebels, but to kill a rebellion. They do so through torture and terror, and they are very experienced.”
“I can see why you might be a little worried. Is that what this is all about? You want us to protect you?”
“In a way.” The Don’s mouth is set in a grim line, but there’s a savage joy in his eyes. “I want you to help me kill them.”
There’s a long, pregnant pause.
“Okay,” I say.
Tair grins. “Congratulations. You pass.”
TWENTY-TWO
There are times when you just have to look around yourself and wonder, How the hell did I get here? Usually followed by, And what the hell do I do now?
You might think I had one of those moments in my apartment, with a renegade thrope holding a razor-sharp blade to my partner’s throat and the head of one of the Five Families casually suggesting I help him eliminate a paramilitary death squad from South America.
Nope. Sorry.
It speaks to the high level of weirdness in my life that my second meeting with the Don registered as mostly business-as-usual, with a side order of adrenaline due to the threat to Charlie’s life. No, I didn’t have one of those WTF moments until around three hours later, long after Don Falzo convinced me that Iggy’s political connections meant I couldn’t take this to the NSA. Long after he persuaded me that the only way to take the death squad out without civilian casualties was a lightning-fast surgical strike on where they were holed up.
Long after the Don made me an offer, and I didn’t refuse.
Which, I suppose, answers the question of how I got here, though it doesn’t do much for What the hell do I do now? And here is pretty bizarre, all by itself …
I’m hanging upside down in a tree, completely dressed in black. I’ve got on a radio headset and I’m looking at our target through a pair of high-tech night-vision binoculars. Our target being a building that looks like the result of a drunken fling between Buckingham Palace and a 1920s bordello: one ostentatious mansion, heavy on the Gothic architecture, surrounded by large, well-kept grounds. An old structure, built by old money.
Congressman Broadstone’s house.
“I’m in position.” Charlie’s voice, coming through my earpiece.
“Wish I could say the same. All the blood’s rushing to my head.”
“Thrope stuff?” Charlie sounds a little worried.
“No, I’m upside down.”
“Why?”
“I thought it would make me look all cool and ninja-y.”
“No one’s supposed to be able to see you.”
“Ah. I knew there was a flaw in my plan. Also, I slipped.”
“In fact, the whole point of being a ninja is not to be seen.”
“Fortunately I have this nifty safety harness, which is why I’m dangling instead of plummeting. Thanks for asking.”
He sighs. “If it doesn’t cut into your busy dangling schedule, you want to tell me what you see?”
“No lights in the lower floors. One light on in the second, east corner. Sentries haven’t come back from their sweep yet.”
I have to admit, Broadstone using his own place to house the death squad is a stroke of genius. Plenty of room, isolated, fairly secure. They can come and go as they please, and the local residents’ own preconceptions mean all they see are groundskeepers or domestic help. Perfect cover.
However, this is a congressman’s house, not a military base. He has security cameras, spotlights, motion sensors—but he’s not equipped to fend off a serious assault. Or at least he wasn’t until he imported twenty-one ruthless Third World assassins; now he could probably hold off a small army.
So we’re not going in as an army. We’re a commando team: two thropes, a lem, and me. I’d like to say I’m their big gun, but in fact I’m their only gun. The death squad will probably be armed with bows, but a thrope’s speed and strength make that just as deadly as a rifle; a well-trained werewolf archer can send a flurry of razor-tipped arrows at you as fast as a semi-automatic handgun, and with more accuracy.
So we have to make sure they don’t have a chance to use them.
“Time to make my entrance,” the Don says. He doesn’t have a headset, but he’s broadcasting through a hidden mike in his collar. Getting onto the grounds was relatively easy—thanks to the stealth spells Tair provided—but the house itself has more sensitive mystical wards. That won’t matter to the Don, though, because he’s not going to try to sneak in; he’s going to walk in the front door.
He presses the buzzer for the front gate, identifies himself. Says he needs to talk to the congressman in person. Falzo sounds urbane, confident, in full control of his faculties. He says he’s alone, means no
harm, wants to make a deal. They let him in.
Lights go on across the main floor. There are lots of windows, which means both Tair and I have excellent views—me of the main-floor study where the meeting will no doubt take place, him of the front door.
Tair reports in. “Sentries just passed my position. Still undetected.” The sentries rove in pairs, but we think the Don’s arrival will push that number up. I’m proven right a few seconds later as Tair says that two more pairs have just loped off into the night, one to take up position by the gate, the other to support the initial two. That makes six outside.
Tair watches four more thropes slink from the house to the gate to escort the Don inside. Falzo stays silent until he’s actually in the house, when he says, “Ah, such a reception. Six of you to look after a frail old man? You flatter me.”
So, six more in the room with the Don to make sure he doesn’t try anything crazy—because, of course, for all they know that’s exactly what he is. That makes twelve. Nine unaccounted for, possibly asleep.
This is not going to be easy.
I try to focus, get myself under control. I tell myself that these are the worst of the worst, that they specialize in the most ruthless kind of state-sponsored terrorism; they wipe out entire villages just to make a point. Look up evil in the dictionary and you’ll find these guys staring back at you.
“Coming your way,” Tair says. “Do it now.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Put away the binoculars and take out my gun. Hope Eisfanger’s silencer keeps working as well as it has so far.
And when the two sentries lope past underneath me, I shoot both of them in the back.
Silver-tipped bullets. At this range, instant death for thropes. I’ve killed people before, but this is my first execution. Somewhere on the other side of the estate, Tair is doing the same but with two silver-tipped arrows. Four down, seventeen to go.
I don’t know how I expected to feel—guilty, disgusted, numb—but what I didn’t expect was this.
I enjoy it.
I just killed two men without ever knowing their names, without even seeing their faces. And not only am I fine with that, I can’t wait to do it again; joy surges fiercely, followed by a deep sense of satisfaction. It’s both thrilling and fulfilling, the thrill of the kill.
