They passed the Brunswick Street Mall with its spindly trees and crowded cafes and floating homeless. Kevin scribed a u-turn through the one-way streets to circle the mall, then zigzagged to the narrow car park squeezed between pub and weatherboard apartment block where a gang of Snipes was waiting.
'Ah,' Hunter said, as though something had become clear. Kevin envied him his clarity, wished he'd share. He propped the bike on the broken bitumen and drifted after Hunter, feeling like a sidekick to the quietly confident hero who knew exactly what he was doing, and why.
SIXTY-FIVE
Reece stood in the car park, surrounded by Snipes. None had said a word since taking his gear from Matheson — even his phone, not that he had anyone to call. The Needle let him sweat for a good ten minutes, and he still had no idea how he was going to get out of this.
When the Needle finally deigned to grant an audience, it was over the bonnet of a car, with Reece's confiscated possessions spread across it. It was as though the Needle had been divining the future in them, like twenty-first-century entrails. He wore cargo pants and hoodie, with bulging pockets, more street warrior than mystic: and his cadre of black and camouflage-clad Snipes were likewise misshapen with barely concealed weapons.
Two white-haired bodyguards, looking like leftovers from a 1980s music clip, flanked him. They barely regarded Reece. All their attention was on Matheson.
Interesting. Something he could exploit? 'Where's Greaser? Spying?'
'Dead,' the Needle answered.
'That's a pity.'
'Campbell killed her.'
'Then I imagine you're keen to even the ledger. I won't stop you. But Mira's mine.'
The Needle looked at Kevin, then back to Reece, smirked, and declared, 'I have no interest in a strigoi in bedlam. Vee, however—'
'I have no interest in a strigoi's blood sack,' Reece said.
'No?' The man seemed amused, making Reece annoyed at his own apparent show of emotion.
Jealous? Mira would have said with a mocking twist of the lips; she liked to tease.
Reece turned away to regard the motley collection of Snipes. 'All red-eyes?'
'Most.'
'Fangers?'
'A few.'
Reece sucked in air through his teeth. 'I know VS isn't exactly at full strength, but still...'
The Needle gestured, 'We'll make do.'
'What do you want from me?' Reece asked.
'What have you got?'
He eyed his possessions on the bonnet, decided against mentioning the dagger strapped to his left forearm that Matheson had missed, then offered: 'Half a pack of tobacco and a buck fifty in change.'
The Needle smiled, a flash of fang, and lifted Reece's stolen security pass on a long fingernail.
'This might be a good start.'
'Probably been cancelled by now.'
It didn't matter, the Needle said. Reece's presence would be enough. 'There's a soup van nearby, enforcing the tithe before the council meeting. It's attracted a baker's dozen of northside streeters — Bogans, Batemans, even a few Petite Morts — possibly a few unmarked others.'
'Got an eye on them?' Reece asked, and the Needle replied, 'Of sorts.'
The gang stirred, scraping boot heels on bitumen, cupping flame-flaring cigarettes, eyeing Reece with alternating curiosity and hostility. Christ, they were young.
'Trojan horse, huh? I can probably help you out, sport. Get rid of some of the detail from the van. Assuming it's the one I think it is.'
'Why would you do that?'
'I have my reasons.'
Kevin broke his silence: 'You know Flick doesn't love you.'
'I know,' Reece said, 'but she's, well, she's okay.' Mostly.
Fucking grease monkey had thrown him with that; he had no idea how much of his life the kid had sucked down. Enough to know about the bookshop, that he had a thing for Flick; Felicity. How much else? That he was burned out, desperately running on impulse and a feeling best described as Stockholm Syndrome?
And yet, here he was, still standing, still pushing.
The Needle gestured for him to proceed.
'My phone?'
The Needle handed it over.
That was unsettling. Had the tattooist had time to hack his address book? What did it matter? Most everyone in it was, by the feel of things, either in the Needle's employ already, or dead.
He rang Felicity. 'Where are you?' he asked. She sounded tense. Big night, he supposed.
'Soup run.'
'Jamieson Street?' he asked, just to be sure he'd heard right on the scanner.
