Читать книгу Blood & Dust - Jason Nahrung - Страница 9

Reece, barefoot and shirtless, cradled a stubby of beer and forty years of regret. He took in the massive wall of storm clouds building in the west; the humidity had thickened during the day to be almost choking. His body ached all over, as if he'd been dragged here from the roadhouse behind Smith's Land Cruiser rather than in the passenger seat.

He felt bad for Diana Matheson. She was an impressive woman. If his own mother had been that strong, that stoic, well, maybe he wouldn't have joined the cops. If his mother had stood up to the drunken thug of a husband of hers, maybe Reece would've gone on to a respectable public service job, or even, who knew, if he'd stuck with the schooling, to university. Now that would've been funny. It might've been him brandishing a sign on the street march instead of taking names and busting heads. Maybe he wouldn't have had to drive over to the morgue and ID his sister, just another overdosed prostitute dredged up from a Valley gutter. Or maybe it wouldn't have made any difference at all.

The story about the Night Riders being drug traffickers wasn't a line. Taipan's bunch would sell anything, do anything, if it meant staying a step ahead of the Hunters. Whereas drugs were the one thing that the Von Schiller organisation would not touch. Despite the lure of big turnover, Maximilian would have nothing to do with what he described as pollution in society's bloodstream. His people had carte blanche to deal with drug dealers any way they felt fit, as long as it didn't come back on the firm. Reece had done his share, and it still hadn't made up for the loss of his sister. Hell, he'd never even found out who'd sold her the junk. That'd been the spring of '71 and he'd been on Springbok duty. His path had crossed with Mira's and, well, here he was. Smoking and shooing flies on the back veranda of a decrepit pub in a dying town, waiting for the axe to fall. Him and everyone else here, by the look of the place.

A presence tickled at the edge of his brooding mind. Mira. It was never a good sign that her control had slipped enough to allow that sensation to filter through their bloodlink. Hunger stirred, different to the steak and eggs he'd polished off. Pavlovian, that's what it was. Needing that taste, needing it today more than ever to ease his many pains. How angry was she? He blew his concerns out with a last lungful of cigarette smoke and ground the butt out.

Back in his room, he checked his pistol where it lay on the bedside table, then rinsed his face, pulled on shoes and buttoned up his bloodstained shirt. He'd just double-checked that the internal door into the pub was locked when someone knocked on the verandah door. He didn't need to look through the window to know who it was. He could feel her, a seething thunderhead; could see in his mind's eye that boot tapping impatiently on the floor. He opened the door before Mira could kick it in, then stood back with a bob of the head and a muttered 'Strigoi'.

Mira stood, dark and electric, eyes glinting green from the shade of her hood, her custom Driza-Bone draped about her like bat wings. 'What happened, Reece?'

'We lost him.'

She hovered on the threshold, as though waiting for an invitation, considering her options, perhaps, to bleed him or not to bleed him, and he wondered if he had time to get to the bedside table, if perhaps he shouldn't have had the Glock tucked into his belt. Futile, when she was this close. She entered, her shoulder brushing his chest, and flipped the overcoat across the single chair. The material snapped like a matador's cape. Her driver followed, looking boyish in a pants suit, a black ranger cap pushed down on her tightly pulled-back hair. She cleared a space on the small table for a duffel bag, then removed her mirrored sunglasses and tucked them into a pocket. Ponytail, freckles, wide shoulders. Familiar, but he didn't think they'd worked together. 'Nice place,' she said.

'Penthouse was taken.' He checked who might have seen them arrive - no-one - and locked the door before, as casually as he could, edging closer to his pistol.

'I've just spent an hour convincing the redneck coroner in Charleville that your partner died from a bullet to the brain and that no further inquiry was necessary.' Mira wiped the corners of her mouth with her thumb. 'He reeked of body odour. He ate tomatoes, raw, with salt, like they were apples. It was disgusting.'

The driver stood with her back to the veranda door. Reece caught the flash of a shoulder holster through her open jacket.

'I had to pay through the nose for a charter flight. Drag Felicity here off the GS roster with no notice.'

He re-appraised the driver. A jackal? Yeah, she was Gespenstenstaffel all right - no collar flashes, but she had the economy of movement, the hint of cherry glazing across the eye when the light caught it just right. And she was on first-name terms with the boss. The girls had obviously bonded during the journey.

Mira shed her suit jacket and began unbuttoning her blouse. 'Hire a vehicle. Sort out those witless fools in Charleville, then drive up here, wherever here is. I am hot. I am tired. I am sunburnt.'

'Dave didn't mean to get killed.'

Mira stopped at the last button, her open blouse revealing a black band of bra, a hint of rib cage and a flat stomach. She gave him a look that said her patience was stretched as thin as his luck. The Strigoi didn't appreciate being interrupted. 'And I would not have expected the retrieval of one Rogue on ice to have been so problematic.' She stared at him, her presence filling the room. 'I needed Taipan, Reece. I needed him and you let him go.'

'You should've sent the chopper.'

'The chopper's out of commission.'

'Would've been nice to know that before we came out here with our arses bared.'

