I broke into a jog, moving as quickly and silently as I could.
"What is it?" Bianca asked.
"Here, catch."
I stumbled back, hit by a lash of chaos so strong it left me blinking, blinded.
I squeezed my eyes shut, brain screaming, knowing what was coming and fighting to stop--
Bianca's face. Her horror. Reduced to pants-wetting terror as she saw the gun lift, the gunman's finger on the trigger, and knew she couldn't escape, couldn't scream, wouldn't have time. The bullet spit from the gun, near silent, hitting her square in the forehead. I heard her last thought, a mental scream of defiance. No! Not me! Not now! Then...silence.
I could see Bianca's horror, recognize her horror, be horrified by it and yet, I felt none of it, consumed as the chaos flooded me, leaving me trembling and panting and...Oh, God. Wanting more.
The first time I'd felt someone die, that night I'd met Karl, it had been too strong, like my first shot of hard liquor, leaving me reeling, no pleasure to be taken. And I'd been relieved. So relieved. However screwed up my lust for chaos, at least I was never going to enjoy that. I'd soon realized I'd been wrong. Like liquor, it was only the first hit that stung.
As the vision dimmed, I saw a man bend over Bianca's body. Average height, dark-haired, late thirties, Latino, with a heavy jacket and loose pants.
The gunman checked Bianca's pulse. No chaos vibes emanated from him. With nothing to keep the vision going, it continued to fade.
The door swung open. The gunman strode into the hall and, for a second, I couldn't move. Then the man wheeled, gaze going to mine, eyes widening in shock and I realized, with an oddly calm clarity, that I was standing twenty feet from the man who'd just shot Bianca. Chaos still buzzed through my head, numbing my reflexes. If he had lifted his gun and fired, I don't know if there'd have been anything I could have done about it.
But he just stared at me, as if in shock himself. I felt the weight of my gun in my hand, but before I could unthinkingly lift it, I realized he had the advantage. My gun hung at my side, fingers grasping it awkwardly, my readiness thrown off by the chaos blast.
I wheeled and ran.
The door was only a few steps away, but I zagged to it rather than taking a straight path, recalling my defense lessons against spellcasts. My brain tripped ahead, laying out a memory map of the club and showing me places to hide.
Hide was what I had to do. All the exits were at least fifty feet away, and no amount of zigging and zagging would get me that far without a bullet through my back.
Escape wasn't on my mind anyway. I had a gun, and I wasn't letting Bianca's killer walk away.
I slammed the door behind me. Then I ducked and ran around the bar. A flash of light told me the gunman had opened the hall door. I dropped to the floor and gripped the gun. When I closed my eyes, I could feel his vibes, not anger but anxiety, his thoughts a mental loop of "Shit, where'd she go?"
My target was in place. All I had to do was peek over the bar, raise the gun and shoot him. At the thought, my heart tripped faster, but not from excitement.
I'd never killed anyone.
I could have laughed at the thought, almost a guilty admission, like saying I'd never driven a car. In the normal world, not having killed people is a perfectly acceptable "missed life experience." Desirable, in fact. But in the supernatural world, at least in the type of work I did, it's a given that at some point it will come down to kill or be killed.
Karl told me once that he couldn't remember the faces of every man he'd killed. It wasn't that there were scores of them, but enough that they no longer stood clear in his mind. He hadn't said it with regret, but nor had he been bragging. He was simply making a thoughtful statement during a discussion of risk and death in the supernatural world.
I could look on this the same way: kill or be killed. But was I in danger? The gunman hadn't fired at me in the hall. Now he wasn't putting out any vibes of anger or threat.
Could I justify leaping from behind the bar, gun blazing, taking down a stranger who hadn't made a move on me?
Still crouching, I retreated into the shadowy corner between the bar and the wall, my back protected, gun raised. I wasn't letting him walk out of here. He had answers, and Karl could get them from him.
While it would be nice to take the gunman down alone, I stood a better chance of success if Karl helped. I reached for my panic button, then stopped. Push it and Karl would come running--into a room with an armed killer.
