Maybe he’d broken out into a sprint—
She couldn’t worry about it. Not right now.
Checking the clip in her gun, she relowered the weapon to her thigh and continued on. She found the body about forty feet ahead, crumpled facedown on the pavement behind a dumpster. It was a man, going by the build and the hair, as well as the size of the boots. As she knelt beside him, her brain connected the dots.
The jacket. She recognized the black leather jacket because of the red stitching that crisscrossed the shoulders and ran down to the bottom hem.
“Erie.”
One of Mozart’s lieutenants.
Had he been shooting at her? Or the Charger?
As she looked at the spreading red pool under the man, she thought about a killing down in Manhattan the weekend before. Johnny Two Shoes, an associate of Mozart’s biggest competition in the state, had been executed and rolled into the Hudson. The word on the street had been that revenge was imminent.
Maybe Erie had been protecting her, protecting the deal being made. Had the driver of the Charger been trying to kill her in retaliation?
Rio stretched an arm out and put her fingertips to the inside of Erie’s still-warm wrist. Feeling around . . . no, there was no pulse. Making the sign of the cross, she straightened—and left the area so that she could call in the shooting details to HQ from greater safety.
That she was walking with just a limp was better than she could have hoped for.
Good thing, too, as she wasn’t done with her to-do list yet tonight.
Lucan re-formed at right about the place he’d scared off those two boys with their ghost-hunting equipment. Lifting his face to the rain, he let the light drops fingertip his forehead and cheeks. On the backs of his eyelids, he saw that human female getting hit fair-and-square by the car. Then pictured her rising to her feet afterward, brushing herself off, and giving him the what-for.
She’d had a strong face, her features bold, her lips full, her dark eyes big under declarative brows. Her skin had lost all its color as she forced her weight onto what had taken the impact, but she had refused to give in to the pain.
He couldn’t decide whether the grit was sexy or stupid.
Well . . . he supposed it was stupid, but he found it sexy.
Wiping the rain through his hair, he leveled his head and stared straight ahead. If she didn’t call him sometime during the rest of tonight or tomorrow during the day, he was going to go out to the streets and find her.
And then what? the malest part of him demanded.
“None of your business,” he muttered.
You want her.
“Yeah, to get the Executioner off my back.”
Aware that he was arguing with himself, he started for his new home—and by “home,” he meant involuntary servitude with a roof over his head. “Prison camp” had been the old term, when they’d been underground at the old site they’d abandoned. This was the new world order, no more cells, though still underground, those tracking collars ever present.
Funny, how you could control people when, with one press of a remote, their brains were vaporized. There also weren’t a lot of options for most of the vampires being held.
He was one of the few without a collar. But he needed to be able to dematerialize back and forth to Caldwell to make this deal, and there was no ghosting around when you had a band of steel around your throat.
And the Executioner wasn’t worried about him bolting. The fucker had leverage over him, the kind of thing that was just as good as an explosive necklace. But it wasn’t going to last much longer so he was biding his time. With one death, he was free—and he was of half a mind to take care of the Grim Reaper’s work himself. It would be a mercy killing at this point, anyway, two liberations for the price of a single slit throat.
Cheap, all things considering.
Up ahead, the old human hospital building loomed like something out of a John Carpenter movie where everyone but the virtuous girl who didn’t have sex with her boyfriend died in creative, bloody ways.
God, he missed the eighties. Then again, the last time he’d been able to watch a TV or listen to a radio had been right before he’d been thrown into the prison camp. So, yeah, he was current as of the spring of 1983. And maybe he didn’t miss the era; he missed . . . life and the simple freedoms he had taken for granted.
Lucan stopped at the worn stone steps of the sanatorium’s entrance. The central core of the building was a tower of closed windows, the floors rising up like a blocky spear, the tip of which was a tower topped with a lightning rod. On either side of this torso, there were two five-story wings of open porches, each extending at a wide angle to catch the prevailing breeze for failing lungs.