After the computer booted up, he went to the
Hello, front page. The “Farmhouse Massacre” was covered in a number of articles—the blood and the body parts and the strange oily residue garnering all kinds of Pulitzer-light description. Reporters also interviewed the police who’d been there, the postman who’d called 911 in the first place, twelve kinds of neighbors, and the mayor—who was evidently “calling upon the fine men and women of the CPD to solve this terrible crime against the Caldwell community.”
Consensus was: ritual deaths. Perhaps tied to an unknown cult.
All of which was just background chatter obscuring what he was really looking for—
Bingo. In the last article, he found a short two-paragrapher reporting that the crime scene had been broken into the night before. The “fine men and women of the CPD” had grudgingly allowed as how one of their late-night patrol cars had done a drive-by and found that person or persons unknown had ransacked the scene. They were quick to point out that relevant evidence had already been removed and they were putting a black-and-white there full-time from now on.
So the Brotherhood had followed up on his little message.
Had Xhex gone there, too? he wondered. Maybe waited to see if he’d show up?
Shit, he’d missed a goddamn shot at her. And the Brothers.
But he had time. Hell, when his body went full- on shadow? He had an eternity.
Checking his watch, he got his hustle on, changing quickly into black slacks and a turtleneck and that hooded raincoat. Drawing on his leather gloves, he slid his black baseball cap on and gave a gander in the mirror.
Yeah. Right.
Rummaging around, he found a black T-shirt that he ripped to ribbons and wound around his face, leaving room for his lidless eyes and the cartilage that was left of his nose and the gaping maw that was now his mouth.
Better. Not great. But better.
First stop was the bathroom to check and see how his troops were getting along. They had all passed out in a heap on the floor, their arms and legs intertwining, their heads here and there... but the fuckers were alive.
Man, they were so bottom-of-the-barrel, dregs-of-humanity types, he thought. If they were lucky, collectively their IQ might creep into the triple digits.
They were going to be useful, however.
Lash locked the house up tight with a spell and stepped out into the garage. Popping the Mercedes’ trunk, he lifted the carpeted panel, took out the bundle of coke, and loaded up both his non- nostrils before getting behind the wheel.
Gooooooooood
Which now had a drive-through as opposed to a living room.
Once he hit the highway, the trip downtown should have been ten minutes, but because of rush-hour traffic, it was more like twenty-five—although with the racing in his mind and his body, he felt like he was at a total standstill the entire time.
It was a little after nine o’clock when he pulled into an alley and parked next to a silver van. As he got out, he thanked God for the blow—he actually felt like he had some energy. Trouble was, if his Extreme Makeover didn’t finish up fast, he was going to go through that stash in the trunk in a matter of days.
Which was why he’d called for this meeting now instead of waiting any longer.
And what do you know, Ricardo Benloise was on time and already in his office: The maroon AMG he was squired around in was docked on the far side of the GMC van.
Lash approached the back door of the art gallery, and waited by the video camera. Yeah, he’d have preferred to chill on this face-to-face for a couple of days, but his own needs notwithstanding, he had sellers curing in his bathroom and he needed product for them to hit the streets with.
Then he had to turn some soldiers.
After all, the little Shit hadn’t wasted any time filling his ranks—although there was no way of telling how many were left after the Brotherhood’s raid at the farmhouse.
Never thought he’d be glad those motherfuckers were lethal at their jobs. Go. Fig.
Lash had to assume that the Omega’s boy toy was going to quickly cook up another batch of inductees. And given that the kid had been a successful dealer, he was going to resume making paper as soon as he could. Both of which would give him the resources not only to fight the vampires, but come after Lash.
So it was a case of the clock ticking. Lash was damn confident that the Shit couldn’t get a meeting with Benloise right now because he was small potatoes—but how much longer would that be true? Sales mattered. Smarts mattered. If Lash could get a foot in the door, someone else could.
Especially if they had the special talents of a
With a click, the door locks were sprung and one of Benloise’s enforcers opened up. The guy frowned at Lash’s Lady Gaga rig, but got back in the game quick. No doubt he’d seen a lot of crazy shit—and not just on the drug-trade side of things: artists were no doubt wacky nut jobs for the most part.
“Where’s your ID,” the guy said.
Lash flashed his fake driver’s license. “About to be up your ass, motherfucker.”
Clearly, the combination of the laminated card and Lash’s familiar voice was enough because a moment later, he was allowed in.
Benloise’s office was on the third floor in the front, and the trip up there was silent. The guy’s private space was bowling-alley uncluttered, nothing but a long expanse of black varnished floorboards that culminated in a raised platform—which was the desk equivalent of a set of lifts for shoes. Benloise was parked on the dais, seated behind a teak table that was the size of a Lincoln Town Car.
Like a lot of guys who had to stand tall to hit five-six on a tape measure, everything the short man did was big.
As Lash came forward, the South American stared out over his steepled fingers and spoke in his smooth, cultured way. “I was so pleased to receive your call after you failed to make our last meeting. Wherever have you been, my friend.”
“Family problems.”
Benloise frowned. “Yes, blood can be trouble.”
“You have no idea.” Lash looked around at all of the absolutely nothing, locating the hidden cameras and doors—which were in the same positions they’d been in the last time. “First off, let me assure you that our business relationship remains my top priority.”
“I am very pleased to know this. When you didn’t arrive to buy the pieces you were contracted for, I wondered. As an art dealer, I depend on my regular customers to keep my artists busy. I also expect my regulars to fulfill their obligations.”
“Understood. Which is the real reason I’ve come. I need an advance. I have an empty wall in my house that has to be filled with one of your paintings, but I won’t be able to pay with cash today.”
Benloise smiled, showing orderly little teeth. “I’m afraid I don’t make those arrangements. You must pay for the art you leave with. And why ever is your face covered up?”
Lash ignored the question. “You’re going to make an exception in my case.”
“I don’t make exceptions—”
Lash dematerialized across the space, taking form behind the guy and putting a knife to his throat. With a shout, the guard over by the door went for his heat, but there wasn’t a lot to shoot at when your boss’s jugular was on the verge of springing a leak.
Lash hissed in Benloise’s ear, “I’ve had a really bad fucking week and I’m tired of playing by human rules. It is my full intention to continue our relationship, and you are going to make that possible not only because it benefits us both, but because I’m going to take it personally if you don’t. Know this, you cannot hide from me and there is nowhere you can go that I can’t find you. There is no door strong enough to keep me out, no man I can’t overpower, no weapon you can use against me. My terms are this—one major piece to fill up my wall, and I will take it with me right now.”
When he discovered who Benloise’s overseas contacts were, he might just off the bastard—but that would be
