by K'wan
“My turn,” he said in a distorted voice.
Kahllah was fast, faster than most, but the assassin moved with a speed that shouldn’t have been possible for a human. She tried to block the first flurry of punches with her forearms, sending shock waves of pain through her limbs. Every time he hit her it was like being struck by a lead pipe. When he slugged her in the gut, the wind was sucked right out of her. She would’ve collapsed had he not been holding her up by her harness. He slapped her across the face with so much force that it cracked her mask and made something pop in her jaw. This time he allowed her to drop to the ground. When she tried to push to her feet, he kicked her in the stomach and sent her sliding across the kitchen floor.
As Kahllah lay there, almost every inch of her body aching, her mind raced. She knew from the time she had taken her vows and joined the Brotherhood of Blood that dying of old age would never be an option. She often imagined the different ways that she might go out when the reaper finally came to claim what was owed to him, but none of those scenarios ended with her whipped like a dog, waiting to be euthanized and powerless to stop it.
The doppelgänger knelt beside her and ran his hand down her thigh. His touch was cold and hard, even through her clothes. “There is beauty even in broken flowers.”
“Be mindful of the thorns.” She jerked away. “Get on with it.”
“You will die, Kahllah El-Amin, but not today. Just know that the next time you stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, I’m going to break your heart instead of your body . . . Until next time.” He patted her on her ass before disappearing.
It was a few minutes before Kahllah was able to peel herself from the ground. She wasn’t sure what hurt more, her body or her pride. Losing was not something she took well or easily forgot, but the beating had provided her with some insight. There was now no doubt in her mind that the man was part of the Brotherhood; his fighting skills said as much. Whether he had been sent by the Order or was operating independently remained a question. She needed answers, and there was only one place in the city where she knew to get them.
Chapter 13
A few hours after his run-in with Kahllah, Detective Wolf found himself longing for nothing more than a cold beer and a hot bath to ease his aching body. Nothing made a man feel his age more than being tossed out of a second-floor window. It could’ve been worse; he’d seen firsthand what the Lotus was capable of. Near-death experiences aside, he still had a job to do.
If he knew Kahllah like he thought he did, she’d immediately get on the trail of whoever had been involved with Detective Cobb’s death, or anyone who could connect her to it. Though Kahllah was an honorable woman, she was also a killer. This meant that nothing could be left to chance or hunches.
In order to find out how Cobb came to his end, she would likely start at the beginning, which was what Wolf planned to do as well. The first place he visited was the precinct that Cobb worked out of. The officers on duty were less than forthcoming in providing him with useful information, because he was a cop who busted other cops. He did, however, stumble across a female clerk who was willing to give him something to go on. She had been romantically involved with the detective until shortly before his death. According to her, Cobb had incurred some gambling debts that he’d been stressed out about. The reason she knew this was because he had borrowed money from her and never paid it back. Her theory was that the people he owed money to were responsible, but Wolf knew that bookies didn’t leave calling cards. Still, it was something.
His next stop was Cobb’s apartment. He’d gotten the address from the clerk, and figured he could maybe pick up a clue there. Cobb had lived on the fourth floor of a walk-up in East Harlem. Not the most savory neighborhood, but the detective hadn’t been a very savory person. Some kids who had been sitting on the front stoop parted like the Red Sea as Wolf passed. They knew trouble when they saw it.
Wolf was slightly winded by the time he reached the fourth floor. He promised himself, as he had repeatedly, that he was going to quit smoking. When he left the stairwell he found the hallway empty, which was a good sign. His visit wasn’t authorized, and he could only imagine how it would look if someone caught him picking the lock. Cobb’s apartment was at the end of the hall. He planned to get in, find whatever leads he could, and get out. The Lotus already had a head start on him, so he had ground to make up.
Nearly at Cobb’s door, Wolf stopped in his tracks when he saw the knob turn and a large man step out. He was wearing dark jeans and a black overcoat. Swinging in his hand was a bowling bag. The guy paused when he saw the detective; he tried to play it cool, but his body language gave him away—he tensed like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Then a warning went off in Wolf’s head. One must’ve gone off in the big man’s head too, because as soon as he was close enough, he tried to club Wolf with the bowling bag.
With Wolf thrown off-balance, the guy sprinted right past him. Wolf managed to catch him as he tried to slip into the stairwell, grabbing a handful of the big man’s overcoat. The guy promptly spun out of his grip and took off up the stairs. There were only five stories, so there was nowhere for the hulk to go but the roof. Wolf slowed, drawing his gun before stepping through the door that led to the roof. He found the man looking back and forth like a trapped animal. There was nowhere for him to go unless he sprouted wings.
“Look, I’m a cop.” Detective Wolf brandished his badge. “I just need to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Only words I got for you will be whispered over your corpse,” the big man replied, pulling something from the bag he carried. It was too large and shiny to be a bowling ball. It appeared to be a helmet made to look like an elephant’s head. The big man slipped it on, rapping his knuckles on the side as if testing the density.
“A little early for Halloween, isn’t it?” Wolf chuckled.