I flipped open my phone and began a text message. I got as far as "bar gunman" when a rubber sole squeaked on the floor. I glanced at the glowing cell phone, shut it quickly, then scrunched back against the wall.
I was too exposed. I saw that now. I was relying on dim lighting, a shadowy corner and dark clothing, which was fine for a casual glance, but if he walked around that bar, searching, he'd see me. To get to either exit, he had to walk around the bar.
He slid into view. Less than twenty feet from me, gun up, gaze sweeping the room with every step.
Heart hammering, I readied myself. If he saw me, I'd have to--
His gaze swung my way...and kept going. I exhaled a long, shuddering breath. If he was giving off any chaos vibes, I couldn't detect them--they were too low to penetrate my own anxiety.
The gunman kept moving away, heading toward the back hall.
The back hall...where Karl was...
I fumbled for my phone. How could I open it without turning on the backlight? Damn it, I should know this!
The gunman walked along the wall. Ten feet above his head was the second tier, a wide ledge lined with the dark shapes of tables. I decided he was far enough that I'd risk the phone's backlight, and was opening it when one dark shape on that second tier moved. A man's figure swung over the low railing.
Karl landed square on the gunman's back, his drop so soundless the man let out a startled yelp. The two men went down. I ran to cover Karl. As I passed the bar, I caught another motion, out of the corner of my eye. A figure on the top tier across the room, dressed in black, with something on his shoulder, long and--
"Karl! Partner!"
As the words left my mouth, I wished I could suck them back, say something clearer and I was about to yell "gun" when that gun swung my way. I dove, and Karl did the same, flinging the man off him and going for cover.
I scrambled under the nearest pool table, then scampered around the centerpiece, putting it between myself and the second gunman. I flattened out on my stomach, gun raised.
Something thumped against the table beside me. A soft sound, barely enough to carry. I swung my gun toward it.
"Stay," Karl hissed.
While I could have slugged him for not "staying" himself, for taking the risk getting to me, I couldn't deny a dart of relief when his dark figure dropped beside me.
"Shhh," he said.
Again, I wasn't the one who needed the warning, but I turned my attention to the path I'd been watching.
Karl slid closer, lips moving to my ear.
"They're retreating. Heading for the side door. Two sets of footsteps." He hung there, breath warm against my ear. "Still going. Still...The door. Open. Closed. Silence. Footsteps down the back hall. Receding. We'll wait. Be sure."
He stayed where he was, pressed up against me. After a minute, he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
"You okay?" I whispered. "That drop--"
"--was nothing. But I think I wrenched my neck when you yelled."
"Better than catching a bullet."
"True. And you? I don't smell blood, so I presume you're okay?"
"He killed Bianca. The guy you jumped. I...saw it."
His gaze swung to mine. He didn't ask "are you okay?" because he knew I wouldn't be, and it had nothing to do with the horror of watching someone die. His arm went around my back as he leaned toward my ear and whispered, "We'll talk."
"After we get the hell out of here, right? Before someone discovers the body and finds us hiding under the pool ta
ble."
A small smile. "Preferably."
I pushed up as he backed out from under the table. I was getting to my feet when he pushed me back under and dropped beside me.
"Footsteps."
A door slapped open, and Tony's voice wafted in. "--goddamn cleaners. Just like the last time. Guy freaks out, certain the Cortezes broke in. I say, 'Hey man, couldn't the cleaners have forgotten to reset the alarm,' but no...Gotta be a conspiracy."
"Bianca's supposed to be here for deliveries," Max said. "Could have been her."
"Bee's going to forget to rearm the system? As if."
"Looks like she's still doing inventory. The hall light's on. We should tell her about the alarm."
"And get shanghaied into helping count boxes? Enjoy. I'm heading around back, see whether Guy's here, if he has any news about Jaz and Sonny."
We waited until Max and Tony stepped through their respective exits, then hightailed it out.
