 
Dark Tidings: Volumes I & II

By Gregory Marshall Smith

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Gregory Marshall Smith

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ISBN 978-1-927116-03-6

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

I want to thank the following people:

C.J. Ellisson – For her encouragement in getting me to re-release these short stories.

Writing.com – for providing a forum where everyday people could read, critique and comment on my writing so I could improve.

Gail Smith – My mother who has always been there for me, even if she hasn't been a big science fiction fan.

Eric Smith Sr. – My father who has always encouraged my writing.

Ryk Smith & Katrina Jarvis Smith – My older brother who allowed me to stay with him for more than two years in Stone Mountain, Georgia (far past the "cold shoulder" stage).

Sydney Jelinek and Shontrell Wade – Editors with Red Hot Publishing who somehow managed to make it all the way my vast prose and long list of intricate characters, especially in areas that's not quite in their normal fields.

Lulu, Spectacular Speculations, CreateSpace, Far Side of Midnight, SFH Dominion, Writer's Bump and all of the other online and physical publishers who carried my various works.

Dark Tidings

Volumes I & II

Table of Contents

Volume I Science Fiction

One Last Look

Debt to Society

Eugene Nix

Your Most Urgent Attention Requested

Society's Children

Volume II Horror/Dark Fiction

Next-Door

For G.O.O.D.

Feedin' the Fishes

Red Herring

Dark Tidings

One Last Look © 2009

Debt to Society © 2008

Eugene Nix © 2007

Your Most Urgent Attention Requested © 2009

Society's Children © 2008

Next-Door © 2006

For G.O.O.D. © 2008

Feedin' the Fishes © 2010

Red Herring © 2011

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2011 by Gregory Marshall Smith

Hunters

Table of Contents:

Acknowledgements

Glossary

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Dark Tidings

Volume I

Science Fiction

One Last Look

Gayorg Marsten typed his code into the keypad as fast as his thick space gloves would allow. He squinted, trying to see past the glare of the overheads in the airlock. The lights, brighter than usual, reflected off several of the panels in the chamber. The polymer glass of his faceplate made the glare worse.

Air's getting stale, he told himself again, wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant, though faint, odor.

He checked the chronometer on his wrist pad and saw that he still had another 10 minutes before he would need to switch over to the secondary air tank he wore on his EVA suit. On any other day, he'd have changed sooner, but today he would need every last drop of air possible.

"You're hyperventilating, Gayorg. Please calm down."

That's okay for you to say, Gayorg thought. You guys are in the ship, not stuck inside an airlock without bathroom facilities.

Gayorg shook his head to clear his thoughts. They were right. If he didn't keep himself under control, he surely would lose it long before any help could be found.

"Sorry about that, Control," he said into his headset radio. "Just getting a little antsy, that's all."

"Understandable," the voice on the radio replied after an uncomfortably long time lag. "Just focus on something positive, like being rescued."

"Any word on when the nearest ship will be here?" he asked for the umpteenth time. "It's kind of lonely out here."

That's it, Gayorg. Keep up the humor.

He glanced up at the overhead lights and then punched a button on his wrist pad. The lights dimmed. He wouldn't need them so bright now. He was alone in the airlock and it didn't look like he'd be getting into the ship anytime soon. The bright lights would only make the air inside the lock hotter, which would in turn make him hotter inside his EVA suit.

He tried to think of something other than the fact that he'd been locked out of the ship, 1100 miles above the recently discovered planet of Yadrin. Nearly forty million light-years from Earth, he faced a situation he'd glossed over in the NASA lectures – contamination.

He was an engineer. He spent most of his time in the engine room of the Caliber, a long-range exploratory vessel. He had been stuck on the Caliber since it had made planet-fall. . Everyone connected with the ship's scientific mission had spent at least three days aboard the specially-designed science module as it conducted low orbit tests on Yadrin's atmosphere. The module had been designed to separate from the main vessel and enter gravity-laden atmospheres. Now, today, Gayorg had finally gotten his chance to glimpse Yadrin's lower atmosphere.

Could that have been it, Gayorg wondered. Had a few lousy hours inside the orbital module caused all of this? He'd only been allowed aboard as a courtesy because the excluded crewmembers had protested being left out. Even when the head scientists had acquiesced, Gayorg had been the last one selected.

Of course, he didn't have what the others had – an inside edge. He wasn't engaged to any of the scientists or seeing them on the side or married to any of them. In fact, he was a last-minute replacement for an engineer who had come down with a rare form of space sickness and the rest of the crew hadn't let him forget it.

"Sorry about the long wait, Gayorg," a voice on his radio said, bringing him back to the present. "It's just that...well, we've had a lot to think about."

Gayorg recognized the voice as Capt. Elamin Goto, the commanding officer whom he had had only met twice. Most communication between engineering and the bridge involved Commander Jennifer Saito, who then passed the information along.

"I...I can only imagine, Captain," Gayorg finally replied, trying to keep his throat clear. "I've been doing a lot of thinking, too, sir."

"Let's forgo the 'sir' thing, Gayorg," Goto said, his voice cracking. "My friends call me El."

"Uhm, yes, sir—eh, I mean...El," a bewildered Gayorg stammered.

Was it always this way, Gayorg wondered? Did they always try to seem friendlier when they knew the end was near? It seemed like small comfort. What use was there in getting a little friendlier if there was no time to benefit from it? Still, it was a nice gesture, probably the best they could do for him now.

"Gayorg, I'm going to put Doctor Kamen on," Goto said.

"Gayorg, this is Doctor Kamen."

Gayorg had seen Dr. Krista Kamen many times during the voyage, but only a handful of times when she was awake. Most of the scientists had been kept in suspended animation for the yearlong trip to Yadrin, to conserve food and water supplies. The engineers had monitored the sleeping chambers. Gayorg had spent many days checking on Dr. Kamen, Commander Saito and the other women, simply because they were a lot more pleasant to look at.

"I'm not sure how I can phrase this, Gayorg," Dr. Kamen said, slowly.

"We're all adults here, Doctor," Gayorg replied, bravely. "Just give it to me straight. What are we looking at here?"

"It's a Level Ten infection," the doctor answered, her voice filled with remorse and sadness. "It apparently hibernated for a bit, just long enough to escape detection by our air filter monitors. Infection through the body has been determined to be total."

"Damn," Gayorg muttered, wanting to throw up.

Level Ten was the highest level of infection. Some type of virus or bacteria had beaten the monitors. Gayorg had worried over this sort of development for the entire trip because he knew the monitors – for the ship, for the orbital module and for the EVA suits – had only been programmed for known viruses and bacteria. No one could have really known or guessed what might have existed outside of the Milky Way.

But, that's what he had signed on for. He'd wanted to see the stars, but not just the ones that everyone else had seen since first grade. He wanted to be on the cutting edge of exploration. He didn't have the grades to be an astrophysicist, but he knew the ships needed engineers.

His body felt like it wanted to shake uncontrollably and it took all of his strength to suppress this sudden urge to panic. Going to pieces would gain him nothing. After all, NASA instructors had spent almost a week preparing future space pioneers for just such a scenario. Still, there was a huge difference between computer-simulated scenarios and the real thing. In simulations, one could always hit "stop" to end the scenario and everyone would be alive and well, laughing and joking.

"Please calm down, Gayorg," Dr. Kamen said, firmly. "My instruments show elevated readings on all vitals. You're not going to help yourself by panicking. Remember your training."

"I...it's just that...jeez, Doc, Level Ten...I...I...I'm sorry, Doc...I'm much better now. Thank you for your concern."

He tried to imagine what the others on the ship were thinking now. They'd signed on to search for new forms of life; however, he was sure they wanted that new form of life to be something other than a deadly microbe. Biological contamination was the nightmare of every spacefarer.

Gayorg knew that Marisa Soto must have been going nuts right about now. She had the odd combination of being a scientist and a germophobe. She scrubbed with antibacterial soap three times a day. She'd been his partner when they'd left the ship three hours earlier for the extravehicular space walk to repair a solar panel that charged her laboratory. He could only imagine her reaction to news of the discovery of the infectious virus.

"Any chance of the computer finding a cure?" he asked into his radio. "Might as well make productive use of our time until another ship gets here."

"Oh, believe me, we are trying," Dr. Kamen replied, her voice sounding uncharacteristically anxious. "But, at the same time, we need to face facts. We...we have to take certain precautions, Gayorg."

Gayorg knew what the doctor was talking about. As an engineer, he serviced the machines used to cleanse infections, so he knew there was one and only one way to cleanse a Level Ten infection – complete eradication.

That thought made him sigh long and heavily. It was true that he hadn't known the crew very long, but they had been shipmates. They'd had a camaraderie that had kept the ship running smoothly. Each man and woman aboard had a different personality that contributed to the uniqueness of the crew. It was why he took offense when the crews of other ships badmouthed Caliber.

"I-I know," he sputtered, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Gayorg, this is Commander Saito," a new voice said into his radio. "We've raised Hancock on the radio. She'll be here in less than an hour."

Good old Saito, Gayorg mused. She was the chief engineer and was always professional. Captain Goto may have offered to let Gayorg call him "El" but Saito would never do that. Gayorg respected that she would maintain her professionalism in such a situation.

"For what it's worth, Gayorg," Saito said. "You've been a good engineer. And...and...you've been a good shipmate."

Wow, Gayorg thought, stunned. It must have cost her a lot to say that. He felt a tear running down his cheek and unconsciously tried to wipe it away with a gloved hand. Just then, his chronometer beeped and he knew he needed to change out air tanks.

Cursing silently, he began the arduous process of unhooking the straps for the air tanks. There were many days he couldn't believe mankind had penetrated so far into deep space, yet, saddled itself with technology reminiscent of the 20th century. He unclipped the staying pins and then clumsily pulled the tanks loose.

He set the empties on the floor of the airlock and picked up the fresh ones. Carefully, he began inserting the tanks into their slots on his EVA suit, trying to make certain he got the nozzles into the intake holes. He only had five minutes to complete the maneuver before the reserve air stored in a small cylinder on his waist pack ran out.

He replaced the stay pins and then tightened the straps again. Moments later, a light on his wrist pad turned green and he felt cool air stream into his helmet. He breathed deeply – he never realized just how sweet a breath of fresh air could be. He then refilled his reserve cylinder before turning it off.

"Sorry about that, ma'am," he said. "Had to change air tanks. Hello? Commander?"

"She had to go, Gayorg," the voice of Alexander Wooten stated. "How you doing, buddy?"

Gayorg grinned a little. Wooten was the chief cook. He was friendly to Gayorg; but then again, he was friendly to most of the crew, despite the constant complaints about the food. He had a thick skin and was always quick with witticisms and advice for certain new guys.

"Air's fresh anyway," Gayorg replied. "Wish I had some of your cooking out here. Standing around in airlocks can make a man hungry, you know."

"Yeah, I know," Wooten answered. "Especially FNG's."

Gayorg shook his head and suppressed the urge to laugh. FNG meant, "freakin' new guy." Well, actually the "F" stood for something a little harsher but Wooten always substituted the milder curse, which still seemed strange to Gayorg seeing as how Wooten was the son of a Marine general.

"Look, Gayorg," Wooten said. "I...I want you to do something, okay? The computer can download final thoughts. Yeah, I know it sounds morbid but the captain's going to mention it in a moment and I didn't want you to be blindsided. Just be ready, buddy. And...and...well, you know."

Suddenly, Gayorg didn't feel like grinning anymore. Every crewmember was required to record goodbyes and prayers to be downloaded and sent home to Earth in the event of death. It made things easier for loved ones back home, but was hard as hell on the nerves of even the strongest person to have to record such a thing. Gayorg had needed nine hours and forty-one tries to record his thoughts on the trip to Yadrin. The captain did allow extra time for final thoughts (which had helped greatly in this matter) before transferring the file to the nearest ship or space station that could get a message back to Earth.

He sighed again and checked his chronometer. It wouldn't be much longer before Hancock arrived. Then he'd have to do what he had to, but didn't want to – take one last look. He couldn't, no, he didn't want to imagine what the rest of the crew would be doing in those final moments. He hoped they would not be looking at him through the monitors and portholes. He didn't know if he could stand the longing looks, the thought of them crying.

It wasn't that he was afraid of death. He had just imagined it happening differently, much faster. He'd always wanted to die quickly, not linger in some hospital bed, knowing that death was getting closer. His father had jokingly referred to his fear as "the taxman cometh."

"Gayorg, this is the captain," Goto blurted, bringing Gayorg back to the present. "Download of final thoughts to Hancock is complete. She's here. It's...it's time."

Gayorg gasped as he looked at his chronometer. My God, he thought, time has flown by. He quickly hooked his wrist pad and tried to access the computer again. Surely there had to be one last attempt by the computer to find a way around the contamination. Alas, the computer had no answer except for the already established protocols for Level Ten contamination – complete disintegration.

He closed his eyes and tried to think happier thoughts, but couldn't. Caliber was a science vessel and had no armament. Hancock was a rescue ship. She carried laser cannon capable of destroying asteroids and meteors. In fact, if she diverted half her available power to her cannons, she could destroy a space freighter, the largest ship in NASA's deep space fleet. Obviously, nothing approaching that level would be needed here.

"I guess this is goodbye then," he said, slowly. "I never thought it would end like this. I guess I'll just take..."

"Caliber, this is Hancock, ready for procedure," a deep voice interrupted. "Please have subject open outer airlock doors and activate EVA suit jets."

"Hancock, this is 'subject' and I can hear you," Gayorg snapped, more than a little miffed at the interruption at such a delicate moment. "I am opening the outer airlock doors. I am now activating my rockets."

Gayorg had made his decision. He really had no choice. If he hadn't fired his rockets, Captain Goto would have ejected the entire airlock. Still, it was a measure of how well he had come to terms with his situation that he didn't panic, bawl or suddenly suffer a streak of yellow down his spine.

"We have you on monitor, Mr. Marsten," reported the deep voice from Hancock. "You are clear of Caliber. Please accept my apology at being so inconsiderate of the situation. Is there anything we can do for you?"

"I...eh, thank you," Gayorg blustered. "Can you give me one last look at her?"

"Yes, sir," came the reply. "We can do that for you, sir."

"Thank you."

Gayorg had always hated free-floating. He'd never liked jetting around space with small rocket packs instead of being attached to the ship with tether lines. One slight mishap with a rocket pack meant slow death as one spun wildly away from the ship, something unlikely for a man or woman tethered to the mother ship.

Now, however, as he floated freely away, the rockets keeping him from tumbling, he couldn't help but feel at peace. He knew he'd finally come to terms with what was about to happen. Maybe it was because he knew what was about to happen. Maybe it was some sort of genetic code that allowed a feeling of tranquility at such moments. Whatever it was, it made the final moments pass peacefully.

He looked down and saw Caliber sitting in orbit around Yadrin. God, she's beautiful, he thought unabashedly. He watched the ship's sleek outlines fill the curved view of his helmet visor. Much longer than Hancock by at least three hundred feet, she was 796 feet high at her most elevated position, atop the radio tower. Three powerful engines could thrust her forward at one-tenth of the speed of light in an emergency, though those same thrusters now lay silent.

A crew of one hundred-thirty kept her in tip-top condition. He looked to his left and tried to peer into the red haze of Yadrin. He was too far away to see the empty orbital module that floated in low orbit. He wanted to spend at least a few more minutes inside her, to experience the feeling of being so close to another planet, but he knew it was impossible. Caliber had pulled out of orbit right after discovery of the contamination, per NASA protocols.

"Captain Goto, Commander Saito, this is Gayorg Marsten, successfully detached from Caliber," Gayorg reported, his voice on the verge of breaking. "Godspeed to all of you."

An alarm went off inside his helmet and he glanced down at his wrist pad. There was a fantastic energy source behind him and he knew it was the rescue ship's cannon. Figures, he muttered to himself. To save him the dread of knowing the end was about to come, the rescue ship was going to fire before he finished his last look.

So be it.

A massive beam of energy filled his visor and he closed his eyes. Pleasant memories of happier times with the crew filled his mind. Jokes, conversations, arguments, even getting dressed down a time or two by Saito, these all played out in his mind.

"This is Hancock. It's done."

Gayorg opened his eyes and sighed heavily. Caliber was nothing but a million shards of flaming debris that would eventually get caught up in the gravitational pull of Yadrin. No piece would be big enough to survive the intense friction of uncontrolled entry into the atmosphere.

If only, he thought. If. If. If. What was the saying? If "'ifs' and 'buts' were candy and nuts...".

If the scientists hadn't compromised the security of the orbital module by collecting dust from Yadrin's atmosphere without the proper equipment...

If the crew hadn't become lax and had done the required full scan of the science module before it returned aboard...

If Dr. Kamen and her staff had activated isolation procedures when the first crewmembers exhibited strange symptoms instead of treating the illness like the common cold...

If Marisa Soto hadn't been so in love with one of the sick men that she abandoned Marsten on the EVA walk to go back inside the ship to check on him...

...then maybe they'd all be alive right now, enjoying one of Wooten's fantastic meals.

But, there would be no more moments for the crew of Caliber. They'd slipped up and contaminated the entire ship with a Level Ten infection. Earth science had yet to come up with procedures to stop it. Thus, the only way to prevent spread of the infection was complete destruction of the infected subjects, be they individuals or entire ships.

"Mr. Marsten, this is Hancock," the deep voice said into his radio. "Caliber reported that because you were outside of the ship when the infection came aboard that you weren't infected. Computer tests confirm it, but regulations require us to isolate you in a reserve airlock until our own computers and doctors can clear you sir. I can't imagine how much you've been through today, so I offer my sincerest condolences and my apology at having to quarantine you again."

Gayorg barely heard any of the man's words.

"Acknowledged, Hancock," he answered, his voice choking up. "I'll be here. With my memories."

Debt to Society

"All rise. The Honorable Melvin Roy presiding."

"You may be seated. Good morning, Joseph, how is my favorite bailiff today? Looks like it's gonna' be a tough one today. Okay, what's first on the docket?"

"First up on the docket, Your Honor, People versus Catherine Steelo, Mandel Oceanographic Institute, Andelbay Resorts and Amex Corporation. Depraved indifference, twelve counts."

"Twelve counts, Joseph? Really? Okay, who's here for the People? Miss Imesworth, is it, our newest assistant district attorney? And Mr. Ainsley, for the defense?"

"Your honor, the people request a high bail."

"Ah, you picked up that tactic a lot quicker than your predecessor, Miss Imesworth."

"Objection, your Honor. My clients are upstanding pillars of the community. Miss Steelo is one of the world's most renowned marine biologists and works for the prestigious Mandel Oceanographic Institute. Andelbay Resorts has a first-class reputation and Amex is a Fortune 500 company. We request a release on personal recognizance."

"So noted, Mr. Ainsley. I take it you have some objections, Miss Imesworth."

"Your honor, the defendants are charged with twelve counts of depraved indifference. They are culpable in the deaths of seven people and the maiming of five more."

"Whoa, those are some serious allegations, Miss Imesworth. What exactly are they alleged to have done?"

"They forgot to tell beach-goers about the supposedly extinct Megalodon that had set up camp in the area."

"What, pray tell, is a Megalodon, Miss Imesworth?"

"Ancestor to the Great White Shark, your Honor. It's about seventy-five feet long. They knew it was in the area, but still sent a yacht full of investors out into the middle of its feeding ground. Miss Steelo and Mandel wanted the publicity of being the first to find a Megalodon. Andelbay and Amex were in the midst of a buyout and wanted to appease stockholders."

"Your Honor, Miss Imesworth is exaggerating. The shark can grow up to seventy-five feet. That doesn't mean it was seventy-five feet."

"Thank you for killing your case, Counselor. I'll take it that they're all pleading guilty, based on what you just said?"

"We plead not guilty, Your Honor. To all counts. In fact, Your Honor, we move for dismissal of all charges."

"Oh, really? On what grounds?"

"My clients were acting in the best interests of the public, Your Honor. This case is unprecedented."

"Au contraire, Mr. Ainsley. People v. Town of Friendship. The mayor was successfully indicted and tried for depraved indifference for allowing the island's beaches to remain open despite the presence of a twenty-five foot Great White that had already killed several people. The town itself was tried for depraved indifference because they didn't want to lose summer dollars."

"Well, thank you, Miss Imesworth, for that information and for bringing some culture to these proceedings with that smattering of French. But, this is not the time or place to try the case. Mr. Ainsley, your request for dismissal is subsequently denied. Bail is set for one million dollars for Miss Steelo and five million for the others."

"Your Honor, that is outrageous. My clients—"

"Your clients can take it or leave it, Mr. Ainsley. At least it should keep them away from the water. Next, Joseph."

"Next up, Your Honor, People versus the Port Authority. Gross negligence and dereliction of duty."

"Thank you, Joseph. So, Mr. Dwight, we have the Port Authority before us again. What is the plea this time?"

"Not guilty, Your Honor."

"Of course. What's the bail request, Miss Imesworth?"

"We'd normally request remand, Your Honor, but we're willing to let them go on personal recognizance."

"That's a shock. Does your boss know about this?"

"Well, sir, the defendants are so well known in the community, we think we'll have little trouble keeping tabs on them."

"Your Honor?"

"Yes, Mr. Dwight?"

"We move to have the charges dismissed."

"Oh, really? Are you and Mr. Ainsley reading the same book? Dismissal, on what grounds?"

"National Security, Your Honor."

"Your Honor, they conveniently forgot to mention to a thousand dockworkers that a prehistoric monster, recently awakened from hibernation by atomic testing, was swimming around next to their docks. I don't see how that would fit under 'national security'?"

"Miss Imesworth is exaggerating, Your Honor. The Port Authority has a responsibility for not just dockworkers, but everyone in the city. We couldn't risk a citywide panic."

"Even though not telling anyone ended up causing a citywide panic, anyway? As I recall, Mr. Dwight, the same thing happened with that giant octopus in London, too. Just be thankful this beast wasn't radioactive like that one."

"Thank you, Your Honor."

"That's quite okay, Miss Imesworth. Defendants are free to go. Please be back next Tuesday to set a trial date. Say, is it me, Joseph, or is the courthouse unusually crowded today?"

"It's crowded, sir. Everybody's docket is full."

"Hmm, guess my lunch date with Judge Horvath is out."

"Judge Horvath is trying child custody cases today, sir, to see if the parents are fit to raise their children."

"We see those cases everyday. What's so different about today?"

"These are the bratty kids, Your Honor. One defied his grandmother and hitched a ride down into a subterranean cavern. Almost got the explorers killed by giant scorpions. Another is that girl who fiddled with the thermostat so that her pet rabbit wouldn't freeze. She ended up getting all the test animals in the lab eaten by a prehistoric mollusk that had been kept in hibernation in a pool of cold water."

"Ooh, sounds brutal, but no one got killed, did they?"

"Well, not with those two, Your Honor, but the third kid, well, she's a doozy. Sweet kid, but devious. She did the old switcheroo. Didn't want her parents to continue testing a serum on a rabbit she liked, so she substituted a normal rabbit and took the test animal out into the countryside where, of course, it got loose."

"Oh, I remember her. Led to a horde of giant man-eating bunny rabbits. I wonder if those poor people they recruited from the drive-in to help corner the rabbits ever got over the horror of seeing them shot and electrocuted on those railroad tracks. Well, that's another court. I wonder if I can do lunch with Judge Wapple?"

"Sorry, Your Honor, she's got some civil cases that should fill her entire day."

"Really? What kind of cases?"

"Trademark desecration, sir. You know, taking a good idea and totally massacring it. Her first one is a hoot. Seems someone took an idea from the Japanese and turned it into a hundred million-plus dollar dud. Took a slow, lumbering, fire-breathing giant and turned it into some quick-footed iguana that was halfway to the video store by the end of the first month."

"Oh, that's no biggie, Joseph. We've been doing that to Japanese films for decades. Although, I thought we'd moved away from big monsters and onto horror. Okay, let's stop wasting time. What's next on the docket?"

"The People versus The Department of Homeland Security and The Department of Defense."

"What?"

"The People versus The Department..."

"Yes, yes, Joseph, I heard you. What's going on here? I don't think this court is appropriate for a case of this magnitude. What's it about?"

"Harassment, attempted murder, murder and manslaughter on way too many counts."

"Care to elaborate further, Miss Imesworth? You realize that we're talking about the very people who protect us from the bad guys, you know."

"The People understand that, Your Honor. But, it's the job of Homeland Security to protect us from enemies, foreign and domestic."

"What do you have to say about this, Ms. Fulton? I believe you're from the U.S. Attorney General's office? Aren't we at cross purposes here?"

"That is correct, Your Honor. What Miss Imesworth and the local DA are charging my clients – a.k.a. the U.S. Government – with is political grandstanding. My clients were protecting the public from insidious and hideous threats, such as gun-toting fanatics who stalked and stabbed numerous people to death, burned others alive, cut the throats of more people and burned a lot with acid."

"Your Honor, the so-called fanatics Ms. Fulton is referring to are vampire hunters. The bloodsuckers they killed drank the blood of more than two thousand innocent people over the past ten years alone, but, nothing was done about them. Uh, Your Honor, are you okay?"

"Hmm, oh, yes. Nothing wrong, Miss Imesworth. I was just musing about lawyers fighting over bloodsuckers. Sort of a professional discourtesy. Ahem, sorry, bad lawyer joke. Please, go on, Miss Imesworth."

"That's not all, Your Honor. We have case files, going back years, of the military interfering with honest, law-abiding citizens who try to stop threats to society. For instance, government agents shot two scientists to death to protect a program that produced mutated barracuda for clandestine missions, even though the barracuda killed a number of innocent civilians. Another time, the military intervened when ordinary citizens tried to save river rafters from carnivorous South American fish. Then, there are all those times an unsuspecting populace fell victim to giant ants, scorpions, mollusks, monoliths, grasshoppers, bees and other dangers because of the government's 'we don't want a panic' defense. The list is endless."

"Oh, that's rich, Miss Fulton. If we're going to do that, why don't we prosecute all the stupid people in the world? You know, the kids who go partying at abandoned summer camps even though all the previous campers got slaughtered by a machete-wielding maniac. Or the people who don't want to turn the lights on in dark rooms or don't use flashlights or just plain don't think to call the police when they hear something upstairs. Or corrupt politicians who store hazardous waste under the city. Or the local authorities who ignore repeated warnings about monstrosities that then end up killing people who might otherwise have been warned and then threaten the press members who expose the truth. The list is, indeed, endless and hindsight is always twenty-twenty, Your Honor."

"And it will always be twenty-twenty, Miss Fulton, until we start making people accountable. Your Honor, we have to make people think beforehand so we don't have to place blame afterwards."

"You'd be fighting a losing battle, Miss Imesworth. Say, Joseph, just how backed up is the docket today?"

"A full schedule, but, sadly, nothing really blockbuster. Most of the cases are so common now, it's rather pedestrian."

"Okay, then. I think I need a break. Miss Imesworth, Miss Fulton, in my chambers, please. Thank goodness for the court system. There's at least one place around here where common sense prevails."

"Your Honor, do you want me to check the status of that case we talked about earlier?"

"Hold on, ladies. Which case was that, Joseph?"

"The one with all those jury members who are being stalked and decapitated. I think they were from one of the cases the newspaper interviewed you about last month. Although it's a bit late, I think detectives are going to warn the three remaining jurors -- a very nubile blond, a brunette smoldering with repressed sexuality beneath her glasses and pinned-up hair and a spinster librarian.

"They might use one of them as bait for the killer, but I can't guess which. The other two should be well-protected, though. All of the detectives have volunteered to watch over them, even that single one who hasn't been with a woman since that painful divorce three years ago. If the killer goes for the bait, they'll be ready, unless something distracts them."

"That was the Mad Dog McGurk case, wasn't it, Joseph? Why wasn't I notified of that? Any suspects, yet?"

"Not really, Judge. They thought it might be McGurk, but he died in prison after volunteering for some weird experiment. The warden apologized for not telling anyone. Said it was an administrative error. Some heads are gonna' roll on that one, sir. No pun intended, of course."

"Ah, yes, thank you, Joseph. Keep up with that, will you? I'll be in my chambers. On second thought, Joseph, could you do me a big favor and go into my office first? And please turn on the lights."

Eugene Nix

"You know, sir, that there are many who oppose your research,'' the gray-haired television commentator said. "Especially in the religious community. They say it's heresy, what you're doing.''

If the words bothered Eugene Nix, he did not show it. Instead, he fingered his bushy mustache, as if in the middle of some great thought. All the while, he eyed the commentator and the cameramen surrounding them on the set in the studio. Indeed, his mind seemed to dwell more on how the small set seemed intimate despite the vastness of the surrounding sound stage than it did towards the commentator's question.

"What is the saying, sir, that one can do all things through Christ?'' Nix finally replied, with a wisp of a smile. "Are not a surgeon's hands guided by a higher power during a difficult operation? Do not planes take off from the ground by the hundreds or thousands every day, borne aloft by the winds provided by the wings of angels?"

"So, you're saying that you are just doing the work of God, not playing the Almighty?'' the commentator followed.

"I'm just a man, sir,'' Nix replied, coolly, avoiding the trap shrewdly set for him. "Just a man."

"Which brings me to my next point,'' the interviewer continued, unfazed by Nix's avoidance of his last question. "You were born with Attention Deficit Disorder and, in recent years, you've had arthritis so painful, you've found it difficult to work on very cold days. So, you would agree that those factors helped make you the man that you are today. Shouldn't children have the same chance?"

Nix furrowed an eyebrow at the wording of the question.

"A chance to fail in school?'' he asked in reply. "A chance to experience a great deal of pain?"

"Well, no, just a chance to make themselves stronger by overcoming their weaknesses,'' the commentator clarified.

"We all know that most don't overcome," Nix said. "And that doesn't make the mothers of those children with illnesses like Down's syndrome or cystic fibrosis or sickle cell anemia love them any less. But, can you imagine what that child might become if he or she were free of those crippling shackles? It's something that each person should ponder and decide upon for him or herself."

"Well, that about wraps up our time for today's show,'' the commentator said, looking more than a bit defeated. "I want to thank today's guest, renowned geneticist Eugene Nix. We'll be back after a commercial break for some notes on next week's show.''

It took more than ninety minutes to get through mid-afternoon traffic in Dallas before he reached the slightly less hectic vehicular crush of Tarrant County. He made it back to his office at Fort Worth Hospital only twenty minutes before his afternoon appointment. He had just enough time to say hello to Ellen Hellerby, his secretary, before perusing his computer for the necessary patient files.

The Oldmans were an unusual case. Cystic fibrosis ran in the genes of Lawrence Oldman, usually every third generation, which, in and of itself, was odd. His wife, Marguerita Elizabeta, was Mexican and had no known maladies in her lineage. It was hoped her genes might somehow offset the Oldman family curse. Personally, Nix knew it was pure fantasy. Genetics could not be fooled so easily, being shaped by some otherworldly power that Nix firmly believed came from on high. That was how a man and woman could have three children, with each one taking on different characteristics of the mother or father or both.

His intercom buzzed and he told Ellen to let the Oldmans in. He rose and came from behind his desk to meet them at the door. He greeted the couple warmly, as he did all his clients, and bade them sit down in the leather chairs before his desk. Only when they were comfortable did he take his own seat. He made small talk about the weather as he could see that they were – or at least Marguerita was–nervous. Lawrence Oldman complimented Nix on his appearance on the morning talk show.

"Thank you, sir,'' Nix replied. "But, I'm sure you didn't come all this way today to tell me I looked much thinner on television than in person. You're interested in the results of the tests I performed two weeks ago and I have them with me today."

Lawrence started to speak, but Marguerita interrupted him, whispering to him in Spanish. Nix knew Spanish but leaned back in his chair so that he wouldn't hear her. He knew she was trying to be private with her husband. Lawrence listened to her, then said something in reply and patted her hands reassuringly.

"Pardon my wife, Doctor Nix," Lawrence apologized, in a voice that had the air of royalty. "She comes from an old family and she's still not sure about all of this. I've been trying to reason with her for the last two weeks."

"Well, maybe I can reassure her fears,'' Nix answered, moving his left hand to his computer keyboard and typing a few keys. "My tests show that there is an 85.6% chance that your child will have cystic fibrosis."