“Laugh now, bleed later.”
The man charged at Wolf, leading with the crown of his helmet. He made contact at the same moment that Wolf pulled the trigger. The force of the impact knocked the detective off his feet and sent the shot wild. He crashed onto the graveled rooftop, scraping his hands and dropping his gun.
When the elephant raised his massive foot above the detective, Wolf punched him in the nuts. He followed with a combination to the gut that staggered his attacker but didn’t drop him; evidently, nothing short of a bullet or Mack Truck could do that. Wolf lunged for his gun, but the big man grabbed him by the ankles before he could reach it. In an incredible show of strength, he swung Wolf around and sent him sailing across the rooftop. Before Wolf could right himself, the brute was back on him. He wrapped his massive hands around Wolf’s neck and began squeezing.
As much as Wolf clawed, he couldn’t break the grip. Veins bulged in his forehead and his eyes got tight. The man was trying to pop his head like a water balloon. Wolf was seeing blots and knew he’d pass out unless he did something. He ran his hands through the gravel and grasped something jagged. A howl of pain came from the big man when Wolf plunged the metal shard into his thigh.
Now free from the elephant’s hold, Wolf scrambled away on his hands and knees. He rested his back against an air duct, sucking in precious air. He’d hoped stabbing the guy would slow him down, but it only seemed to enrage him.
The elephant clutched his wound and glared at Wolf. “First I was going to just beat you to death. Now, you get the horns.” He tapped a button on the side of his helmet and two pointed tusks slid from the sides.
“Give it up, man. This is going to end badly for you.” Wolf pushed to his feet, his left arm hanging loosely at his side.
The elephant’s response was to lower his head and charge once again. Wolf had to time his next move just right. When the brute was within spitting distance, Wolf played his trump card: a length of pipe he had pulled loose from the air duct. He ducked under the tusks and smashed the pipe into the elephant’s knee, sending him crashing to the ground. Not taking any chances, the detecti
ve brought the pipe down across the back of the man’s head so hard that it dented the metal helmet. He was out cold.
“Now,” Wolf panted, standing over the unconscious man, “about those questions.”
* * *
Two hours after nearly getting his ass kicked for the second time in the span of twenty-four hours, Wolf found himself with more questions than when he started. The elephant man, Benjamin Jordan, was in custody, but he had been less than cooperative. Every question he was asked received one of two responses: “Eat a dick” or “Lawyer.” He was as hard as that damn helmet they’d taken off of him.
The helmet itself was another mystery. Wolf had turned it over to the department’s tech guys to run some tests on it. So far, they hadn’t come up with much. It was made of a metal they couldn’t identify, and powered by technology they didn’t understand. They’d stopped just short of calling it alien. They would have to send it out to their labs in Albany to learn more, which would take at least a week. Wolf didn’t have that kind of time.
When the detective pulled Benjamin Jordan’s police file, the situation became even more confusing. The man had been arrested several times, mostly for assault and robbery. Nothing crazy. How the hell did a stickup kid come into possession of something like that helmet? More importantly, how did all this connect to Francis Cobb?
The next page of the file was where things got interesting. It listed known associates of Mr. Jordan. One name in particular stood out to Wolf. He wouldn’t have thought much of it, except this was the second time in twenty-four hours that it had come up. This was no coincidence.
Chapter 14
The first thing Kahllah noticed when she walked into the restaurant was the heavy smell of curry. She hated curry. As a girl it had been one of her favorite things. She had lived for Sunday dinners, knowing that her mom would make curried goat for the family, a family she no longer had. Now curry served only as a grim reminder of everything that had been taken from her.
She left her mask back in the car and used a short leather jacket to cover the harness holding several blades. Moving through Midtown in the evening, there would be more eyes on her here than in residential Bensonhurst.
The scene from earlier had been playing in her head on repeat since she dragged herself out of the Roth home. It wasn’t the first time she had lost a fight, but she hadn’t just lost—she got her ass handed to her. The doppelgänger seemed to know her every move before she made it. It was as if he had studied her, but how? He was part of the Brotherhood, that much was obvious, but who was he? Identities were kept closely guarded within the Order, though clearly he knew her. Not only her fighting style, but her name. In the wrong hands, that bit of information could be damning to everyone in her life. This made putting the impostor down even more urgent, but first she needed to find him. Only one person in this city would be able to tell her how.
She arrived at the restaurant around the time most businesses would be preparing for dinner rush, yet the place was relatively empty, save for a few hard-looking souls eating at a table in the back. Behind the bar was a dark-haired man, pretending to restock but really watching her through the mirror. Kahllah sauntered to the bar and slid onto a stool.
The dark-haired man waited a beat before pausing his stocking and turning his attention to her. He was handsome, tanned, with brown eyes and the beginnings of a beard. He gave her a flirtatious smirk before laying a napkin in front of her. “Hello there, beautiful.” His voice was rich and deep. “Can I get you a menu or are you just drinking?”
“A beer, please.” Kahllah watched as he popped the top off a Corona bottle and set it down in front of her.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Actually, yes. I’m looking to hire a killer.”