'Why? You want to donate? Plenty of guys here be happy to take a collection.'
'You don't think I — or Marshall, for that matter — had anything to do with the hit on Heinrich.'
'I don't know what to believe. The council meeting will settle things down.'
'Sure. How would you like to take Matheson to that meeting? Get yourself one hell of a promotion.'
'Are you serious?'
'I'm looking at him right now.'
The kid scowled, muscles tense. Strung out. Unpredictable.
'Where?' Felicity asked.
'Him and a couple of Snipes are in a huddle. The Irish pub at Strathpine.'
'Strathpine? That's Bogan territory. What are they doing there?'
'Dunno. They're out the back, in the beer garden.'
'Don't go anywhere. I'm on my way.'
'Bring a friend. The Snipes are showing green.'
Reece hung up.
'She believe you?' the Needle asked.
'She can't afford not to.'
'Let's go find out.'
'How about a weapon? Enemy of my enemy and all that?'
'Enemy of my enemy is still my enemy,' the Needle said, and Kevin laughed, a bitter sound that made Reece wonder what the kid had been through since they'd last met, to sound so cold.
SIXTY-SIX
Escorted by Snipes, Kevin and Hunter trooped a couple of blocks to a dead-end alley between the looming rear walls of buildings smeared with graffiti and water stain. A van, garishly painted with all the colour and shapeless enthusiasm of a kindergarten fence, was parked at the far end, blocking a loading dock lined with rubbish bins. A side panel was open to make a servery, but there were no cups or soup bowls, and inside it looked more like an ambulance with hanging plastic blood bags, a fridge and stretcher. The sign sprayed across the van said, Knights of Solace. Suns and moons and flowers surrounded the letters.
Vampires and red-eyes milled around it like hobos.
The scent of blood teased Kevin, reminding him how long it had been since he'd fed. He could taste the anxiety radiating from the gangers as they shuffled and stared. He eyed the narrow canyon of looming brick, aware of how distant the street noise was, how cut off they were. He gripped Hunter tightly by one arm and pushed him ahead, using him as a shield.
Kevin pulled his hood tighter as he and Hunter approached, their escort of Snipes following behind: what would the gangers do? The Needle had played his cards close to his chest, but he'd seemed confident. One alarm, one call, and it was all for nothing. If he wasn't the one to kill Mira, then he'd have no way of knowing she was really dead; no way of knowing who else might've drained her, and taken with her blood the last remnants of his mother's life.
There were two vampires on the van as well as two GS myxos. Of course there were. You didn't send just myxos to wrangle full bloods. Damn it; would Maximilian know? Mira maybe? The blood links were impossible to predict. Even Hunter was a risk with his link to Mira, but the Needle had been sure she wasn't likely to be receptive. Bedlam was a bitch.
On the plus side, when Kevin found her, she mightn't put up a fight. Would that make it easier? Could he do it — kill her in cold blood?
He thought of his mother, dead on the sofa, and his father, dead in the burning service station. He thought of Melpomene, plunged into bedlam, and Greaser, poor Greaser, killed for being surplus to requirements.
Could he kill as easily? He swore on those souls that he would try.
Reece stumbled but the grease monkey held him from behind, guiding him with an uncompromising grip. A few Snipes straggled behind them.
The Needle's information had been accurate. There was an uneasy mix of gangers — suited Batemans, Bogans in singlets and T-shirts, Petite Morts dressed for a hot night on the town, even the boys — all called in under Maximilian's need for fuel for his troops, to remind the streeters who was boss. Their chiefs would be gathering at Thorn to press their claims to territory in return for loyalty: blood for blood. Give a little, get a little.
The streeters milled in their groups, loitering, as though waiting for a signal: a thrown brick, a shot — anything.
Reece looked for escape routes. The loading dock, if he could get it open? The back doors of shops? Probably locked. Walls too high to climb. And a long, long way back to the street with very little cover.
No sign of Felicity, so she'd taken the bait. That was something. He'd hoped she might've taken the red-eyes or even a vampire with her, but no such luck.