Marguerita Oldman gasped upon hearing the high percentage. Then, she buried her head into her husband's right shoulder and began to sob. Lawrence tried to comfort her as best he could, while keeping one eye coldly fixed upon Nix for delivering such bad news.

"Please don't cry, Mrs. Oldman,'' Nix added. "I can guarantee you at least a ninety-nine-point-three percent chance that my methods will remove the cystic fibrosis gene from the child."

This surprised the Oldmans and Marguerita stopped crying. In fact, she sat up straight and looked at Nix, with a look on her face that showed both shock and relief. He had seen this look often in the five years since he'd introduced his method during a clinical study in the small town of Mineral Wells.

"I will need some samples from each of you," Nix continued. "Some unfertilized eggs and a sperm sample. As you know, I use nanotechnology to cleanse the samples of impurities and of harmful genes, while leaving good genes. I can guarantee that the fetus will have the best chance possible of a normal birth and childhood as far as genetic diseases go, though his upbringing is between yourselves and God."

Lawrence Oldman suddenly stood and pulled his wife to her feet. Nix rose to meet them, and then reached his hand over the desk to shake Lawrence's extended hand. Instantly, Nix could tell from Oldman's grip that the man's family had the kind of confidence that one might expect from descendants of royalty. It was firm and virtually transmitted strength and confidence.

Mr. Oldman thanked the doctor profusely and wanted to start the procedures that very moment. Nix had his secretary show them to the prenatal ward of the hospital. Although, he had alleviated their fears, he knew they might still change their minds and not go through with it; thus, he was never unhappy to see clients immediately start the treatments.

"So proud of yourself, aren't you, Gene?''

Nix looked up from his paperwork to see a very beautiful blonde standing before his desk. She wore a white lab smock and her badge showed her to be Doctor Emmalene Mayhew. Nix had once thought her to be one of the most professional doctors on the hospital's staff, but then she'd turned on him, trying to get him dismissed from the hospital.

"What can I do for you, Doctor?" Nix replied, mechanically. "I do have some clients to tend to."

"Oh, come now," Emmalene stated, taking the opportunity to plop herself down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. "You know it takes an hour or so to properly prep. We have time for a chat."

"Ah, yes, a chat," Nix answered, his demeanor cold and distant. "Is it going to be one of those chats where I listen and you do all the speaking? Or will we speak as colleagues for once?''

"Look, Eugene," Emmalene began, "I never wanted to make this personal. I wanted to keep it professional. We've all taken the Hippocratic Oath and we all do the best we can for our patients."

"Which is all I am doing with my research," Nix interjected

He ignored Mayhew's frown. He already knew what she was going to say, and it certainly would not be Hippocratic in the least.

"But, there is a line we are not supposed to cross," Mayhew finished.

"Dr. Mayhew, how many cancer patients are we currently treating?"

The question caught her off guard and she stammered for a moment. Nix didn't repeat the question, just gazed at her, inquisitively. Pressed for an answer, she told him she didn't have an exact figure, but she personally had five patients undergoing chemotherapy.

"Wouldn't our jobs be a whole lot easier if we could remove the carcinogens and other cancer-causing agents from the body before the cancers formed?" Nix posited.

"You're trying to use emotions to justify the means, Doctor," Mayhew objected. "I'm sure there would be many cancer patients willing to jump through fire or pay anything to get rid of the so-called toxins infecting their blood cells, but, what you're doing is science fiction. Hasn't history seen these types of things before?"

"You can say it, Doctor Mayhew," Nix stated, leaning back in his chair, somewhat disappointed. "You were going to call me a 'charlatan.' A trickster or some fairground peddler with a cure-all panacea, like some quack

barnstorming his way across the Old West with a magic elixir."

"I assure you, I meant no offense," Emmalene retorted, backpedaling. "It's just that, well, there are others, who may not be so obliging. People with a deeper sense of values, who..."

"Doctor Mayhew," Nix stated sharply and forcefully, cutting her off so abruptly that she tried to sink deeper into her chair. "We are both doctors. We have both gone through the same pre-med and the same medical school. The diplomas behind me on the wall are just as real as the ones on your wall. I am not some quack who puts black dye in water and tells a gullible customer that it represents the toxins in her body and will she please fork over all her money for monthly treatments to clear up the water."

"Look, Eugene," Emmalene Mayhew snapped, trying to recover some of her dignity. "There are others in this hospital who believe as I do. You're not just affecting this hospital's reputation, but the livelihoods of your colleagues."

"Oh, yes, I was wondering when you'd get around to that," Nix retorted. "How is the funding proposal for your cancer center faring? Please don't tell me I'm upsetting the apple cart with my controversial methods. If it were so, the hospital board would have said goodbye to me already. So, tell your colleagues to pay for their own fishing trips and dinners for a little while longer."

"You're making a big mistake, Eugene," Emmalene warned. "Your status with the board is precarious, at best. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"And I think this discussion, such as it was, is now over," Nix replied, coolly. "I have patients to attend to and I'm sure you do as well. Good day, Doctor Mayhew."

Nix stared out the window of the laboratory. Mayhew had rattled him more than he'd thought and he needed a little more time to collect his wits. The samples had been taken from the Oldmans and he had received them a half-hour earlier. The nurse had placed them inside his machine.

Below, in the streets, a few protesters still picketed across from the main entrance to the hospital. They had been there so long, Nix almost felt he knew each one intimately. They had been coming, in small groups, every day for the past six months.

They had never been violent or unruly, unlike the protesters in Los Angeles when he had been part of a medical team trying to clone human organs for transplant purposes. Then again, California tended to produce more varieties of agitators than the other forty-nine states combined. Back home in his native Fort Worth, Nix hadn't felt the need for a bodyguard.

Finally, he turned away from the window, walked over to his machine and sat down. He flipped a switch to light up a large screen, through which he spied the samples from the Oldmans. He tapped a few keys on the board before him, then manipulated a track ball with his right hand. Inside the machine, mechanical arms extended down, each grabbing a sample container and moving it to a separate area. Shortly thereafter, inside these darkened areas, colored lights began to flash and play over the containers.

Nix looked to his left at a small screen, then to a similar one to his right. Each showed results of scans being done on the sample containers. So far, nothing looked out of the ordinary, but it was still early and he knew it. He didn't have to stay with the machine for the entire range of tests, which could last up to ten hours, but he didn't mind. His lab was off-limits and he often hid here to keep away from his more narrow-minded colleagues, like Doctor Emmalene Mayhew.

As the results droned across the screens, Nix closed his eyes and took a little time to reflect, a habit he had picked up from an old girlfriend in California who had been into the New Age movement. Almost habitually, he began rubbing his hands together as if he were simulating washing them. It often helped him relieve the arthritis he'd begun suffering more and more, especially after handling samples and manipulating the controls of his machines.

Every time he used his machine, he found himself recounting the same memory. He was just seven years old, much too young to see the incredible agony his older brother, Christopher, endured because of his rare genetic disease. Eugene could remember the look of anguish on his mother's face as she sought to feed, bathe and help Chris use the toilet. Eugene rarely saw his father, who worked two full-time jobs to pay the extensive medical bills.

His memory shot forward ten years. Now, he was at his father's funeral. The doctors called what had killed him hypertension. They'd said that, most likely, the stress of working two jobs for so long had weakened his heart and dangerously (fatally) elevated his blood pressure.

When Chris finally succumbed to his disease two years later, Eugene was all out of tears. He'd simply sat, stone-faced, at the funeral. His mother had cried enough tears for both of them, but he had none left to give. He couldn't think of grief, only of how unfair life had been to his parents and to his older brother. That's when he decided his mission in life.

He switched his major in college from electrical engineering to biology. Graduating near the top of his class, he'd been a shoo-in for medical school where he specialized in biogenetics, a major he was allowed to personally design. Sometimes his mother would visit, trying to get him to slow down and not work so hard, afraid he might fall prey to the same stress that had killed his father. He would listen to her, but just for the duration of her visit, whereupon he would return to his old habits after she'd gone back home.

She was gone now, had died peacefully in her sleep. She'd worked so hard and sacrificed so much, but in the end, she'd lived a full life. She'd become even prouder of Eugene when his research had helped her overcome lymphoma. The night before she passed, she'd encouraged him to continue on, despite his critics. The possibility of parents not having to deal with ugly genetic diseases or loved ones facing a possible death sentence from cancer was much too important, she'd said, for him to let others deter him.

This brought him back to reality. He now felt the ache in his fingers, a reminder from his arthritis that he'd had his fingers interlaced too long. Ironic, he thought to himself, as he separated his hands, that a man who could cure genetic diseases before birth and who could cleanse toxins from the bodies of cancer patients, had not tried to cure himself of arthritis. Strange as it sounded to his colleagues, his arthritis reminded him that he couldn't sit back on his laurels because there were multitudes of ailments and diseases afflicting mankind.

He looked at his machine and saw the readouts continuing. So far, the diagnoses had been correct for cystic fibrosis. He looked at the timer and saw that he still had another nine hours to wait before the final results were in. Unfortunately, though his earlier tests gave him a high certainty of success, medicine always demanded repetition, such as repeated tests, control groups or placebos. Trying to skip to the end was a bad habit that might let in unwanted variables. It would be a tragic waste to save people from cystic fibrosis only to lose them to a totally preventable infection.

He got up from his chair and crossed the room to the futon he'd brought in a month earlier. He'd taken to sleeping on it to avoid his colleagues or protesters. Their criticisms, protests and, indeed, even verbal threats, seemed to grow exponentially when he ran his actual tests. In the lab, he had privacy and security and he took advantage of it now to get some badly needed sleep.

Thanks to a sleeping pill, he did not have any bad dreams this time around. Lately, he'd imagined some protester slipping past the security cordons and getting into his lab. Strangely, though, he felt rather copasetic about the chances of his machinery being destroyed. Rather, he feared confronting the protester and trying to explain the rational nature of his work to an irrational mind. He'd dreamt that the protester would have nothing but malignity in his heart and perniciousness in his brain.

Trying to focus on more pleasant things, he dreamt of having a nice dinner with Dr. Mayhew. He knew she opposed his work, but they were, after all, colleagues. He knew – rather, he hoped – she'd eventually feel the same level of comity as he did. Maybe someday, she might even give up her baleful outlook as to his work and see the benefits.

"Good evening, Doc," a mysterious voice said. "You've been sleeping much too long."

A groggy Nix pushed himself up into a sitting position and rubbed his eyes. He then glanced at the chronometer on his machine and frowned. He'd only been sleeping two hours.

He still had seven more to go before his tests for the Oldmans were completed. Irate, he looked forward again, towards the sound of the voice, ready to lash out at the nurse who'd interrupted his sleep. And who'd had the audacity to enter his lab without permission, he thought to himself.

He didn't see a nurse, however, but rather a young man, dressed in black, with a look upon his face that exuded nothing but anger. Nix started to jump up, but the man pulled something from somewhere on his person and Nix stopped. He could tell it was a gun and it was very large. Slowly, he returned to his sitting position, his mind telling his body not to overreact. Nix was an intellectual, a man who thought much faster than his body could ever hope to move.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, ever mindful of the gun pointing at him. "How did you get past the guards?"

"It doesn't really matter who I am, does it, Dr. Nix?" the man said in a tone devoid of emotion.

"Well, what do you want then?" a nervous Nix queried. "You're not going to get me to change my mind at the end of a gun, if that's what you're thinking, son."

"Nice to see you have some loyalty to your ideas," the young man replied, his voice sounding distant.

Nix tried hard to think where he'd seen the young man before. Mostly likely, in the crowd of protesters, but he could have sworn he'd seen the man someplace other than outside the hospital. Maybe being at the business end of a pistol was jumbling his memory.

"Just as I have with mine, Doctor."

"Bah, I know you're kind," Nix spat, disgustedly. "You're like the Eric Rudolphs and Unabombers of the world. You destroy life, thinking you're saving it. I am trying to give people a better life."

"I wish I could debate the issue," the young man countered. "But, I doubt anything I say will change your wrong-headed ways. You'll just continue to denigrate God's work."

"And what you're doing now isn't denigrating God's work?" Nix exclaimed, jumping to his feet, not caring now about the gun. "Breaking one of His commandments so you can do His work? My work, unfortunately, can only help life at its inception. The way that life grows still reflects totally on both nurture and nature. It's obvious that you and too many millions like you never got the proper nurturing. You're so mad because of it, you've hooked onto the wrong cause to make up for your shortcomings. You profess faith, but you radiate zealotry. You think you're an Apostle, but you're really nothing but an Apostate."

The young man seethed and his face reddened. Maybe, I've hit too close to home, Nix thought as he quickly became aware of the gun again. I hope to God the Oldmans don't waste the opportunity I'm giving them and produce someone like this young man, Nix thought.

As it turned out, the Oldmans never would produce a child like the young man. The young man's gun barked twice and Nix felt a searing pain in his chest. Even as his body lost feeling and slumped to the floor, he wondered who would carry on his work, if indeed, anyone really wanted to.

Dr. Mayhew smiled broadly as she welcomed Andrew Bregan into her office. She knew she needed to make the best impression possible if she was to convince the noted philanthropist to fund her advanced cancer research center. She'd made great strides in the decade since she'd taken Eugene Nix's place as senior doctor at the hospital.

"Good morning, Mr. Bregan," she greeted, motioning for him to sit down.

She offered him something to drink, but he declined and she took her seat behind her large oaken desk. For a few seconds, she studied the man before her and noted the deep lines of age around his eyes. They were far more prevalent than hers, but he obviously had not undergone plastic surgery like she had.

"Well, sir, have you had a chance to go over my proposal for the cancer center?" she said.

"Yes, yes, Doctor," Bregan replied, his voice evenly measured and sounding as if he'd practiced hard to remove any vestige of an accent. "It's quite marvelous, at least on paper."

Mayhew cocked her head slightly at the remark. At least, she told herself, he'd said the word "marvelous." That had to be a positive sign, she thought.

"Don't take that the wrong way, Dr. Mayhew," Bregan explained further. "It's just that you've come up with some marvelous things that will, undoubtedly help fight cancer, but I can't help thinking that there must be a better way."

"I assure you, sir, that the new cancer facility will come up with the most advanced treatments," Emmalene promised, a hint of nervousness in her voice.

"Oh, I'm sure it will, Doctor," Bregan retorted. "I'm sure it will. It's just that, cancer seems so much more prevalent these days. The outlook on life is rather baleful. Maybe it's the Greenhouse Effect or the accumulation of pollutants in the air or maybe we're all just getting too fat and unhealthy and we want science to cure us when we should be taking better care of ourselves. Pardon me, Doctor, if I seem to be prattling."

No, no, sir, you go right on, Emmalene wanted to say. She smiled and nodded, understandingly, but knew she could do nothing else. She needed his money, and for more reasons than just research. Medicine today was so thoroughly and completely dependent on sponsors and big corporations; she wondered how it was possible to reconcile the Hippocratic Oath with the business side of healthcare. She'd often wondered whether she was really a doctor anymore or just a whore prostituting herself for grant money. Whatever the case, she knew she would go along with just about anything Bregan said or did as long as it included a big check.

"Don't worry, Doctor," Bregan continued. "I am not losing my mind. It's just that, on the way here, I started thinking about Doctor Nix."

Emmalene hoped Bregan didn't see the color drain out of her face at the mention of Eugene. His death had been tragic and she'd had to answer many questions about it to the media, the police and to the hospital board. After all that, she'd heard nothing of his name for more than seven years.

"I'm sure you're well aware of just how controversial Dr. Nix's work was, sir," she finally blurted, trying to recover her professionalism. "As a doctor, I have to deal with facts, the here and now."

"Oh, yes, I quite understand," Bregan replied, somewhat smugly. "That's why I'm paying for your institute in full. I want to see more facts discovered. But, I want to be sure that it is all secure, even if my brother would have conniptions."

"I'm not sure I follow," Emmalene said, cocking her eyebrow again, not sure what he'd meant by "secure" and missing the fact that he'd just promised to fund her institute.

"It's such a shame about the state of America today, isn't it?" Bregan explained. "You can't go anywhere without feeling unsafe. You could be mugged walking to your car, molested by some trusted teacher or clergyman or shot by an assailant who somehow slips past a phalanx of expert hospital guards, perhaps with some inside help."

Emmalene felt a knot in her chest and seemed unable to get enough air.

"It's also a shame that America has lost its technological edge," Bregan continued. "Instead of reaching out for new ideas, we fight amongst ourselves for the scraps of what hasn't been snapped up by greedy rich people or shipped off to other countries. That's why I've given full funding for your cancer center, doctor, so that we can, once again, be at the forefront."

Emmalene's throat was dry; she couldn't speak.

"I really don't know what happened to let that young man get into Nix's lab," Bregan said, "but I don't much care now. Unless it were to somehow happen again. There are those who would push their beliefs on others at the point of a gun or through a bullheaded law. Others would let greed get the better of their conscience and then find themselves so dependent on that largesse as to completely compromise their morals. Now, I'm not endorsing Nix's ideas and I really don't know if they truly would have worked or not, but I would like to believe Nix was killed because of misplaced idealism. I would hate to think that Eugene Nix really died just so someone could keep the money flowing."

Bregan stopped long enough to wipe the corner of his mouth with a kerchief that he quickly placed back in the pocket of his coat.

"That's where I can do the most good, Doctor Mayhew," he said. "I can see to it that my money does good things and does not corrupt. In turn, I can also see to it that good ideas are not tossed aside because it makes the establishment uncomfortable and breaks the status quo. Science must be allowed to continue, Doctor. You can kill the man, but you can't kill the idea. I'm sure you'll agree. In time."

Bregan stood up, but Emmalene found it difficult to get her legs under her. It was like Bregan had seen right through her with X-ray vision. He politely told her not to get up, that he would see himself out and she slumped back into her chair, her strength suddenly gone. For someone who had just gotten a lifelong dream fulfilled, she looked very much defeated.

Outside of the office, Andrew Bregan smiled broadly, like the cat that had eaten the canary. He felt one hundred percent better, but he had no real reason to worry in the first place. Doctor Mayhew was no different than most other doctors-cum-administrators. Her Hippocratic Oath included a dollar sign instead of a caduceus.

Bregan knew his brother would surely not approve. Then again, his brother had not been feeling himself lately. Actually, Leonard Oldman was his half-brother, but Andrew had always treated him like full kin, nonetheless.

Bregan glanced at his watch and sighed heavily. He had just enough time to make the wake for Marguerita. Poor woman, he thought heavily. She'd seemed to wither on the vine when her only son succumbed to his cystic fibrosis three years earlier. He'd lived far longer than the doctors said he should have, thanks to Marguerita.

All the work had taken the life out of her, literally. Finally, after much despair, she'd given up the ghost and passed away in her sleep. She'd never completely gotten over the loss of her son and the cruel way in which her hopes of his having a normal life had been dashed by an anonymous young man.

"Never again," he said to himself as he strolled down the hallway. "Not if I can help it."

Your Most Urgent Attention Requested

I had to say that I was greatly surprised by the accommodations upon my arrival in Accra. I had imagined the capital city of Ghana to be much older. Yet, everywhere, there were signs of modernity. The streets held with a mixture of the old and new -- cars, mopeds, people. It made me wonder if that requirement for the yellow fever vaccination was still valid.

As I sat on the couch in the house of my host, I glanced around at the modern décor. This was certainly a house befitting a vice president of one of the country's largest banks. Across from me, an incredibly beautiful woman smiled at me. I thought at first that she was the host's wife, but I knew now that she was not. Perhaps, I surmised, she was meant to keep me company until the arrival of my host.

In my mind, I went over all that had happened to me in the past three months. I certainly had not expected to be contacted by Joseph P. Mbodj, Vice-President of Ghana National Bank by e-mail, but, his subject line -- "You're most urgent attention requested" -- had let me know he was serious.

As vice president in charge of auditing, he had stumbled upon fifteen million dollars left by a man who had died recently in a plane crash. The money was very close to being forfeited to the Ghanaian government by default and he needed my help to move it into a much safer American account. My return would be forty percent of the money and there were a lot of things I could do with that much money.

Naturally, it was not so simple a case. First, I had to open an account with Mbodj's bank, which he gladly helped me do. Then, I had to pay some upfront fees for various administrative details, the kind of things that all banks put in small print at the bottom of one's monthly statements. Finally, I did have to pay some taxes on the money, but what was $20,000 in return for six million?

Mbodj had graciously offered to do all the work, but I had finally talked him into letting me help. After all, I had a strong work ethic and didn't want to feel like I had taken and not given. To that end, he had suddenly suggested I come to Ghana to meet him personally for the final transfer of the money.

I took to the idea so much that I went straight from the airport to Mbodj's house. In hindsight, I guessed I should have checked in with the American embassy, but there would be time for that later. I had mentioned that to the woman across from me. She had called Mbodj and had learned that all was in order at the bank. I would be able to stroll into the American embassy a very rich man.

I heard the knob of the door behind me turn and in walked a tall, dark-skinned man clad in a tailored three-piece suit. He held a briefcase in one hand. I stood up and turned to greet him, enthusiastically. That is, until I saw the two much larger, meaner looking men who walked in behind him. They were whispering something in what I guessed to be Akan, the dominant tribal language in the country.

"Mr. Joseph Mbodj, I presume," I said, somewhat nervously. "We spoke on the phone and chatted on the Internet. My name is--"

"Yes, yes, we know who you are," Mbodj replied, rather rudely. "Without your help, we could never have gotten this far. But, I'm sorry, our association, such as it was, must come to an end."

"I'm not sure what you mean, sir," I retorted. "I understand if there is some police trouble. Just let me know if my money is secure in the account and I will take my leave. We need never see each other again."

"You are right, sir," Mbodj replied. "We will not see each other again."

With that, both of the strong men, who each had one arm hidden behind his back, revealed machetes. I involuntarily took a step back. I looked at the woman and saw that she was smiling again, but not in a good way. Obviously, I was not the first person to fall into this trap. Sounding desperate, I told them they could never get away with their crime, that my government would see that they paid dearly.

"You forget, sir, that you are in my country now," Mbodj replied, with an evil grin. "Your embassy does not even know that you are here."

Well, that would serve me right for skipping that all-important step when I landed in Accra. The two men with the machetes stepped closer, brandishing their weapons menacingly and trying to goad me into leaving out the back door with them. No doubt Mbodj did not want my blood spoiling the nice décor of his house. I knew that if I left the house, I would be done for, so I decided to end the charade then and there.

When I first pulled this stunt, the looks on the faces of the people had been priceless. Now, however, it was all too common. Then again, seeing a man's skin split and fall away like a discarded bathrobe was not a common thing.

It felt good to shed the skin. Wearing that shell twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week tended to make me claustrophobic. Not to mention that contorting my enormous form into a body that was less than a third my size -- though considered tall by human standards -- wasn't all that comfortable either.

I extended my jaws and took the first man's head off. His corpse stood on its feet for at least a minute before toppling over. My next bite garnered the heart and lungs of the second man. Lifting my talons, I fired bristles into the necks of Mbodj and the woman before she could let out an ear-piercing shriek. I didn't need any unwanted company.

I could have gloated over the paralyzed body of Mbodj. I could have let him know that I had been fully aware of his Internet scam from the start. I could have let him know that once I ate his brain and absorbed his thoughts that I would be able to get most of my money back, if not all of it. I could have, but I didn't. Mother had taught me never to play with my food, so I just devoured him alive.

In hindsight, it was easy to see Mbodj's point of view. Though Ghana's economy was beginning to rise, life for its citizens was still tough. In America, a man could expect to live up to seventy-seven and a woman up to eighty. In Ghana still, life expectancy for men and women was fifty-five and fifty-nine respectively, not even retirement age in a western country. If there was going to be a good lifestyle in this country, it would not come through ordinary means. Unfortunately, for Mbodj, the means had been criminal and murderous.

I did feel some regret about the woman, but only a little. I always seemed to have a soft spot for beautiful woman, but that smile of hers a moment ago had let me know she wasn't as innocent as she seemed. Alas, I couldn't have any witnesses, so I dispatched her as quickly as possible, risking indigestion.

It took me an hour to finish off the two thugs and lick up as much blood as possible. Unfortunately, the blood that had soaked into the furniture and walls would not be too palatable on my stomach. Mother would not be proud of the mess, but then again, Mother was a long way from here -- about 350 million light years, to be exact.

Being a carnivorous extraterrestrial was difficult on this planet. While not as bad as portrayed on many of the so-called "science fiction" films, one such as myself could easily run afoul of some secret government agency. That could mean a fate worse than death and I did harbor hopes of using this mission to secure a post closer to home.

I was just supposed to observe the humans in their natural state, but the Council had realized my dietary needs and had authorized me to subsist on those humans considered unfit to remain freely among the race by Earth's societal standards. Sadly, there seemed to be more and more of those types of people every day.

My metabolism allows each meal to last me a long time, sort of like how a small pig can sustain an anaconda for many weeks. I had to be selective in my food sources as it would not be good to be associated with evidence of a ghastly meal more befitting a cheap horror novel than civilized society. Even though I could subconsciously will myself not to leave fingerprints or recognizable DNA, I could still be identified visually if I wasn't careful, meaning I really couldn't play in my own backyard, so to speak.

Thus, the Internet proved ideal. There were plenty of guys like Mbodj on it. In fact, I had dozens of men and women I could contact for future meals and I wouldn't even need to leave the Dark Continent. Best of all, I would be doing the human race a big favor, justifying the sustenance I was taking from them.

It took me less than five minutes to slip back into my human suit. I then went into a small room down the hall and logged onto the Internet via the laptop computer Mbodj had set up on his nightstand. Sure enough, I had another message and it looked promising. It said "Your most urgent attention needed" and it was close by, too, in Kumasi in the Ashanti Region. Hmm, another rich man died in a plane crash, leaving seven million in limbo. It seemed flying on a plane in Africa was detrimental to the health of rich white people.

I checked my watch and frowned. Speaking of flying, my own return flight to Italy was due to take off in eight hours. I really had nothing to worry about. As I moved the e-mail into a nearly full folder marked "Diet," I knew I need never starve. Not as long as Man continued to be "human."

Society's Children

The takeover was subtle, at first. The long trip to Alpha Centauri had lulled the guards into a false state of ennui. In fact, they were playing poker in a spare room when the five convicts entered, seized them and promptly garroted them with spare communication wire. That left the convicts with access to the release keys as well as pass cards to gain access to other parts of the ship.

What saved the rest of the crew was that the passes were not all-access in that they had been programmed based on the principle of least privilege. They only allowed entry into parts of the vessel that their assignees were given access to. Thus, the convicts hadn't known the guards they'd killed were limited to one area of the ship. When they'd tried to move out of the holding area and were not properly recognized, they'd set off numerous alarms.

From the time of the first alarm to the first full assessment of the crisis from Officer-of-the-Deck Norterm to Commander Ilena Davila, it had barely been five minutes. That was enough time for the security system to seal the convicts in the holding area. Heavily-armed guards controlled all access ports out of it. Unfortunately, Davila knew that even these fastidious measures wouldn't stop the convicts for long.

"These bastards and bitches are some of the worst offenders in the system,'' Davila told Norterm. "Among them are a few of our own people you know. Gone bad, gone corrupt and paying for it now.''

"Commander, we're getting comms from the convict holding area,'' a nearby technician called out.

Davila inhaled sharply, held her breath, then exhaled to calm herself. She told herself she could handle this. She'd been at the top of her class at the Space Merchant Marine Academy and hostage negotiation had been part of the curriculum. She spun around to face the view screen and ordered the technician to activate the line.

The calm composure she'd obtained mere moments ago almost fled when the two hardened faces appeared on the screen. The first was female, brunette, weathered, but still beautiful. The other face was that of a man still in his thirties, but who had seen his share of tough times, his features lined with exhaustion and stress. He had bags under his eyes that not even the latest cosmetic surgery could erase, but Davila knew he wore those bags like badges of honor.

"Kevanna and Cedric Coogan,'' Davila murmured. It would have to be these two, she thought.

"Good morning, Ilena,'' Kevanna greeted, smugly. "I'm sorry we had to meet again under such circumstances.''

"What's the meaning of this attack?'' Davila demanded. "You killed three of my people, but you'll get no more, I promise you. Now, surrender yourselves and I will put you back in hibernation for the rest of the trip.''

"Pretty as you please, eh?'' Cedric retorted, acidly. "No repercussions. Just go back into deep freeze and for what?''

"A chance to live, that's what,'' Davila replied, haughtily.

"Oh, that's rich, Davila,'' Kevanna shot back. "That's the reason Cedric and I have done this. It took a long time and a great deal of effort back on Earth, but we found a way to short-circuit the length of time we'd be in hibernation. Just long enough for the guards to be lulled into a dull routine, so we could wake up and have an excellent chance of getting the drop on them.''

"Well, it looks like you succeeded,'' Davila said. "As for what you accomplished in the long run, well, that remains to be seen.''

"You think you can just take us out into space and forget all about us?'' Cedric asked. "You think that's a real solution?''

"The voters agreed to it, Cedric,'' Davila replied, curtly. "You know the crime problem on Earth and the colonies are out of control. We have no more room for prisons, but the outer ring mining colonies need people badly. If you and the other convicts work a year there, the governing body will eliminate five years from your sentences.''

"That's if we survive there a year,'' Kevanna snorted. "The mortality rate among the miners is almost twenty percent. So, we're just cannon fodder for Earth, right? No one cares about us, so what if a few hundred maximum-security convicts bite the dust, huh? That's real humane, Commander. Mercurial as always.''

Davila didn't know how much longer she could maintain her cool. These two had the nerve to talk about being humane? They and the rest of the convicts onboard the ship had committed hundreds of rapes, murders, assaults and other slightly less vicious crimes. In Davila's mind, taking them out to the colonies was being humane.

"You could just as easily have been executed for what you did, Kevanna,'' Davila snapped. "Those young girls were under your protection, to be trained for the merchant fleet, not to be sex slaves for the depravities of you and your husband.''

"Look, Ilena,'' Cedric interrupted. "We're letting our emotions get the better of us. Kevanna and I were sick, depressed by the long voyages for the merchant fleet, but that's beside the point. The real point is that we may be convicts, but we're still human beings. We have rights, basic rights. You and the others may act lugubrious about our fates, but we're still society's children and you can't just throw us away.''

"You don't get it, do you?'' Davila asked. "This is the best you're going to get and big, fancy words aren't going to change that. I'm going to send my people in and put down this little insurrection right now. I'm tired of talking.''

"Not so fast, Commander,'' Cedric interjected.

Kevanna disappeared off the screen for a moment. Then, she was back and the view on the screen had panned back for a broader view of the convict area communications center. Kevanna held an obviously frightened young woman in her arms. Davila was stunned. Where had this young woman come from?

"Oh, crap,'' a technician said, inhaling sharply. "She's from the kitchen staff.''

Davila made a slashing move across her throat and the audio was cut to the screen. She looked over at the female technician sternly. The woman looked embarrassed.

"A lot of the kitchen staff flirt with the guards,'' the technician explained. "They're always finding excuses to go down to the convict area. I tried to warn them not to do it, but they thought that since the convicts were all frozen, it'd be all right.''

Davila cursed under her breath and let her head hang. She could have kicked herself. Hadn't other commanders before her suffered the same problem? Sexual liaisons among males and females had always been one of the lingering problems for the space fleet. She thought she had eliminated that on her ship with her directives, but now she realized the young people had just gotten craftier and now, right or wrong, they were paying for it.

"Cut in the audio.''

"I see from your face that you know we are holding the kitchen staff hostage,'' Kevanna said when the sound cut back in. "Cute, isn't she? I could even overcome the technological suppression implants for this little thing. I don't think her mommy and daddy would like it though. It would be a little acrimonious. Don't you agree?''

"Insolent, morose, heedless and churlish, maybe, but not acrimonious,'' Davila retorted, petulantly, trying hard to hide her humiliation. "What are your demands?"

"Now you're on the right page,'' Cedric answered. "Our proposal is simple. Shangri-La.''

Davila gasped. She'd almost forgotten that little chestnut of legislation defeated so many years ago, but she knew Kevanna and Cedric were smart enough to have found it in the archives. It may have been a myopic plan at best, but some still found it palatable.

