Bad Men (I Kill Monsters Book 3)

I believe you know my son, she’d replied, baring her fangs.

Boone looked at the woman and shook his head. Great. It all made sense now. Just great. Once again he was getting cosmically fucked. Tell you what? If you’re going to kill me? Just fucking kill me already.

That remains to be seen.

The driver continued to look straight ahead, taking the sedan onto a highway.

Boone stared down between his legs at the leather seats, mumbling under his breath, thinking of Rainford and others he wasn’t finished with yet.

What’s that?

Bullshit. I said this is all bullshit.

They drove in silence for some time, Boone staring at his hands. When the sedan pulled over and she told him to get out, Boone got out, the chauffeur holding the woman’s door. They were on some secondary road, pulled up near a windmill. Headlights shone on the highway some distance off. The windmill’s blades turned slowly in the night.

Spotting Stash standing there, Boone breathed a sigh of relief.

When Stash showed up, the situation was never good, but the ghost had this way of stepping in every time Boone’s life was in danger and lending a hand.

Boone waved at Stash but the apparition remained where it was.

I have a theory. Kreshnik’s mother looked from Boone to the revolver in her hand, like she was mulling some decision. It’s probably nothing, but perhaps not. She aimed the revolver straight at Boone’s face. Would you help me test it out?

The fuck? Boone looked past her to Stash just standing there staring back at him, Stash doing nothing. Well what? He demanded of the apparition only he could see. You gonna do somethin’, then?

She thought he was talking to her. You knew my son. She cocked the revolver. And I think you know my ex-husband. She steadied the .44. He called me Elizaveta.

Wait a minute—

Boom!

Boone went down, most of the top of his head a mishmash of red, grey matter and skull shards strewn in the dirt. Elizaveta lowered the revolver and waited, watching the unmoving body.

Arms crossed, her chauffeur shifted his weight from one foot to the next.

No, she remarked to the night after some time had passed, No, I guess I was wrong. She returned to the car, her driver holding the door open for her, leaving the body where it lay.

The windmill blades turned lazily in the evening air.

8:45 P.M. (CEST)

They'd met when she was but a child. Her husband had called her Elizaveta. A name she hadn't heard in some time. Her driver looked up at her in the mirror, passed Elizaveta the car phone.

The Dutch countryside passed outside their windows.

She placed the call.

Yes, Elizaveta instructed the person on the other end of the line. All of them. Except his home. I'll be coming over myself to handle that.

Elizaveta ended the call and resumed looking out the tinted window. They would not see the dawn when it came, she and her driver. But she could remember what it had been to gaze upon it so long ago.

4:55 A.M. (CEST)

The first rays of dawn were breaking on the horizon, the windmills dark shadows against an increasingly paling sky. The man's body lay there, lifeless and cold, the contents of his skull strewn in the dirt about him. The spirit stood where it had been standing for some time, an unmoving sentinel, witness to the passing of a life and the beginning of a new day.

Cars passed in the distance on the highway.

Stash moved forward, seeming to glide over the terrain, legs unmoving. The apparition stopped and looked down on Boone's body. Standing there for several moments, the entity’s wispy human form finally shimmered and dissolved, its being broken down to sparkling particles, ephemera glittering like the stars in the night sky. The radiant molecules weaved about the air, hovering above the body in the dirt before plunging down into the man, disappearing into his skin, their glistering sparks evanesced in the motionless form.

The head wound began to close. Skin stretched out to touch skin, a seam forming and closing over the wound. New hair sprouted in place, going from bright blonde to brown. After a few moments the man on the ground stirred, folding a knee over his other leg. The fingers of one hand fluttered before drawing into a fist.

When he finally sat up, the man groaned, holding his head. He looked about him, not recognizing his surroundings. He seemed to be in some kind of field or something, a windmill's blades slowly churning the air. He didn't know who or where he was. He didn't know how he knew a windmill was a windmill, but he knew a windmill was a windmill. Why the pain in his skull? Christ...

He touched at his clothes. A wet t-shirt hung off his muscular physique. He wore carpenter jeans over black combat boots. One of the laces of his boots had come undone, but he didn't think he was up to retying it.

Where the hell am I?