He recognised the squad only vaguely, the GS never having been his preferred drinking partners. Two vampires at the van's back doors, armed with sidearms and swords, checking off the donors; while two red-eyes inside took the collection — a needle or, for the vampires, a simple slash across the wrist to allow the blood to flow. Donations were carefully labelled before the donors were sent on their way. Not so much as a cup of tea tonight. No need to put on a show for Joe Normal passing by.
Always a tense time, all that blood and resentment. But tonight? It wasn't just the humidity making him sweat.
What would the streeters do when the balloon went up? That was the question. Whose side would they come down on, if any? Because the Needle's red-eyes didn't have the numbers.
He reckoned there were at least a handful of vampires here, which was interesting in itself. Someone was either cheating or had been given dispensation to spawn, which meant favours were already being cashed in. The shit just kept getting deeper.
He scanned the streeters, noting the long coats, the packages, the cases for sports equipment and musical instruments. Armed to the teeth, waiting to hear the fallout from the council meeting, waiting for the chips to fall.
If Maximilian didn't handle this very carefully indeed, the entire city could end up painted red; the kind that even a PR guru like Bishop would be hard pressed to explain.
He was metres from the van, the GS fangers checking him. A flicker of recognition. He raised one hand.
The trooper rested his palm on the grip of the pistol at his waist, fingers flexing.
'You coming in, Reece? We got orders about you.'
The trooper's partner put down a glowing tablet, the better to stand ready, one hand on sidearm, one on sword hilt.
'Yeah,' Reece said, 'I'm coming in.'
And closer, enough to see the green sheen of their eyes, the two red-eyes in the van pausing from taking blood to observe, one reaching for a shotgun in a bracket.
'That's Matheson,' a voice shouted, and he recognised her, inside the van, her arms sliced and leaking red.
Rabbit, jack-knifing upright, pale hand pointing like a lightning bolt. 'It's him! The mechanic!' She struggled to get to her feet, long heels stabbing at the floor, a flat-bladed knife appearing from under her long skirt.
Reece had time to swear before he was propelled forward into the two goons. Guns fired. Hot liquid splashed his face and he fell.
Rabbit shouted. Kevin didn't see her, just heard her. The guards drew, so fast he could barely see. He hurled Hunter into them, enough of a distraction to make them stagger. One fired, the shot going wild, and Kevin shot the man once in the chest, once in the head. The other smacked his pistol across Hunter's temple, driving him to the ground.
Kevin squeezed off a shot, thought he might've winged the vampire as he darted to one side. Kevin leaped to his left, crouched. The trooper rolled, came to his feet, put two shots through the air where Kevin had been standing. Kevin returned fire, sending the man sprawling.
Bullets smacked Kevin. He staggered. The alley echoed with gunfire and ricochets. Brick sparked. Tin rang. Glass shattered.
Kevin lay on the ground, aware of muzzle flashes in the back of the van, of metal flying from the doors. Rabbit appeared through the mess and the noise, slithering out of the van, blade drawn, eyes fixed on him. He raised his hand to shoot her; realised not only could he not feel his fingers, but he'd also lost the pistol.
Rabbit got to her feet and hunched over, picking her way past bodies toward him. She jerked forward, fell face down. The blade rang on the bitumen. Hunter had her ankle in his grip. She kicked him in the face with her other foot. He rolled away, gushing blood where her heel had opened his cheek.
Kevin groped for Rabbit's knife as she came at him on all fours. She reached for where he'd just found her blade.
'I told you—' she began, and then her knife cut her off, driven into her throat, popping out the back of her neck.
Silence fell with her. For a long, long moment, Kevin stared at her, at what he'd done. He hadn't needed to kill her. It'd been instinct. Taipan's? Mira's? His?
He rolled away, shaken.
The Snipes were dragging the dead myxos from the van. Others were disarming certain of the gangers, standing frozen in various poses of attack: drawing weapons, poised in the act of firing, or fleeing, mid-stride.
The Needle stood at a distance, his arms out as though appealing for rain. Blood dribbled from his eyes, his nose.