“Now that’s a good one.” He laughed. “Sorry, but all we serve here is cheap alcohol and overseasoned Mediterranean food. Anything else and I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place.”
“I was named in the shadow of the mountain,” Kahllah recited the Brotherhood’s identification code. She now had his attention.
“And my blood has stained its sands,” he replied. “I’m—”
“I know exactly who you are. You are Remy St. John, a man who connects those who need to be connected.”
“Very good. And who might you be?”
“I’m shocked, Remy. You fraudulently take a contract in my name, yet don’t have the decency to recognize karma when it’s sitting mere feet away from you.” Kahllah shook her head.
“Lotus?” He had never met the assassin in person.
“The one and only.” She saw Remy’s hand inch toward something behind the bar. “Before you reach it, I’ll have taken your hand and possibly your head. I want answers, not blood, but I’m fine with both.”
“For a member of the Order to harm a broker is forbidden,” he reminded her. “A crime punishable by death.”
“And so is taking lives in my name. I’m trying to unravel a mystery here, and I think you’re the key.”
“Me? What do I know? I’m simply a broker. I put people together who need to meet.”
“You’re also a walking, talking information bank. Nothing goes on within the Brotherhood without you either hearing about it or putting your two cents in it.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Lotus,” Remy joked.
“Who is it that was trying to contract the Black Lotus?”
Remy looked baffled. “I thought you said you’re retired.”
“I am, which is why I can’t understand why lives are being taken in my name. Who is behind these killings?”
“Maybe it was a copycat? You know the Black Lotus has become quite famous over the years. Wouldn’t be the first time a zealot has slapped on a mask and pretended to be something they are not.”
“This is no zealot. The killer may or may not be a member of the Order, but he was trained by the Brotherhood.” Kahllah thought back to how the assassin had bested her. “That much I’m sure of.”
“Members of our Order go rogue all the time. Eventually they all meet with the justice deserving of them. I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”
“Nothing in this city dies at the hands of a Brother unless your seal is on the contract. I’ll ask you one last time: who is out there putting blood on my name?”
“I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed about whatever my involvement has been in all this. Even if I did issue a contract, which I haven’t, we both know that information would be confidential. Now, if we’re done here, I’m going to need you to leave. By your own words, you no longer serve our Order.”
Her eyes drifted to the mirror, where she noticed that the hard souls were no longer seated at the table in the rear, but loitering close behind her. She doubted they were Brothers, more likely hired muscle. Kahllah had hoped when she came in that she’d be able to reason with Remy. Clearly this would not be the case. “Blood it is then.”
There were four of them, dead men who hadn’t been put into the ground yet. The first to reach Kahllah was the first to bleed. She spun around on the stool and smashed her beer bottle down over his head. Without missing a beat, she shoved the jagged end into his throat and ripped it open. Seeing his blood spray gave his comrades pause, but not Kahllah. She slid off the stool, drawing two of the blades from the harness under her jacket. The second goon was just clearing his pistol by the time she reached him. If he were smart, he’d have had it out before getting within arm’s reach of her. She drove one of her daggers into his wrist, and when he opened his mouth to scream she shoved the second dagger into it. Spinning like a ballerina, she gave the third goon two quick cuts across his face before pushing one of the daggers through his skull. This left the fourth and final attacker, who was armed with a baseball bat.
“I’m not armed!” the man declared, tossing his bat to the ground. He wanted no part in the lethal beauty.
“Your fault, not mine,” Kahllah said before opening his throat. Whe
n she turned back to the bar, Remy was no longer there. He was making a beeline toward the rear exit. Kahllah flicked a blade at him, and it found a place in the soft flesh of his thigh, sending him to the ground.
“Fucking bitch!” Remy shouted, clutching his bloody leg.
“I’ve been called worse by better.” Kahllah grabbed the back of his shirt and dragged him over to the bar. She took one of the stools and placed it on his chest before sitting on it, making it hard for him to breathe. “I have some questions and you are going to give me the answers.”
“I don’t know anything!”
“Liar.” She pressed down harder on the stool. “Before we get to the fact that you’ve allowed someone to snatch lives in my name, let’s stroll down memory lane a bit. Have you or anyone in your network heard of Tiger Lily resurfacing?”
“Lotus, you haven’t been retired that long. Everyone knows the traitor has been dead for years, undone by her own greed.”
“Then who is running around committing crimes using claws that can rip through steel? Is it possible that before Tiger Lily’s death she could’ve entrusted one of her disciples with her claws, or something of the like?”
“Doubtful. She guarded those claws closer than her own children. She would’ve never gifted them. They likely followed her to the grave. As far as her disciples, the last I heard, most of the bitch’s pups were hunted down and executed not long after she was killed. Any who may have been lucky enough to escape the executioner’s blade have probably gone underground, and if they know what’s best they’ll stay there.”
“Even Seven-Palms?” The thought had been rolling around in her head since the doppelgänger assassin bent her sword. Elders aside, Seven-Palms was the only one she had seen master such a technique that could bend steel.
