Chapter Seven
Shit, they were losing the darkness.
As John glanced at his watch, the time check was a waste of effort. The sting in his eyes was telling him all he needed to know about how little night they had left.
Even the promise of daylight was enough to make him blink fast.
Then again, the activity at the Xtreme Park was winding down for the evening anyway, the drugged-out stragglers getting vertical on the benches or ducking into the public bathrooms for a last fix. Unlike Caldwell's other parks, this one was open twenty-four/seven, with fluorescent lights on tall poles illuminating the expanse of concrete. Hard to tell what the city planners had been thinking with the round-the-clock business--because that was what they had here. Round- the-clock business. With all the drugs changing hands, the place was like a bar away from the bars down on Trade.
No lessers, though. Just humans dealing to humans who used in the shadows.
Still, it was promising. If Lash hadn't infiltrated the zone yet, he was going to. Even with the cops doing their idle-bys in their marked cars, there was plenty of privacy and plenty of notice. The park was laid out like a huge terrace, with sinkholes in the ground alternating with ramps and jumps. Bottom line was, the people could see the CPD coming and duck behind or into all kinds of shelter.
And, man, they were trained well. From their vantage point behind the work shed, he and his boys had seen it happen over and over again. Kind of made you wonder why the CPD didn't send unmarkeds over or infiltrate in plain clothes.
Or maybe they were doing that already. Maybe there were others who, like John, were invisible to the crowd. Well, not exactly like him and Qhuinn and Blay. There was no way even a fully trained and decorated member of the CPD could present himself as nothing--which was what John and his buddies had been doing for the last three hours. Every time someone passed, they wiped out the memory.
It was kind of odd to be in a place, but not of it... sensed, but not seen.
"We gonna get ghost?" Qhuinn asked.
John glanced up at the brightening sky and told himself that in approximately thirteen hours that f**king heat lamp of a sun was going back under wraps and they could take up res in their little hidden corner and wait again.
Goddamn it.
"John? Let's go."
For a split second, he almost tore his buddy's head off, his hands coming up and getting ready to fly through all kinds of f**k-you, you're-not- my-babysitter shit.
What stopped him was the fact that just as no amount of waiting around here was going to produce Lash, yelling at Qhuinn wasn't going to get them closer to a sighting, either.
He nodded once and took a last look around. There was a single dealer type who seemed to run the show and the kid was hanging out to the very end. His main lean was against the center ramp, which was smart--it meant he could see everything in the park, from the far corners to the road where the cops came and went.
Kid looked to be about seventeen or eighteen and his clothes were loose on his frame, which was part of the skater style, and also probably a function of his using what he sold. He looked like he needed to be scrubbed with a car brush a couple of times, but he was alert and he was savvy. And he seemed to work alone. Which was interesting. To dominate a drug territory, usually the dealer in question had enforcers to back him up-- otherwise he got jumped for either his product or his cash. But this young guy... he was by himself the whole time.
Either he had some serious meat in the shadows, or he was about to get taken down.
John stood up from where he'd braced himself against the side of the outbuilding and nodded at his boys. Let's go.
When he took form again, pea gravel crunched under his shitkickers as his weight became real and a brisk breeze hit him square in the face. The courtyard of the Brotherhood's mansion was demarcated by the front flank of the house and the tall shoulders of the twenty-foot-high retaining wall that ran all around the property. The white marble fountain in the middle had yet to be filled and jump-started for the warmer months and the half dozen cars that were parked in a row were waiting for action as well.
The whispered sound of well-oiled gears turning brought his head up. In a coordinated descent, the steel shutters were coming down over the windows, the panels unfurling and covering the leaded glass panes like the lids of many eyes closing for sleep.
He dreaded going inside. Even though there must be upward of fifty rooms to wander through, the fact that he was going to have to stay put until sundown made the mansion feel like a shoe box.
As Qhuinn and Blay materialized on either side of him, he walked up the steps to the huge double doors and pushed his way into the vestibule.
Inside, he presented his mug for viewing in the security camera. Instantly, the lock was popped and he walked into a foyer that was right out of czarist Russia. Malachite and claret marble columns supported a three- story-high painted ceiling. Gold-leafed sconces and mirrors generated and reflected buttery light that further enriched the colors. And that staircase... the thing was like a carpeted landing strip that stretched up to the heavens, its golden balustrade splitting at the top to form the anchors of the second floor's open balcony.
His father had spared no expense and obviously had a flair for the dramatic. All you needed was orchestral backup and you could imagine a king floating down in robes--
Wrath appeared at the top, his huge body clothed in black leather, his long black hair falling around his tremendous shoulders. His wraparound sunglasses were in place, and although he was at the head of a vast expanse of fall-on-your-ass, he didn't look down. No reason to. His eyes were now utterly blind.
But he was not sightless. At his side, George had things covered. The Seeing Eye dog was in control of the king, the two united through the harness that went around the golden retriever's chest and haunches. They were the ultimate Mutt and Jeff, a canine Good Samaritan with beauty- contestant looks and a brutal warrior who was obviously capable of tearing your throat open on a whim. But they worked well together and Wrath was pretty much in love with his animal: The dog was treated like the royal pet he was--to hell with even Iams; George ate whatever his master did, which meant prime cuts of beef and lamb. And word was that the retriever slept in bed with Beth and Wrath--although that had yet to be independently verified, as no one was allowed in the First Family's quarters.
As Wrath started down for the foyer, he walked with a limp, the result of something he did over on the Far Side at the Scribe Virgin's. No one knew who he saw or why he sported a black eye or a split lip on a regular basis, but everyone, even John, was glad for the sessions. They kept Wrath on an even keel and away from the field.
With the king descending, and some of the other Brothers coming through the door John had just used, he had to make his escape. If those Shadows had sensed he had fresh ink, the people gathering for last meal would pick up on it in a heartbeat if they got close enough.
Fortunately, there was a wet bar in the library and John went there and helped himself to a shot of Jack Daniel's. The first of many.
While he started to make deposits into his buzz account, he braced himself against the marble slab and wished like hell he had a time machine-- although it was hard to know whether he'd choose to go forward or backward with it.
"You want any food?" Qhuinn said from the doorway.
John didn't look in the guy's direction, just shook his head and poured some more liquid relief into his squat glass.
"Okay, I'll bring you a sandwich."
With a curse, John pivoted around and signed, I said no.
"Roast beef? Good. And I'll hitch you some carrot cake. Tray'll be left in your room." Qhuinn turned away. "If you wait about five more minutes in here, everyone will be seated at the table, so you'll have a clear shot up the stairs."
The guy took off, which meant short of braining him with the glass, there was no other way of expressing his I-am-an-island opinion.
Although really, that would just be a waste of good booze--Qhuinn was so hardheaded, you could have hit his frontal lobe with a crowbar and made no impression on him whatsoever.
Fortunately, the alcohol began to take effect, its numb blanket settling on John's shoulders first before sweeping up and down his body. The shit did nothing to quiet his mind, but his bones and muscles did ease out.
After waiting the suggested five minutes, John took his drink and his bottle and hit the stairs two at a time. As he ascended, the subdued voices from the dining room followed him, but that's all there was. Lately, there hadn't been much to laugh about over meals.