Shangri-La referred to a mythical Utopia, an idyllic Eden that was the setting for a James Hilton novel in the early 20th century. It was also a failed attempt to rid Earth of criminals by creating a convict-run settlement with no supervision. Proponents argued that it would get the criminals out of sight and out of mind, but opponents noted that there was no justice in leaving convicts who really wanted to reform at the tender mercies of the absolute worst of the worst. Neither side was eager for the convicts to have access to the technology needed to run the colony.

"You know it's the right way, Commander,'' Kevanna said, still holding the hostage. "It worked for Australia and it can work for us.''

Davila held her tongue. She knew that Australia was really the example being played out with the mining colonies – convicts working off their time under guard, for a chance to build a new life. Cedric had to be kidding himself. He was intelligent, brash and scurrilous, among other things, but he was not an administrator.

"It'll never work, Cedric,'' Davila finally stated. "Do you really think Earth will agree to such a deal? We don't negotiate with terrorists and criminals. The public still cares about law and order.''

"Wrong,'' Cedric snapped, his demeanor changing from bemused to deadly serious. "The public cares about the bottom line. That's the way it's always been, otherwise, they'd have paid for much better safety systems in the mining colonies. No, you know Shangri-La is viable. You still have to send us food, water and other things for habitability, but you won't need to feed, clothe or support the vast network of guards and administrators needed to keep watch over us. No billions of credits for patrols and for hiring and training new guards because you know the turnover rate out here is atrocious.

"It doesn't matter what you really think, does it, Commander? So, why don't you skedaddle over to the long-range communications deck and send our demands back to Earth? We'll be waiting for your reply.''

"Oh, and I'd warn you against trying anything stupid,'' Kevanna added. "But, we both know you will.''

"Communication lost,'' a technician reported.

Davila looked over her shoulder and saw her first officer, Karel Visjnic, walking onto the bridge. He looked rather haggard and she guessed he'd been to the convict area. Then, she saw the nasty-looking burn hole in his right sleeve.

"What happened?''

"They totally control the convict holding area,'' Visjnic reported, out of breath. "I heard your conversation and they're right. They must have about a dozen hostages. I got a few guards into an auxiliary room, but it ended up in a big firefight. We couldn't really cut loose because of the hostages, but that didn't stop the convicts from letting us have it. The room almost became a charnel house.''

"How many did you lose?'' Davila asked, her eyes reflecting her concern.

"One dead, three wounded, not including myself,'' the first officer replied. "But, I'm okay. Second-degree burns. Doc already sprayed it. All he could do. We sealed off the auxiliary room. They couldn't penetrate that blast door with what's available to them. It should hold more than long enough to try an end-around.''

Davila knew an "end-around" was a classic police tactic for space vessels whereby officers made a space walk down to the area next to the engine output. There, they'd enter the ship through one of the many exhaust vents. The heat in the exhaust was usually enough to incinerate even a man in an advanced space suit, but, a good technician could use emergency cooling procedures to bring the heat down enough for a police force to make it through to the safe area. In this case, it would put an entry force into the compartments behind those held by the convicts.

"Can't do it,'' Davila shot back.

"I know it can work,'' the first officer said, adamantly. "I've done it before, with the Cullaphon mutiny.''

"They'd be expecting it, Karel,'' Davila replied. "Right down to every nook and cranny.''

Visjnic was dumbfounded. Only a few highly placed people could know the exact procedure for an end-around. An enemy might suspect it, but that wasn't the same as knowing exactly where, when and how it would occur. If the knowledge was suddenly available to anybody, it made the police force almost ineffective in hostage situations, as far as using subterfuge.

"So, are we supposed to give in to their demands?'' he exclaimed, perturbed. "Exactly who are these people, Commander?''

"Everyone considers deep-space merchant vessels to be important commands,'' Davila replied, as she climbed the ladder to the deck where she could send a high-priority signal back to the nearest command authority space station. "Commanders like me would know the procedures, and Kevanna Coogan was one of the best vessel commanders ever. As for Cedric, you know that police procedure book you swear by? He wrote it.''

To say that the Committee for Prison Reform was less than pleased at news of the hostage situation would have been an understatement. For Bree Adowale, Idris Munye and Nedra Sharon, it was a devastating setback. They had pushed for the relocation program to the outer mining colonies. Others, like General Madigan Carmichael and Siranna LeTroy, had wanted other measures to curb the exploding prison population.

"What was it they said?'' LeTroy commented wryly as the committee met in emergency session. "They were society's children? How cute.''

"They brought up a good point, but one that can still be solved by the original plan,'' Sharon replied, nervously tapping her fingernails on the tabletop. "If we can get it through their thick skulls that this is the best way for them to pay their debts to society.''

"Oh, let's face it, Nedra, they're the scum of the planet,'' Gen. Carmichael said, gruffly. "Best be rid of them. Let them do their own thing, out of our hair.''

"Well, you would know best, wouldn't you, sir?'' Munye commented, bitterly. "You trained both Cedric and Kevanna.''

Carmichael gave Munye a dirty look.

"Listen, all of this infighting isn't doing any of us any good,'' Adowale interrupted. "We haven't told the relatives of the hostages what is happening, but we can't hold it back forever. When they do find out, they're going to demand answers. As painful as it is for me to say this – since I was one of the proponents – we have to let them go. That was the stipulation to gaining the votes of the others.''

The room was silent for a long time before Nedra Sharon let out a deep sigh.

"There will be long-term repercussions on this, you know,'' she said, slowly.

"Tell me something I don't know,'' Carmichael replied, sullenly, looking less than pleased even though he'd gotten his way. "I'll send the message out myself.''

In the time it took for the messages to make the journey to and from the ship, Visjnic had tried several attempts to gain access to the prison hold. It had gotten five more guards injured, one critically. Davila had more success, trading some of the ship's extra food stores for half the hostages.

"Well, you were correct, Commander,'' Visjnic said, trying to hide his look of defeat with an air of defiance that was supercilious at best. "They've countered every move I know. Maybe sometimes it's not good to be the best ship in the fleet. We keep getting the worst of the worst for prisoners. Any word from the committee, ma'am?''

Davila turned away from the communications console. By her demeanor, Visjnic could tell she had heard from the committee. She said nothing as she descended the ladder to the command level. For a long time, she remained silent and, no matter how condescending her mood seemed, Visjnic knew not to bother her when she was like this.

"The committee has activated the fallback plan,'' she finally said. "We have to cut them loose.''

"What?'' Visjnic blurted. "After all the people they've killed, they get away with it? The committee must be joking.''

"Believe me, the committee has no sense of humor,'' Davila shot back. "Get the Coogans on the comm link.''

"As we've agreed, we have released all but two of the hostages,'' Kevanna Coogan said as she looked at Ilena Davila on the view screen. "Thank you for the provisions. They should be more than enough.''

"And you'll put the last two hostages into space suits and hook them to the tether line between us, right?'' Davila queried.

"That's what we agreed to,'' Cedric Coogan replied, with a smirk. "Providing you don't try to pull anything, like blasting us to smithereens once we're free and clear.''

"You and Kevanna might have changed,'' Davila retorted, offended, "but I haven't. You have my word.''

The prison hold was a ship unto itself. It was designed to detach from the main vessel and fly down to the mining colonies separately. In this case, under the control of Kevanna and Cedric Coogan, it separated from the ship and slowly moved away from the main vessel. The only connection was a tether line, to which convicts attached the last two hostages before cutting the connection. As the hostages were slowly reeled in towards the main vessel, the prison ship moved off and, when safely away, jumped into hyperspace to the coordinates previously supplied for the failed Shangri-La movement.

"As soon as those hostages are inside and secure, resume our original course,'' Davila ordered as she stood before the main viewer, watching the prison ship disappear.

"So, we do negotiate with terrorists,'' Visjnic commented, clearly chafed. "This is an affront to decency. It's going to set a bad precedent. Bad enough they get away with it, but now the committee is going to let others prisoners go to Shangri-La if they choose.''

Davila said nothing.

"So this is the new reality, dogma be damned," Visjnic sniffed. "I guess they win.''

"That remains to be seen,'' Davila replied, dourly. "They get Shangri-La. We get them off our hands. It's the best of a bad situation, but, at least they're someone else's problem now."

The take-off from Earth had been smooth for Prison Vessel X-17. The trip to the jump-off point had gone just as smoothly, the two hundred-fifty hibernating convicts none the wiser. It had been five years since the Coogans had forced the committee's hand and X-17 was the seventeenth vessel to reap the benefits of that action.

At the jump-off point, the new engines kicked into overdrive and the ship jumped into hyperspace. Literally leaping across time and space, the jump cut the transport time to Shangri-La to almost nothing. It re-emerged intact at the designated coordinates.

Shayna Wallace was the first to wake up after the jump. The thrice-convicted child molester was glad she'd volunteered to go to Shangri-La. She'd had it with the sexual repression therapy that left her as numb as a piece of stone. She stretched thoroughly after her sleeping chamber opened and allowed her to step out onto the deck.

"What's up with the heat?''

Shayna looked to her left and saw a mountain of a man stepping out of an adjacent chamber. She vaguely remembered him as Komar and that he had been serving life without parole for beating several people to death while strung out on a designer drug. She ignored him and finished her stretching, feeling the atrophy that had set into her muscle during the hibernation.

"Figures,'' Komar muttered as he stretched.

"What figures?'' Shayna asked.

"They weren't too happy to send us here,'' Komar replied. "Small wonder they got in a little payback by killing the air-conditioning.''

"Maybe we can fix it from the bridge,'' Shayna said, moving forward while steadying herself on the bulkhead handrails.

Other inmates were slowly waking up, but Shayna and Komar paid no attention to them as they made their way to the bridge. Once there, they tried to figure out the controls. It took several minutes to find the switch to raise the blast shields from the view ports. As the shields rose, Shayna and Komar turned to get their first glimpse of Shangri-La.

"Now we can see the culmination of what Kevanna and Cedric Coogan did for both of us," Komar commented, smugly.

"You mean for all of us," Shayna corrected. "I intend to be one of Kevanna's top aides and then a politician in my own right, so I might as well start acting..."

She cut off her last words as her smile turned to abject horror.

"This can't be!'' Shayna exclaimed. "This isn't supposed to be Shangri-La. What happened to it?''

"Maybe we got the wrong coordinates,'' Komar said, as he ran his fingers over the computer console. "No, these are the coordinates. I remember from what the others said the Coogans told them.''

"Oh, my God, no!'' Shayna screamed. "No!''

Prison Vessel X-17 drifted towards Shangri-La, its engines unable to overcome the powerful gravitational pull of the Triellian sun. Within thirty minutes, 250 hardened convicts found out the hard way that doing time on the mining colonies had been the best deal they could have gotten from Earth.

Volume II

Horror/Dark Fiction

Next-Door

To say I didn't like my next-door neighbors would not have told the whole story. I didn't like them, it was true, but I had never really met them. So, I guess it wasn't them per se, but, rather, their annoying and alarming habits that rubbed me the wrong way. Some of the things they did and some of the people they hung out with raised concern. Other residents in the complex had similar concerns. Maybe that's why they weren't surprised so much by what eventually happened.

My name is Greg, and, yes, I am black. I was born in a different era in America, during a time when black men and women still got Christian names at birth. My life doesn't match anything on Yo! MTV Raps or BET, so I've been accused by many of my fellow African-Americans of trying to be white. Fortunately, I haven't exhibited the same qualities of my brethren. Otherwise, there would be a lot more dead black fools on the streets. Or more unwed mothers. Or more drug deals.

I can tell you this much. My social life is virtually devoid of any surprises. My work life, now that's full of surprises. Working at the airport, you meet tens of thousands of people each week and they always manage to astound me. But, my home life, well, that's a different beast – a rather tame beast.

Take my apartment complex, for instance. It had its ups and downs in the ten years I've lived here. It was a nice community when I'd first moved in, filled with an odd assortment of residents. Located in the Woodhaven section of Fort Worth, this complex was unusual. Most of the surrounding complexes, such as those on Oakland, Boca Raton and Brentwood Stair were almost all filled with blacks. My complex had blacks, whites, Asians and Hispanics. The average age of the apartment dweller then was about thirty.

There had been lesbians who didn't mind holding hands in public. There were musicians, writers, and even a couple of garbage workers. Everyone talked with one another and I knew my neighbors well. I actually attended the complex Christmas parties and sat around the pool in the summer. Those were the good old days (sometimes I wish things didn't have to change).

That happy situation didn't stay that way for long. Eventually, time took its toll and so did the sometimes-unbearable forces of business. Residents moved out, maybe moving into houses as my first next-door neighbors had; others moved to different cities or different states. The complex managers had to fill the empty units and that's where the problems lay. Over the years, different managers came in who had different ideas on how to take care of the vacancies. Many of the new residents were suspect, in my eyes.

You can say what you're thinking. Ghetto. Hood rat. Most of the new residents moved over from rougher parts of town, like Como and areas around Lancaster, Vickery, Evans Avenue, Riverside and Tennessee. They'd changed their surroundings, but, unfortunately, they hadn't changed their ways. You can say it's all about nature and not nurture all you want, but, in my opinion, it's about fifty-fifty. You can't alter one without altering the other, if you really want to change. Just look at all those black athletes and musicians with mansions and expensive cars who still get busted for drugs or get shot up by their friends or cronies from the hood.

So, that's what I saw coming into my complex. It wasn't long before I saw little kids running around barefoot, in front of cars and in the street, with no parents to watch them. These same kids would be running through the local stores barefoot, stealing stuff and forcing the owners to put limits on how many of them could be in their stores. At least twice a week, I caught strong whiffs of marijuana coming from one apartment or another. Music so load it rattled the walls kept me from enjoying the Dallas Mavericks and Texas Rangers on the radio.

Perhaps the two worst changes involved their trash and their friends. Trash usually ended up heaped around the dumpster and not in it. I could never understand how they could not move up an extra two feet and put their garbage into the bin. Old mattresses, old furniture, Hefty bags full of rotten garbage, you name it, was left sitting outside the dumpster.

Worse than that, many times my new neighbors just left their trash on the ground. Going to and from my car, I was often greeted by the sight of candy wrappers, empty potato chip bags, crushed cans and empty 40-ounce beer bottles on the sidewalks, walkways and grounds. Don't even get me started about the swimming pool area or the laundry room.

As for their friends, they kept the same friends from their old 'hood. Friends that dropped by at all hours of the day and night. Friends that hung out in the parking lot, cursing up a storm and running their game on every female that came by. The ladies – and I use the term loosely – could curse and act stupid just as well as the guys.

There were tragedies abound. Fatherless kids. Violent, late-night arguments among couples. All too often, those arguments led to domestic violence and my simple trip to put my trash in the dumpster was interrupted by police cars responding to 911 calls.

Perhaps, to me, the worst tragedy involved the young women. I saw so many of them, beautiful as could be, often shuffling along as single moms or letting themselves be used – and abused – by men and other women. I could literally see a caseload of potential being wasted.

Now, you may ask yourselves, if my complex has seemingly gone downhill, why am I still here? I've often asked myself that question. Certainly, over the years, finances – or lack thereof – have kept me here. The main reason, however, might be that I've grown comfortable here, which, in and of itself, would probably seem sad. If the truth be known, my fellow residents haven't bothered me and I haven't bothered them. Maybe the silent treatment I give them keeps working. It's always worked in the past, even when I lived elsewhere. People could see my mood and not even bother to ask me anything. Maybe it's why I've avoided so many of the ills that plague my people.

I come home, make dinner, watch my old monster movies on VHS or DVD, play on the computer, do up some short stories, read a book or listen to the Mavericks and Rangers on the radio. I've grown used to it and I've come to welcome it like an old dog that always wags its tail when it sees its master.

This leads me to my new neighbors. For more than three years, I've had no one living in the apartment next door. The last family stayed a mere six months before moving away. In those three years, the complex changed management three times and the complex almost went away. Code Enforcement for Fort Worth came calling a year ago, part of a sly effort by a local councilwoman who, together with area homeowners, had wanted to get rid of the Woodhaven apartment complexes in favor of homes. That the complexes were ninety-five percent black and the homes were ninety-five percent white had caused much grief, with charges of racism thrown about like a football.

In the meantime, the apartment next door lived up to the dilapidated condition noted by Code Enforcement. I mean, there were pigeons nesting on the apartment's balcony leaving big piles of droppings. I was forever scraping my front stoop free of the droppings (apparently, the birds wanted to spread the "wealth"). My complaints to management fell on deaf ears. I began to think of moving, but I've always been a creature of habit. Nothing as bad as some of my relatives, but a creature of habit nonetheless. I decided to wait it out.

So, every day, I went to work at the airport in the morning and came home in the evening. Each time, I was greeted by the notice on the door of the apartment next to mine. It said that Code Enforcement had declared it off-limits, unfit for living. It was not the only unit put off-limits and enough of these notices had been put up throughout the complex to make me think my days here might be numbered by outside forces.

Then, one day, things changed. The notice from Code Enforcement disappeared. At first, I thought it had fallen off or been ripped off by some kids, but, then a family moved into the apartment below me. That unit had been empty for six months, but I paid no real attention. There had been no less than six residents in that particular unit in the previous three years.

That move-in, though, started an influx of new residents. Several other nearby vacancies were suddenly filled. I came home from work and saw that the balcony of the apartment next door to me had been cleaned. When I thought back, I suddenly realized I'd neither heard or seen a pigeon in days. I began to take notice. The front door had been repainted and a new knocker installed.

I began to wonder just what kind of neighbors I might be getting. I wanted somebody like the family that had been there when I'd first moved in, but I would settle for just a quiet group, like the last set three-and-a-half years ago.

I was in for a letdown, of course. What I got was a family like the second-to-last set. A single mother who cursed so much she'd have made a Marine drill instructor blanch headed that particular family. She had two daughters living with her , each of which was also a single mom. One daughter had been only sixteen and already had three kids. There was a son in the household, as well, and the way he acted and the way his mom cursed him out continually, (I would quickly grow tired of the term "baby mama drama,") I'd guessed he'd fathered a few himself.

The daughters had been a trip. They always had boys over when mom wasn't home and I could hear them having sex. It was annoying. They would have their girlfriends over, who were always trying to get me to have sex with them. They were legal, but I didn't want to get caught up in their games or their lifestyles.

This new family was already moved in by the time I'd gotten home from the airport. In fact, it would be weeks before I ever saw their faces, but, I heard them long before that. Most disturbing was the crying baby – I don't know which daughter was its mom. I also heard the loud music they blasted to try to cover the crying.

The son was the first one of them I "met." I only saw him a few times, dressed in the latest hip-hop gear (including those annoying saggy pants), talking to his friends. We murmured hellos and I went on my way, leaving him and his friends to block the stairway once again.

When I finally saw one of the daughters, it immediately drew my ire. I'd been coming up the steps to my apartment just as she and a friend opened their door to step out onto the landing. They saw me, got startled and screamed, slamming the door. I could hear their hysterics when I entered my apartment. I could hear them tell their mother that there was a creepy pervert outside and I got pissed. I later learned that they told the apartment complex managers about me, but that the managers had backed me, telling them I'd have lived here for ten years.

That complaint aside, there were two things that really irked me about my new neighbors. One was their trash; the other, their friends. These people were so lazy, they couldn't put their trash in the dumpster. They didn't just not put it in the dumpster, they never even made it to the dumpster. They just left their bags of garbage right on the landing. There it would stay for days, even weeks. A few times, I got angry and took the bags to the dumpster myself, but I think this only encouraged them to put out more trash. Once, they left three bags of trash on the landing for a month!

I usually got home too late for the complex office to be open so I could complain, but I finally reached a breaking point early in January of this year. They thwarted me, however. When I got home early from work so I could go to the office, I was surprised to see the trash gone. The landing was clean. I didn't know if management had called them on it or if they'd gotten some sense of guilt and had cleaned it up, but the trash was gone. A week later, though, more took its place.

Even more annoying than the trash, were the friends who dropped in unannounced to the apartment next door. Now, I was raised to be a good host, but no one in my family just up and drops in unannounced. My life is so placid at night that a knock at my door literally sends my heart racing into my throat. I don't like people dropping in unannounced and my friends know it, so I immediately get wary of late night visitors. Too many of my black brothers and sisters say that I need to chill out about this and be like them because that's what black people do. Well, I'm black and I don't do that.

Anyway, for my new neighbors, it was a common thing, something they'd brought with them from the 'hood. I'd even seen a note pinned to the door telling visitors to pound on the door loudly because the occupants inside slept rather soundly. I thought that had been odd, since that would have meant people coming by in the wee hours of the morning and, to my woe, that was exactly what it meant.

You couldn't imagine it. It was one thing to hear people use the little brass knocker on the door or to even knock hard with knuckles, but the knocks soon turned to pounding and it gave no time for an answer. If the door didn't open within five seconds, even fiercer pounding followed. All hours of the day and night. I lost count of the number of times I'd been roused out of my sleep by someone pounding on that door.

My mom thought it was something sinister. I just thought it was old friends dropping in anytime they damn well felt like it. The visitors never seemed to leave quickly, as might have been shown by anyone making a drug deal, but I could have been wrong. It could have explained why someone would be assaulting the door at three in the morning.

Once or twice, the cops came by. The young girls next door had reported stalkers and I wondered if they'd told the cops about all those late-night visits. I believed I'd seen the stalkers, probably a few of the thugs who had camped out on the stairs on several occasions. One had been totally creepy and the other had reeked of marijuana. Both had been alone, with no one from inside the apartment coming out to talk to them during their respective appearances.

That bothered me to no end and I'd complained to the managers. I'd read of too many incidents of innocent people being killed instead of the true targets in drive-by shootings. I didn't want someone shooting up that apartment and letting a few stray bullets come through my wall and nail me while I was sleeping. I also didn't want any visitors for me to have to meet a bunch of thugs.

At one time, my mom suggested I get to know my neighbors, but I had no urge to do so. I'd heard them talking about me, about how I was strange, about how I was quiet and how it was always the quiet ones that were the most dangerous. I'd heard them laughing and joking about how I was acting "white," with my science fiction writing, my choice of movies, my lack of hip-hop fashion. I think the apartment managers had tried to make me seem a little more human to them and they had, instead, used that information to mock me. Hell, the mere fact that I had a word like "ne'er-do-well" in my vocabulary separated me from them, even though I learned English in public school, just as they had (well, I assumed that last fact; I couldn't recall seeing any of the kids waiting at the front gate for the school bus or carrying backpacks or books).

Maybe that was why the trash had begun to pile up again. Maybe that was why it seemed like more people were pounding on that door. Maybe they had been pushing my buttons, trying to disturb my sleep or make my life hell because they hadn't thought I was "black" enough. Maybe they would have liked it if I'd had black folks (I absolutely refuse to use the "n" word) coming by at all hours of the night. Maybe they'd have liked to see me out on the landing with a two hundred dollar cell phone going off every two minutes while I drank a 40-ounce. Maybe they would want to see me having "hoes" and "beeotches" in and out of my place. Well, they could "want" all their lives; it didn't mean it was going to happen.

They just needed to pick up their trash, tell their friends to stop dropping by at all hours of the night and take care of their kids. Lord, I thought I'd have to call Child Protective Services on those fools. Too many times, I'd hear those kids screaming like they were being beaten and abused, then I'd hear the screams become laughter and realize these kids were just running about, doing whatever the hell they wanted, not listening to anybody and nobody was showing them even a little discipline. Maybe some time with a belt would keep kids like them from having more kids like themselves before they finished high school.

Whatever my neighbors' problems with me were, it all ended rather abruptly. I came home to find yellow police tape closing off my landing. An officer stopped me and I asked what had happened. He told me that the family next door had been gunned down – exactly what I had feared would happen. They'd obviously pushed somebody's buttons way too much.

It had been a particularly savage, though precise, killing – or rather, execution. The culprit had used a pillow to muffle the shots, chasing down and killing each family member, taking care of the last one as she hid in a closet on the upper floor. Only the baby had been left alive. The culprit had pounded on the door, but no one else in the complex had paid attention, as it had been a common sound.

The cops soon got their man. It was one of the stalkers, the really creepy guy I'd seen a few times on the staircase. He'd been a two-time loser, an ex-con who'd gone to a party a while back and met one of the daughters from that apartment. They'd had sex and he'd refused to accept it as a one-night stand.

Facing the death penalty, he elected to blow his brains out with a shotgun when Fort Worth police had surrounded his house. They never did find the handgun he'd used on the family, but surmised that he'd disposed of it. His house, his job and his travels took him past many spots along the Trinity River. When all was said and done, though, another black family had met a violent end. Of all the things I hadn't been proven "black" enough for, the constant cycle of violence plaguing African-Americans was one I was again only too glad not to have experienced.

Now, eighteen months later, it's quiet in my complex. Oh, I still hear the music and the cursing, even smell the marijuana smoke, but its several units away now. I come home from work and eat my dinner and watch my television in peace. I exercise and use the computer and read in peace. Just the way I like it. I don't have to worry about being "black" enough.

Unfortunately, I hear that a new family might be moving in. The managers had a contractor in and he totally redid the floors, walls and carpets. You would never know the place had been virtually spray-painted with blood and brains. A year and a half apparently had been enough time for enough people to move out of the complex so that few remembered the horrific events that had taken place next door to me. Newcomers tried not to think about it. They'd come from tougher neighborhoods and didn't want to think of such things, even as they displayed many of the symptoms that had caused their earlier problems.

As I sit at my computer, typing a new short story, I tell myself that, this time, a nice family will move into that apartment next door. They won't play their music loud to ignore the desperate cries of their kids. They will take their trash to the dumpster and put it inside. They won't have people coming and going at all hours of the day or night. They'll discipline their kids, make them wear shoes, and keep them out of the street. Maybe they'll even be nice enough for me to personally meet.

If not, well, then they might just have to learn the hard way about being neighborly. I reach into a desk drawer and pull out my old Ruger 9-millimeter. I cradle it in my hands and then put it away. I've got plenty of bullets, even after using up an entire box eighteen months ago.

It might be riskier this time. I'm sure the cops will find it hard to believe that two families could be gunned down in the same apartment in less than two years and not suspect me. But, it could happen. I'm harmless enough.

If left alone.

As I said before, I'm a creature of habit and the quicker my neighbors learn that, the better off we'll all be. If not, then they'll find out I can be just as "black" as any of them.

For G.O.O.D.

"Good morning, Mr. Carstairs, please have a seat."

Leonard Carstairs took a deep breath and tried to put aside his extreme nervousness as he did as the rather portly man behind the desk instructed. Try as he might, the nervousness remained, hanging around him like an obnoxious friend who couldn't take a hint or a breath mint. He glanced around the office, keying in on just how spare it was.

The walls were adorned with what looked like shower curtains. The floor was plain concrete, but smooth and Leonard could only wonder how slippery it must be when wet. On one wall, there protruded a huge valve not unlike a connection for a fire hose. The desk before him was rather plain as well, being of unvarnished wood, with a cheap lamp and nothing else atop it. It reminded him of the desks he had seen all of his teachers sitting behind in elementary school. It seemed out of place for an office.

Curious, he centered his gaze on the man on the other side of that desk. The man, who could also be called rotund, was dressed rather shabbily, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his paisley tie pulled down and his sports jacket rumpled. His jet black hair was a tousled mess, as if he'd awakened only moments earlier. His face seemed flush, though, as if he'd just undergone some great physical exertion and Leonard thought he saw a few beads of perspiration on the man's brow.

The portly man noticed Leonard staring at him and he quickly ran his fingers through his hair until he got some semblance of order to it. He then tried to straighten up his shirt, jacket and tie as much as possible. Only then, did he lean back in his faux leather chair and study the client before him.

Leonard Carstairs wasn't a very physical specimen, but he was typical of the type of client the portly man was used to seeing. He wore contact lenses, but his constant squinting told everyone that he should have stuck to prescription glasses. His hair was neat and his clothes were tidy, yet the three types of buttons sewn onto the shirt revealed that he was not in the habit of regularly buying new clothes. The fact that the shirt sleeves did not reach the man's wrists told the portly man that Carstairs probably shopped for his clothing at thrift stores, where price tended to matter more than a proper fit. This was further corroborated by the way Leonard's suit jacket seemed to be a size too large for his slender frame.

"Mr. Carstairs, no need to be nervous," the man said, after an uncomfortable silence. "I'm Maxell Coombs. We spoke a little while ago."

"Pleased to meet you, Sir," Leonard replied, his voice still a little jittery. "Sorry, I'm just a little nervous and, well, rather embarrassed to have to be here like this. I...I never thought I'd ever have to do this."

"Quite alright, Mr. Carstairs," Coombs replied, nonchalantly. "Oh and forgive my appearance. I had some rather unexpected physical work a moment ago. Something rather heavy was blocking the door and we – my associates and I – couldn't get it to cooperate. Sort of like my wife when I'm trying to carry in new furniture and she can't make up her mind where to put it."

"I was kind of confused by the sign on your outer door," Leonard said. "It just says 'G.O.O.D.' on it."

"Stands for Get Out Of Debt," Coombs explained, with a slight laugh. "Our motto is 'Get out of debt, for good,' as in G-O-O-D. Clever, isn't it?"

Leonard was still nervous, but he calmed down enough to laugh at the man's humor. Mentally, he made himself do the stress buster exercises his wife Francine had taught him. He counted down from ten and then took several long, deep breaths which seemed to get him somewhat close to normal.

"Take your time, sir," Coombs stated. "I completely understand what you're going through. It's not often you go from so high in life to so low. It takes a while to get used to and, between you and me, some people never get used to it. Like those celebrities on those reality shows like Unreal Life."

"I think I'm okay now, sir," Leonard said, more calmly. "I think we can begin. I thought about your proposal and I think it's doable."

"You didn't discuss this with anyone, did you?"

"Oh, no, sir," Leonard replied, vigorously. "Just like you said. No one but me. My wife did interrupt me last night because all that thinking had made me restless, but I just told her I'd had some hot chocolate after dinner and couldn't sleep."

"That's good, very good," Coombs replied, intertwining his fingers and resting his hands on his desk as he leaned forward. "It's always better that way."

"Well, actually, there was one person," Leonard blurted. "But, you know him. Dainmon Phillips. He's the one that I, eh, met in that bar and recommended you."

"Oh, yes, I remember," Coombs said. "By the way, he says no offense on you assuming that he was a criminal and you approaching him with your, ahem, ideas about how to end your problems. He understood. He's been there himself. Oh and I take it you don't drink too much? He said you got wasted after one bottle of beer."

"Oh, no, almost never," Leonard replied, fervently. "That was my first beer in about five years and the first one I actually finished in my whole life. I was very stressed that day, I can tell you."

Coombs furrowed his eyebrows and stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He could easily imagine Leonard Carstairs being one of those stereotypical hen-pecked husbands that Hollywood showed in movies and television in the 1950's; the kind of men who were afraid of their own shadows and were completely dominated by their wives. In fact, he knew Carstairs was one of those types of men.

He'd read it in the man's eyes and mannerisms from the first time he'd met him two days earlier. That meeting in the park had been brief, a sort of feeling-out process but, for Coombs, it had been more than enough time for him to read Leonard Carstairs like a book and know he could do business with the man. He didn't really need any particulars from Carstairs then, just a chance to study him.

"So, relax, Mr. Carstairs, and tell me exactly how you got into this predicament and why you think my solution is the only viable one for you," Coombs said, smoothly and professionally.

"Ahem, well, you have to understand my upbringing," Leonard began, after coughing to clear his throat and to keep from nervously twiddling his thumbs. "My parents were very thrifty. Oh, they got me good clothes and all, but they didn't waste money. Money was to be saved. It let us buy a nice house and a great car and still put enough way to supplement my father's pension.

"They instilled good money habits, Mr. Coombs. A suit is a suit, sir. No need to pay extra for a label. They said I would need good money habits, especially now that most companies don't offer pensions and with the housing market the way it is, and gas, too."

"Understandable," Coombs said, with a nod and a quick glance at Leonard's ill-fitting suit jacket. "So, how did such a thrifty man end up half a million dollars in debt?"