Argent staked the two GS vampires and helped Hunter to his feet, sneered at Kevin as he guided Hunter to the front of the van.
Kevin stood up, body flushing hot as his metabolism went into overdrive. Rabbit's blood had splashed warm and dark across his hand and he fought not to lick it, afraid of what that taste would trigger.
A nearby Petite Mort, identified by her pin, stood statue-still, bleeding from a tattoo on her neck, silver and red running in molten helixes down her skin. She stared straight ahead, forehead beaded with blood. Muscles quivered with the effort to move. Her eyes widened as a Snipe lifted a Staker to her chest and fired the nail home. The vampire collapsed.
A gasp and the Needle let his arms down. Silver lent him her support, then ordered a Snipe to the van to get blood.
Kevin licked his dry lips, his head swimming with the scent. The need in his guts sucked at his vision, his balance. Hunter re-appeared with Argent.
'Any word?' the Needle asked.
'Radio's quiet,' Hunter said.
The Needle smiled as he opened a vial of blood. 'On with the show, then.'
SIXTY-SEVEN
Reece got into the passenger seat, though he'd warned them his visiting privileges at Thorn were a touch dodgy. He'd answered their concerns, told them the scent of fresh blood probably wouldn't raise too many eyebrows, though gunpowder might if they encountered GS, whose senses were sharper than the mundane VSS schmucks. But most GS would be protecting the council meeting. His best guess was they wouldn't encounter resistance until they were inside Thorn and the damage to the soup van — mostly contained to the rear — was noticed.
By then, the Needle suggested, it would be too late.
To which Reece could only shrug. In the wake of the recent losses at Thorn, everyone would be on tenterhooks. You could get nailed reaching for a packet of ciggies, let alone running around in a shot-up soup van with a bunch of Rogues.
'There are,' the Needle said after a long moment of concentration, 'six, perhaps seven, Vultures escorting the other soup van. I can have a team intercept them. But there are others — Bogans, Batemans, Mods, Petite Morts — gathered outside Thorn. Our people will have to contain them, especially if their chiefs aren't happy with how the cookies crumble at the council meeting.'
'Storming the Bastille?' Reece said.
'Do you care?'
'I'm wondering where you got the manpower to take out a so
up van with a ganger escort.'
'Friends in high places.'
'And the mob at the tower?'
'Friends in low places. You'd be amazed what a gang will do in return for hunting rights in the Valley.'
'Dangerous game; prime territory that.'
'Compared to the Old Man's hold on the hospitals? The blood banks? Worth sacrificing for.'
'Refined palate, eh?'
'We will see. Now tell us what we can expect inside.' He checked his watch. 'Still a good forty minutes before the meeting. We might still be in time to save your strigoi.'
SIXTY-EIGHT
Kevin sat in the back with the Needle and his crew; one of the more conventionally dressed Snipes drove. Reece rode shotgun, but without a weapon. The constant wail of sirens penetrated the walls; their van's radio crackled with reports of violence.
'Let's hope they do not toll for us,' the Needle said, and then the driver reported that they were approaching Thorn.
Kevin flexed his fingers, so stiff where they curled tightly on his pistol's handle. Finally. His vision was edged in shadow, his heart thumping. Finally.
'Showtime,' the driver said as they turned into the access road to Thorn's car park.
'Can't you freeze the guards?' Kevin asked the Needle.
'Maximilian didn't want his people getting tattooed by me. A pity. I've always wondered if that was a sign that the Old Man wasn't as out of touch as people said.'
'So?'
'Push through. We need to get to the council meeting and, ahem, stake our claim.'
'You need more men,' Hunter said. 'You'll never get out of the loading dock once the alarm goes up.'
'We'll see. I've recently arrived at a new arrangement that might smooth our way. Unfortunately, it is a very recent arrangement. Things are uncertain.'
They pulled up at the security booth set into the building's wall, controlling a narrow strip of driveway leading into the basement. The barred entrance looked like a trap to Kevin. He gripped his pistol as Hunter leaned across the driver to talk to the guard, who was protected by a thick glass screen.
The Big Smoke Page 26
