At his back, he had the prevailing breeze as well as a small hunting cabin that, if you didn't know what it was, you'd write off as something not worth the effort to knock over. The place was a fortress, however, with steel-reinforced walls, an impenetrable roof, bulletproof windows. . . and enough firepower in its garage to make half the population of the city see God up close and personal.
He had assumed Xhex would come here. Been so convinced, he hadn't bothered to track her.
But she wasn't -
A flare of headlights off to the right brought his head around. A car was coming down the lane, slowly approaching the cabin.
John frowned as he got an earful of the engine: low, deep, a mean growl.
That was no Hyundai or Honda. Couldn't be a Harley, too smooth.
Whatever the hell it was meandered by and kept going, all the way to the tip of the point where that big-ass house had been put up. A few moments later, lights began to go on inside the mansion, illumination pouring out of its curved porches and stacked, three-story straightaways.
Damn thing looked like a spaceship about to take off.
Not his biz. And it was time to go, anyway.
With a mute curse, he scattered his molecules and zeroed in on the armpit of Caldie, that stretch of bars, strip clubs, and tattoo places down around Trade Street.
The Iron Mask had been Rehvenge's second club, a dance/sex/drug facility created to cater to a Goth demographic unserviced by his first establishment, ZeroSum - which had had more of a Eurotrash kind of vibe.
There was a line to get in - always was - but the two bouncers, Big Rob and Silent Tom, recognized him and let him in ahead of everyone else.
Velvet drapes, deep-seated couches, black lights. . . women in black leather with white makeup and hair extensions down to their asses. . . men clustered in groups, strategizing on how to get laid. . . moody music with lyrics that made you think fondly of eating a bullet.
But maybe that was just his mood.
And she was here. He could sense his blood in Xhex, and he headed through the crowd, zeroing in on the signal.
As he got to the unmarked door that led into the staff-only part of the club, Trez stepped out of the shadows. Natch.
"What's doing," the Shadow said, offering his palm.
The two clapped a grip, knocked shoulders, and slapped each other's backs.
"You here to talk to her?" When John nodded, the guy opened the door. "I gave her the office beside the locker room next to me. Go on back - she's just checking her staff reports - "
The Shadow stopped abruptly, but he'd said enough.
Jesus Christ. . .
"Ah, yeah, she's back there," the guy muttered, like he was sooo staying out of this one.
John ducked in and strode down the corridor. When he got to a closed door, he didn't see a sign with her name on it, but wondered how long that would last.
And he knocked, even though she had to know he was here.
When she called out, he pushed in -
Xhex was in the far corner, bent over and pulling at something on the floor. As she looked up with a glare, she froze; which told him that, in fact, she hadn't noticed he'd arrived.
Great. She was so into her new old job, she'd forgotten about him already.
"Ah. . . hey. " Glancing back down, she resumed what she was doing, yanking at -
An extension cord whipped out from underneath the file cabinet, the sharp-toothed end going flying.
Before it ripped around and caught her a good one, he leaped forward, snatched a hold on the thing, and took the hit himself, the sting of pain lighting off on his rib cage.