Leonard blushed deeply, highly embarrassed. When he looked up, he saw that Coombs hadn't flinched. He knew he'd have to come clean, so he pushed aside his embarrassment and cleared his throat again.

"It was love, Mr. Coombs," Leonard finally replied. "It was the one thing my parents didn't really teach me about. They just said that I'd know when I was in love. And I did know it, Mr. Coombs. Such love as a man has never felt before. God must have smiled on me, for such a woman as my Francine to walk into my life. We've been through a lot in our twelve years together. We've been blessed with two wonderful children."

"Uhm, I thought you had three kids?"

"Huh?" Leonard said, caught off-guard. "Oh, yes, three. That's right. Well, eh, Francine was, well, she was already pregnant when I met her. The father had run off, like a coward and I offered her a place to stay.

"She had nowhere else to turn and my parents had always told me to be a Good Samaritan. She stayed, had her baby and I helped raise him. Francine fell in love with me and we've been together ever since."

"Okay, Mr. Carstairs, I'm going to be blunt with you," Coombs blurted out, straightening up in his chair. "Every chump comes in here with a sob story like yours. I don't mean to be cruel, but we have to break this fantasy life you're living in, if this plan is going to work. So, I'll give you the sad reality you refuse to admit to."

Leonard started to say something, but Coombs' demeanor cowed him immediately and he sat back in his chair, like an obedient child.

"Sorry to have to do this to you, pal, but your loving wife used you," Coombs stated, frankly. "I've seen her picture, remember? No doubt she had the eye of every guy in town, but when she messed up and got knocked up, she had no eyes on her. She was probably brushed aside by her parents for embarrassing them and had nowhere to turn. Until you came along or, rather, she came along for you. Stop me if I'm wrong."
Leonard said nothing.

"She wouldn't give you the time of day before," Coombs continued. "Suddenly, she's in dire straits and now down to your level so you're looking pretty good. You pay your bills, you keep your promises and, best of all for her, you probably hadn't been laid in a good long time, unless, of course, you dipped into your savings and went to a massage parlor.

"Anyway, she's got a home and a husband with a steady paycheck and who is very unlikely to stray, like past boyfriends. But, she's still who she is and she looks like someone who wanted more in life. Someone who expected to marry a doctor or lawyer or some other mook with the means to keep her in a high-maintenance lifestyle.

"So, in order to keep her love and preserve your luck, you tried to buy her the things she wanted. Big house. Expensive car. Jewelry. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. But, now, you're maxed out on everything, reduced to shopping for crummy clothes at thrift stores, brown bagging it for lunch, even walking to and from work to save the bus fare. And you're too embarrassed and ashamed to go to your parents for help because they expected so much better out of you. Am I right?"

Leonard nodded, meekly.

"So, your wife plays around and you take it like some schmuck."

"Now hold on a minute," Leonard snapped, jumping out of his seat. "You can't talk that way about my..."

"Sit down, Mr. Carstairs or I'll make you sit down," Coombs said fiercely. Leonard shrank back like a deflated balloon. "Good. Now, like I said, I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you need to hear it. Your loving wife plays around, but stays with you because you pay the bills or, at least, you try to. Of course, we both know what'll happen when you can't pay anymore. Now, one more time, Mr. Carstairs, are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"I-I, yes, God help me, yes, I do," Leonard almost whispered.

"Why, for crying out loud?" Coombs demanded.

"Because she's my children's mother," Leonard replied, in a defeated voice. "Someone has to care for them, no matter how she's treated me."

"Maybe you can cut down on some expenses then," Coombs suggested. "Some of hers for a change. For one thing, if she's such a good mother, why do you have to hire so many babysitters? You gave us permission to peek into your finances, remember? You're very meticulous and you spent a lot of dough on babysitters while you were at work. Why would you do that if she was at home with the kids? She doesn't have a job, yet she's always out. Never has time for any of the kids' soccer or baseball games or dance recitals you've been paying an arm and a leg for. You make it to all of those events, but she doesn't. When's the last time she even told your kids she loved them?"

"Its...it's...God, it wasn't supposed to be like this," Leonard said, slowly, trying to hold back tears. "Francine loves them. I know she does. She's just always had a hard time saying 'I love you.' She's just got, well, you know, she's got her own things to do. Don't you think I'd change things if I could? Oh, there have been so many times I just wanted to confront her and just, just, just tear her a new one, make her see how badly she's been treating all of us. But, it's just not in me. I've never been that kind of person, Mr. Coombs. You're single. How could you possibly understand?"

"Because, Mr. Carstairs, I was a kid once," Coombs replied, solemnly. "My mother cheated on my dad so much I lost count. Spent all the money he made. I watched my old man age about fifty years because of what she did to him. Thank God for my grandparents. They took me in after the old man died. My mother – the louse – tried to spend the insurance money and, man, did she pitch a fit when she couldn't get any insurance on account of my old man committing suicide.

"He wasn't too bright, my father. He planned to make it look like a robbery gone bad, so he stood over a railing on a bridge and shot himself. The gun dropped into the water. The cops almost bought it until they found his wallet and car keys inside the car, next to the notebook in which he described his plan to the last detail. He was a good man, mind you, just not terribly bright. He always had to write everything down."

Coombs stopped to take a deep breath and let it out before continuing.

"Anyway, my mom didn't even stick around for the funeral," he said. "After a few years when she was dead broke, she came back and claimed us, because the mother always gets first dibs, you know. It was a nightmare, but I only had to suffer it for two years before I graduated. So, that's why I don't want to see your wife get the insurance money."

"She's not getting any of it," Leonard said. "She had me take out a huge insurance policy, but I thought about what you said the first time we talked and changed it this afternoon. All the money goes to my children. I won't need it when I start my new life, you know."

"Your kids aren't old enough to get the money, yet, Mr. Carstairs," Coombs retorted, to Carstairs' shock. "Your wife will be guardian of them until they turn eighteen. I don't imagine there'll be too much left by then."

"But, you can fix that, can't you?" Leonard implored. "It's true I haven't loved Francine for years because she's cheated on me so much, but I've wanted my kids to have two parents. It's just that now I have so much debt, I'm better off dead to them than alive. If I do this plan, I can start fresh. Save my money up, maybe even anonymously send them money or set up a trust fund for college. I can't do that with all this debt or a wife who will spend every cent I have."

"There's always a divorce," Coombs suggested.

"Oh, no, Mr. Coombs, I couldn't do that," Leonard replied, genuinely mortified. "Have you read the statistics of what happens to children in a divorce? I couldn't do that to them."

"But, you can make them into de facto orphans," Coombs said, sarcastically. "That's sounds much more reasonable than you having to raise them yourself or you really, really disappointing your parents by declaring bankruptcy."

Leonard Carstairs said nothing. His mouth was open, but no words came out. Coombs frowned and then threw his hands up in mock surrender.

"Okay, okay, Mr. Carstairs, I just had to be sure," Coombs relented. "A lot of guys back out at the last minute."

"When do we start?" Leonard asked, relieved. "I'm a little nervous, you know. I've got very little that I really need to get from my house. It's all packed in a couple of suitcases, in my closet."

"That's good, Mr. Carstairs," Coombs said. "When you pick out a new name, make sure it doesn't start with the first initial of your current names. Nothing with L, B or C and make sure it matches ethnically. I had this guy who named himself after Patrice Lumamba, the revolutionary from Zaire, or Congo as they call it now. That was all well and good, except the guy was white and when I say white, I mean Steve Buscemi, Nicole Kidman kind of white. Cops immediately figured it was an alias."

"Nothing to sign?" Leonard inquired, sitting back in his chair as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. "Do I get to know how it's going to happen or is it better not to ask?"

"It's okay, Mr. Carstairs," Coombs replied. "There'll be a body and everything. With today's science, you have to have a body."

"I was kind of thinking about that last night," Leonard mentioned. "I kind of feel sorry for the guy who gets to be the corpse. I know there are a lot of John Does out there, but you have to think that someone's looking for each of them, including the one who's going to be in my grave."

Coombs started to say something, but was interrupted by the muffled ring of his cell phone. He frowned, reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled the phone out. He answered, spoke briefly to someone and hung up.

"Sorry about that," he explained. "Just some of my co-workers, getting back from an errand. As usual, they're running late. Sounds like they stopped for lunch and dinner on the way back. It's hard to get good help these days. Too bad your parents couldn't have raised them to be more responsible."

"Actually, to be perfectly honest, Mr. Coombs, my parents didn't do so well with me," Leonard admitted, sheepishly. "I threw it all away the moment I saw Francine. I wish they'd prepared me better for things like that."

"Don't worry, it's correctable, Mr. Carstairs," Coombs said, nonchalantly, as he reached into his drawer.

"Say, I was wondering," Leonard started. "Will the corpse be burned? I guess it would have to be to be unidentifiable."

"Not really, Mr. Carstairs," Coombs countered. "With forensics today, all you need is one minute sample of DNA to make an ID."

"Really?" Leonard asked, incredulously. "Then, how am I supposed to be killed?"

"Like this."

Coombs pulled a gun out of the drawer and shot him twice – in the chest and then right between the eyes. Leonard had been in the process of jumping to his feet when the chest shot stopped him midway. Then, the force of his head snapping back caused him to begin to topple backwards, but the momentum wasn't enough to spill his body to the floor. Coombs had fired the gun close to Leonard's head and the bullet had gone straight through.

Coombs peered over his desk to admire his handiwork. Leonard Carstairs was dead in the chair, his eyes wide open in total surprise. Coombs frowned. He still couldn't figure out why guys always looked like that after he shot them in the head.

A few seconds later, the office door opened and two men in blue overalls walked in. They stopped when the saw the body in the chair and the blood on the floor and the shower curtains. They then looked at Coombs, who had set the gun, silencer and all, on the desk and was removing the sterile latex surgical glove from his gun hand.

"Geez, boss, did you have to shoot him?" the taller of the two said. "That's a lot of blood and mess to clean up."

"Which is why there's a big drain under my desk, a hose connection on the wall and bags of lime in storage, you moron," Coombs retorted, vociferously. "Besides, after what happened with that last guy, I wanted to be sure he was dead."

"Hey, that guy was stronger than we thought," the second guy, who was short and pudgy, commented. "Look at the death grip he had on your suit."

"Yeah, well, when I tell you to give him a love tap, I don't mean to actually tap him," Coombs snorted. "I mean to brain him. Thanks to you mooks, I got my suit all messed up. I wouldn't be shocked if Carstairs here thought I'd slept in the damn thing. Good thing that other guy got my dander up. Wanted me to get him out from under a crushing loan shark debt and then tells me he didn't spend one single red cent of that money to pay off his overdue child support. He's lucky I only strangled him with his tie.

"Oh and thanks for taking so long to get back that I had to stall with Leonard here. Five more minutes and I'd have been his personal psychiatrist and marriage counselor rolled into one. Now, is everything else set up?"

"Yes, sir," the tall one replied. "I got that bug in Lawrence Googily's car. Got him and Francine Carstairs on tape saying they was looking for a way to get Leonard here out of the way, permanently. But, they didn't say nothing about no murder. Sounds more like a divorce."

"That's for the cops to figure out," Coombs replied. "But, it's so easy, even those idiots can follow the trail. Wife makes hubby take out huge life insurance policy and waits a while. In the meantime, she continues the affair with Lawrence. They plot together, Leonard is then shot to death in an attempted robbery. They dump his body where they think it won't be found, not knowing as we do, that the local conservation society is planning to use the spot for an ecological scavenger hunt. A few Eco nuts will stumble on Leonard's body and call the cops.

"But, lo and behold, the cops get curious since muggers don't generally shoot people between the eyes. Then, they get an anonymous tip to look in Lawrence's car and they find the murder weapon underneath the spare tire in the trunk, without the silencer, of course. The gun has only his prints on it, since it's his gun, borrowed temporarily by me from his glove compartment, while he was getting it on with Francine at Leonard's house last night. The nerve of some people. A man's home should be sacred."

"Anyway," Coombs continued, "the incriminating tape made from our listening device is under the seat. It'll look like Lawrence was holding onto it as leverage in case Francine tried to put the blame on him. The cops will see Leonard's worldly possessions packed up and hidden in the closet in his house, as if his wife and her lover were trying to fake his disappearance, but didn't have time to do it because the body was found too soon.

"Francine and Lawrence are arrested and tried for murder. The insurance money goes into a trust fund, managed by Leonard's parents, who vow not to make the same mistakes with their grandkids as they did with Leonard. Not exactly neat and tidy, but neat enough for anyone not named Perry Mason to believe it."

"Sounds good to me," the pudgy man said. "Whatever it was you said, boss."

The two men pulled down two shower curtain sheets that had taken the brunt of the brains, blood and bone matter. They took two other curtains and laid them on the floor and then, after donning surgical gloves, moved Leonard's body onto them. Coombs, having donned fresh gloves himself, retrieved the chair Coombs had been sitting in and put into onto two shower curtains he'd pulled down.

"Funny thing about all of this is I wasn't even going to go through with it," Coombs said, with a weak laugh, as he wrapped Leonard's chair in the curtains. "I was really starting to feel for this guy. If they could do a spinal transplant or something, I'd have paid for it. But, this schmuck was abso-freakin'-lutely pathetic."

"Say, boss, I been wondering," the tall guy said. "You're already loaded with money and you get nothing out of your plans. So, why do you do it?"

"Because, I was a kid once," Coombs replied, slowly. "I had parents just like him and Francine and that last guy and his wife and like all the others. Weak, pathetic, lousy parents. See how I turned out? Yeah? Well, I don't want it to happen to other kids."

"Hey, look on the bright side, boss," the pudgy one remarked. "At least he got out of debt. For good."

"As soon as you're finished playing for your audience of one, get back to work," Coombs snapped. "The business isn't meant to get guys like him out of debt. It's for his kids and that's all that counts."

Both of Coombs' men shrugged their shoulders, then set about moving Carstairs' wrapped body over to the side of the room. Their boss pulled a thin fire hose out of one of the desk drawers, unspooled it and attached it to the fire hose connection on the wall. A moment later, Coombs washed the remnants of Leonard Carstairs' life down the drain.

Feedin' the Fishes

"My God, would you look at this, Jimmy."

Vinnie took a deep breath and then swept a hand up and away from his body. Next to him, Jimmy looked up and shrugged at his buddy's grandiose gesture. Vinnie gave him a frown.

"Just look at Mother Nature, will ya', Jimmy," Vinnie said, scornfully. "The dark misty waters, light wisps of early mornin' fog drifting across still waters. Overcast skies casting promising shadows across that spit of land in the distance. Ah, the wonder of it all."

"Since when did you become a nature lover?" Jimmy asked, as he stooped to attach a lengthy iron chain to the large boat anchor he'd set on the end of the dock.

He looked out over the dark blue waters and was forced to agree that Vinnie might be on to something. The early morning fog did add an air of mystique to the eerily quiet lake. The gray clouds overhead made it seem much earlier in the morning than it really was. The water barely moved and seemed to go on forever, only to be broken up by the silhouetted hilly landscape of the land that bordered it. Jimmy didn't know if the other side of the lake was as heavily wooded as the section by the beginning of the dock, but he didn't want to be around to find out when the sun came up.

"Hey, you spend as much time around rivers, lakes and oceans like I do, you develop a real appreciation," Vinnie said with a haughty laugh. "Course, this one don't smell like those others. Don't you agree, William?"

Vinnie glanced over his shoulder as much as his immense girth would allow. Behind him, William Glickman fervently nodded. He wanted to speak, but couldn't. He had duct tape over his mouth. And around his wrists. And his ankles.

"Any specific reason you picked this place for Mister Big Mouth here to take a long walk off a not so short pier?" Jimmy asked. "The way this thing sticks out in the lake, anybody can see us."

"Aw, keep your panties on," Vinnie admonished. "Ain't no one gonna' see us feedin' the fishes."

"I sure hope not," Jimmy added. "Sign at the beginning of the pier says 'Don't Feed the Fish.' Wouldn't want to get a ticket, now would we?"

He looked back at Glickman and laughed.

"You sure no one'll see us?" Jimmie asked, glancing around nervously. "This place gives me the creeps. How'd you find this lake in the first place?"

"You remember Debbie?" Vinnie explained. "Works for my wife. She's datin' this government guy. He and this other guy are supposed to be patrolling this place, but he spends the time doin' Debbie. Back a while ago, the lake had some big chemical spill or something. Really messed up the fishin' and the feds sealed it off. No nothin'."

He looked at Glickman and smiled, watching his victim perspire even more. He liked watching people squirm.

"No one comes up here, which is too bad for you, William," Vinnie taunted, as he turned to look at his partner. "And even if they did, this so-called serene water probably has so many chemicals in it that no one'll even think about diving in and findin' William here. Right, Jimmy? Now, come on, we're wasting' time. Put that chain around his ankles."

"Hang on a sec, Vin," Jimmy said, dropping the small cast-iron anchor into the water and letting the long length of chain play out. "Gotta' see if this spot is deep enough first. Oh, yeah, this is more than deep enough. The lake bed must drop off a lot."

"Okay, then, pull it up and give me a hand with William," Vinnie remarked. "Sorry I can't call ya 'Billy,' but I ain't known ya long enough."

"Give him a break," Jimmy muttered. "You keep switching viewpoints so much, the poor guy's probably got a migraine."

"Viewpoints?"

"Yeah," Jimmy answered. "You know. Points of view. Who you're talkin' to at a particular moment. You say one thing to William and then direct the next sentence at me, but while you're still looking at William. We don't know who you're referring to."

"I'll try to be more precise," Vinnie remarked, with a roll of his eyes. "That okay, Professor?"

The portly Italian turned around, reached into the pocket of his windbreaker and pulled out a large folding knife. He flicked the blade open and held it up to William's face. He smiled, assaulting the man with the after effects of the pastrami sandwich he'd eaten for breakfast.

"No funny stuff, you hear, William?" Vinnie threatened. "I'd tell ya' not to run, but I seen you run before and I don't think you could beat me in a race. You know, Jimmy, I think our friend here is gonna' stand there and do nothin' and make us work harder. Whoops, sorry, Jimmy. I did it again. Guess I ain't got that viewpoint thing down yet."

Jimmy looked up and smirked. He then returned to hauling the anchor back up. Just then, it stopped and he struggled to pull it. It was snagged on something.

"Geez, Vinnie, the anchor's stuck," he snorted. "Gimme a hand, will ya'?"

"What, I gotta' do everything?" Vinnie protested. "Just bring it up. It ain't that big, ya' know."

"Ah, Vinnie, it's supposed to be heavy enough to hold William here, in case you forgot," Jimmy shot back. "It's gotta' be caught on something."

"Yeah, like some other mook's anchor," Vinnie joked. "Let the chain play out, move it around to loosen it and then try again. How much simpler can it be?"

Jimmy let the chain play out a bit. After several feet, he rippled the water as he moved it around and then began pulling it up again. This time, he met no obstruction and he let Vinnie know.

"Okay, William, time for a swim," Vinnie said, menacingly.

A loud splash made Vinnie turn around again. He started to admonish Jimmy for letting the anchor drop in again when he saw there was no Jimmy. Even the anchor chain was gone. Vinnie cursed loudly in Italian after realizing his friend must have fallen into the lake, the lake with all the chemicals, the one the feds had sealed off. Don Maggi would feed him to the fishes if he let anything happen to Jimmy.

"Don't you move, William, don't you move," Vinnie warned, hurriedly, as he rushed to the edge of the pier and dropped to his knees.

He stared down into the water but saw only blackness. He kept trying to look for any sign of Jimmy while also turning back to look at William, to make sure the victim didn't try to knock him into the water, too. Vinnie could only dog paddle. William didn't make any moves, so Vinnie leaned out further over the water.

And that's when Vinnie fed the fishes. The fat man never got a good look at his killer; he just saw an incredibly large throat and some rather sharp teeth. Farther back, though, William got a real good look. It looked like a trout – a trout the size of his aunt's old Pinto!

Williams's eyes went wide when he saw the fish come up out of the water and clamp down on the surprised Vinnie. The trout's mouth was so big it was able to get all of Vinnie's head and shoulders into its gaping maw. It fell back into the water with a huge splash, taking William's would-be executioner with it.

For several moments, William just stood and stared at the end of the dock. His mind, already beleaguered by the thoughts of his impending death, had trouble grasping what he had just seen. Something disturbed the water to the left of the dock and he snapped back to reality. Maybe it was Vinnie or Jimmy; maybe it wasn't, but he wasn't going to wait around to find out.

Looking down, he saw a knife just a few feet away. He realized it was the one Vinnie had been holding. He hopped over to it, hastily stooped down and picked it up with his hands. The cutting wasn't pretty and he sliced himself three times because it was awkward with his hands behind his back, but finally got the tape off his ankles and wrists. He stifled a scream when he ripped the piece from over his lips, but it was a small price to pay to be free.

He got up and staggered back down the pier slowly, still unable to comprehend what he'd just witnessed. Somewhere, deep down, he thought maybe it was the chemical spill Vinnie had talked about earlier, but he really didn't care what created the monstrous trout.

About halfway down the pier, he stopped and looked back, out over the water. He figured he was close enough to shore and the water too shallow for the monster to get to him.

"Don't feed the fish," he muttered, remembering the sign Jimmy had mentioned. "I'll say."

Something splashed near the pier and Jimmy broke out into the full run the mobsters didn't think he had in him.

Red Herring

Clyde Gaudin wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead and then went back to typing on his computer. Man, what is with this weather, he said to himself. The exhaust fan in the attic was working overtime trying to draw out the oppressive heat that had settled into his house while he'd been away at work.

For more than a month, it had been hotter than normal in the Atlanta area. Humidity had been high, resulting in powerful thunderstorms that had pummeled most of the northern half of Georgia. Even worse, after those same storms had passed, it had grown uncomfortably muggy.

He took another look at the project on the monitor and smiled. He had finally worked out all the kinks and errors. Not wanting to tempt fate, he saved the screen and then typed in another URL to check the sports scores. Atlanta was playing Boston in an interleague game tonight and he wanted to see if his Braves had found their offense after being waxed the previous night, 14-0.

The game popped up and he cringed. The Braves were down 16-0 in the top of the seventh and it looked like four different players were doing the damage. The only good news was that the game, already delayed three hours by that last thunderstorm, was in danger of being called by another approaching thunderst--

"Yahh! What the hell?"

He shoved the keyboard drawer in and slapped at his left leg. Looking down, he curled his lips in disgust when he saw a roach scurrying away. Angrily, he spun around and stomped on the bug, smearing its body across the cement floor.

Damned roaches, he snorted. Buggers were getting bolder, crawling right up his leg like he was a piece of furniture.

It was the rain and the heat and the humidity that was driving more of the pests into houses all over the neighborhood. He'd already killed a dozen this evening alone. It had gotten so bad that he had taken to keeping a fly swatter next to his computer workstation.

He lifted his foot and looked at the remains on the floor. At least these were easy to kill. It was those giant cockroaches that really got him. He still remembered the one he'd smashed that very morning. It had scared the crap out of him, coming in under his bedroom door and running right across the rug, straight at him.

Was it really trying to get at him or was it running for cover to get out of the open? Clyde didn't care. He stomped on it as soon as it got close. Then he stomped on it again when it kept on running. Finally, he had to step on it, twist his foot and then drag it across the rug, leaving roach parts behind.

Remember, Clyde, they're not cockroaches.

His neighbor, Roger, had pointed that out to him one day. The giant insects were really called Palmetto bugs, but they looked like roaches. And they could fly. Well, most roaches could fly, but these...Palmettos...could fly across a room.

Suddenly, one flew right by his head and he jumped back, sending his chair rolling back until it hit the far wall. Struggling to catch his breath, Clyde watched the thing alight on his flat-screen television. He got angry. It seemed as if they were trying to take over the whole damned house.

He grabbed his fly swatter and edged over to the television. The bug stopped, its antennae twitching as if it knew he was there. He feinted at it and it took off, toward for the far wall. Clyde smiled, happy that the stupid pest had taken his bait. He swatted at it with a forehand worthy of Steffi Graf, which connected and sent the bug bouncing off the opposite wall. He followed up by crushing it with his booted foot when it landed, stunned, on the floor.

It took him a few minutes to retrieve a paper towel to clean up the remains of both roaches and dispose of them unceremoniously in the garbage. He came back and sat down at his computer again. He figured he might as well do some more work instead of going to bed.

Quite frankly, he really did not want to sleep. He was worried about the roaches. A few days earlier, he'd slapped away a Palmetto that had crawled across his stomach as he'd read a book in bed. Now, with the windows open to let in positive air flow to replace what the exhaust fan took out, every time a breeze disturbed the hair on his legs, he was slapping at them. He had red marks everywhere.

He'd finally convinced himself that he was being foolish and would fall back asleep long enough to get a decent night's rest before work. The effort of convincing himself usually took an hour, thanks to his insatiable curiosity for useless information. How many times had he read about horrible mishaps involving cockroaches crawling into ears, up nostrils and into people's mouths as they slept? Sometimes, he wondered if he wasn't too smart for his own good.

He brought his screen back from screensaver mode and scrunched his face. His project was almost finished, yet whenever he took a fresh look, he found something he wanted to change. He supposed that maybe he was trying to be perfect with this little scheme.

Little?

If all went as planned, there would be nothing little about it. He'd get back at them. And the best part would be that they would be the cause of their own downfall.

Finally, he finished and set up the project for delivery. He made it for the next morning, at two a.m., well before even the early risers were up. Satisfied with himself, he leaned back in his chair and let out a deep breath.

That's when he noticed it.

Sitting right on the paper loaded into his printer holding tray.

Antennae twitching as it looked at him, unfazed by the fly swatter sitting nearby.

My God, that roach is huge, Clyde thought, sitting upright. Normally, they were slightly larger than his thumb. This one was bigger than two thumbs side by side.

He thought about his swatter, but reaching for it would make the roach scurry away and he didn't want something that huge crawling around his house. Besides, sitting on the edge of the stack of printer paper, it did not have enough of a foundation beneath it to be crushed. He'd swat it and the paper would bend, taking out most of the kinetic force of the swing.

Instead, he reached over to the other side of the computer and grabbed the roach spray. He normally kept it on hand for the smaller roaches because they died almost immediately after being sprayed, but the big ones died more slowly and more violently, thrashing about, running to and fro, flitting this way and that.

They'd run up the wall, take flight and land in his food and drink.

He didn't have a choice this time, though. He switched the can to his right hand. Making sure he wasn't aiming at himself, he leaned forward and caught the roach full in the face with a burst of spray.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the roach leaped away from him. He watched it disappear into the dark space behind the printer stand. For good measure, he stood, leaned over and sprayed two blasts into the darkness.

He decided that it was time for bed. He didn't want to be around for this roach's death throes. He had already set his computer to send out the e-mail, so there was nothing else for him to do anyway.

He logged off, pushed back from the workstation and got up. Stretching, he grabbed his swatter and his spray and headed upstairs. At the top of the stairs, he hit the lights and sent the den into darkness.

A moment later, he came back to the top of the stairs and stared down at the bottom.

He listened but caught nothing. Hmm, he was sure he'd heard something. He finally told himself that he was tired and had imagined he'd heard something out of the ordinary. Yeah, just like that light he thought he'd seen in the woods, he mused.

Despite the mental reassurance, deep down, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was happening down there and it was more than just the death throes of a bug. Quickly, he reached back and turned off the exhaust fan. He then turned to the switch on the opposite wall and clicked on the light at the bottom of the stairwell.

He saw nothing and sighed in relief.

Then, a chill ran up his spine and he shivered. Why was he letting himself get so unnerved? Had the roaches gotten him that upset? If so, maybe he should spend the money for an exterminator.

He thought about letting loose some more spray toward the bottom of the stairs, if only to give him some false bravado. He didn't, though. That would only acknowledge that his unfounded fears were true, and he couldn't afford to show fear. Not now.

Chiding himself, he turned off the light again, set the security alarm on the wall unit by his bedroom and turned in for the night. If all went well, he'd have a big day tomorrow. Even better, those environmental bastards and their eco-babble about the habitats he would be clearing for his latest strip mall would be dealt with once and for all. Best of all, there wasn't anything they could do about it. People needed jobs more than they needed bird nests.

In the darkness of the stairwell, something moved up the wall.

The peacefulness of the Stone Mountain neighborhood was shattered again by the ear-piercing sirens and bright red and blue flashing lights of the DeKalb police cars. Nobody's sleep was disturbed, though. Everyone on the block was already awake when the two police cars screeched to a halt before 981 Cabot Court.

Sergeant Oliver Danbury was out of his car like a shot, sprinting across the lawn, through the house's open front door and up the staircase. He and the officer behind him had their hands on the grips of their pistols the whole time.

A female officer stood in the doorway of the bedroom, but she was turned away from them, her hands covering her mouth. Danbury pushed past her, vainly looking for someone to tell him the situation.

Exasperated, he looked around. The bedroom was a mess. It looked as if a tornado had swept through.

Danbury saw something in the far corner, strode over and cringed when he saw Gaudin's body splayed half off the bed, arms and legs akimbo. Danbury was sure that he'd never forget the horrific look on Gaudin's face. My God, he thought, it looked as if the man's eyes were about to burst from his skull.

Danbury looked back at the female officer and, for the life of him, he couldn't imagine such a seasoned veteran gagging at the condition of the corpse.

"Fletcher, pull yourself together," he snapped. "What the hell happ--"

He stopped abruptly and looked down. Something was wrong with the body.

He leaned in for a closer look.

Gaudin's cheeks puffed out. Something was inside Gaudin's mouth and it was moving.

Then, Danbury saw the corpse's lips move, the mouth open and thumb-sized shapes flood out, across the dead man's face. Two of the shapes quickly sprouted wings and took flight even as Danbury suppressed the urge to scream.

Gaudin's mouth was full of giant roaches!

While the female cop might have turned away from the terrible sight, Fergis, the other officer in the room, went one further by heading downstairs to the den as fast as his legs could carry him. He stopped by a computer, leaned against the wall opposite it and took several deep breaths to suppress his gag reflex.

He didn't notice the computer screen suddenly come to life and display a short message.

"Delivery failed! Do you wish to debug the application?"

The following is an excerpt from Hunters, the new full-length novel from Gregory Marshall Smith...

Hunters

Prologue

Kane could not believe his luck. In all his years of hunting and prowling, he had never found a woman so exquisite. He pulled back, gazing longingly into her eyes.

He smiled as her near perfect body writhed in the ecstasy he'd now given her. He felt an incredibly strong pull from this seemingly delicate creature, trying to take him back down to her as they lay on the grass. She was completely oblivious to anything, except the sensations he knew must be sweeping through her body.

The rustle of the trees. The crush of leaves across the jogging path. The almost hypnotic lapping of the Trinity River against a nearby boat dock. All of these served to make the intercourse of Kane and the woman, known as Heidi Nguyen, as close to love-making as either had experienced in far too long.

Kane smiled and, in that moment, decided she had to be his. There could be no leaving her to wake up in the daylight, groggy and unsure of what had happened. He knew he'd regret it much longer than she would, if she even vaguely remembered him at all.

Pulling back his lips, he bared his inhumanly long incisors and plunged them back into her throat. At that, she peaked yet again, arching her back and shaking as she clung to him like a second skin. All the while, he drank furiously, with each drop of her blood taking her closer to his world and further from hers.

"So, you like this, do you?" Kane said, pulling back for a breath of air. "Trust me, my dear. You'll come to love giving this to others very soon."

He hadn't known what drove this lovely young woman to suddenly get out of a car on the Main Street Bridge and walk down to the poorly lit jogging path along the river; but he didn't care. He'd felt her blood pulsing through her veins because she had been angry, possibly at the man in the car. That did not matter now, it was her mistake, and his fortune, that allowed him to pull her into the shadows under the bridge.

Kane never had a problem attracting women. He'd once been one of Europe's top fashion models, with long wavy hair, a chiseled jaw and muscles like granite, features he kept even after being turned. But, he had only attracted shallow women, who did not have the intellect to sustain the kind of relationship he craved.

It would not be so with Heidi Nguyen. She was beautiful, her body sensuous and powerful. He could feel the intellect flowing behind her almond-shaped eyes. He felt himself blessed by the fates, she'd allowed emotions to overrule that intellect at just the right time for him.