LUCAS
5
PORTLAND IS A CITY of many charms. Primary among them is the geography--almost as far as I can get from my father and his Cabal without leaving the continental U.S. As the saying goes, though: act in haste, repent at leisure. I suggested that Paige and I settle in Portland during a particularly dark period between my father and myself, and I have, in some ways, come to regret it. The distance may be comforting, but if trouble arises in Miami, it takes me a while to get there.
While Paige had the insight to pack overnight bags and print out the flight schedule after Karl's call, it was still late in the day by the time our plane crossed the Florida border.
A trip to Miami is never something I undertake lightly. It is the seat of the Cortez Cabal, and when I am there, I cannot forget who I am.
It's not that I consider Cabals evil entities. I wish I could. Early life conditions us for a fairy-tale world of good and evil, of wicked witches and beautiful princesses, hideous trolls and stalwart knights. You are good or you are evil and there's no in-between, no "extenuating circumstances."
We don't like extenuating circumstances. They make things messy. We want evil to hide behind a dark mask--cold and faceless. If the villain is not evil, how do you hate him?
If your father is not evil, how do you hate him?
I grew up in a world where the Cabals were clearly on the side of virtue. My family founded the first Cabal in Spain, after the Inquisition. We saw our people--supernaturals--persecuted by a society that didn't understand that we were not evil, and we gave them a place where they could be safe, and raise their children in safety, and freely use their powers and prosper from them. We didn't just give them jobs; we gave them a way of life.
I grew up believing in that family mythos. When my father led me through his offices, I saw happy people who smiled and bowed to him as if he was a beneficent king. I was a prince--petted and pampered. Outside those walls, though, I was the son of an unwed schoolteacher, living in a modest home up the Florida coast, where the name Cortez only meant I was "another damn Mexican." Is it any wonder I clung to the fantasy as long as I did? Right into high school, to the summer I went to work for my father and walked in on him dictating execution writs as casually as if he were ordering more toner for the copy machines.
I could have plugged my ears and told myself I'd misheard. But my father raised me to never turn my back on a question until it was answered. So I did my due diligence, and found that my palace was built on the bones of the dead. And those happy, smiling faces I'd seen since childhood? I'd play the smiling, happy employee for my boss too, if crossing him meant he'd send fire demons to burn my family alive.
The truth had seemed clear. Cabals were evil. Cabals must be destroyed.
I made a vow, that I'd do whatever it took to bring the Cabals down. A foolish, arrogant vow that only a sixteen-year-old could make, based on a clear division of good and evil that only a sixteen-year-old can see. I delved ever deeper into Cabal culture and counterculture, no longer a prince but an outsider. Instead of galvanizing me to action, the distance only brought the picture into sharper focus. And with sharper focus, I began to see the gradients of black and white.
Cabals do provide scores of supernaturals with a world in which they belong. One cannot underestimate the importance of that for people who otherwise spend their lives hiding. People who have to look at their bleeding child and evaluate the risk of taking him to the doctor. Of those people who smile and nod at my father every day, 90 percent are truly grateful and free of fear.
If they betray the Cabal, the punishment will be execution--horrible execution--but they have no intention of doing so. Yes, they've heard stories of families being murdered, but those are other Cabals. Yes, they've also heard of Cortez Cabal employees being killed after leaving the organization, but that is the price you pay for reaping the benefits. One of those benefits is security, and if the Cabal must kill a former employee to safeguard its secrets, so be it.
So is a Cabal evil? No. Is there evil within a Cabal? Absolutely. That's what I fight--the greed and the corruption that arises from an environment where all you have to do is cry "security issue" and you can get away with murder. Yet the world still looks for black and white. In me, supernaturals want to see a meddler or a savior. I am neither, so I disappoint.
I refuse to work for the corporation or take part in Cabal life, and yet I maintain a relationship with the CEO. By naming me heir, my father offers me the chance to take over the Cabal itself, to institute my reforms from within, and yet I refuse. Simple things, one would think. Simple decisions. If you hate the institution, turn your back on it completely. If you want to change it, take it over. Black and white.