There was enough light in the sky that when he touched his t-shirt and looked at his hand and saw the blood he recognized what it was. He turned around where he sat, still gripping his head, spying the chunks of meat and skull fragments amid the spray of red behind him. Shit. What happened to me?

He looked up, as if he expected someone to be there with him, but he was alone.

After awhile the man managed to get to his feet and began treading towards the highway. He plodded along unsteadily, his skull on fire, his surroundings entirely foreign to him.

As he reached the road a car pulled out of the light morning traffic and stopped at the curb, the tinted front passenger window humming down.

Boone!

He looked at the car warily, not recognizing it, unable to make out the interior through the tint. He remembered something about another car, something bad, though he could not say what.

Boone! A woman's voice called again, plaintively.

Yeah... He struggled to find his words, hand pressed to the side of his head. You’re…talking to me?

Get in the back, fast.

He looked from the car to the highway, the other vehicles passing in either direction.

Who—who are you?

We're your only friends. A second female voice.

I know you two?

You know my father, said the one.

And I think you must have finally met her mother, said the other.

The man they were calling Boone looked at the car and considered his options. Man, I don't know... He got in and half lay-half sat across the back seats. I just don't know.

Look at you. The car had pulled out into traffic. The young, pretty woman behind the wheel had tears in her eyes as she shifted her gaze back and forth between the road ahead and the man in her rear-view mirror. Look what they've done to you.

The woman in the passenger seat had turned around to face him. She was older than the driver but no less beautiful. She shook her head in disbelief.

Look at what they've done to you, the driver sniffled, wiping her eyes. I told you not to go out without me. I told you.

Chantelle. The woman in the passenger seat spoke to the driver. It's okay now. He's okay.

He's not okay. Look at him.

He's going to be okay. Concentrate on the road, please. The sun. Mention of the dawn seemed to refocus Chantelle, the driver gripping the wheel with both hands, accelerating, weaving through the growing traffic. The other woman shook her head again, looking at the man.

What is it? he asked. Why are you shaking your head?

I'm having trouble believing it. Rainford was right about you.

Rainford. Something about the name seemed familiar to the man, but he couldn't say what. There was something familiar about this woman addressing him and the jewelry she wore around her neck. He looked from the swell of her breasts to the chain above them, some kind of root-like charm, each branch of the root terminating in a different symbol: a dagger, the moon, a key.

I know you… He looked up from her breasts and the chain to her face. Don't I?

Oh yes, you do.

Saturday

October 24, 1998

10:52 P.M. (E.S.T.)

I’m telling you, Declan, the one with the Franz-Josef mustache, was saying to Gritz, you don’t have to worry about us.

Gritz pulled against the handcuffs securing his wrist to the railing, anchoring him to the bench on one side of the bread truck.

No luck.

Declan sat across from him, decked out in black tactical gear and body armor, a mess of pouches, belts and holsters, black helmet with NVG goggles. The goggles were flipped up, only his mustachioed face showing. An assault rifle with a vertical grip rested in the man’s lap, his gloved hands resting on the buttstock and barrel, his legs stretched out in front of him, booted feet crossed.

That thing right there, that’s the thing you should be worried about.

A boar sat in the cage that took up most of the rear of the bread truck, eyeing the men warily.

Gritz exhaled. What had he gotten himself into?

He’d gotten into the bread truck on his own, which he was now thinking was a pretty stupid thing to do. Brian, Levon and Dec had been suited up in SWAT gear, looked like they were about to go out on a raid. Gritz was about to ask about the pig in the cage when Brian had slapped the cuffs on him, Levon relieving him of his S&W Model 36 he wore under his jacket.

Don’t take it personally, mate, Brian had told him. But we don’t make you stay here, ain’t bleeding likely you’ll stick around. And if you don’t stay here, Brian had looked at the pig when he’d said it, you won’t see what you need to see. Leave here thinking the lot of us barmy.

Brian was up front with Levon now, the sliding door separating them from the rear of the truck.

Try not to take it personally, Declan reminded Gritz, echoing Brian, drumming his gloved fingers against the rifle.

That’s a little tough, Gritz admitted. The bread truck bounced beneath them. According to Gritz’s watch, they’d been driving for a half hour. They hadn’t taken his watch or his wallet, not even his flask, nothing but his revolver. It didn’t make much sense to Gritz.