Suddenly, his senses flared, like a four-alarm fire. Someone was coming. He pressed a hand lightly over Heidi's mouth, melting back into the shadows, nearly becoming one with the darkness. He knew he could easily kill whoever was stupid enough to interfere, but he had someone else to think about now. A cry of help from this stranger, before he died, might elicit the police and force him to abandon his newfound love. No, he needed to err on the side of caution and, if need be, strike at the most opportune time.

Then, to his surprise, he sensed more than one presence. He sniffed the air. Human. He could only wonder why they were on this jogging path, at this ungodly hour; and, he thought with an involuntary shudder, they were walking deliberately toward the bridge. He caught his breath, the silhouettes now producing flashlight beacons to stab into the darkness, playing them across the shadows, toward him.

Impulsively, he leapt forth into the nearest beam, fangs bared, hands now transformed into clawed weapons that could rend flesh as easily as a knife through butter.

"Another fly come to my web?" he said, fiercely. "Or a hyena trying to steal the kill? Which will it be?"

Kane never saw who shot him, but he felt it. The intense pain, as something pierced his thick skin, embedding itself deep into his chest, was nearly unbearable. He could not scream, his mind racing wildly as it fought to comprehend its sudden change in status – from hunter to prey.

"Y-you dare," he gasped as he staggered back, acting more like a man offended than one who'd been assaulted. "D-don't you know who I am? We own this town."

"Yeah, well, we should all have a dream," a deep, disembodied voice replied.

The pain in Kane's chest was excruciating. He looked down at the stubby piece of wood protruding from his torso. His usually sharp mind could not comprehend what it was.

His legs gave up and he felt himself falling – he gasped for air and feebly waved a clawed hand at his attackers. Soon, he found himself tumbling into shadows much darker than that from which he had sprung.

Alas, even the thought at having finally found eternal companionship abandoned him, for his final thoughts did not include a wisp of Heidi Nguyen.

Above Kane's body, the two silhouettes stopped. One stepped forward, into the moonlight, pulling something long and shiny from somewhere on his person. He raised it and, with one swing, made sure Kane would never take the blood of anyone again.

"God, I hate it when you do that, Ryker," said the woman next to him.

"Show some backbone," the man called Ryker snorted. "For a change."

The woman glared at him, but stopped when she heard a moan nearby. She played her flashlight back into the shadows. Cursing, she moved over to Heidi's body.

She didn't pay attention as Kane's corpse suddenly flared up like a match, dying out almost as quickly. Caring only about Kane's victim, she called Ryker over to her.

"What about her?" she queried, sounding forlorn and sad. "She's lost a lot of blood. She's well into the turn. You know we can't let that happen."

"No, we can't," Ryker agreed. "But she might be one for the doc."

"Always the pretty ones, right Cantrell?" the female commented, with disgust.

"Au contraire. I saved you, didn't I?"

Glaring at him, the woman fought the urge to hit him with her flashlight.

"Very funny," she said finally. "Okay, check her out then. If you think she's worth salvaging, we'll take her. But, if she can't be helped, you're the one who has to finish her."

"So I have to do all the work, eh?" Ryker commented. "What else is new?"

Ryker looked down into Heidi's eyes, feeling pity instantly. He knew she was yet another innocent victim, in a war she didn't know had been declared. He saw her eyes darting wildly side to side, as if the brain behind them could not handle what was happening to it. Shaking his head, he checked her throat, touched her carotid artery, and looked at her skin pallor.

"I'm truly sorry about this, Miss," Ryker said. "I really am. But, it's war and everybody dies."

As he lifted his obscenely long knife into her field of vision, her eyes stopped darting and grew wide in stark fear. Breaking contact with her almost pleading eyes, he lifted the knife and brought it down toward Heidi's head. Seconds later, he pulled the knife out of the ground, the blade now clean of Kane's blood.

He looked down at Heidi, showing no surprise, and saw those beautiful almond eyes rolling up into her head, taking her body into sweet oblivion. He glanced up and across the dark river toward downtown Fort Worth. Standing to his feet, he held his knife up to the moonlight and sheathed it.

"One more down, Riordan," he said to himself. "And one step closer to you."

Chapter 1

Opening her eyes slowly, Heidi almost instantly felt different. As she sniffed the air, she sensed smells she'd never known before. She smelled the very dust of the air and rich aromatic scents of the flowers and water nearby. She looked around, seeing she was in some kind of room, it puzzled her that she could see no flowers or water anywhere in her confines. She wondered how she could have smelled the scents.

Her ears picked up a tiny scratching sound. Spinning around, she zeroed in on a small beetle, inching its way along a far wall. She looked at it for several moments and gasped. The insect was in a darker corner of the room, yet she could see it as if it were in bright light. She could see in darkness like a cat and she couldn't understand how.

"What's happened to me?" she said to herself, her voice shaky and disbelieving, her mind reeling at sensations that threatened to overwhelm her sanity.

She forced herself to calm down, somewhat, and think back. Yes, now she remembered. She'd been on that blind date. She still couldn't believe she'd actually taken up that creep's offer to meet; after all, they'd only known each other online. But, she'd been desperate for a date and she was the one who told her students that the Internet was a much better place to meet men and vet out the perverts.

Yet, her blind date had tried to get fresh with her. He had let slip his plans to eat dinner only after they had made a brief stop at a hotel. It served him right for the black eyes she'd given him when he'd tried to cop a feel.

Then she remembered how truly stupid she had been – she'd gotten out of his car on the Main Street Bridge. All she had to do was walk on. She would have been right by the main buildings for the Fort Worth Police and the Tarrant County Sheriff's Office. She would have been safe.

But, no, she'd reverted to stubborn Heidi, the one who let her emotions get the better of her – at the absolute worst times. She ignored the Heidi who taught self-defense classes to women at the Y. Somehow believing that her martial arts prowess would be some kind of shield for her, as she headed down to the river in the middle of the night to clear her head.

She gasped as her memories now raced a mile a minute. She shuddered as, in her mind, she felt strong arms reaching out, pulling her into the shadows. She remembered struggling, breaking the grip, punching and kicking the source of those arms, only to be pulled into the shadows again.

It was those eyes, she told herself. So mesmerizing. She'd felt her resistance melt away; she willingly let herself be taken. She felt ashamed at succumbing so easily.

Suddenly, her memories disappeared, replaced by a searing pain in her mouth. It was as if her gums were on fire. It felt as if her teeth were growing and, indeed, her incisors pushed further out of her gums, curving downward. At the same time, an incredible hunger began to fill her belly. Subconsciously, she licked her lips, feeling the incredibly sharp points of her incisors.

Totally confused, she looked around again and spied a sliver of sunlight, coming from two small windows she hadn't noticed before. Making her way over to them, she reached up for the warmth of those sunbeams. Her skin sizzled and she screamed in pain. Pulling her hand back quickly, she saw that her hand was very red. The sunlight had hurt her!

She stumbled back to where she'd been sitting before. Collapsing, she now realized what had happened. The stranger – the one who had made her feel so good – had long sharp incisors.

He'd been drinking her blood!

Now, she had fangs and suddenly craved the same thing. She could hear, smell and see things just like an animal. She looked down at her hand – the one she'd stuck in the sunbeams – gasping upon seeing the flesh almost completely healed. My God, she forced herself to realize, I'm like him now.

She wondered how she could ever go back to her old life. She thought of her friends and had horribly wonderful thoughts of sinking her fangs into their throats. She shook her head, trying to force the horror from her mind. She put her head to her knees and stopped resisting the surge of tears behind her eyes.

Outside of the room, Dolores Montoya fretted and sympathized. Just watching Heidi's horrible transformation, on the monitor of the room's closed-circuit camera systems, was bad enough. What made it worse were her own memories of someone very close to her suffering through the same ordeal.

Once, she had been a happy stay-at-home mother. That, however, was before fangs and blood ripped her daughter, Evangeline, from her. Now, here she was, watching the change come over another innocent. She could only wonder if she would have to kill this woman, as she and her husband had been forced to kill their Evangeline.

It had been ten years since that fateful moment, every day since had been nearly as difficult. In a futile gesture, she shook her head, as if to dislodge those painful memories. It was hard enough to bear the loss of a child, but much worse when that loss came at her own hand.

She heard footsteps, looking over her shoulder as Jesus, her husband, approached. A swarthy man, he still resembled the muscular beefcake she'd fallen for almost thirty years earlier. Though his hair was fast becoming salt-and-pepper, he still had the upper body of a man twenty years younger.

She had to admit that he did look exhausted. The eyes that had won her over – and had disappointed all the women in Juarez – had lost some of their shine. Like her, the war was getting to him. They were both nearing fifty and no longer able to handle all the physical and mental aspects of their battle.

"What's wrong?" she asked, turning to face him.

"Patel's experiment is what's wrong," Jesus snorted. "You-know-who called him, letting him know that he was bringing in another test subject. Patel knows the woman is here and is prepping. Now, we have to commit."

Dolores didn't know whether to fret or breathe a sigh of relief. On the one hand, she hadn't liked what happened to all the other test subjects, who had suffered mightily when Patel's previous serum incarnations had failed. On the other, she really did not want to see Heidi killed, not if there was a chance to save her. In that instant, she made up her mind.

"Jesus, I need to tell you something," she said. "I think we should support Patel on this."

"We should what?" Jesus asked, shocked.

"Look, I know you haven't liked the past experiments," she explained. "But, we're losing the war. Don't give me that look. Have you seen yourself lately? You're exhausted. I'm exhausted."

"That's why we brought in the others," Jesus challenged. "Fresh blood, if you'll pardon the pun."

"But, it's not working," Dolores countered. "We need a new plan – cornering vampires in deserted barns and farm houses doesn't cut it anymore. Not when men, like Louis Riordan, are running mob-style clans. I doubt he's even noticed our little nightly patrols. Jesus, if this war is going to begin going our way, we have got to step it up."

Jesus stepped back and looked long and hard at his wife. She still reminded him of the tomboy, he'd picked over all of the beauty queens in Juarez, Mexico, she was still as stubborn and feisty as ever.

"But, we are organized," he finally said, though he didn't really believe his own words. "We communicate with other hunters – through the Internet, we keep tabs by cell phone. We even cobbled together a SWAT-style group to take the fight to men like Riordan."

"Riordan has Fort Worth in his back pocket," Dolores shot back. "He has cops on his payroll. Politicians, too. His building is so heavily protected, we'd need an army to break through, and that would only happen if he didn't call for help from his police cronies.

"The only saving grace for us is that Riordan is a megalomaniac. He doesn't share power. But, God help us, if he suddenly has an about-face and decides to do just that. There are many rogue clans running around Texas and the Southwest, who would love to be part of Riordan's empire."

Dolores waited for her husband to say something. He didn't. He only looked defeated and she wasn't sure that she liked it. She'd never been able to convince him of anything this easily.

"Okay, Jesus, let's just think on it," she blurted out, hoping to snap him out of his doldrums. "Let's see what we can do for Miss Nguyen and move on from there. Then, we can...oh, por el amor de Dios."

Looking down the hallway, she saw a tall, lanky black man in battle-dress uniform approaching. She took a deep breath as Jesus turned, noticing Cantrell Ryker as well. She knew there was one thing lately, guaranteed, to get Jesus out of his uneasiness and that was Ryker, her newest team member

Despite his reputation as a loose cannon, she'd accepted him into her group. It was true that two other team members had vouched for his entry, but she had ultimately kept Jesus from overriding that vote because the group needed a lot more experience. There were days she regretted her decision. She had never worked with anyone who was so disruptive to team spirit before. If he hadn't turned into one of the best members of her team, she would have cut him loose long ago.

Ryker's past history guaranteed Dolores' distrust, especially where an organization called Moonrise, Inc., was concerned. There wasn't a member of her team, who hadn't known someone in that organization and felt the loss of their friends intimately. It had been extremely tough for them to accept Ryker, the only surviving member of Moonrise. And that didn't even take into account his murky legal status.

"I'll handle this," she heard Jesus say. "Don't worry. I won't kill him. Yet."

Jesus truly loved Dolores. She meant the world to him and didn't know what he would do if he lost her. That made it all the more difficult to work with her against vampires. Yet they had endured a decade, in an underground business that sent many a man and woman to prison, to an asylum, or to the grave. Or worse.

He knew she was right about needing to be more organized. For her sake, he'd listened, putting aside even his trademark stubbornness to assuage her. That said, he had very little patience left over for the man fast approaching him. He really didn't know what it was about Ryker that upset him so. Maybe it was the fact that the man only followed the orders that suited him or his irritating aloofness during tense situations, like he was merely a bystander at a sporting event.

"Oh, Jesus," Ryker said as the pair met halfway down the hallway. "I was just coming to see if Miss Nguyen was ready."

"Have you always been cruel, Ryker, or is this a new thing you picked up in the last few years?" Jesus asked. "You know, while you were hiding from every law enforcement agency under the sun."

"What?"

"Do you get some thrill watching people change into vampires?" Jesus queried. "Jessie told me you took great pleasure in finishing off that vampire tonight. Did it get you off? Are your trips to Korean massage parlors not working anymore?"

"You know where you can go with that sh..." Ryker caught himself just in time. "Why the hell would you take Jessie's word for anything? She couldn't even finish the guy off. That's a freakin' liability in my book."

"Well, it's a good thing we're not playing by your book. You're supposed to be playing by ours," Jesus snapped.

"Look, the girl – Miss Nguyen – she was well into the turn, okay?" Ryker explained. "Doc said we had no choice but to let the change take place."

"And you would know, since you called Patel first, not myself or Dolores, like anyone else in this outfit would," Jesus snorted. "Maybe we could have made the determination about Miss Nguyen's suitability. Maybe we could have even put her out of her misery, ended her suffering. But now, we'll never know, will we?"

"I'm not a sadist, Jesus," Ryker replied, fuming. "I just don't think we can win the war like we've been fighting it. We need something better. Anything. Like the serum. Or don't you want it to work?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean, muchacho?"

"Don't tell me you like rousting vampires out of hay lofts or raiding graveyards?" Ryker asked. "If that's the case, why don't we all just pack up and get the hell out of here? Go back to Nowhere, Texas and tell distraught parents how their former beauty queen daughter ended up just like Evang..."

"Don't go there, amigo!" Jesus roared, causing the usually distant Ryker to take a step back. "I have had just about enough of your shit!"

Jesus could feel his blood pressure rise. Catching himself, he took a deep breath and turned away from Ryker. Seeing the horrified look on Dolores' face, he made himself calm down.

"Just listen to me, Cantrell," Jesus warned, turning back around. "They may have put up with your 'loose cannon' crap at Moonrise – and, for the life of me, I don't see how – but it doesn't fly here. Here, we work together and watch each other's backs. If you don't like it, you can pack your things. Your entry into this group wasn't unanimous, compadre, not by any stretch of the imagination. So don't go biting the hand that feeds you. That's the end of this discussion. Comprendez?"

Jesus waited for Ryker to say something. But, the man said nothing. Just nodded once and walked off. Jesus took a moment to compose himself, then went back to his wife.

"Madre Dios, I don't understand that guy. I swear I don't," Jesus said, heatedly. "I'm beginning to think he's the reason why we're so tired."

"Don't go having a heart attack on me, my husband," Dolores warned, planting a feel-good kiss on his lips. "Maybe try putting some of that anger toward Riordan."

"It's like he wants to run rogue one minute, then be a team player the next," Jesus continued, as if he hadn't heard his wife. "I wish we'd had more time to vet him."

"War makes strange bedfellows," Dolores replied, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at Jesus' obstinacy. "I don't like it either but we can't ignore his accomplishments. He has the uncanny knack to know which vampires to pick off and which to squeeze for information. We wouldn't be this close to Riordan if it hadn't been for him. And, if we really are to take that next step in this war, we're going to need him far more than he needs us."

"I don't know if I fully trust him," Jesus admitted.

"Don't forget that there are people out there who might say the same about us," Dolores reminded her husband.

Jesus remembered. Evangeline had inherited a lot of money from Jesus' only brother, who had doted on her as if she were his own child. The money changed Evangeline. Leading her down a path that ended in a dark alleyway, where a promise of the latest designer drug turned out to be fangs. Though Dolores and Jesus had freed their daughter of her curse, not many people bought the carefully crafted explanation of Evangeline's demise.

Making matters worse, was the fact that that money had gone into helping Jesus and Dolores set up their loose-knit organization. That money was sorely needed by people accustomed to living hand-to-mouth, in pursuit of Hominus Nocturna. Yet, since 99 percent of the world did not believe in vampires, it was impossible for the Montoyas to reveal how they were using the money. Charity had carried on as an excuse for where the money was going for a while. But even that chestnut was getting stale, especially in light of the recent purchases of abandoned property in Fort Worth, for the group's newest base of operations.

The use of said money, invited at least a dozen inquiries from the Texas attorney general. Though none bore fruit, at least a few people in the AG's office thought the Montoyas murdered their daughter for financial gain and were determined to bring them down. In fact, a new election for attorney general was coming up, and both incumbent and challenger had vowed to get to the truth behind Dolores' and Jesus' dealings.

"So, it's the devil in the dark, I guess," Jesus commented, with a weak smile.

"Let's not bring him into this," Dolores joked. "Let's just worry about our guest, okay?"

Jesus had always loved his wife's common sense and her ability to keep him grounded. It had been a sorely needed quality these past ten years, putting their group together. There had been many trials and tribulations that threatened to tear the group apart. Yet, Dolores had been the rock upon which they'd all built their foundations. She had remained solid and he loved her all the more for it.

"It looks like the change is complete," Jesus noted, sadly, viewing the television monitor again. "I still have serious qualms, but, at this point, we can only hope the good doctor succeeds this time. Come on. We've got a debriefing to run."

Jesus walked down the hall, but Dolores lingered a moment. She stared at the screen and watched the woman sobbing. Reminding her of when her daughter had first turned – the horror she'd felt when Evangeline had turned up at the family farm. It also reminded her of her daughter's first kill and she didn't want that fate put upon this young woman. She turned and quickly walked after her husband.

Detective Aurelia Hernandez hated missing person cases with a passion. She'd see the desperate families clinging to any shred of hope as days passed and the chances of finding the missing declined dramatically. It was like watching a heroin addict slowly poison himself.

Hernandez glanced around the office at her fellow detectives on the Fort Worth police department payroll, wondering what they were thinking. They had a lot on their plate these days. Murders had hit an all-time high in the Fort Worth/Dallas Metroplex and the mayors were crying for something drastic to be done.

She didn't want to say that their efforts were wasted. She knew the murder cycles came and went like clockwork. Still, she felt pressure from the police chief to reassure the general population. So, reluctantly, she picked up her cell phone and punched in a few numbers.

"This is Aurelia," she said in a low voice. "We need to talk. Same place. An hour before sunset."

She ended the connection and shoved the phone back into her jacket pocket. She glanced around quickly to see if anyone had been looking. She then went back to the paperwork on her desk.

Her current case was another tough one. A woman named Heidi Nguyen was reported missing. If the local homeless population could be believed, a woman fitting Heidi's description was last seen walking down the Main Street Bridge.

Street cops found blood under the bridge the next morning, but not a trace of a body. The driver of the car, she had been seen getting out of, had come forward almost immediately. He had, so far, been exonerated as he had received a ticket for reckless driving several blocks north, shortly after dropping Heidi off on the bridge. Aurelia sighed and reread the report from the beginning, especially the part about the ash that had been found scattered across the grass nearby.

"Idiots," she mumbled under her breath.

Ravi Patel waited impatiently for the blood sample to finish spinning around in the centrifuge. He was a man who always hated to wait. The awkward frustrating days of his youth, as in intern in the overcrowded hospitals of Mumbai, India, still replayed in his mind to this day. He loathed waiting days for test results that doctors in America could get within a few hours. He couldn't say that his current surroundings were any better than his old ones, but, at least, he had his own laboratory and only waited on himself.

The centrifuge stopped and he opened the door. Removing the test tube, he carefully held it up to the light, the blood was still crimson. He smiled. He walked over to his regular workbench, gently placing the blood sample into a rack packed with other tubes. He scribbled some notes on a pad of paper and went over to his newly-acquired portable DNA microscope.

"Hey, Doc."

Patel looked up to see Ryker entering the lab.

"Jesus gave the okay or, at least, he didn't say no after ripping me a new one," Ryker reported.

"What is it with you, Cantrell?" Patel asked. "You seem to get ripped at least once a day."

"Must be my wonderful personality," Ryker replied, smirking. "Are you close?"

Patel smiled a little. He always liked Ryker, perhaps because both men had one thing in common – a desire to fight vampires that was not borne of personal tragedy. Neither of them had lost loved ones to the bloodsuckers or had come close to death at the hands of vampires. Patel became a vampire hunter because he had seen far too many of their victims end up in his hospital.

Generally, most vampire victims recovered with few ill effects because of an enzyme in the saliva that healed wounds within an hour. But, that was only in good conditions. It was a far different story in places like Mumbai, where victims were often left lying in filth after an attack, their wounds becoming horribly infected. Even worse were the superstitions of the people, whose panic at seeing the bite marks on throats forced the government to kill scores of victims who might otherwise have been saved if left alone with an IV and time to rest.

The actions of his youth led Patel to seek more humane remedies for the vampire scourge, for he knew that vampirism was like drug addiction. Most of the body's immune system spent its energy directly against the infections caused by the attack, with little left over for the enzyme in the vampire's saliva. That enzyme would often lie dormant, until the victim's body was too weak to resist. Then, it would spring to life and begin the horrible process of conversion.

It was this process that Patel wanted to attack. He'd worked hard for more than two decades on his ideas and was sure his serum would work; even if the others considered it a waste of time. To him, anything was better than what he had seen back in India.

"I think I might actually have it this time, Mr. Ryker," Patel said, happily. "The tests look extremely positive. Tell me, has the young woman changed yet?"

"Oh, yeah, she's ripe and ready, Doc," Ryker replied, with his sometimes morbid sense of humor. "In fact, maybe too ripe, which is Jesus' latest reason for ripping me."

"I'm not worried about Jesus," Patel said, climbing off his stool and walking over to where Ryker stood. "It's Dolores I have to please. Jesus would just take everyone who's ever been bitten and kill them. We can't win a battle like that. Trust me. I've seen it many times. No, I believe my way can work a lot better for us."

"Hey, you don't have to convince me, Doc," Ryker said, good-naturedly. "We just need to know it works, so we can go after the big shots, maybe even Lin Tang. If it works on her, then you'll be up for the Nobel Prize in Science."

"Yeah, yeah, you jest, but this is serious business," Patel remarked, tartly, as he returned to his microscope. "Tell Jesus, I will be ready to test her within two hours."

"Good luck, Doc," Ryker said, leaving the lab. "For all of us."

Chapter 2

Louis Riordan was not happy.

Standing by one of the specially-tinted, full-frame windows of his high-rise office, he ignored the dying rays of the sun to look out over the cityscape of Fort Worth. It looked so peaceful to him; though he knew down on its streets, thousands of men and women were just beginning the hectic race to make it home from work. He also knew his people would be down there, to begin a new day while most others were ending theirs.

Riordan was more than 400 years old and never felt as unsure of himself as now. Other than looking at the silver creeping into the temples of his jet black hair or trying to count the scant few age lines around his eyes and mouth, one could not tell his age. Such mental discipline had helped him weather countless crises from his days as a thief in the mean streets of 17th century Paris, to a new life in Montreal, to the violent days of two worlds wars and, now, the 21st century.

He'd built a vast clan in Canada only to see it fall from within because of jealousy. He'd taken those lessons, built up over centuries, and created his new clan in Texas. Here, he ruled the streets with a hand that was only iron-fisted when it needed to be. And, it helped him become one of the largest vampire clans in North America.

He had a net worth north of $3.2 billion, owned twenty percent of the office buildings in Tarrant County and had no fewer than five homes across the state. He had personal relationships with most of the area's politicians and celebrities, though only a few knew his true nature (in reality, most of them only cared about was how much green he had).

But, for all that he owned and all the power he possessed, Louis Jean-Marie Riordan was about to give it all up.

Why?

Because he had to.

Sighing heavily, he glanced at his watch and then walked over to the large oaken desk that dominated his spacious penthouse office.

"Allison, have you heard anything yet?" he asked into his voice-comm.

"The first guests have just landed at DFW, sir," the lovely voice of his secretary Allison came back.

"Please let me know when they're en route."

He plopped himself into his leather, high-backed chair and slouched as he picked up a portfolio, containing information about the previous night's actions. He did not care if he wrinkled his suit. He would change into a fresh one – for he was always impeccably dressed for business – before his guests arrived. He went back to looking at the information, if only to get his mind off his looming problem. Right away, he noticed one disturbing item in particular – the name of that problem had been Kane.

"Allison, please send Travis up here immediately," he ordered.

He did not need this kind of distraction. It was best to nip it in the bud before any of his guests got wind of it.

The nightly meeting had just finished and, remaining on the dais, Jesus watched his people mill about the room. He glanced at his watch and saw it was only 30 minutes before Patel's latest experiment took place. He sighed and thought about what his wife said, about stepping up their operations to a new level.

It was true, he often thought about it; it was just that circumstances kept them out in rural areas, rousting vampires out of barns and dilapidated cemeteries. It certainly wasn't a voluntary decision as Ryker had implied.

The membership of his hunters had always been liquid. He hadn't pressed for commitments because hunters, by nature, tended to be loners who didn't stay in one place for too long, lest they become the hunted themselves. The loose-knit feel of the group had worked for years, but, in light of recent developments, seemed to be wholly inadequate.

For one thing, a bunch of loners staying in touch by Internet or cell phone, getting together once in a while, like relatives at Christmas, could not hope to accomplish big things. Any military historian could show that D-Day was not a spur-of-the-moment event. No, the Allies had to claw their way across North Africa, through Sicily, past Monte Cassino and into Rome. All to gain experience before tackling the monumental task of invading Adolf Hitler's Fortress Europe.

Likewise, Jesus imagined it would be the same for his young team. They needed to be blooded as a cohesive unit and slowly work their way up to bigger targets. In turn, that would mean particularly harsh responses from their enemies (upon which his people would have to learn to accept the possibility of death). Hopefully, they could remain together long enough to, at least, put some fear into Louis Riordan and his ilk. Otherwise, it would all be a senseless waste.

"Fifteen minutes, Jesus," said Patrick Wesley, a tall, broad-shouldered, mountain of a man, bringing Jesus out of his trance-like state of deep thought.

Jesus thanked his training officer. He'd nicknamed Wesley "Elvis" because his surname rhymed with the King. He'd recruited Wesley away from a dead-end job running security for a supermarket giant in San Antonio. The man was once a Marine, until a drunk driver clipped him during an early morning jog.

He looked around the room, taking note of the others. Talking to Wesley was Angelica Morales; a brunette whose beauty was only outdone by her muscular yet sensuous physique and was one of two people, in the group, who did not object to Ryker's presence. She'd sponsored Ryker, feeling Jesus needed the experience and because she'd wanted Ryker to come in from the cold, so to speak.

Sitting at the back of the room, was a short man who looked as if he hadn't shaved in a month of Sundays. He had a full beard that was already showing a little gray, although Jesus knew it was more from stress than age. Michael Lee was only thirty. As the group's computer expert, he often let time get away from him and needed to be reminded of such simple things as eating and trimming his beard. But, he was excellent at what he did and Jesus tolerated his sometimes-unkempt appearance.

As usual, Marcus Van Niekerk was studying. Tall and muscular, he cut a mean figure, which was needed for his profession. He was a mercenary and not afraid to let anyone know it. His reputation counted a lot with Dolores Montoya and played a crucial part in Van Niekerk sponsoring Ryker's membership. The pair had worked together a few times, though not hunting vampires. They'd gone after a werewolf, a devil cult, an Aztec mummy and a good old-fashioned zombie – a voodoo zombie, not a Hollywood one.

Van Niekerk had taken extensive notes of the debriefing following the previous night's river patrols. Jesus liked that the mercenary was thorough. If this group was to take a big step forward, it needed someone like Van Niekerk to properly train it.

And, last but not least, was Kelly White Cloud, who was, perhaps, the group's most hardcore member. She'd once been a "half-dead" until Ryker rescued her from the clutches of Lin Tang and persuaded Dolores to help convert her back to be fully human. "Half-deads" were humans who had been bitten by Lin Tang, but just enough to remain addicted to the bite. Weaning Kelly off Lin's influence had been tortuous at best, involving a vicious form of delirium tremens that would have made the most experienced drug rehab technician quit. Yet, Kelly had pulled through, driven by an intense desire to get back at the woman who had kidnapped her off the streets and made her into a virtual slave.

The only people missing were Jessie Kellums and Horace Garvey, who were on duty in the monitoring room, watching the security cameras that covered the surface of the compound. And Jesus knew Ryker and Patel were in the lab.

The door to the meeting room opened and leaning in, Dolores simply nodded and Jesus sighed. It was time.

"Okay, people, let's do this."

While Jesus awaited Patel's experiment, Aurelia Hernandez waited patiently at table outside her favorite bistro in downtown Fort Worth. It was not that busy, despite only being a few blocks from Sundance Square, Fort Worth's main entertainment district. She sipped an espresso and nibbled on some nacho dips, electing not to have the queso dip.

Within a few minutes, a portly man, with very white skin and neatly cropped sandy brown hair, took a seat at her table. Her ordered a Bloody Mary from the waitress and grabbed some chips. He said nothing, until after the waitress delivered his drink.

"Thanks for making it sundown," Tanner Coleman said. "You know how I hate getting sunburned."

"You and a thousand other people," Hernandez commented, snidely.

"Hey, I'm a familiar," Coleman objected. "I can still enjoy the sunlight, just like you. I just get sunburned easily. Now, what can I do you for, Detective?"

"It's all these missing persons," Aurelia started. "The list is huge and I suspect it's growing far too quickly."

"My boss is very careful, Detective Hernandez," Coleman countered, testily. "You know they keep their numbers low to draw little attention to themselves. When they feed, they take just enough to satiate themselves. They leave behind saliva, which heals the wounds to two small marks, which the victim barely notices when they wake up. And being bitten does not turn one, you know. More than twenty-five percent loss of blood begins the process, which can be stopped if the victim receives a transfusion or antibiotics. Only when blood loss approaches fifty percent, does the victim turn almost immediately."

"So, your boss is not responsible for this horrible murder rate then?" Hernandez queried, clearly not convinced. "Gunshots, strangulations, and stabbings, I can understand, but do you know how many bleeders we've had in the last month?"

"Most likely copycat," Coleman offered. "Riordan bucks no rogues."

"Then maybe some of Tang's people are practicing," Hernandez suggested.

"Half-deads can't turn anyone, not even themselves," Coleman whispered, fiercely. "Are we done here? I have to get ready for tonight."

"Put the word out, please," Hernandez said, sternly. "If your boss and his people are behind these missing person cases, it needs to stop or we'll be forced to call in help."

Coleman stopped eating his nachos, staring hard at the detective. She met and held his glare, until he looked away. He felt like a worm on a hook, caught between two equally hard masters, either of whom would gladly throw him under the nearest bus. He was just a "familiar," a human who willingly worked for a vampire, and had to continue to survive the only way he knew how – by walking a tightrope.

"Okay, okay," he relented. "We did have a rogue two nights ago. We put the word out to his master, to curb his roaming. His name was Kane. He's actually an outsider, visiting with some other vampires doing business in Fort Worth."

"What was his usual haunt while he was here?" Hernandez asked, suddenly willing to listen.

"Under the Main Street Bridge," Coleman answered, glancing around to see if anyone was close enough to hear. "From what I hear, a lot of these rogues love it by the river."

"I have a missing person reported by the Main Street Bridge," Hernandez said. "Name of Heidi Nguyen. My street guys found her driver's license and a lot of blood, but no body. Any chance she made an appearance in the ranks of the undead?"

"Not yet," Coleman replied, calmly. "But, my people did feel a loss last night. Someone killed one of ours. Most likely, it was Kane who got ashed, but don't quote me on that. They think it was one of yours that did it. Travis heard it straight from Mr. Riordan; and when I told him I was meeting you, he passed it onto me, – to say our boss is none too pleased would be more than the understatement of the year."