Even by coming here today, I'll displease both sides. To some, I'll be meddling in Cabal affairs, without even a client as my excuse. To others, I'll be letting my father sweep me into his world again, on the pretext of helping manage a crisis, as he had with the Edward and Natasha problem four years ago. I've learned long ago that this is what I should expect anytime my path crosses my father's in a professional capacity. It can't be helped. But that doesn't make it any easier.
PAIGE AND I walked into the terminal. I carried two overnight bags; she had her laptop case.
We waded through a throng of friends and relatives greeting arrivals. Twenty feet away, Karl sat reading a newspaper, alone on a bank of chairs. Despite the shouts and crying around him, he never even glanced up.
As we emerged from the crowd, he snapped the paper shut, rose and strode into the terminal...away from us. Paige arched her brows at me. Was Karl simply being cautious? Or did he suspect he'd been followed? After less than a dozen paces, he stopped, wheeled and shot us a "Well, are you coming?" glower. He barely let us catch up, then was off again.
"We should find someplace with a modicum of privacy," I said. "I know several--"
"Here's fine."
He veered into a bar packed with commuters fortifying themselves for the flight--or the drive home. It hardly seemed the place to discuss matters of a supernatural nature, but a crowded public place was more secure than an empty one, where words could carry and neighbors might be bored enough to eavesdrop.
"Where's Hope?" Paige asked as Karl pulled out her stool, the action seeming more reflex than courtesy.
"After the girl died, Benoit--the gang leader--called her in. He has them hunkered down at the club, planning their next move. No one leaves."
That explained his brusqueness then. He was eager to get this over with so he could return. His haste was warranted. Should Hope push her panic alarm now, it would be a half-hour or more before he could respond.
Karl pulled a manila envelope from his folded newspaper and removed a sheaf of photos. Eight-by-ten shots, all grainy, the resolution poor.
"Hope used her cell phone to take pictures of the originals, then sent them to me," he explained.
The top photograph was of two young men. Both sat bound to chairs, bowed forward, as if so exhausted that their bindings were all tha
t was holding them upright. The dark-haired one bore an ugly cut across his cheekbone, his cheek coated with a layer of dried blood. The fair-haired young man had a black eye and a swollen lip.
"Jaz and Sonny, I presume?"
He nodded. "The original was left beside the girl's body."
"Was any note attached?"
"Three words on the back: more to come."
That could mean anything from "more information forthcoming" to "more mistreatment of the prisoners" to "more victims to follow." Intentionally cryptic, leaving the recipient hoping for the best while imagining the worst.
"And her killer claimed to be delivering a message from my father, not only with the picture, but the young woman's death? The Cortez Cabal rarely utilizes kidnapping. The outcome is fraught with uncertainty. If it fails, you must kill the victims. If it succeeds, you have living witnesses. If it succeeds and you kill the witnesses, your credibility as a negotiator is irrevocably damaged. To send such a blatant message, and leave evidence of his complicity..." I shook my head. "It's not--"
"--your father."
"No, I was going to say it isn't my father's style."
Karl's fingers drummed against the tabletop. "Same thing. The point is--"
"No, pardon the interruption, but it is not the same thing. If my father wishes to commit a criminal act that may later damage his reputation, he has been known to choose a method that is deliberately out of character."
When Karl frowned, Paige explained, "So when he's accused of it, even his enemies will say 'that's not Benicio Cortez's style'...ergo, it couldn't be Benicio Cortez."
Most people would be shocked by such duplicity. Karl looked as if he was taking notes.
I said, "You may not wish to raise the possibility to Hope, but it's very likely these young men are no longer alive. There's nothing in the photograph to indicate when it was taken. Usually, if proving that a kidnap victim is alive, his captors--"
"Put a newspaper in the picture."
Karl himself had been involved in a kidnapping--a brutal one of Clayton during his strike against the pack--and as he turned his gaze to watch passersby, I wondered whether there was a touch of discomfiture in his straying attention.
He flipped the photograph behind the stack. Next was a black-and-white security camera shot, showing a man walking down a hall.