It’ll all make sense, Declan promised him. Won’t it? He raised his voice, asking the boar. The caged animal raised its head and turned it inquisitively.

I didn’t know NYPD was into animal control these days.

We’re not. We’re the Monster Squad. The way Declan said it, without a hint of a smile under his mustache, the way he said it concerned Gritz.

These guys were barmy.

Crazy.

True Gritz. Declan shook his helmeted head, amused or pleased, Gritz couldn’t tell which. Who’d of thought?

Yeah. Imagine how I feel. Brian’s a Brit. But you’re not.

No I am not.

The truck came to an abrupt stop. The boar continued to sit where it was in its cage, ears back, alert.

How ya feeling then, detective? Brian and Levon stepped into the rear of the truck, sliding the door to the front closed after them. Gritz got a momentary look out the windshield but not seeing anything he recognized.

He answered them honestly. Bewildered.

I know. Brian retrieved an assault rifle identical to Declan’s from a storage locker. Gritz noted both weapons were outfitted with suppressors and shell catchers. And I apologize for that, really I do.

What’s with the pig?

He didn’t tell you? Brian referred not to Declan but to the boar itself.

Gritz didn’t know what to say to that. Instead he asked, Where are we?

Sometimes. Brian had taken a seat across from Gritz, unholstering a 9mm pistol he wore in a chest rig, When you want to catch the cat, Brian pulled back the slide on the pistol, peering into the breech, …you have to go where you know you’re going to find the bleedin’ mouse. He holstered the pistol.

He thinks we’re nuts, Declan announced.

Can you blame him? In addition to his own rifle and gear that matched the other’s, Levon hefted a battering ram by its handles.

Not one bit.

What’d you think of the talk then the other night, detective? Brian asked him like he knew he’d been there. And Gritz knew they knew he’d been there. Whoever these men were, whatever their game was, they’d been keeping tabs on him.

It was interesting.

Wasn’t it? Levon agreed.

Oh yeah. Brian unsnapped one of the many pouches of his tactical vest. I got you this. He leaned forward with a plastic jewel case. Gritz took it with his free hand, studied the cover.

A compact disk.

Phantom Redemption.

Thanks.

Enough fannying around, then. We ready?

I’ve been ready. Now Declan smiled, uncrossing his legs and standing.

I’m good, seconded Levon.

Look, Bill—you know what, mate, I don’t feel right calling you Bill. Brian had drawn back the cover over a slit window in the rear door of the truck and stood there, peering out. Gritz. He said it approvingly, then quieted for a moment, intent on whatever was outside the truck. We’ll be back in a New York minute, I believe is how you might say it. In the interim, you sit tight, Gritz. Time we get back, Brian cast one more glance at the boar in its cage, I’d say you’ll be au fait with this bugger.

I’m not going anywhere.

What he’s saying, Levon looked warily at the boar, is it’ll all make sense by the time we’re back.

The three armed men jumped down out of the truck.

Yeah, Gritz said to the doors, see you later.

He sat alone with his thoughts and the pig, tapping the CD absently against the bench he sat on.

Well, Gritz set the CD down, taking his flask out of his inside jacket pocket, unscrewing the cap. Looks like it’s you and me, boy. He took a swallow of what was inside and gestured with the flask. Salud.

The boar curled up into a ball in the back of its cage, watching Gritz.

* * *

What up, New York, this your girl Neecy on WKEA, pumping that hot jam from certified G Gangsta Khan— Someone killed the radio.

You know what? We don't find many your type wandering aroun' here.

A roomful of men in baggy jeans and oversized shirts, not trying to hide their handguns. Craig Conyers on the plush couch in his red-on-blue windbreaker, snapback Yankees cap, impeccable white tennis shoes. Half a dozen gold chains of varying lengths and thicknesses around his neck. His brother, Renell, standing beside the arm of the couch. Ren in an oversized orange Karl Kani collared shirt, the shirt open over a bare torso and oversized orange shorts of the same make. A platinum, diamond encrusted crown hung low from a chain over his belly. Pistol in his waistband.

My kind? The man before them inquired. Of slight build, short and pudgy, middle-aged. Balding with a fringe of hair around the sides of his head, made it look like his forehead was imperializing the remainder of his skull.