"No way," Hernandez denied, vehemently. "Those who know wouldn't throw away our deal. However, I do have something interesting for your boss – someone has been very active in trying to pin down a schedule for a certain group of half-deads. I don't know the identity of the person asking, but a name has been on the grapevine. Seems a lot of people, on both sides, know of this mystery person."

"Well, it wouldn't be a mystery if you'd give me the name," Coleman blurted.

"Does the name 'Cantrell Ryker' ring a bell?"

Coleman almost spit out his swig of Bloody Mary, he couldn't have gotten any paler. Hastily wiping his chin, he tried to regain his composure.

"Wow. I haven't heard that name in almost three years," Coleman said, as he tossed his napkin down. "Why the sudden interest in Ryker? It didn't come from my boss' people – we would have heard it long ago. Believe me."

Aurelia took note of Coleman's last words. Had she struck a chord of discontent?

"So, he's not a vampire?" she said. "Interesting that he should elicit such a reaction. I would certainly hope that he is not in town."

"No chance of that," Coleman replied. "He was killed three years ago. He's as dead as a doornail."

"Then, why are you sweating so much?" Aurelia queried, with a sly smile. "It's been my experience, especially during my time with narcotics, death is not all that it's cracked up to be. The DEA and CIA fought the drug wars in Colombia by killing agents and then letting those supposedly dead agents operate with anonymity."

"Do you have a reason to believe that Ryker might not be dead, Detective?" Coleman asked, looking somewhat suspicious. "Something tangible, besides a feeling?"

"I'm having it checked as we speak," Hernandez said. "I still have a few relatives in the DEA, and with some private contractors, they can make discreet inquiries. They can work the government angle; see if he's listed anywhere clandestine. If he were miraculously alive, he might be someone we could sway to our side. It's been very lonely in my bed lately."

"If I were you, detective, I'd table that fantasy right now," Coleman warned. "If Ryker is alive, he's no one to fool with. He was one of the Core..."

"The what?"

"N-n-nothing," Coleman stammered. "Let's just say that he had a huge target on his back."

Coleman glanced at his watch and suddenly pushed back from the table.

"I've got to go. This should cover the snacks and tip. If you hear anything on Ryker, no matter how remote, it would be in your best interest to let us know immediately. We certainly don't need that maniac messing up things now."

Coleman spread some bills on the table, got up and left. Hernandez breathed a sigh of relief. She'd been afraid the meeting would yield very little. She took her phone out and dialed a number.

"This is Aurelia," she said, smoothly. "I need everything you can dig up on Cantrell Ryker. C-A-N-T-R-E-L-L. R-Y-K-E-R. I need it as soon as possible. Basic information. Past, aliases, known connections and associates, dead and alive. I need it yesterday. Yes, it's extremely important. Thanks. And see what kind of connection he had with the Corps. Well, the Marine Corps, I'm guessing, or Corps of Engineers. Hell, check the Naval Sea Cadet Corps."

Good Lord, she thought after she cut the connection. What the hell have you gotten yourself into now?

Truth be told, she had to laugh at the situation. Here were two humans working for vampires – albeit for different reasons, but working for vampires nonetheless. Yet, they sought to call Cantrell Ryker a "maniac."

She made a mental note of things to check out ASAP when she got to work the next day. She had to know all she could about Ryker and that meant pulling favors she'd hoped to keep a little while longer. More than likely, she realized, this Ryker person was dead, but having had such a big target on his back meant he had been very effective. That usually meant he had help or allies of some kind – people who would provide sanctuary, medical assistance or weapons. Those people might just take it upon themselves to continue his work.

She also sensed Coleman seemed extremely nervous. What was going on now, that was so important, that Riordan didn't need an unexpected distraction like Ryker to interfere? And what was he trying to say when he mentioned Ryker had been part of a corps? Why had he suddenly been so tight-lipped? Just who in the hell was Cantrell Ryker and why would vampires be so afraid of a human?

She frowned at not knowing and went back to sipping her now cold espresso.

Horace Garvey and Jessie Kellums stared at the bank of television monitors relaying feeds from hidden cameras all over the compound. Garvey, a tall, lanky man with a penchant for plaid shirts and generic baseball caps, seemed to be making a game of it, trying to catch sight of rabbits and other animals darting in and out of bushes, like he was back on his family's ranch in Midland. Jessie, a real spitfire with an attitude to match the size of the guns she loved, had given up trying to find out why Horace wasn't as bored with guard duty as she was.

The compound, the group occupied, was vast, but did not stand out in the least. For one thing, most of the working, sleeping and eating areas were underground, in refurbished basements and in tunnels rebuilt from the era of Prohibition.

"Come on, Jessie," Horace implored. "Loosen up. Don't tell me you really wanna' be there?"

"I just need some action, that's all," Jessie replied.

Horace had been a Marine, like Wesley, but had been wounded four times in Iraq and Afghanistan. He'd been medically discharged after his last Purple Heart, still able to wield a weapon effectively but no longer having the stamina or endurance needed to be a Marine. Needing a job, he found himself personally contacted by Jesus Montoya, who had somehow heard of his encounter with vampires in Fallujah, Iraq.

Despite being a jarhead, he never craved action like Jessie. He knew she was the only girl in a family with twelve children. She'd gone whole hog in getting herself into shape in order to do everything her brothers could do – run, climb, shoot, fight. Jessie never seemed to want to let a grudge go; if she knew or thought she was right, she'd keep at her opponent until she was publicly acknowledged as being correct. Now, she used those skills to fight an evil that had reduced her eleven siblings to eight.

"I wouldn't advise it," Horace retorted. "You staked that guy last night, but, you also said you almost puked when Ryker took his head off. Why would you want to see another experiment go bad with our resident mad scientist?"

"Sorry. It's what happens when you try to keep up with the Kellums," she replied, with a shrug. She got quiet and Horace knew she was thinking of her brothers Clem, Luke and Daniel.

Daniel had flat out disappeared two weeks after taking a job in Lincoln, Nebraska. No one knew what happened until the twins, Clem and Luke, double-dated some girls new to Ames, Iowa and unwittingly joined the ranks of the undead. Only when Jessie learned that those girls were related to the woman who had been Daniel's new boss, did Jessie begin believing all those weird stories she'd heard around town.

She never got her revenge against any of the women who had taken her brothers from her, but she had found a way to channel her anger. Patrick Wesley had tracked down the women and killed them. Jessie had been there, shame-faced, as she'd been unable to back up all her proclaimed bravado. It was then, Wesley took her under his wing and tried to make her into as efficient a vampire killer as himself. She'd learned a lot, but still had a way to go.

"Let's just be glad for small miracles," Horace said. "Think of it like a Cowboys-Eagles game – sometimes you just want to find out the score afterward and not have to sit through the game, in case it all goes wrong."

"Well, let's sit back and wait for the score then," Jessie said, with a heavy sigh.

"Is she ready?" Dolores asked, speaking into a slim microphone.

"Yes, ma'am," Michael Lee replied, sitting in the control station, just inside of the medical lab. It had once been an underground supply area for a food bank.

Inside the lab, Heidi Nguyen lay upon the gurney. She was unconscious, thanks to two shots from one of Van Niekerk's heavily-modified cattle prods, but Jesus had still ordered her strapped down to the metal table. Many vampires had supernatural strength far beyond what one might expect of a normal person.

Dr. Patel entered the sealed-off room in surgical garb and mask.

Dolores and Jesus Montoya watched via closed circuit television. Kelly White Cloud was with them, anxious for the serum to work because she knew how difficult it was to overcome the addiction of the vampire.

Inside the room with Patel was Lee, monitoring the various machines that showed Heidi's life functions, which currently consisted of just a slow heartbeat and some brain waves. A few feet away, holding a submachine gun, stood Cantrell Ryker, just in case Heidi rejected the serum and had to be killed. Dolores knew Ryker saved the woman, but she also had no doubt that he could kill her without too much remorse. That much she learned from her friends at Moonrise.

Jesus murmured a silent prayer. Dolores heard it and smiled quickly to reassure her wary husband. He took a deep breath and leaned down to the microphone.

"Do it, Doctor Patel."

Patel moved over to the gurney. He heard a sharp sound and looked up to see Ryker taking the safety off his gun. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to his patient and raised a hypodermic syringe filled with a red liquid. He wiped an area on Heidi's throat with an alcohol swab, to kill germs, and then injected the full contents of the syringe into her carotid artery.

Almost immediately, she woke up, screaming like a banshee, strained against the heavy leather straps holding her down. The straps could hold down a young bull – yet they stretched to their limit to keep Heidi on the table. Patel jumped back.

"Cantrell!" he called out.

He watched Ryker rush up and push down hard on Heidi's chest to restrain her, he held his submachine gun ready in his other hand. Fortunately, Heidi's struggles diminished rapidly. Only when, she slipped back into darkness and lay still, did Patel let out a huge sigh of relief, as if he'd forgotten how to breathe.

"Still no change in vitals, Doc," Lee reported. "It might take a while."

Patel frowned. All of his previous test subjects had shown no immediate reaction, as well. It had taken hours for the side effects to emerge and he hoped it would be different with Heidi. Then again, he chided himself, these things always took time and it was foolish to think that he could change things just by fervently wishing.

"Give me a status report when she does show a change, Doctor," Dolores said, through the microphone.

Outside the lab, Dolores hugged her husband and kissed him lightly on the cheek. She told him that he had to give it time. Reluctantly agreeing, he let her lead him away to the cafeteria. Kelly White Cloud lingered for a moment, pausing to stare at Heidi and feeling more sympathy pangs. Then, she, too, went to the cafeteria to await word.

Chapter 3

Diane Simmons wondered what her mother would have thought, to see her only daughter dressed like a street walker. She strutted down Main Street in Sundance Square in a tube dress, so short one misstep could have gotten her arrested for public indecency. The stiletto heels, her ample bosom and seductive mocha skin did nothing to make her situation better.

Ignoring all the car horns and wolf whistles directed at her, she kept walking straight ahead. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied a tall, casually dressed man running across the street, to catch up with her, as she rounded the corner onto to Belknap. She slowed down to let him overtake her.

"Whoa, wait up," the man said, out of breath. "You know you shouldn't be dressed like that and walking the streets at night."

"I can handle myself," she said, coyly. "Can you handle me?"

"Well, I was thinking of the cops," said the man, suddenly a little nervous. "They might think you were a prostitute or something."

"But not if you were with me, right?" she asked. "And not with all these other people around. Wouldn't be good for business, would it? Nice of you to offer, though, Mister, ahem..."

"Michael," the man answered, feeling a little bolder now. "Michael Anderson."

"I'm Diane," she cooed, seductively. "So, are you going someplace special, Michael Anderson?"

"Wherever you are, I guess," he said, beaming. "Just to make sure you get there safely, of course."

"Of course," she said, with a smile. "Let's go then."

They walked and talked for four blocks, until she stopped at a small building. She pressed some buttons on a keypad and the door opened. Stepping inside the foyer, she held the door open.

"There's a party I'm going to, Michael," she said, seductively. "We'll do wild things at this party, things that are guaranteed to leave you totally drained. But, before I can invite you, I have to see if you're worthy. I can almost feel your blood racing, so let's see what else is pulsing through your body."

She leaned against a wall and bent over at the waist, letting her tube dress ride up over her shapely rear. She spread her legs and looked back at a very excited Michael Anderson. He began to unzip. Stepping into the darkness, he closed the door.

Two minutes later, Diane opened another door and stepped into a larger foyer, her dress pulled back down. Michael Anderson followed, hastily zipping up his pants. He did not look happy. Neither did Diane.

"I thought a virile man like you would have lasted more than a minute," she commented, coldly. "I am very disappointed."

Suddenly, strong hands grabbed Michael from behind, slamming him against a wall face first, Diane clearly heard his nose break. Diane smiled at the muscular man, with the earrings, who held the bleeding Michael Anderson so firmly. Anderson struggled to no avail and could barely get enough air to breathe, much less protest.

"Another one failed the test, Diane?" the muscular man asked, with a smirk. "I think you're just too much woman for any man, Miss Simmons."

"Maybe, maybe not, Duke," she said, coyly. "As for Mr. Anderson, I think he had too much cocaine in his system. You can have him as a gift from me. He's giving you a little sample right now."

"Hear that, pretty boy," Duke Drexler breathed harshly into Anderson's ears. "When you dry out, we'll bleed you out. I like the fear, so I'll control myself and ignore the urge to taste the blood on your face. Let you stew a little more. How's that sound, pretty boy?"

Anderson struggled to look at his assailant. His eyes went wide when he saw the man's long incisors. He wanted to scream but Duke pulled him back and slammed his head against the wall again. Knocking him out cold. It was probably the only merciful thing Duke would do to him this night. Diane smiled, deviously, and slowly strutted upstairs.

Diane's machinations did not go unnoticed. The woman watching her through the closed-circuit television cameras, surreptitiously placed around the building's lobby, did not know whether to smile at Diane's actions or curse her out. She aimed her remote at the viewing screen in her apartment's living room, and pressed a button, turning the screen off.

Serves you right, she said to herself. She's just reflection of you, you know.

Truth be known, Lin Tang could have graced the cover of just about any fashion magazine in the world. She was lithe and well-toned, with a sexuality that would have turned the eye of even the gayest man. She was also a black belt in at least twelve different martial arts, including one the known world was not familiar with. She filled out her black uniform, like a porn star, and she didn't care what people thought.

Perhaps that is the problem – this side of you is merely another form of control – and we must always be in control, mustn't we? No matter how much it hurts.

Lin shook her head to clear her mind, though she knew it would do no good. She didn't know how long it had been since she'd first had the other voice in her head, but it had seemed like a lifetime. She wandered over to the shrine and contemplated, as the huge painting of an elderly Chinese man looked down from its place on the fireplace mantle, looking proud and masterful.

"You taught me so much, Master Chang," she professed, looking almost pleadingly at the portrait. "Why must I continually have to learn so much more?"

Of course, she received no answer, at least not from Chang's portrait. The other voice in her head would tell her that life was a continuous journey of learning. If only, she had paid attention much earlier.

Stop it, Lin. The past is past. Come back to the present. She is here.

"Enter," Lin called out.

Diane Simmons stepped from the foyer, into the living room. She was much meeker now, almost cowering and Lin tasted the submission in her lead half-dead. It was a stark contrast from the one who had led the man named Anderson into Duke's clutches. Part of Lin wanted to reward Diane for knowing her boundaries, but another wished the woman would show more independence, much as her predecessor had done. As usual, though, the darker side of Lin Tang won out.

"Am I late, Mistress Tang?" Diane asked, nervously.

"No, you are just in time," Lin Tang replied, sliding up behind the woman. "You will not be punished."

Tang gently cocked Diane's neck to the side and bared her fangs. Gently nipping Diane's exposed throat, she drank lightly. Diane moaned in ecstasy. Tang let the woman slide slowly to the floor, following her down and covering her body. They lay together for a minute before Tang pulled Diane to her feet.

"Thank you, Mistress," Diane gasped.

"I've been extra special to you, Diane, because I have a special assignment for you," Tang explained.

"Anything for you, Mistress," Diane said, obediently.

"The event will be upon us soon," Tang said. "And there are still a few who have not let Mr. Riordan know of their intentions. We must know if they will give their loyalty to him and not their spineless constituents. I may need you to recruit some more of your former...co-workers to help persuade them. This situation calls for your...special talents."

"Is that all, Mistress?" Diane asked, perplexed.

"That is all you need to know," Tang said, coldly. "For now. You have been a good leader to my half-deads. When the awakening has finished, I am sure you will find new favor with our master. And, you will get what you have so long desired."

"Oh, thank you, Mistress," Diane replied, giddily.

"If you succeed, of course," Lin added.

"Yes, my Mistress. I am your most obedient servant."

After Diane left, Lin contemplated events. She'd had mixed feelings about Diane, but could not find reason to fault her. Diane had kept the half-deads in line and, as of yet, had not been challenged.

Why would she be challenged? She's probably slept with every man and woman in the group.

Lin dismissed the voice. She knew she should be thankful for small favors. She sometimes missed Diane's predecessor, Kelly White Cloud, but not the drama the agile, young Kiowa had brought with her. Of course, she realized, that might have been due to being forcefully turned into a half-dead. But, Kelly had finally given in, though not without drama – in the form of an "accident" that crippled her boyfriend, who had lured her into Lin's clutches.

Alas, Kelly's tough-mindedness had proved too fractious. She made enemies from within, it had only been a matter of time before someone got to her. In this case, a half-dead named Lincoln who, with two other half-deads, set a trap for Kelly. He admitted as much after Lin tortured him, but had gone to his grave without revealing where he'd left Kelly's body or why he had seen fit to torture and kill the other two half-deads.

It took a lot of work for Lin to make a good half-dead. She had to carefully vet the ones she would later bite. She needed to be sure that leaving them lingering, between life and undeath, would not cause them to commit suicide. They had to desire her bite so they would remain loyal and do her bidding.

Her earpiece buzzed and she answered.

"Mistress Tang, Mr. Riordan would like to see you when it's convenient for you," a voice at the other end of the line said.

"Tell him I will be over immediately," she said, curtly. "Bring the limousine around. I'll go in style."

Time for us to be subservient. We're not so much different from Diane, are we?

She went into her bedroom, changing from her silk robe into black, battle, dress uniform. She slipped into black combat boots and strapped on her specially-designed back harness. She walked into the living room and over to the fireplace. From the mantle, just below Chang's portrait, she removed two samurai swords from holders and gazed at the light gleaming off of each one.

She received them as a special gift from Lo Chang, the man who had made her the lethal assassin she was today. With the thought of Lo Chang, she grew a little sad, thinking of his demise, especially of the cruel, torturous way it had been done – staked to the ground in the blazing hot sun, both knee caps shot away. Chang deserved far better from his enemies. What made her sadder – and angrier – was the knowledge that those responsible for his death already paid the ultimate price at someone else's hands, denying her the revenge she'd craved.

Silently, she took each blade, sliding them into the leather scabbards hand-stitched to the sheath on her back. Sure she was properly attired, she left for her meeting with her boss. It would not do to be late for Louis Riordan and she never disappointed her master.

Heidi fluttered her eyelids open and closed them quickly. She very slowly opened them again getting used to the light streaming in. Suddenly, she jumped up and began to scramble backwards, desperate to get out of the sunlight. She couldn't, however, the whole room was bathed in sunlight.

She cringed into a tight ball and waited for the burning and the pain. Nothing happened. Confused, she slowly uncurled and sat up. She looked at her hands and then felt her body. There was no burning sensation. Quickly, she ran her tongue over her teeth and felt no sharp tips or long fangs. She heard her stomach grumble but she had visions of steak, well-done, and it didn't sicken her.

"Confusing, isn't it?" a deep male voice asked.

She looked up to see Cantrell Ryker, stepping into the room through a door she hadn't heard open and hadn't even known was there as it blended perfectly with the dull gray of the walls. Suddenly, she remembered him holding that long knife up to her face, right before she passed out on the walkway under the bridge. She cowered, meekly.

"It's not sunlight," Ryker explained. "Ultraviolet lamps in the ceiling. Works like the sun – sun tan, melanoma, disintegration for vampires."

"B-but why?" she asked, weakly. "B-because of what happened to me? W-what that man...Kane was his name, wasn't it? What he...made me?"

Heidi tried to create more saliva to wet her throat but couldn't. She wondered if the overhead lamps had anything to do with it. She desperately wanted answers and, for that, she desperately needed to talk.

"Don't worry about that now," Ryker replied. "You're cured. And he definitely won't be bothering you again."

He held a tray of food and a small drink. The smell of steak wafted into her nose and she smiled, weakly, though she was still confused and more than a bit frightened. He set the tray down before her on the floor.

"Wait," Heidi said, after gulping down half the water in the cup. "Don't leave."

Ryker stopped at the door, turning to face her.

"You said I was cured? Then, why these ultraviolet lights?"

"Just making sure," Ryker replied.

"But, what if I wasn't...cured? Heidi asked.

"Eat your food," Ryker said, blankly. "You'll need your strength."

He turned and walked out without saying another word.

No one in his right mind messed with Travis Pratt. Standing six-foot-four and weighing two-hundred and ninety pounds, virtually all of it chiseled muscle; he could intimidate most men with just a quick stare. He was a master of the mixed martial arts disciplines of Muay Thai and Krav Maga, the martial art of choice for the much-feared and respected Israeli Mossad, which only reinforced his reputation.

He was in charge of security at the Nyman Building, one of the tallest towers in Fort Worth. It cut an imposing figure into the skyline of the city historically known as "Cowtown." Inside, the city's biggest wheelers and dealers made connections and contracts that controlled the future of most of Tarrant County's two million-plus residents.

It was into this cauldron Lin Tang stepped. Climbing out of the passenger's side of her limousine, she approached Pratt, who bowed in deference, and opened the front door for her. She smiled at him and sashayed inside the foyer. Another man tried to follow, claiming business, Pratt stopped him cold with a hand to the chest that knocked him to the ground.

"Sorry, amigo," Pratt snarled. "As I recall, you still have a month before your exile ends. Come around here again before then and you won't have to worry about it. Got it?"

Lin smiled when she saw the man scramble to his feet and run down the street as fast as he could. She looked at Pratt and nodded once. It was good to have power, she thought as she continued inside.

Inside the foyer, Lin Tang strolled past the front desk, winking at the cute blonde receptionist, making the woman blush with the memories of their sensuous times together. She stepped into a waiting elevator. The receptionist made a quick phone call.

"She's on her way, sir," the woman reported.

The elevator stopped at the top floor and Tang stepped out. Two large men, in three-piece suits, moved aside for her. Both knew how quickly she could kill them if they so much as looked at her the wrong way. One of the men opened an oaken door.

"Ah, ma cherie, how nice of you to come so quickly."

Lin Tang smiled broadly as a tall, imposing man, with jet black hair and a regal air rose from behind his solid oak desk and came around to meet her, his arms wide open. He'd lost most of his French accent over the years, but still let a few colloquialisms slip through, especially when Lin was near.

Though she barely came up to his chest and, despite her intense manner, she let Louis Riordan take her by the shoulders and plant a kiss on each cheek. She looked at him, taking in the fine lines on his face that did not tell of his unnaturally long life. She focused on his intense, blue eyes and his shocking, black hair that only now seemed to be losing the battle against graying.

"My pleasure, sir," she said, bowing in deference to her superior. "How may I assist you tonight?"

Riordan turned and went back to his desk. Sitting down, he nodded his head to the right. She turned and saw Porter Coleman step out of a side room. He looked rather nervous, which was appropriate, for he knew of Lin's sinister and well-deserved reputation.

"I must apologize for the abruptness of this meeting," Riordan said, in a voice that did not sound happy. "But, it was necessary. You have been careless, Cherie."

"I don't know what you mean, sir," Lin Tang countered, defensively. "I keep a tight rein on my people."

"On the contrary, your half-deads are obedient, but they are cocky," Riordan retorted. "For instance, my people tell me that Diane Simmons led a man named Michael Anderson into your residence tonight. Tomorrow, he will be an unnecessary statistic. Since he is the only son of one of this state's most powerful attorneys, this will have repercussions, and unwanted attention, that we cannot afford at this time."

Hear that, Lin. You are his chief enforcer and he is still watching you. Maybe he really doesn't trust you as much as you think.

Lin Tang took a deep breath, trying to control herself. She hated being dressed down by anyone, but could not show her displeasure at Riordan.

"Please make sure Mr. Anderson is dropped off at the nearest hospital and make it look like an accident," Riordan ordered, nonchalantly. "Now for why I really called you here – I was going to have you take care of a certain pain in the neck named Kane. However, he was ashed last night."

"Ashed, sir?" Lin asked. "Who would dare?"

"Yes, that is the question," Riordan continued. "Oh, I know you would not, unless I requested it, but something even more disturbing has come up. Aside from you-know-who, our guests have arrived and are getting acquainted with the accommodations I have prepared. The rather plush accommodations, I might add. This...event is far too important for any issues to spoil it.

"That said, I have brought Mr. Coleman here to relay some news – it seems he had a rather fruitful meeting with Detective Hernandez this evening. Most of the conversation I could care less about, but one interesting tidbit did surface. It is all the more interesting because Mr. Coleman confirmed it with Travis' rather extensive network of insiders. A name is in the wind and I can tell you that I am not happy. Mr. Coleman, please tell Lin what Madamoiselle Hernandez told you earlier."

"Y-yes, sir," Coleman stammered. "She was investigating the high number of murders and she came across a name. I-I told her it was nothing, but she said that it was a name being repeated far too often to ignore."

"So, a name was being thrown around," Lin said, getting exasperated. "This concerns me how?"

"The name was Cantrell Ryker."

"What?!" Lin roared.

Immediately reaching back, she gripped one of her sword hilts. The blade out so fast Coleman barely saw it. In a second, she was upon him and pressed the blade to his throat. The blade had been honed so fine a slight cough from Lin Tang could have pushed the edge through Coleman's jugular vein with no resistance.

"Lin, stand down!" Riordan snapped, jumping to his feet. "No need to kill the messenger."

Lin Tang instantly obeyed her master, falling back, she caught her breath and sheathed her sword. Coleman, meanwhile, grabbed at his throat and backed against the wall. Casting a frightened look at Riordan, who shook his head with disdain and took his seat again.

"Sorry, sir," Lin apologized, prophetically. "Cantrell Ryker is supposed to be dead. He was part of Moonrise, Inc. – his team killed my former master, Lo Chang. They tortured him. They shot away his knee caps. They staked him to the ground to bleed to death, slowly and painfully."

"I can understand your desire for revenge, Lin," Riordan said. "Three of my kin, though distant offshoots, died in San Antonio. What I want to know, though, is who is throwing his name around. I understand that Detective Hernandez is checking her contacts, but I need your half-deads on it as well. Is there any light you can shed on this, Mr. Coleman?"

"Well, sir, a check of some of Travis' contacts, outside of the Metroplex, reveals a slew of similarities," Coleman replied, still rubbing his throat.

"Similarities to what?" Lin demanded.

"To Kane's ashing. Piles of ash have been found in Mexia, Waco, Harlingen, Brownsville, San Antonio and Houston. And there were at least six ashings in and around Prairie View A&M University."

"And why am I just hearing about this now, Mr. Coleman?" Riordan asked, looking irritated.

Wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead, Coleman found his throat suddenly dry.

"I believe they were in your daily reports, sir," he croaked. "But, being outside of Fort Worth, I don't think they were rated seriously. Many of the vampires beyond the Metroplex have decided to remain independent and not come in from the cold, literally."

Riordan contemplated the news. He wondered if his preoccupation with the upcoming event caused him to overlook the ashings, as well as Kane's transgressions. He really didn't need more problems now. Especially not things that might undermine his authority in front of his guests.

"Am I to surmise that, maybe, there are people out there emulating Mr. Ryker's methods?" he asked.

"Or those of Moonrise, sir," Coleman expounded. "They were known to hook up with more independent hunters on occasion. From what I understand, they had quite a set-up. They communicated constantly and worked together against common enemies. It was one of the reasons why Travis restructured the security apparatus. Fortunately for us, I believe Moonrise's system only worked well in rural areas and not in large urban ones."

"That's not to say they might not be trying their model out in Fort Worth, as a test run, don't you think?" Riordan commented.

"You think there are some of Ryker's allies here in Fort Worth, sir?" Lin inquired. "I will admit I never really investigated the man because he died along with the other Moonrise members, but I do know that he had a reputation as a loner, a loose cannon. Who could possibly have been his ally?"

Shouldn't you be asking that question of yourself, Lin?

"There are some, Miss Lin," Coleman answered. "Had Moonrise not wanted him, he would not have been part of their team for long. Off the top of my head, there are two potential allies listed in the Fifty. It is possible, they may be the ones tossing his name around. Perhaps, for leverage, or to make themselves bigger than they really are."

"The Fifty?" Lin remarked, tartly. "Is that still relevant?"

"Please, Lin," Riordan countered. "Most of us, believe the list of the most dangerous enemies to the supernatural world died out with Moonrise. However, we do tolerate its continued existence because the New York-New Jersey clan keeps it up. And, Giancarlo still wields a lot of power. It also can't hurt to keep tabs on any future enemies. In fact, Mr. Coleman, please work with Travis on that."

Lin had walked away from the conversation, over to the nearest window. She looked out across the city. She did not know why she was suddenly so antsy. She knew her half-deads could handle this new mission and her skills would put an end to any fool stupid enough to be Ryker's ally.

Why so worried? Riordan's clan owns virtually all of Tarrant County. What could a few hunters hope to do or don't you have confidence in yourself anymore?

"Lin, if you'd care to join us."

"I am sorry, sir," she said, walking back to Riordan's desk. "Pardon my insolence. But, how can these allies, if any, be of any concern to us? Maybe they got to Kane, but we could leave that to his master, Kuster, to solve."

"No," Riordan snapped. "To do so would let the others know we cannot handle our own business. How then do we convince them we should be the ones to take the lead? Absolutely not. I will not have that – nor will I brook any interference, from anyone –vampire or human. And, I will definitely not have a dead man haunting me from the grave."

Coleman could not help but catch the irony in that last statement, though he wisely kept the thought to himself.

"Yes, sir," Lin finally said. "Whatever I may do to atone for my transgressions."

Now, that's a good little girl.

"Good," Riordan replied, leaning back contently in his leather chair. "Mr. Coleman, that will be all."

"Now, for the reason I do not want to leave the issue of Kane in the hands of his master," Riordan explained, after Coleman had left the office. "He is a guest in my town, yet he defies the rules, such as letting Kane run rogue."

"You want me to remind him you run things here," Lin said, with a thin smile.

"No," Riordan retorted. "I want that message to go to the others."

"With pleasure, sir," Lin said, pulling her lips back in a hideous smile and lasciviously licking her fangs.

Chapter 4

Marcus Van Niekerk thought he had seriously hurt Angelica Morales. While working on a new battle plan he hoped to take to Wesley, a hand grabbed his shoulder. Instinctively, he shoved an elbow at the source, only to see Angelica stagger back against the far wall of his small office.

"Jou bliksem," he said, as he checked her with a tenderness one would not expect of a mercenary. "I'm sorry, Angelica, are you okay?"

She rubbed her chest, looking pained, but nodded she would recover.

"My fault," she said as she got to her feet. "I should have knocked. By the way, what does 'jou bliksem' mean?"

"Well, it's Afrikaans for 'good heavens.'"

"Good nuff, gabacho," Angelica said with a smirk. "That's Chicano for 'good heavens'."

"Touché," Marcus remarked, with a sly grin. "What can I do you for, Love?"

Angelica said nothing at first. She only spoke after fully gathering her thoughts. Part of that discipline had come from the intense world of competitive bodybuilding, only to be heightened by her second career as a professional bodyguard.

Marcus knew something was wrong with his lifelong friend. Though he'd lost touch for a time with the girl he first met at an international school for the children of diplomats in Thailand, he'd made up for lost time when he'd run into her twenty years later. By then, he'd changed dramatically from shy schoolboy to mercenary after the massacre of his grandparents, during the Rhodesian Bush War in 1978.

He'd developed eyes in the back of his head, to be aware of slight changes in the surrounding area. He knew when a fellow soldier was in distress, a situation that might endanger not only the person concerned, but anyone else nearby. Now, those "eyes" saw something with Angelica.

"Come on, out with it," he demanded.

"Okay," Angelica sighed. "I'm worried about us."

"Well," Marcus replied, puffing up his chest. "I knew I'd eventually break through that shell of yours."

Angelica blushed and playfully slapped at him.

"Not us us," she shot back. "I meant the group. I wonder if they really know what's going on."

"You mean – do they really know what they're doing?" Marcus surmised. "We should. On paper, we're a lot more organized than Riordan. On paper, we should be able to call upon allies from all over the southwest. We should be able to run rings around these vampire clans."

"On paper," Angelica finished. "But, in reality?"

"We're all over the place," Marcus answered, grimly. "We're content to nibble around the edges. Pick off a few strays here and there. That would be fine – if we weren't aiming for bigger fish."

Angelica sighed. It was obvious she felt the same way. However, feeling the same way and doing something about it were two different things.

