Nathan casually eyed the dead heroin-dealing pimp who lay sprawled where he'd fallen, windpipe crushed five and a half minutes ago, after the human had the bad sense to think the vampire in his living room could be gotten rid of with the help of the revolver stowed under a sofa cushion. The butt of the unused Smith & Wesson was still wedged between the tattered, plaid-covered foam and a fleece throw that didn't quite mask the stains and cigarette burns riddling the filthy upholstery.
Nathan assumed the weapon was loaded, not that he cared. He'd been trained as a boy to kill a hundred different ways with his bare hands. And he'd never taken a hit in all this time. His record was flawless. His mercy nonexistent.
Rooster's rap on the door came again, two staccato beats. "Yo, Billy! You gonna open this damn door or - "
His words dried up in his throat in that next instant, as Nathan had the door open, Rooster yanked inside, and the dead bolts thrown home in the time it would have taken the human to utter another syllable.
"What the f**k!" he hollered, falling back onto the sofa where Nathan dropped him. His bloodshot eyes were wide under the ridiculous plume of his scarlet mohawk as he scrambled to right himself, trying to get his bearings inside the gloomy apartment. His confused, searching gaze finally lit on Nathan, standing in the shadows in front of him. "Oh, shit . . . no f**king way! Billy, what the f**k you doin' with the Order, man?"
Nathan stared down at him. "I need to talk to you, Rooster. Tried your place first, but you weren't home."
"Talk to me? I got no business with you, man. Got no business with the f**kin' Order!" Rooster's eyes went a bit wider, the whites rolling around in his skull as he glanced around him, no doubt looking for some support from his friend. Support he wasn't going to get. He realized that a moment later, when his panicked gaze landed on the motionless limbs and sightless stare of the corpse lying just a few feet away. "Holy shit! That Billy right there? Naw, I don't f**kin' believe this shit! I just talked to him, like five minutes ago."
Nathan shrugged. "Billy made the call to you because I asked him to. Then Billy got stupid and now he's dead."
"Oh, God!" Rooster howled, burying his head in his hands. "Shit, man . . . this is messed up! What the hell do you want from me?"
"Information, to start," Nathan said.
He'd done some discreet digging during the daylight hours between Lucan handing him this solo task and the wait till sundown, when he could finally hit the streets and start taking care of business. Word came back that most of the local lowlifes hadn't known the first thing about a civilian abduction, so whoever was responsible was keeping the intel close to their vest. But the common denominator when it came to rebel factions and related activity around Boston was the red-combed loser spluttering and twitching on the sofa in front of Nathan.
"Ain't got no information," Rooster whined. "You got the wrong guy, man."
Nathan narrowed his look on the human informant. "I know you're not going to sit there and deny you have business dealings of potential interest to me. I'm not talking about drug-dealing flesh-peddlers like this ass**le Billy over here, but other associates of yours. Ones who might know something about a situation that went down a couple days ago over in the Berkshires."
Rooster's upper lip twitched. "What kind of situation?"
"Kidnapping," Nathan replied. "Someone very important. Potentially very high profile."
A sharp inhalation as the snitch fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing his arms. He was clued in now. He had information. He would talk. Just a matter of time, but unluckily for Rooster, Nathan's mission meant he was short on that commodity.
"This kidnapping also netted another hostage," he told the man. "One of particular interest to the Order and to me personally as well."
Rooster let out his breath in a gust of sour air. "I don't know anything about her, I swear."
"You just told me you do." Nathan's lethal instincts prickled to full attention, but he remained as outwardly calm as his years of unforgiving training as a born-and-bred killer had made him.
He took hold of Rooster's biceps, sure that the injuries Mira had inflicted with her blades at La Notte a few nights ago still pained the human. He squeezed, ignoring Rooster's sharp cry of anguish. "Take a look at your friend. You remember how I said Billy got stupid before he got dead?" That red mohawk wobbled with its owner's jerky nod. "Don't be stupid, Rooster. Tell me where they took Mira and Jeremy Ackmeyer."
When he didn't hear an answer through the groan of agony coming out of Rooster's mouth, Nathan increased the pressure.
"I don't know," the human howled. "I don't f**kin' know! Last I knew Ackmeyer was with Vince, man. You should be lookin' for him, not me!"
"Vince who?" Nathan demanded.
"I don't know the dude's last name, just know he runs with Bowman and his crew. Or did until today."
"Bowman," Nathan repeated, the first he'd heard of that name among rebel circles. "Where can I find Bowman?"
"Don't know. Never met him." Rooster's face was screwed up in a grimace when Nathan didn't relent for an instant on his wounded arms. "All's I know is, he heads up a small operation somewhere outside Boston."
Nathan noted the new intel but returned his focus to the rest of Rooster's statement. "And this other individual - Vince. He's got Ackmeyer now? Vince decide to run solo or something?"
Rooster nodded. "He was lookin' to make a ransom when he contacted me this morning. Never heard the dude so fired up and cocky. Said Ackmeyer was some kind of genius. Said he invented some kind of UV technology shit that was worth a fortune to the right buyer."