You don't mind me sayin', Craig looked slightly amused by the sight of the man: his appearance, his being here. You look a little out of place, my man.

My type?

White folk, Travis growled over his shoulder. The enforcer with polarized ski goggles up on his head, a Pelle Pelle jacket on his back and a folding stock Uzi in both hands.

Craig said, Lot of strangers showin' up 'round here lately…

White folk, said Travis.

Makes us bit curious, is all.

Travis with another, White folk.

You got a name, hmm?

My name is not important.

No?

The same can not be said, however, of the role I play.

What role is that then?

I am the fantasist.

The fantasist. Craig looked from the man to his brother in his orange Karl Kani outfit.

If the guy under question felt any anxiety, he didn't show it. Beyond these brick and mortar walls lies a universe vast, cold and dark—

Sound like he talkin' 'bout your momma's pussy, Choonie. A heckler in the rear.

—utterly unconcerned with our actions.

Star Wars-shit talkin' nigga here, Renell scoffed, exchanging looks with his brother on the couch. So what bring you 'round the Moses then, Star Wars man?

I am here to retrieve someone.

Retrieve, huh? What, they lost?

They are, in a metaphorical sense, though they don't know it yet.

A metaphorical sense, repeated James.

And you're gonna what? Renell with another look at his brother. Take 'em back to wherever they belong? That right, Star Wars?

I am merely going to deliver them to the appointed moment. Once there, the choices they make will be their own, in accordance with free will.

Free will?

Much is written, but nothing is preordained. The universe presents exponential possibilities. I merely serve to set the stage, if you will.

Listen to this nigga'. Renell laughed. Man, he talk a good game. He looked at his brother. Looked at the Fantasist: Man, you good.

Travis stood with his Uzi, glowering.

Exponential possibilities, Craig repeated the man's phrase, vaguely interested. Like what?

Do listen, beckoned the Fantasist. And I will tell…

* * *

Dodd couldn't sleep.

He sat with his back to the wall, listening to the sounds of the room he and Mitchell were in, listening to the sounds of the apartment, of tower two and beyond. The apartment they were in was bare except for the mattress Mitchell lay on.

Dodd looked at his watch. After eleven. He had his legs drawn up to his chest, forearms on his knees, the 9mm in one hand. The revolver was stuffed in the waist of his denim jeans, the jeans matching the jacket he wore.

Something bad was coming.

He could feel it.

A weak, faint moan from the mattress. Mitchell wasn't doing well. The skin around his bite had been turning grey. It was shot through with black lines, like capillaries frozen and risen up to the skin's surface. The lines spreading as the hours passed, stretching from Mitchell's hand up his arm.

Dodd had set Mitchell's jewelry aside in a little pile beside his sneakers, next to the mattress.

He needed to get Mitchell to Ms. Celeste. If anyone could help, she might be able to.

He stood up and walked to the nearest window, looking down onto the quad. Many of the lights were extinguished down there, busted, and he saw little. Here and there a fire burned in a trash can where men stood around warming themselves. Dodd felt unsettled, uneasy in a way he hadn't felt for a long time. Just because he couldn’t see it didn't mean it wasn't out there. Question was, what was it?

He strode across the apartment in his bare feet less he make any noise and stood at the door. He looked out the peephole into the hall. The corridor beyond was deserted. He considered opening the door and taking a look, but if he did and someone was out there he'd be tipping his hand to them. He brushed his hand against the grip of his revolver at his waist, held himself back.

Leaning back next to the door, Dodd looked over at Mitchell lying there, sweating it out. Yeah, it was too silent around here, in the hall, out on the quad. Something bad was coming.

* * *

Brian and his men moved through the night, keeping to the dark, avoiding anyone on the quad. Ragged figures stood around burning cans, attempting to warm themselves in the chill night air. Young black men with machine pistols looped around their necks stood around one of the towers, bundled up in their oversized plush jackets and baggy pants over rugged boots, guarding something.

Declan took a knee and raised a hand. Brian and Levon halted, crouching. Their night vision goggles lent them an advantage over anyone on the trash strewn quad. A man pushing a shopping cart crossed their path ahead, a wheel on his cart protesting. They let him pass before continuing.

The kid was standing where he said he'd be, on the side