"So, how do we correct this?" she finally asked.

"That's what I'm working on," Marcus said. "You know my mind. When the gears turn, things happen.'

"Like smoke, creaking, and grinding," Angelica quipped.

"Aha, so you do have a sense of humor," Marcus shot back. "Anyway, we've got to do something new. Something with teeth. Sooner or later, our enemies are going to really pay attention to us. Even a pit bull will eventually respond to a Chihuahua nipping at its legs."

"That about nails it," Angelica responded. "Thanks for listening."

"No problem," Marcus said. "Except, that's not the real reason you came in here. You're really wondering, if you did the right thing bringing Cantrell into the group."

Angelica started to defend herself but stopped. Her cheeks warmed as she realized how well she and Marcus knew each other. She wondered if her reservations were as noticeable to the others as they were to her friend.

"That obvious, eh, Papi?" she commented. "I thought I was doing a good thing when I sponsored him. He had a lot of experience and a lot of good ideas."

Pushing his notes aside, Marcus turned to look his friend fully in the face. My God, he thought, even when she's troubled she's the most beautiful woman in the world. How did you ever earn her friendship?

"Remember the bulk of it was my sponsorship," he reminded her. "Although you did second the motion, Jesus specifically said that my many years of mercenary work carried the day. If it turns out to be wrong, it's all on me, love."

Again, Angelica said nothing, just fretted a little.

"But, you want me to push for some kind of resolution about Ryker, right?" Marcus asked. "Fortunately, none of us has burned all of our bridges. Still, it might be a tough sell; to say Cantrell has an abrasive personality would be an understatement."

"Really?" Angelica asked. "Didn't you say he was in the Navy? Did he hate authority or something?"

"Quite the opposite, actually," Marcus answered. "But, the reason is what's plaguing us – Ryker doesn't seem to respect a lack of authority. Confusing orders. Unclear objectives. Lack of common sense and situational awareness. We both know there are some days – hell, let's be honest, there are many days – when it seems like all we do is sit around and talk about what we need to do. It's hard for a man like Ryker, working under those conditions."

"But, you have no problem."

"Ah, yes, but I'm a mercenary," Marcus said, coolly. "I've worked under good bosses and bad bosses – half-assed and wholly moronic. The Navy is a lot more structured, which is good. The ocean floors are littered with the wrecks of ships doomed by indecision, arrogance and incompetence."

Marcus eyed Angelica while she mulled his information. He could only wonder how she stayed committed to the cause, in the midst of such a dysfunctional organization as the Hunters. Maybe it was her desire to make sure no one else suffered the fate of her favorite cousins. After turning into vampires, they converted several other cousins and nieces to the undead. It also might have been borne out of a competitive desire to always finish what she started.

"Okay," he said, after a bit. "I'll do more than just talk to Dolores and Jesus."

"Thanks, Marcus," Angelica said, planting a peck on his cheek. "I owe you."

Marcus rubbed his hands together as if relishing something.

"What was that for?" Angelica asked.

"Just thinking of my reward."

Eyeing her teammate, Angelica smirked.

"No need to wait for that," she said, coyly.

She stepped back into the room. Switching off the light, she closed the door behind her.

Heidi heard the creak of the hinges long before the door to her prison opened. She looked to see an older man and stocky woman step into the doorway. She did not know the woman, but recognized the man as the one who had injected her while she was strapped to the lab table. She shivered and began to push herself back into the nearest corner.

"It's okay, Heidi," Dolores Montoya said, in a comforting voice. "We're here to help you. This is Doctor Patel. He is the one who saved you."

Heidi glanced around, nervously.

"What's wrong, Heidi?" Dolores asked. "Are you ill?"

Heidi shook her head, but kept darting her eyes about the room.

"Where is he?' Heidi finally asked, while pushing herself, unsteadily, to her feet. "The one called Ryker."

"He's not here right now," Patel answered. "But, he is the one who saved you at the bridge. You can thank him later."

"He can go to hell," Heidi spat. "If you saving me, means being anywhere near that bastard, you might as well kill me now."

"Come, my dear," Dolores said. "We have a lot to talk about."

Heidi stepped forward with uncertainty. She really had no choice – she needed answers and these looked to be the people to give them to her.

She let Dolores put her arms around her and guide her out of the room.

On any other bright sunny morning, a sedan with dark tinted windows driving down a farm road would only have attracted the attention of the most bored police officer. What set this dark-colored sedan apart from most vehicles, was its driver. By all rights, he should have been safely ensconced someplace dark and cool, not squeezed behind the wheel.

Duke turned off the farm road, leading to Springtown, onto an even narrower road. Looking over to the scraggily-bearded man, slouching in the passenger seat, he shook his head. His cousin Avery wore dark sunglasses, though it was from too much drug use that the sun hurt his eyes. He looked up into his rearview mirror, examining the two spaced out female junkies. Avery had procured them for their little day trip, both were obviously not original blondes, but Duke didn't care.

"Glad you came out today, Cuz?" Avery asked, his speech slurred. "Doing a public service and supplying the needs of a grateful population at the same time. By the way, why the hell, did you have to stop at the hospital first before picking me up?"

"Ah, I had to drop off some jerk named Anderson," Duke replied. "Diane gave him to me for fun, but, apparently, the big boss got pissed."

"Well, let's just sell these chemicals and go party with the cash," Avery said. "And these chicks – they'll last longer than any present from a half-dead."

"Maybe you're right, Cuz," Duke admitted. "Crack-tainted blood is the ultimate high. Of course, being human, you wouldn't appreciate that."

"If you're trying to get me to turn – forget it."

"Your choice," Duke said. "Now, where the hell is the turn-off for that trailer park?"

"It's right up here on the left," Avery replied.

"Can we hurry this up?" one of the girls in back moaned. "I need a fix. I'm getting a shooting pain from withdrawal."

Laughing, Avery looked at Duke. "Wait 'til you girls see what I got waiting for ya'. That'll be some shooting pain. Hope you girls like to give head."

Duke would have laughed, had the windshield not exploded. Something sprayed into his eyes, as he swerved off the road. Half-blind, with the two girls screaming bloody murder, Duke fought to get the vehicle back on the road. Finally, after finding pavement, he slammed on the brakes.

Cursing loudly, he wiped his eyes. Something smelled coppery and set off his appetite. He realized what it had to be. Looking down, he saw his hand covered in blood. On the edge of panic, he raked his hand across the side of his face and found more blood. It was then that he also noticed the little bits of bone and some gray matter on his wrist and forearm.

Suppressing the urge to gag, he finally looked over at Avery. Despite his bulk, not to mention his menacing reputation, he nearly puked. The front seat of the passenger side was painted red with blood and the source was obvious.

Avery's head was gone!

"Oh, my God!"

Duke didn't have time to correct the blasphemy from the back seat. Needing to take action, he ignored what remained of Avery and threw his vehicle into reverse. Whoever was shooting, was in front of the car.

"Shut up Bitches!" he yelled and the girls stopped.

The engine blew up with the next shot. After a loud whump, the hood flipped up. As the engine died, the car slid backwards into the culvert between the opposing lanes.

Duke struggled to keep from hyperventilating. He felt an intense heat on his back, looking into the rear view mirror, and saw both girls had bolted the car, leaving the doors open for the deadly sunlight to flood in.

Not that it mattered. Whoever was attacking him wasn't taking pot shots at random. These shots were precise. He hadn't even heard them. And, he had hearing on the level as good as any predator.

He fumbled through his vest pockets until he found his cell phone. Hurriedly, he dialed a number. He was outside of Tarrant County, beyond the jurisdiction of the crooked cops on Riordan's payroll; and he knew the girls would either call the police or would attract the kind of attention from locals, who would notify the sheriff. He needed help badly.

He heard a shot hit the trunk. A second shattered his driver's side window. Screaming in pain as the sunlight burned his elbow, he dropped his phone. Ignoring it, he scooted to a point over the gear shift, trapped between sunlight to his left and light coming in from the hole in the windshield. He was in full panic mode now. He grabbed his cousin's bloody corpse and tried to shove it onto the dashboard to block out the deadly rays.

He cursed himself for his greed. He didn't need to help his cousin deliver ingredients to cook meth or make crack. He had just liked the money. He knew he'd gotten careless, thinking that his status as Lin Tang's security man gave him some kind of immunity.

He found himself shaking and, try as he might, he couldn't stop himself. He was glad no one was around to see his fear. Oh, how often he had inflicted that same fear on his prey, like that Anderson kid. Now, he was on the receiving end and, the worst part was, that he had no idea who was behind the attack. He could think of no one foolish enough to attack anyone connected to Louis Riordan.

Of course, he thought, with a shudder, maybe the attack specifically targeted him or, possibly Avery, because of the drug connection. If so, he was in deep trouble. He looked left and saw a large copse of trees next to the northbound lanes. He seriously began to wonder if it might be better to risk the sunshine and bolt for those trees.

Perhaps if he could run fast enough, he might not get more than a few third degree burns. Then, once he made it back to Fort Worth, he could recuperate with fresh blood. Leaning over, he looked ahead, past the wrecked hood, nearly missing the hump in the grass of the culvert. A drainage pipe.

Yes. And it was not more than fifty feet away. He saw, further down the road, some indistinguishable figures out on the highway. Some were walking quickly toward the car. They must have heard the commotion.

He had to make his move fast. Not only did he not want them to know that he was a vampire, but he also realized he had drug materials in the car. The sheriff's deputies – he could make out the faint sound of sirens – would have to arrest him. He would resist to avoid the sunlight and all hell would break loose.

Another bullet hit the trunk. There was more than one attacker, he thought. He shivered. Who could be trying to kill him? That's when it hit him.

The meth chemicals were in the trunk!

For the first time in his life, Duke Archimedes felt the same kind of extreme terror he'd meted out to many victims.

Sunlight be damned, he put his first foot outside of the car just as a third bullet drove itself into the trunk. He was halfway out of the car when he burned for a different reason. He never saw the fireball that tore through the back seat, until it fully engulfed him. The concussive force of the blast virtually disintegrated him even as it ripped his car apart.

In the copse of trees ahead of the burning car, the forest floor moved. A figure in a military-style ghillie camouflage suit rose to one knee. The gun in its hands was dark, and odd looking, because of a box attached to its right side to catch the brass from spent bullet casings.

"Mission accomplished," Marcus said into his communications mouthpiece. "Scratch one vampire."

One hundred feet away, at a point where the trunk of Duke's car was in view, two ghillie-covered silhouettes moved deeper into the tree line. The taller of the two pulled back an assault rifle fitted with a silencer and a brass catcher. The shorter figure propped itself on its elbows, while holding a spotting scope in one hand.

"And one drug dealer, too," Cantrell Ryker added. "Two birds with one stone. Let's scrub the area."

"I hear sirens," Angelica announced, as she moved a leafed branch over the area where she and Ryker had lain during the attack. "I sure hope this escalation is worth it."

Ryker shrugged.

"Are you okay?" he inquired.

"Oh, um, I had a little bit of a workout before I came out here today," Angelica stammered. "Marcus and I. A lot of pumping...with weights."

"I meant with this operation," Ryker corrected.

"Oh, yes, of course," Angelica answered, looking away. "Yes, I am okay with it. I...I thought you meant...Marcus and I have been good friends – really, really good friends for a long time. But, you didn't ask that. Sorry. We'd better go."

"Why do they keep telling me these things?" Ryker muttered under his breath. "And they wonder why I don't listen to anybody."

He followed Angelica deeper into the shadows.

If Duke found traveling in daylight hours to be worth the risk, Louis Riordan hoped for much more. He was betting the bank, that his decision to hold the first meetings with the visiting clan leaders in daylight, would demonstrate his leadership potential. Sitting in his office, he peered out through the heavily tinted windows, taking a deep breath because he felt a little weak. Of course, he would never let on that the sun bothered him.

"Allison, would you ask Mr. Giancarlo and Ms. Waterston to come in here?" he said into his desk intercom.

A moment later, a pale white man, in a sharp three-piece suit, and a short, stocky black woman, in jeans and a plaid shirt, walked into his office. He bade them sit down and they took chairs in front of his desk. He spun around to face them and studied each one carefully.

"Tesino, mon ami," Riordan said, leaning forward to shake the man's proffered hand. "How is life in the New York-New Jersey area? And Jewel, straight from Seattle."

Giancarlo did not look amused, checking his Italian suit for invisible dirt. He then ran fingers through his jet black hair. His rugged good looks were marred by a nose that had obviously been broken several times. It only made his discomfort more pronounced.

"I presume there was a reason that we have to meet in the daylight," he said, uneasily.

"Yeah, all this sun is bad for my skin," Jewel added, though her manner was much rougher. "I don't need a sun tan."

Riordan smiled, noting Jewel's dark skin.

"I will admit, mes amis, that this is an unusual time to meet," Riordan explained, leaning back in his chair. "But, it is important. You see, we – each of us, the others included – have so much power and yet we are afraid."

"Maybe you're afraid," Jewel huffed. "Living in this glass tower. But, I ain't afraid of anything."

"Aren't you?" Riordan countered. "Then, why do we never meet in the daytime? Because – we fear the daylight. Even the most powerful organized crime families, that we have modeled our organizations after, have fears. To have real power, we must conquer those fears."

"Okay, I am listening," Giancarlo said, seeming to relax a bit. "You have graced us with deluxe accommodations, so we can, at least, show some gratitude by listening to your point of view."

Riordan scowled inwardly at Giancarlo's conceited air, but, on the outside, through decades of practice, he smiled warmly.

"You two are among the most powerful clan leaders on this continent," Riordan continued. "If we are to truly be strong, we need to overcome our fears. We must work together. And, what better way than to give a big F-U to our most dangerous foe?"

At that, Giancarlo finally relaxed and slouched a little in his chair. Next to him, Jewel leaned back and crossed her ankles.

"I think the man might have something," she said. "So, let's get this party started."

Riordan smiled and leaned forward. The die had been cast and it had been favorable to him. The next few days would be very tricky, but he felt in control. If all went well, the awakening would unite the clans, and he would be the top master.

If nothing interfered, he suddenly thought. But, with Lin Tang as his enforcer – and with her hidden power – nothing would.

Riordan could only wonder why, with everything seeming to fall into place for him, he could not shake a nagging doubt in the back of his mind.

"Bloody Marys anyone?" he offered to hide that ill feeling.

Chapter 5

Lin Tang was unusually restless. She'd returned from her meeting with Riordan to find Alex Dupree on duty at the front door. Duke, apparently, had not returned from whatever errands he'd been running. It was nearly two in the afternoon and he hadn't even given a message as to his whereabouts. It wasn't like him.

Maybe Riordan took him from you as punishment.

Ignoring that little voice in her head, she went back to honing the edges on her swords. Sitting on her leather couch, legs crossed Indian style, she ran a honing stone slowly along the edge of one sword. She looked over at the window and sighed, seeing nothing through the almost black tinting keeping out the sunlight.

Don't you just want to rip that tinting away? But, that wouldn't please him, would it?

Frustrated, Lin put the sword aside and got off the couch. She padded across the Persian rug in her boot-clad feet and activated the intercom. It took almost half a minute for Dupree to answer.

"If you are going to stand in for Duke during his little errands, please be as prompt to answer as he is, Mr. Dupree," she snorted.

"Y-yes, Miss Lin," Dupree's stammered.

"Have you heard from Duke?"

"No, ma'am," Dupree answered, meekly. "I can't get an answer on his cell phone either. It keeps going straight to voice mail."

She turned the intercom off and went to her bedroom. Along the way, she shed her top and callously tossed it on her chaise lounge. Within seconds, she'd pulled off her boots and leggings. She climbed onto her bed and slid under her silk sheets.

Reaching over to her nightstand, she grabbed the remote for the flat screen television mounted on the wall. The news was on and she frowned. Nowadays, there seemed to be nothing but news shows on. This particular channel was talking about an explosion near Springtown, something involving drugs or meth or some such nonsense. She could have cared less so she turned the set off.

She hated being away during the day. But, it couldn't be helped. She'd promised Riordan that she would deal with Kuster as soon as the sun set, so that he could have something to tell his guests when they all met. That meant preparing her attack plan and weapons in the daylight hours.

Pleasant dreams.

"Oh, shut up," she muttered before pulling the sheets over her head.

Aurelia Hernandez managed to make it through most of her day off without her cell phone ringing. She was in the middle of a water gun fight with her nieces and nephew, when she heard the familiar ring tone coming from the mantle above the fireplace. Even the children knew to take their play elsewhere when that happened.

Aurelia sighed and set her water gun on top of the marble island in the kitchen. She moved into the living room, deftly avoiding the furniture that had been moved by the kids to make forts. She got to the phone on the last ring, but did not answer it, instead looking at the Caller ID.

"Shit," she moaned.

It was her least favorite detective at the office. She didn't want to listen to his smarmy tone. He was another one on Riordan's payroll, and wouldn't call unless he had something important for her. She pressed the redial.

"What is it, Eddy?" she queried. "Hold on a second."

She put the phone down, grabbed the earpiece next to it and put it on.

"Okay, now my hands are free," she said. "What do I need to write down that you can't send me in a coded e-mail?"

She listened for a second, whereupon her demeanor changed considerably. She moved over to her couch, grabbed the remote and turned her television on. She caught the news just as it repeated the story of the car explosion near Springtown. She turned up the sound, hearing the news anchor talk about the car being shot up and exploding from methamphetamine chemicals stored in the trunk.

"This is outside of our jurisdiction," Aurelia said. "How does this concern me?"

She listened and the blood rushed out of her face.

"Madre Dios," she whispered. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll be in first thing tomorrow."

She disconnected and then quickly dialed another number.

"Ian, this is Aurelia," she said, quickly. "Meet me at the usual spot in one hour. No excuses, Amigo. We've got to get a handle on this first before it goes up the chain. Someone has messed with the wrong person, if we don't find out who did and deal with them, some serious blood is going to hit the fan. Namely ours."

Heidi sipped her cocoa as she listened to Dolores explain what had happened to her. Despite the complicated answer, she seemed to take it amazingly well.

"I need to puke."

Dolores looked at Jesus and sighed. This was turning out to be harder than she thought. She wasn't used to helping victims, amazing as it sounded, she had very little experience with them. She and Jesus had been killing vampires for years. Oftentimes, they found the vampires during the day when no victims were around or killed the vampire's prey for being too far into the turn.

"I'm no good at this, Jesus," she admitted.

Jesus was certain he could do no better. Sitting in the compound's break room, he pondered how to deal with the unique situation. Kelly White Cloud was too raw to offer any real insight and Jessie still had more maturing to do. He thought of Angelica, but she had not returned from a supply mission to Burleson with Marcus.

"What happens to me now?" Heidi asked.

"We're still trying to figure that one out," Dolores replied. "No doubt the police found your blood under the bridge."

"And the body of that guy, the one Ryker decapitated, right?" Heidi asked, with a shudder.

"Not quite," Jesus answered. "It's a little more complicated than that."

"More complicated? Jeez, what kind of horror show did you bring me into? And you're surprised I want to kick Ryker in the balls for making me into a guinea pig?"

At last, something we both agree on, Jesus thought.

"What about your parents, Heidi?" Jesus inquired. "From our research, we know both of them are still alive. You must want to contact them."

Heidi sighed and let her head droop.

"We haven't spoken to each other in years," she said, slowly. "I'd be surprised if they even knew I was in Fort Worth. I love them, but they controlled me for years. They even arranged a marriage for me. Can you believe that? In this day and age?

"And now I'm still being controlled. By that...that vampire. By Ryker. By that doctor, what's his name, since you say I still need regular doses of the serum. Are you two going to control me as well?"

Dolores felt an ache in her heart. Heidi reminded her so much of Evangeline that it hurt. She and Jesus had been far too strict with their daughter and she had rebelled, with terrible results. Dolores could not help but think how different things might have been had they let Evangeline make some of her own decisions. Strangely, though, she wondered if she were being given a chance for redemption.

"No, Heidi," she said, pushing back from the table and standing up. "We won't control you. Not anymore. You're free to leave."

Jesus started to object, but Dolores shushed him.

"No, Jesus, she's right," she explained. "We have no right to keep her here against her will. That would be as bad, if not worse than, what Kane intended."

Heidi stared at the Montoyas for a few moments, not sure what to think. Finally, she pushed her cocoa away and got to her feet.

"Thank you, Dolores," she said. "Now, tell me how to kill those mothers."

"Whoa, Heidi, that's a big step," Dolores cautioned. "It's a lot more...I don't want to say 'complicated,' and sound like a broken record, but it is what it is. It's not as simple as you might think."

"Then teach me," Heidi retorted. "Everything. For years, I taught women how to protect themselves from predators. Now, it's time for me to protect myself from a new predator, so I can teach others."

Dolores looked at her husband and nodded. It was the outcome she'd hoped for ever since Ryker had dragged Heidi's body in for Patel's experiment. She gained a new recruit and had avoided an extremely awkward situation.

"Well, we can get you started on training soon enough," Jesus said. "But, please be patient with us. There is still a lot we have to find out about you, before we expose you to our entire operation."

"Thank you, sir," Heidi replied, a thin smile breaking across her lips for the first time in days. "I won't let you down. At least not the way I let myself down at the bridge."

"Well, let's get you started with a few basic facts about vampires then," Dolores said. "Provided it doesn't make you want to puke."

Heidi blushed deeply.

"Meanwhile, I'll see if I can't get Angelica and Kelly to give you some sisterly guidance."

"Thank you, both," Heidi said. "I'm actually glad you're putting me with Angelica. I've followed her career for years. I like how she combines strength with a sense of responsibility, respect and compassion. I'm going to need it, so I don't end up the wrong way."

"Wrong way?" Jesus queried.

"Cold and emotionless," Heidi answered. "Like him. Like Ryker."

Riordan dozed lightly on the bed in his penthouse suite. It had been a long day, made all the more difficult by his impromptu daylight meeting. Despite the heavy tinting on his window, he couldn't keep all the sun's rays out and they had sapped more strength than he dared let on in front of Giancarlo and Jewel.

It was dusk now and he had set up a reception for the rest of his guests. It delayed his all-important meeting to discuss the Awakening, but, at heart, Riordan was a businessman. He had to gain the trust of his potential new business partners and that meant schmoozing.

He opened his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn't need to look at a clock to know it was getting dark. He'd been able to sense the sun's setting for centuries.

As he lay, he thought of the night's activities. He would host the reception. At the same time, his enforcer, Lin, would be taking care of that brackish, upstart Kuster and his ilk. Then, she would join him at the reception, along with her personal security man, Duke.

His bedside phone chimed and he cursed mildly. He hated being interrupted in the middle of his thoughts, but sat up anyway. Only a few people knew this phone number, and all of them knew that it had to be vitally important to call it.

"This is Riordan," he said after activating the speakerphone function.

"Sir, we have a problem," Allison's voice said.

"Can it wait?"

When Allison uncharacteristically paused, Riordan straightened up and, out of habit, reached over to pick up the handset.

"What's wrong, Allison?"

He listened closely and slowly hung up the phone.

"Damn it," he muttered.

That nagging feeling from earlier in the day suddenly came back.

Lin Tang was angry now. She'd suited up in her all-black stalking outfit. She had her scabbards on and both swords sheathed. Everything was ready, except she had yet to solve one puzzling mystery.

Where was Duke?

She strode downstairs with a demeanor that told the other residents of her building and, especially, her half-deads to stay out of her way. Only Alex Dupree had no way of avoiding her. She walked up to him on the bottom floor, just as he sent two of his subordinates away. Sweat rolled over his brow even before she reached him.

"Where is Duke?" she demanded. "Speak before I cut your heart out."

Dupree swallowed hard and finally stammered, "Duke's dead, Mistress."

What are you going to do now? Your hand-picked man is dead, Lin. Maybe it was Kuster or maybe it was Riordan?

"Dead?" she blurted. "How? When?"

In her heart, though, what she'd felt earlier in the day was true. A sense of loss. And now, her head told her as well. As Dupree explained, she remembered the news report of the car explosion in Springtown. She vaguely heard Dupree say that police had found Duke's wallet at the scene, along with identification of someone named Avery. Two girls had also been in the car and they had given statements to the police.

Lin ignored Dupree and went back up to her apartment. She had trouble fathoming the news. It was one thing to lose someone like Kelly White Cloud, because she had Diane to replace her. Finding someone as trustworthy and loyal as Duke would be next to impossible.

A million questions swirled through her mind. What was he doing all the way down in Springtown – during daylight hours no less? Was it true that he had drug materials in the car? Most important, however, was the identity of his killers.

Someone had to have a massive set of cajones, to take on anyone connected to herself or Riordan. She imagined that it might be rival drug dealers, if the stories of the drug chemicals were true. She recalled that the other man, Avery. He was Duke's cousin and had a criminal record for narcotics. But, why would Duke be mixed up in drugs, especially, outside of the protection of Tarrant County?

She also had to think of Kuster, but she dismissed it quickly. Kuster was uncultured, but not stupid. Sending Kane to go rogue was one thing, but killing a member of a powerful master vampire's inner circle was like killing a Mafia don's trusted lieutenant. There would be harsh reprisals, no sane vampire would risk.

Her clock chimed and she mumbled a curse. She did not have time to grieve. She had her mission from Riordan and she still had to meet him at the reception – straight-faced. That was what he required of her and she never let him down.

Just like a good little girl.

She ignored the voice, got up and headed back out, this time to mete out punishment. And the way she was feeling now, she hoped Abel Kuster was as macho and chauvinistic as his reputation implied. She needed something to relieve her stress, and kicking the crud out of him sounded like just the right medicine.

After that, she would find Duke's killer and apply the same "cure."

Back at the compound, Dolores and Jesus were taking Heidi on a small tour, when Horace Garvey found them. He was out of breath. Jesus had Dolores take Heidi back to the room they'd set up for her, so that he could talk to Horace alone.

"Who's on duty in the monitor room?" Jesus asked.

"Michael and Jessie," Horace answered.

"Okay, then what's so important?"

Horace pulled out his new cell phone. After touching a few buttons, he brought up the current newscast and held it up. Jesus watched for a moment, nonplussed. His eyes widened in shock. Immediately afterward, his face contorted in abject anger. He stared at Horace and started to ask him something, only to see the answer in his man's eyes.

"Son of a bitch!" he snapped, his face turning crimson. "What the hell did he think he was doing?"

"Should I bring him to the hall for a tribunal review, sir?" Horace asked, his arms crossed.

"Oh, yes, by all means," Jesus finally answered when he got his wits about him again. "And handle it personally. Get Elvis to help you. We can't let this one go, amigo."

Horace didn't like how his boss was talking.

"And Cantrell better have all the right answers," Jesus added. "Because, if he doesn't, I'm going to kill him."

Chapter 6

Abel Kuster spat in disgust. He had arrived in Fort Worth a week earlier and, as of yet, had not been allowed any action. He'd already scoped out several, unwilling females at a local honky-tonk, billed as the world's largest, that he wanted to add to his personal harem, but Riordan had forbade it. He wasn't used to being refused anything. He was regretting the choice to abandon Phoenix for this great awakening Riordan had planned.

Also keeping him in a foul mood was the fact that Kane, his right-hand man, had been killed. He'd sent Kane out on a clandestine to pick off a few choice females for the group, in defiance of Riordan. He knew Kane had turned at least one woman, but the woman hadn't shown up anywhere. And, someone turned Kane to ash.

He growled, flicked his long, tangled and unkempt blond hair out of his face, and kicked an empty paint can across the floor of the long empty warehouse a few blocks from Main Street. The six men – four vampires and two familiars – who had come with him for the meet with Riordan, paid their boss no mind. They'd seen his moods before and knew not to say anything.

"Aw, is my poor baby mad?"

Kuster spun around, trying to find out the source of the female voice. His men jumped up, grabbing the pistols and shotguns they had hidden either on their persons or under the boxes they'd been sitting on. They took defensive positions.

"Who the hell said that?" Kuster demanded. "Don't mess with me, lady!"

He got no answer. Angrily, he motioned for his men to check the doors. Their temporary quarters were small compared to most warehouses, but it was much too large for such a small group to defend. Kuster ordered his men to hurry, knowing they were vulnerable the longer they were separated.

As ordered, his men split into two-man teams and hurried off into the shadows. Reaching inside his duster, Kuster pulled out a Mac-10 machine pistol. He'd cleaned it several times awaiting word from Riordan and, thus, it was primed and ready for action. Kuster preferred to take out his enemies hand-to-hand, but he was smart enough to know gun action gave him the edge.

Most of the time.

"See anything, guys?" he called out. "Is it the bitch that Kane bit? Guys?"

He heard a strange sound behind him and he spun around, gun at the ready. Something flew at him out of the shadows and clattered to the floor. He looked down and swallowed hard. It was a pistol grip shotgun his man Nance carried, and it had been cut clean in half, despite being made of tempered steel.

"Fall back!" he ordered, forcefully. "Defensive positions, now!"

Only four men came out of the shadows, backing towards Kuster and scanning the area for hostiles. Kuster had no time to ask what had happened to Nance and the other man, Linton, probably a moot point considering the state of Nance's gun. Just then, Lin Tang dropped down from the overhead rafters and landed behind his men so silently they never even turned.

"Behind you!" Kuster warned.

Lin immobilized Kuster's men with kicks to the groins and punches to their solar plexuses. She then snapped the necks of two of them. She pulled a long blade out of one of her boots and slit the throats of the two familiars. It went down so fast Kuster didn't have time to shoot. Tang twirled around at inhuman speed, hurling the knife across the floor and burying it in his torso, up to the hilt, the thick bone of his chest cavity proved no barrier.

"Mr. Riordan wanted me to send you a message," Lin said, mockingly, as she walked up to Kuster, who sagged to his knees in intense pain. "Oh, come now, Mr. Kuster. I didn't hit anything vital. Suck it up. No more roaming, okay? We have safehouses that supply all the blood and life force you'll need until the awakening. Next time, I won't be so merciful."

"Y-you bitch," Kuster spat, trying vainly to pull the knife out of his chest. "What d-do I look like? Some l-loyal lap dog like your dearly d-departed Duke?"

Lin burned with anger. She knew Kuster would never get the message but, on her boss' orders, she had to give it anyway. Now, however, the man had crossed a line that made those orders very easy to ignore.

Hear that? This bastard probably knew about Duke before you did. Maybe he's the one responsible. You can't let him get away with something like that, you know.

For one of the very few times, Lin actually agreed with the voice in her head.

Her hand shot forward, gripped the blade and wrenched it free so quick that it made Kuster cry out in agony and fall to his hands. Through eyes, blurred by more pain than he'd ever felt in his life, he looked up just in time to see Tang bring the blade of one of her samurai swords over his head.

"Forget what I said earlier," she remarked.

Deep down, she knew she should have asked him how he knew about Duke. But, she was too angry. Instead, she decapitated him in one stroke.

She smiled at her handiwork, sheathed her blade and turned. The incredible energy of the life force rushing out of the vampires caused the bodies to self-combust, immolating flesh, bone and clothing and turning them to ash within seconds. Lin felt no remorse as she melted back into the shadows.

Despite the recent bad news, Louis Riordan did a good job of hiding his apprehensions. Instead, he was all smiles at the reception for his fellow clan leaders. He looked around the magnificent ballroom he had rented out in downtown Fort Worth for the occasion. The diamond chandelier might have seemed over the top, but he was sparing nothing for his occasion. Everything depended on him overwhelming his guests into following his moves.

He took stock of those who had arrived, escorted by a plethora of vampire lieutenants and sexily-clad male and female familiars. He also noted that his main security man, Travis Pratt, at the main door. Pratt was the only security inside the room, all others being kept outside to avoid any of the guests thinking that something might be amiss.

As Tesino Giancarlo entered the ballroom, Riordan eyed the deliciously tall blue-eyed brunette on his arm. He wondered how long it would take the woman's ample breasts to "accidentally" spill out of her v-neck black ballroom gown. He raised his glass of champagne toward Giancarlo, who gently moved himself and his date over to the host.

"Tesino, my friend," Riordan greeted. "So glad you could make it. And just who is this delicious creature?"

