TWELVE
GABRIEL GRIPPED THE BRANCH WITH his claws, keeping his wings spread until he’d gained his balance. Once he had, he settled his wings against his sides and looked around. Dusk was settling in and, with it, a storm. Wind shook the branches, making the leaves all around him shiver and dance, and the growing darkness held a strong scent of rain. It was a clean, fresh fragrance that did little to erase the stench of the house below.
Les Mohern hadn’t lived at the address the SIU had on file for a good two years. It appeared that even before his brother’s disappearance, Les had lived the life of a gypsy, never staying too long in one place. His subsequent trail had taken some uncovering, but the SIU’s computer system was one of the best, and eventually, it had picked up a small trail of receipts that had led Gabriel here.
Mohern’s latest stopover was a dump. Literally.
Whoever it was that Mohern was scared of, it had to be pretty damn bad for him to be squatting in a place like this. The stink was almost overwhelming—the sort of odor that could get under your skin and linger. The small house that Mohern was using as a refuge was situated on the corner of the refuse center, and it had to be crawling with all sorts of bugs, mice and rats. Even Gabriel, with the soul of a hawk, shuddered at the thought of staying there. Sharing his bed with cockroaches and rats was not his idea of a good time.
He studied the nearest windows carefully but could spot no movement. And though darkness was closing in, there was no light from within. He walked along the tree branch, looking into other windows, but the result was the same—no immediate signs of life.
He spread his wings and took to the air again. With dusk fading into night, his brown and gold coloring was unlikely to be spotted. Though in truth, a hawk soaring over a refuse station was a good camouflage. Places like this were a haven for hunters of all varieties—winged or not.
He drifted on a current, studying the mounds of rubbish, seeing smaller spurts of movement that spoke of rats and other vermin, but little else of interest.
Until he reached the far edge of the dump and saw two men forcing a third onto his knees. A fourth man watched these proceedings, a gun held at the ready by his left side.
It was, Gabriel thought, oddly silent. Though the man he presumed was Mohern struggled, he wasn’t screaming. Maybe he figured there was no point. Out here, only the rats would hear.
As the fourth man raised his weapon and the captive’s struggling became more violent, Gabriel swooped downward, spreading his talons and screaming as he did so. The harsh call echoed loudly across the windswept silence.
The stranger with the gun glanced up. His eyes widened and reflected fear a second before Gabriel slashed him across his face and neck.
Blood spurted, spraying his feathers, its sweet aroma taunting his hawk senses. The stranger dropped the weapon, his hands going to the stream pulsing from his neck. Gabriel wheeled around and saw one of the men holding Mohern dive for the dropped gun. Gabriel dove and slashed with a talon, but the man ducked, grabbing the weapon and firing off a shot in one smooth movement. Gabriel flung himself sideways and felt the burn of the bullet’s passage past his tail feathers. He squawked as if hit and dropped behind a mound of rubbish. There he shifted shape and, in human form, freed his weapon and carefully edged to the far end of the stinking mound. The man with the gun hadn’t moved, his weapon held at the ready as he eyed the mound behind which Gabriel hid. The other man stood behind the still kneeling Mohern. There was no gun in evidence, though Gabriel had no doubt he had one somewhere. Thugs like these rarely went anywhere unarmed. He fired off two quick shots that took both men out, then waited for several seconds, trying to ignore the stinking reek of rubbish as he listened to the night, seeking any sound that might mean these three men had not been alone.
But the only sounds to be heard were the pleas for help from the man whose throat he’d slashed and Mohern’s rapid breathing as he struggled to free his hands from their restraints. Not an easy thing when the restraints were wire and his hands were behind his back.
Gabriel stood up and got out his vid-phone to call in a cleanup team as he walked across to the injured man. He did a quick search for ID and other weapons, and found and secured both. Then he administered what medical help he could, using strips torn from his shirt to bandage the wound. After that, he cuffed the man. Even a man in danger of bleeding to death could be dangerous, and the look in this man’s eyes suggested that if he were able to finish what he’d been sent here to do, he would. Gabriel then checked the other two men to ensure they were both dead, collecting their weapons in the process, then walked over to Mohern and stripped off the tape covering his mouth.
Relief was evident on Mohern’s gaunt features, but his blue eyes were wary, distrustful. “Whoever you are, thanks.”
“You may retract that once you see this.”
Gabriel showed him his badge, and Mohern grimaced. “Typical of my luck lately. Still, being caught by a cop is better than being dead.”
Gabriel put his badge away, but not the gun. He didn’t trust Mohern any more than he trusted the men who’d intended to kill him. “Why were they going to execute you?”
“Because I know too much.” Mohern looked past Gabriel for a second. “Because the man they work for knows what we…I…saw.”
Gabriel undid the wire restraining Mohern’s hands, motioned him to rise, then quickly patted him down. No weapons, no ID—not that the latter was surprising since he was about to be executed. “Tell me what you saw, and I might be able to protect you.”
Mohern snorted. “Yeah, I’ve heard that song before. It wasn’t true back then and I doubt it’s true now.”
“Is that because your brother told Jack Kazdan, and died as a result?”
Mohern’s eyes narrowed. “Now why would you say something like
that?”
“Because Kazdan was a cop, and your brother was supposedly his source.”
“Even if that was true, why would you suspect one of your own of killing my brother? Don’t you all stick together, regardless of the crime?”
“I’m not one of Jack’s lot. I’m SIU. Big difference. And Jack might have had a badge, but he was still a criminal. I know that, and you know that. So tell me what cost Frank his life.”
Mohern studied him for several seconds longer, then said, “I want a new ID.”
“That will very much depend on what it was you saw.”