She arched an eyebrow and he felt Felicity tense. He thought, this time, finally, he'd gone too far. But to hell with it. Dave and he had driven twelve fucking hours to collect Taipan from holier-than-thou Jasmine Turner, only to be kicked out before sun-up with nothing more than a slice of cold shoulder - straight into the Night Riders' ambush. It should never have happened; he wasn't wearing the blame.

'We could've brought some back-up, at least,' he said. 'We were completely outgunned. Who knows where they got that much firepower.'

Mira held his stare, her purple-tinted eyes examining, divining, weighing. Then she blinked, and he breathed again as she shook her head, rubbed her temples, her eyes flashing green on the way back to their natural brown.

'Strigoi?' Felicity asked, poised but uncertain.

Mira removed her blouse and draped it over the chair. Above the lace of her bra, the rust-coloured pentacle tattoo on her left breast glittered with silver streaks, like fish swimming in a stream. The sight triggered the familiar constriction in his throat, the dryness in his mouth, the tightening of his balls. Damn her.

'Long day, Reece?' Mira said.

'You could say that.'

'And you've been smoking.'

'And I've been smoking.'

'And drinking.'

'Medicinal only.'

'How's that wolfbite?'

'It isn't. We were in the car most of the time. Just got a bit toasty in the roadhouse, that's all.'

'It was unfortunate timing, Reece. The helicopter's upgrade is taking longer than anticipated. And as I said, the mission was routine. We tried to handle it quietly and it blew up in our faces. Now, we have to deal with the fallout. Felicity - my belt.'

Felicity retrieved Mira's weapon belts from the duffel and stood with them at the ready. One held a sidearm and ammunition pouches, the other a long knife and a curved sword in their scabbards. That hit Reece like a splash of cold water - Mira had brought her blades. She meant business.

'Show me.'

He opened his shirt and turned his head. She drew the smaller of the blades, as long as her forearm, and sliced the side of his neck. He flinched; the cut had gone deep. She handed Felicity the basilard to clean, then bent her lips to the wound. The pain spiked as her fangs tore at the lips of the wound, her tongue probing, lapping, and then he groaned with the familiar sense of himself draining out as she swallowed him down. 'You taste like a brewery,' she murmured, 'and smell like an ashtray.' Mira stepped back, deep purple eyes staring as she sifted his lifestream. Blood smeared her lips and chin. A few drips made short, languid lines near the tattoo over her heart. Reece wanted desperately to lick her chest clean, but he stood still, a hand pressed to the wound in his neck, blood trickling through his fingers, feeling woozy.

'You're sure about the boy?' Mira asked. 'Taipan brought him across?'

'Not for certain, but it looked like he'd gone through the motions. Needless to say, I didn't go back for him.'

'Shame. The grease monkey could've given us a valuable link to the gang. I expect more flexibility from my Favourite.'

'Standing orders are to destroy all unauthorised newborns,' he said, unable to put much fight into it. He'd been running on empty before she tapped him. He lowered his hand from his throat, letting the blood flow down his chest. His gun was on the table, the hall door locked, Felicity barring the exit with a sidearm and two blades in her hands, not counting what she was carrying herself. He was royally screwed and, honestly, too exhausted to give a damn. The kid would've thanked him, if he'd any idea what Taipan had done to him.

'Basilard,' Mira ordered Felicity, who handed her the dagger once more.

Reece smelled the girl's anticipation, saw it filling her eyes like a kid's on Christmas morning. He could've told her to hold her horses, the ambitious little bitch. He wasn't being retired just yet. He hoped.

'Come here,' Mira said as she ran the blade across her forearm. The skin parted, just above two vibrant scars circling her left wrist, and dribbled crimson. 'Have a drink, Reece. It's medicinal.'

He was on his knees, sucking down her blood, aware of Felicity looking on, all but panting, when his phone rang. Felicity answered it. 'He's in the loo… Yeah, I'm his secretary… What do you want?'

Constable Smith, she reported after she'd ended the call. Diana Matheson's son had turned up at the house, hardly hurt at all. Smith would let Reece know if he found out anything when he spoke to the lad.

Mira pulled her arm away. 'So, not dead. That changes things.'

Reece leaned against the bed, waiting for the rush to subside. It was taking longer to kick in each time; each time, it ended too soon. Through that delirious haze, past the burning itch of wounds healing, he heard Mira tell Felicity to contact this Constable Smith - no interference. No cops, no doctors, no verdammt reporters. Reece would handle it. Make it sound good.

'Get cleaned up,' she told Reece. 'Felicity's got a new kit for you in the car. I haven't decided yet whether the cost should come out of your wages - or your hide.' She scooped scarlet drops from her chest and licked them from her finger tip, then rubbed her temple again. 'Everybody just needs to be quiet for a moment while I think this through. We might be able to salvage this yet.'

Reece headed for the en suite. He felt sorry for the mechanic and his family, sorry he'd pulled in there and achieved nothing. Dave had died anyway; Taipan had escaped; and now the boy had a death warrant hanging over him. Usually it was Reece's job to defend the herd, or avenge them. But this time, he'd brought hell to their door, and now the devil had come to sweep up the mess.