"This is my companion, Eva," Giancarlo replied, looking at the woman as she blushed coyly. "Eva, this is our host, Louis Riordan."

Eva merely nodded, telling Riordan that Giancarlo liked his women totally submissive.

"She is a familiar," Giancarlo expounded. "Though most of the world would rather not think that we exist, a small, but sizeable, portion of humanity welcomes us. The number of night clubs in the New York-New Jersey area alone, that cater to familiar-vampire bondings, would make Texas look miniscule. It is incredible, to say the least. But, I digress. I really brought Eva to show that familiars aren't just the power-hungry sycophants the movies would have us all believe."

"Ah, I would have to agree," Riordan said. "My Allison still turns heads and is completely loyal. Hmm, I see that Edge still prefers to go solo."

A tall gaunt-looking man, with a graying grizzled beard, stepped into the room, clad in a sharp Italian suit. He took a glass of champagne off a passing tray and looked around. Upon seeing Giancarlo and Riordan, he slowly made his way over to them.

"Run along and play with the other familiars," Giancarlo said to his date. "Maybe you can convince some of them to come play with us later."

Eva made her way to the other side of the room just before Edge Ringgold, who represented Canadian vampires, arrived.

"It's always the former porn stars with you, eh, Tesino?" Ringgold commented, dryly.

"Nice to see you, too, Edge," Ginacarlo retorted. "Alone as usual. Don't tell me. You had to dispose of yet another one for being too stubborn? Or is it too submissive? I can never tell with you."

"Now, now, my friends," Riordan interrupted. "We are here to mingle, not argue. There will be time for that during negotiations. This night is for us all to meet each other on a less formal basis."

"Still, there are some things that can't be ignored," Ringgold said, with a snort. "Like the assassination of Duke, which is still all over the news, even if most people have no clue who Duke was. As for Kane, I could care less. Even on his best days, his master, Kuster, is a dick. I'm surprised you even allowed his worthless ass to stay in town. However, Duke is a more serious issue. And Kane's ashing has me more than a bit concerned. Have you found out who did either one?"

Riordan kept smiling, but, inwardly, fumed. Who were these men to question how he ran his town? Then again, he thought, maybe they were testing his leadership abilities.

"Don't worry," he said. "Lin is taking care of those responsible as we speak."

"A-ha, your enforcer," Giancarlo noted. "And the main source of your strength."

"I'd like to be the main source of her strength," Ringgold said, with a crude laugh. "If I wasn't afraid of being castrated and decapitated."

Riordan looked toward the door again.

"Well, well, well," he said, happily. "Tsukiko Matsutaka looks as good in a gown as she does in a business suit."

"And there must be a God," Ringgold joked. "Is that Jewel Waterston in a dress? Will miracles never cease?"

Both women soon joined the group. Jewel wore a simple cream-colored gown that reached the floor. Matsutaka looked stunning, her well-toned body filling out her dress in all the right places. The diamond necklace around her throat made her look that much more exquisite.

The group made small talk while other clan leaders entered or left the room.

Suddenly, the room went quiet and Riordan looked toward the door.

Lin Tang had arrived.

Clad head to toe in black leather; she wore a ruffled jacket, midriff-baring bustier, knee-length skirt and stiletto boots that accentuated her sleek, muscular calves. In fact, her outfit made every muscle and sinew stand out like a statue to be admired. Even Matsutaka, who always considered herself among the world's most beautiful women, reddened slightly with jealousy.

Lin bowed gracefully and nodded slightly at her boss while Ringgold leered. Riordan knew she had taken care of the situation with Kuster. By the gleam in her eye, he also knew she'd taken care of Kuster. No doubt the man had said or done something completely stupid. He didn't care. He'd given the man ample opportunity to shape up, and, he could truthfully tell the clan leaders that he had done so.

"Ah, Lin, I see that you have concluded your business quite quickly," Riordan said. "As you all must know by now, this is Lin Tang. Lin, these are Tsukiko Matsutaka, Jewel Waterston, Edge Ringgold and Tesino Giancarlo."

"I am most honored to meet you all," Lin said, bowing gracefully again – like a courtesan.

Now, now, no need to lie. It is unbecoming a lady.

"Well, well, graciously mannered and stunningly beautiful," Giancarlo commented. "Where ever did you find such perfection, Louis?"

"From Lo Chang, where else," Ringgold replied, snidely.

Lin's smile disappeared briefly before returning in an awkward manner.

"Please forgive Edge," Waterston apologized. "He sometimes thinks before he speaks. The rest of the time, like now, he sticks his foot in his mouth."

"Not to worry," Giancarlo interjected. "That situation is in the past. Moonrise stuck its neck where it didn't belong and now it is gone. On to more pleasant things."

"Like the new wonderful age of vampires that will begin on Sunday," Riordan said.

"Why Sunday, Riordan-san?" Matsutaka asked.

"What better way to stick it to Him?"

Riordan laughed and ordered a waiter to bring more champagne.

Aurelia glanced at her watch and fumed. She was supposed to be home looking after the children, not waiting for Ian Hendricks in the parking lot of a roadside restaurant along Interstate 35. Still, she had little choice. Things had hit the fan and, as usual, she would have to clean it up. It wasn't like she needed another reason to hate having taken that bribe from Riordan.

She watched a large pickup truck pull into the lot and park near an SUV in the back. The door open and a rather stocky man wearing a brown leather Australian-type duster stepped out. The man also wore a cowboy hat, jeans, western shirt and brown cowboy boots.

Aurelia paid little mind to the clothes. It was Ian Hendricks' face that got her attention. His rugged good looks could melt even her foulest mood. She wanted nothing more than for that scruffy face to be looking at her, as they rode each other in rhythm to climax. Alas, she could never get it to happen, what with the kids and the demands of her job.

"Any reason why we're doing this in public and not over the phone?" asked a perturbed Hendricks.

"You know why," Aurelia shot back. "Face-to-face meetings carry more weight in my reports than a phone bill."

Aurelia studied Hendricks' face. He was one of the best private investigators in not just Texas, but the entire American southwest, not to mention Mexico. He had many contacts within the criminal world, as well as the legal one. His good looks, rugged demeanor and street smarts often got him information that many people would never dare give to the police. It was just that she really could not be sure of the man behind that pleasing face.

"What's up then?" he asked. "Now that we are facing each other."

"I need you to go down to Springtown for me," Aurelia said.

"That's a bit out of your jurisdiction."

"You heard about Duke? Lin Tang's number one lackey?" Aurelia eyed Ian coolly.

"Not really," Hendricks replied. "Per your instructions, I am not to keep an eye on anyone directly connected to Riordan or Lin Tang, unless specifically requested. That said – are you implying that Duke was one who got taken out in that ambush?"

"According to Riordan's people, yes," Aurelia answered. "They say someone found his wallet at the scene. They haven't been able to get a hold of him. So, put two and two together. Besides, you know that they can feel the death of their own kind, within a certain distance. And, the only body positively identified, both by witnesses and by fingerprints, is a man named Avery."

"Duke's cousin," Hendricks noted. "I've run into him before. The man boasts that his cousin is – or maybe was – a vampire. Most people thought he smoked his own product, since we all know vampires don't exist. Quote unquote."

"Here's what I need from you, Ian," Aurelia stated. "I'm pretty sure Duke was the other victim, but that's actually not the important thing. What I need to know, is how it was done and by whom. I don't need to see the streets of Fort Worth run red because Lin Tang starts her own brand of investigation."

"No, we just let the streets run red from the nightly partying of Fort Worth's vampire elite," Hendricks remarked, acidly.

"Just do what I'm fucking paying you for, okay?" Aurelia snapped. "I have to get back to the kids."

Hendricks watched Aurelia get into her car and drive away. He shook his head with some disdain, still smarting from the complete break from her usual professional demeanor. She was smart, gorgeous and had a body he wanted badly.

But, she was the enemy. It was one thing to take her money, but another to get involved emotionally. Those things rarely worked out in his line of work. Still, the more he met with her, the more his willpower decreased. Something had to give and Ian wasn't sure how much hell he'd catch when it did.

He took out his phone and speed-dialed a number.

"Yeah, this is Ian," he said when the other party answered. "Write this down."

Marcus Van Niekerk had relied so much on gut instinct to survive the brutal world of mercenary work, he knew something was up long before he got to the front gate of Manuel's Auto Repair on Jacksboro Highway. Even when Jessie Kellums tried to sound nonchalant about his entry request, he sensed that she was very upset. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why.

Angelica Morales felt the same thing, though her instincts weren't quite as refined as Marcus'. She had been a bodyguard for several years, but handling a few crazy fans and stalkers was nothing like going up against rebels in war-torn Africa. That didn't mean she was out of her element, though, and she eyed Marcus warily as she climbed out of the passenger side of his SUV after he had parked it inside one of the garage bays.

"A little too quiet tonight," Marcus remarked. "Normally, we'd be hearing Jessie's yammering as soon as got near the garage doors."

"I can imagine they might have a few questions for us," Angelica noted.

"No. Just one."

They stopped when they saw Jesus walk out of the garage office, with Wesley and Manuel Acevedo right behind him.

"Where the fuck is Cantrell?"

"Aha," Marcus replied, simply. "I see we watched the news."

"Now is not the time for that famous British humor, Marcus," Jesus shot back. "This is serious. I warned him what would happen if he didn't start being a team player. And no amount of explaining from you is going to keep me from kicking his ass out."

"Are we our brother's keeper?" Angelica whispered. "This is getting real old, real fast."

Marcus glanced at her and nodded slightly.

"You're barking up the wrong tree, Jesus," Marcus said. "What if I said it was all my idea? And I'm South African, in case you misplaced the accent."

"I'd say that you don't need to cover for Ryker anymore," Wesley answered. "Dude, do you think he's even worth it?"

"Jesucristo, Wesley," Angelica interjected, fuming. "¿Realmente escucha usted a usted cuándo usted habla? El hombre sólo le dijo la verdad. Deje de ser un Infante de marina y muestre alguna inteligencia para un cambio. Todavía mejor, déjeme traducir. Cierre el infierno y escuche o arrancaré su cabeza y defecaré abajo su cuello."

Wesley just stood in place, stunned.

"What the hell did she just say?"

"She said 'yes,'" Marcus replied, to which Acevedo kept mum, even as his face threatened to break out into laughter.

"That sounded awfully like a shot about Marines," Wesley remarked.

"She said 'marina,' dumb ass," Marcus remarked. "Didn't you listen? Anyway, the killing of Duke was not Ryker's idea. It was mine. You know Ryker's methods. If you two would stop going ballistic every time you think he's done something wrong, you might learn a thing or two. Ryker does not have that kind of finesse. And we all know that, don't we?"

Jesus looked shocked at the confession. He had his hands on his hips and seemed to be beside himself. Wesley and Manuel were even more stunned.

"What in God's name were you two thinking then?" Jesus demanded. "Do you know the can of worms you just opened?"

"Yes, I do," Marcus answered, standing his ground. "And if you want to ash-can me for not passing the idea by you first, then you're welcome to do so. But, Dolores said we needed to step things up. And, I figured a direct attack against Lin Tang was the way to go. Before, nothing we did before worked at drawing her out. Now, she'll have to get her pretty little hands dirty in the street."

"Yeah, and she might bring Riordan's entire organization down on our heads," Wesley shot back. "Did you think of that?"

Angelica stepped between the two parties.

"Truce time," she said. "We cannot fight amongst each other. We can't make it business-as-usual among hunters. The enemy has made it clear that they are organized and so must we."

"Okay, I am calm," Jesus said, after taking a deep breath. "Where is Ryker?"

"At one of my safehouses, keeping low for a day or two," Marcus answered, calmly.

"See how better it is to talk with cool heads?" Angelica noted. "Now, let's get back to the most important things."

"And those would be?" Jesus asked.

"What will Lin Tang do and how can we use that against her?" Angelica replied, with a sly grin.

"Wat ze bedoelt is het tijd om eff de werken," Marcus commented, with a larger grin.

"Eff up the works is right, brother," Wesley added. "What? I used to date a Dutch girl, okay?"

Jesus rolled his eyes.

"Dios, concédeme la fuerza," Manuel mumbled.

"God grant us all strength, Manuel," Jesus clarified. "Come on. Let's try to explain all of this to the others. In English."

Chapter 7

"You may not believe it, but I can sympathize a little with what you're going through," Kelly White Cloud said, as she sat down next to Heidi with a tray of food.

Heidi lifted her head. She smiled weakly and made room for the new arrival. She'd been all alone in the facility dining hall, while Jesus and the others held some kind of tribunal to discuss something that had gone down with Marcus. This had interrupted her initiation into the Hunters and had led Dolores to put her away from the others, as she was not yet a member.

"Really?" Heidi asked, surprised. "You were a vampire, too?"

"Well, no," Kelly laughed, with some embarrassment. "I was a half-dead."

"What's a half-dead?"

"Okay, you know how a heroin addict can get severely addicted to the point that they will do anything to get the drug, even rob and kill?" Kelly said. "I was bitten by a vampire named Lin Tang, just enough to get addicted to it. Without it, I went through severe withdrawal, so I did whatever Lin Tang told me to do just so she could bite me again. All I wanted was to get away from her, but I didn't want to face the DT's."

"How did that happen?" Heidi asked, now intrigued and alert. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

Kelly shook her head.

"It's okay," she answered. "It does me good to talk about it. Let's put it this way – I was a wild child. Stubborn as a mule, ready to fight anybody and everybody. Must have been my Kiowa blood. Anyway, I met this guy, he took me to this exclusive club, and really worked to get me to join. I got antsy about it and tried to get out. That's when Lin Tang appeared and I found out my so-called boyfriend was a half-dead."

"And you willingly became a, what did you call it, a 'half-dead'?"

"It was either that or be bled dry by Lin Tang," Kelly said. "She was mad that I wasn't a willing recruit but she couldn't let me go either. After I became one of her subjects, she used that anger and rebellion within me to make me head of the group. My first act was to give my now former boyfriend a serious walking impediment."

"I know a lot of women who'd love to do the same thing to their exes," Heidi said, with a wide grin. "But, back to the story. Lin made you head of her group, just like that? I'll bet that went over well."

"Yeah, except for this scuzzball named Lincoln," Kelly replied. "He got his revenge. Lured me into a trap during a recruiting mission and left me for dead. If Ryker and Angelica hadn't happened along, I'd have been face down in a gutter, dead or probably something far worse."

"Did they inject you with the serum, too?" Heidi finally asked, after an uncomfortable silence. "I still don't know how I feel about being used as a guinea pig. I can't bring myself to forgive Ryker for saving me just to be used."

"Yeah, I heard about your reservations in the holding room," Kelly said. "I thought the steak was bad or something."

"No, it was actually pretty good."

"Good, because I cooked it," Kelly noted. "As for Ryker, I wouldn't be so hasty to condemn him. After all, without him, you'd be dead. There'd be no making up for any mistakes or helping others. Yeah, Cantrell's strange and abrasive. And aloof and weird, and a bunch of other adjectives I won't repeat. But if you need help, he's got your back."

"You're right," Heidi agreed, sheepishly. "Maybe I needed someone to lash out at since I haven't been able to get back at these vampires. God, I hate myself for getting taken so easily. I teach women how to defend themselves and not make themselves targets. Then, I go and do all the things I preach against."

"You know, you have twenty-four hours a day to blame yourself for what happened," Kelly said. "Or you can use it as a practical example of what not to do. Now, onto more important things; since Dolores is busy, it's up to me to give you a crash course in the world of vampires."

"Okay. Let me put my seatbelt on."

Diane Simmons shivered a little in the night air as she stood just in the shadows outside of the Fulbright Hotel, one of the most luxurious hotels in North Texas. The dress she wore was even slinkier than the one she'd used on Michael Anderson. It was not made for warmth or comfort.

About twenty feet behind her stood two others, a man and a woman, impeccably dressed. They seemed to be looking straight at Diane, but their eyes were carefully scanning the surroundings. Inside their jackets, they carried nine-millimeter pistols. They were half-deads, who ranked high enough to act as bodyguards for Diane on certain missions.

Diane strained to hear the music coming from the grand ballroom and wished she could be inside. But, she wasn't a vampire – not yet anyway. One day, if she served her master well enough, she would be inside with Riordan and his ilk. Right now, though, she did not rate high enough for entry into the foyer.

Still, Diane was Lin's obedient servant – her position as head of the half-deads depended on it. Without her new life, she knew she'd be back working as an escort for some sorry madam or pimp.

"Are we getting impatient?"

Diane gasped, jumping forward about a foot when she heard the voice behind her. She looked toward her bodyguards, who neither moved nor blinked. Turning, she breathed a sigh of relief as Lin Tang materialized out of the shadows.

"No need to be afraid, Diane," Lin said, as she approached her lead half-dead. "It is a weakness. Do not worry. You are not late. It is I who must apologize for the hour of this call."

'You, mistress?" Diane asked, somewhat incredulous.

"That is not important now," Lin said, dismissively. "Pay attention, for the mission that I mentioned to you earlier is canceled. It can wait. I have a new target for you."

"Yes, mistress."

"You, no doubt, have heard that Duke is dead," Lin continued, as she began to pace back and forth on the sidewalk. "That is an affront that cannot be allowed to stand. No. Will not be allowed to stand."

Diane was even more confused. She tried to steady herself on her six-inch stiletto heels as she contemplated her master's words. Lin, meanwhile, seemed to enjoy manipulating the gullible woman.

"Surely I would not be able to persuade the vampire responsible to give up such information, mistress," Diane blurted.

"It was not a vampire," Lin retorted. "No, I am afraid that we have a human hunter. One who has no idea, exactly, what he has stumbled into."

"How will I find this person, mistress?"

"Through the man who knows everything about this town, Diane," Lin answered, coyly licking her lips. "You know, Diane. You are very lucky."

Diane said nothing.

"I trust very few humans," Lin continued. "I once trusted humans implicitly, even after I was turned; that was before they murdered my master, Lo Chang. Before the one called Cantrell Ryker tortured him for the sheer fun of it. However, I have developed a fondness for a few humans, and, I do not mean these sniveling familiars."

Diane cast a wary glance at the nearby guards. If any of them took offense to Lin's words, they did not show it. That was probably wise, Diane thought.

"Kelly White Cloud was one such person," Lin said. "But, she is dead now. Betrayed by a human, of course. And now I have you, Diane. And do you know why I have a fondness for you?"

"No, mistress."

"Because you always do as I ask and have never failed me, Diane," Lin replied, walking up close enough to Diane to playfully nip at her neck. "So, I know you will not fail me this time."

"I will not fail you, mistress. M-mistress, please."

Lin smiled and then bit again at Diane's neck. She drank quickly and then lapped the wound with her tongue so that it healed. She stood back to let Diane experience the rush that her bite brought.

"T-thank you, mistress," Diane gasped, after recovering her faculties. "Who is my target?"

"A private detective," Lin replied. "He works for one of Mr. Riordan's police contacts, but I would not hesitate to say that he does not tell Detective Hernandez all that he knows. Put him under your spell, Diane and then he will tell me everything he does know. Everything."

Hendricks slowed his truck along Jacksboro Highway and turned right onto the driveway of a gray building that said "Manuel's Garage" on an overhead marquis. He eased into an open bay, shut off the engine and climbed out. Manuel Acevedo came out of a side office, wiping his dirty hands with an even dirtier towel.

"Hey, muchacho, what's wrong with the truck this time?" Avecedo asked. "You keep running this baby into the ground, you'll be making the last few payments for nothing."

"The boss around?" Hendricks asked.

"Oh, boy, is he," Avecedo replied, motioning towards the open doorway. "You're just in time for the tribunal."

"Tribunal?" Hendricks gave Manuel a curious look. "What is this? Ancient Rome?"

"You'll find out," was all Manuel said before turning his attention to Ian's truck.

Puzzled, Hendricks went into the office, looked around past the bookshelves, crowded with tattered auto manuals and an old television, and settled on the closet door. He opened it, stepped inside and turned on the light. He ducked past a row of overalls hanging on a clothing bar. At the back of the closet, he pressed a panel and watched it swing open. He found himself at the top of a long flight of steps, lit only by a single light bulb.

He descended. When he got to the bottom the barrel of a shotgun came out of the shadows and into his face. He threw his hands up defensively and the shotgun was pulled back.

"Jeez, didn't Manuel say I was coming down?" Hendricks objected. "And I thought there was some kind of tribunal going on? Don't tell me Ryker finally broke the camel's back with this Springtown mess?"

Horace Garvey stepped into the light and apologized. The gangly man, who looked barely old enough to be in college, tilted his faded red baseball cap to the back of his head, propped the sawed off shotgun on his left shoulder and stepped aside. Hendricks eyed the man warily and walked past him. He knew Horace Garvey was far older than his baby face announced and he wasn't about to underestimate him.

"You wish, kemo sabe," Horace joked. "No, we're actually talking about the mess you started with your little phone call."

Hendricks walked down a long, narrow hallway, followed closely by Horace. As it became much cooler, he realized he was passing under the hills upon which used to sit some of Fort Worth's finest mansions in Cowtown's heyday. The rich soil kept the hallway naturally cool. It also made it smell a little musty, he told himself. He could imagine all sorts of molds and fungi growing in the dark recesses and corners.

"What exactly is this little tribunal about?" he asked Horace.

"About killing these freaking vampires once and for all," Horace said. "Starting with Lin Tang."

"Sweet Jesus," Hendricks gasped. "Lin Tang? Just cut to the front of the line, why dontcha'?"

Hendricks came around a corner and found himself in a wide open room that had long metal tables and comfortable-looking office chairs. They were all there. Jesus, Wesley, Jessie, Dolores, Marcus, Angelica.

And they were all looking at him.

Ryker flipped through the 500 channels available on Marcus' satellite television package and still found nothing worth watching. Frustrated, he turned the television off and went into an adjacent room. Sitting down at the computer desk within, he logged on to the Internet and fished through the headlines – carefully avoiding the Springtown reports.

He played a few games of freecell and solitaire before switching to one of the military-style, first-person shooter games. After about an hour, he was tired of those and gave up. He didn't even feel like writing another chapter in his memoirs. Truth be told, he was already on the third volume of a series he could never publish.

"To hell with this," he muttered.

He went out into the living room and grabbed his jacket. He picked a backpack up from next to the couch and went to the basement door. He pulled a set of night-vision goggles from the pack, put them on and then headed down into the basement, his target was one of the safehouse's emergency exits.

In the living room, the telephone buzzed.

"Looks like someone's going to get hung. I'm hoping it's not me," Ian said as he stood before a semicircular table in the underground compound of the Hunters.

He felt a bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck. He glanced around at the table's occupants – Jesus, Dolores, Elvis, Marcus, Angelica, Jessie and Horace, who had just taken one of the last two available chairs. Jessie look shot daggers at him and he wished he'd never taken her out on that disastrous date six months earlier.

"Actually, Ian, you're in the way," Jesus replied. "You're blocking the computer screen. Have a seat."

Looking over his shoulder, Ian saw a rather complex organizational chart being beamed from a small laptop computer onto the opposite wall. Half the chart was on his coat. Sheepishly, he moved around the table and sat down next to Garvey.

"What I was referring to earlier, Ian, was to see where you stood in our arrangement," Jesus said. "As you should know, the battle against Riordan has been taken up a notch."

That's an understatement, Ian thought.

"Don't tell me you actually approved killing Lin Tang's right-hand man?" Ian asked, more than a bit stunned. "I can see Ryker doing it, yes, but you, Jesus? Dolores?"

"It wasn't Ryker's idea," Jesus retorted. "But, what's done is done. And, in the long run, it is probably a good thing."

"A good thing?" Ian queried. "I just got reamed by my police contacts. They're itching to find out who did it before Lin Tang and Riordan rip them a new one. You've stirred up a real hornet's nest. I hope you have a good follow-up plan."

Jesus nodded at Marcus, who stood up and moved around the table. He stopped next to the organizational chart. He pressed a button on a remote in his pocket and the chart changed.

"Yes, Ian, we do have a follow-up plan, but it may get us all killed," Marcus answered. "Then again, how is that different from any other day? We don't have too much choice as we are just a small group. What you see here, plus Michael Lee, Cantrell, Kelly White Cloud and a new member we just got in recently. Oh and Manuel in the garage, of course."

Ian studied the chart and saw that it broke down the Hunters group into different categories. He saw titles for Leadership, Technology, Weapons, Transportation, Planning, Intelligence and Training. Each header had one or two names next to it. His name was next to Intelligence, along with Kelly White Cloud and Ryker, and he suppressed a groan at having to work with Cantrell.

"Is this just an organizational chart?" he asked. "Just noting who's who with what specialty, or, is it what I think it is?"

"It's what you're thinking," Wesley replied.

"Not afraid of a little hard work, are you, Ian?"

Ian frowned at Jessie's cutting remark. She clearly didn't know how thin of a line he treaded on a daily basis, acting as a double agent. He was taking a big chance just coming to the compound, though his news was very important this day. Normally, he called via one of his coded cellular phones.

"You realize that I can't be put into a position of being possibly compromised," he noted. "And you do realize that Ryker is supposed to be dead."

"Can't be helped," Marcus chimed in. "If we are to take this fight to Riordan's doorstep, we need to be as efficient as possible. That means training in not only our specialty, but cross-training in another. We've got to hone our organization. No more random patrols just to seem like we're doing something positive. We don't have a great deal of time."

"And we may have even less."

Everyone looked up to see Michael Lee entering the room.

"Okay, then, why do we have even less time?" Jesus asked.

"I tried to establish comms with Cantrell at the safehouse," Lee said, scratching his scruffy beard. "I still haven't gotten an answer."

"Damn it," Jesus groaned.

Ryker nibbled at the egg salad sandwich he'd purchased at a local gas station just after leaving Marcus's safehouse. As he did so, he brought the binoculars back up to his eyes and peered down at the street. He was in an empty suite in a partially-finished office building near downtown Fort Worth.

It had been a chore getting into the building. He'd gone through the sewers, a hole in the wall, a sea of rats, who didn't like his intrusion, and up an old drainage pipe from the previous building that had occupied the site. Then, he had to crawl through an air vent to the shaft of the freight elevator, and ride to the tenth floor on the car's roof, when the building's lone security guard made his rounds. From there, he climbed a maintenance ladder up to the twelfth floor, going faster than normal, as he needed the car to provide a safety net in case he slipped.

He'd obviously made it, scampering into another vent just as the guard returned to the freight car and went back down to the lobby to take another nap. He'd made such a treacherous journey because of what he found in his e-mail. Months earlier, he'd had Michael Lee set up a program to monitor activity by any of Riordan's front companies.

Tonight, that program had come across a gala event organized at one of Fort Worth's most posh hotels. Riordan had rented out the entire banquet hall and Ryker could see why. The security guards were numerous and at least two of them were familiars, who worked directly with Travis Pratt. A third, he was almost sure, he'd seen with that pasty-faced bastard Porter Coleman.

Ryker didn't know why Riordan was hosting the reception, but he had gambled that it was extremely important. More than likely, he figured Riordan was putting more corporation officers, political leaders and cops on his payroll. He wanted to see who else he might have to add to the Hunters' target lists.

His cell phone vibrated in his tunic pocket. He ignored it. It could only be an irate Jesus. He really didn't feel like explaining his actions yet again. Jesus would just yell at him some more.

Sometimes, he wished he was still with Moonrise, Inc. He'd been brought in to the group as a liaison between the various departments – the group was divided into sections that handled cults, covens, vampires and miscellaneous. Competing for funds, the groups had fallen into something worse than the interservice rivalries that plagued the American military. Ryker was supposed to work to facilitate communications between the sections, as he was an outsider who had no personal connections in any of the departments.

It was a cold assignment, but at least no one had ever yelled at him for doing what he felt needed to be done, to get the job accomplished. He only wished it all hadn't ended so badly.

He still remembered the event in San Antonio quite vividly. What a cluster that had been, Moonrise had attempted to break up a religious cult that kidnapped fifty college students.

They had severely underestimated the size of the cult. Thirty armed men turned into sixty, and, at least five of them were actually vampires looking to convert some college students into familiars. Ryker had to help, even though he hadn't been cleared for field work.

By the end of the day, he'd taken out several cult members trying to gun down fleeing students in the back. Then he helped capture Lo Chang, the cult's teacher or "sensei." Which ended messily, as well, with Ryker blowing out the sensei's kneecaps.

Ryker grimaced at the memories. Had San Antonio been the turning point, he wondered. Had that been when he became such a cold-hearted person? Was saving the likes of Heidi, Kelly and Jessie his way of trying to regain some of the humanity he'd lost with Moonrise? Was it why he chose to obey only some order with the Hunters, because he'd gotten so many conflicting ones with Moonrise?

Three years hadn't been enough to dull the backlash. He was still a pariah, even after coming in from the cold. Why?

Man, he thought. This is weirder than the Isle of Blood. Of course, he realized, he couldn't talk about that particular ordeal. The whole thing was still classified top secret.

Just then, he saw a fleet of limousines pull up to the hotel. Shoving his thoughts back into the deep recesses of his mind, he activated his miniature video camera. He wanted to keep a record of who he saw, so that, later on, he could check them out through Ian Hendricks.

When the first people finally came out, Cantrell Ryker blanched.

"What the hell?" he muttered, as he took a long, hard look. "Oh, my God."

At one time, he wanted Jesus and Dolores to seriously reconsider their purpose for coming to Fort Worth to take on Riordan. He didn't think they were organized enough for such a task. He'd warned them that their time to act was dwindling rapidly.

Now, as he watched Riordan's guests – fifteen of North America's most powerful clan masters – exiting the banquet hall, he realized they actually had no time at all.

He pulled out his phone.

Chapter 8

Louis Riordan made sure he was the first one to the front door as the reception broke up. He wanted to bid his guests farewell before they headed back to their hotel rooms or searched for more amorous action. Lin Tang had already excused herself earlier to meet with Diane Simmons, no doubt to begin her own investigation of Duke's death. He fretted a little about that, hoping she would not let herself become so distracted by it that she forgot her role in the awakening.

Travis Pratt stood by him at the door and he merely nodded at the man. He found him, oddly enough, doing security at a local wrestling arena where Riordan had met with a man trying to get him to invest. He sensed that Pratt needed to handle something more than rousting drunken rednecks and had recruited him that very night.

"Limousines approaching now, sir," Pratt said.

The line of limousines rolled around the corner into the valet parking lane of the reception hall. As each one stopped in front of the lobby, a master vampire and his ilk walked outside and got in. Riordan said his goodbyes and thanked them all for coming.

As they left, he noted their names and the cities from which they hailed. Mentally, he wanted to make sure he knew them all well enough to call them by their first names when they met for the negotiations. He'd learned decades ago that such a method made even the most nervous guest feel comfortable.

Nelly O'Roarke, a spry redhead from Chicago, was the first one outside, walking with a tall Latino that Riordan knew only as a local paid escort. The familiars, who couldn't get into a master vampire's clan, had gotten clever by hiring themselves out as escorts for visiting masters or important guests. Riordan didn't mind it because it showed the kind of initiative he wanted from the people in his organization.

Beauregard Collins was next. He had arrived alone, but now left with two female familiars who hung all over him like a second skin. Riordan was impressed. He'd long held the impression that both women were hardcore lesbians. Then again, Collins had quite the reputation as a ladies' man back in Atlanta.

The rest of the masters seemed to go by in a blur. Jake Lucabaugh, in charge of the Houston clan; Alexia Ciccione, from Minneapolis-St. Paul of all places; Mia DuMont, a dusky beauty representing the Caribbean; Luc D'Estaing, from Baton Rouge, Louisiana; Esmeralda and Alberto Lupo, former heads of drug cartels who had married and now controlled vampires in the northern half of Mexico.

The next group consisted of the ones who most concerned Riordan. They were the upstarts, clan masters who upset the balance of power just for the hell of it. Life was definitely a game to them, and, the biggest game was challenging the oldest, most established clans. Riordan had tabbed them the most likely to object to his quest for leadership of the new alliance.

The ebony beauty Nyrobi Kenya, who came from St. Louis, held huge sway in the American Midwest. Aguelo Munoz controlled Central America and, in many ways, was more powerful than the Lupos' Mexican concerns. Elisa Fusco, another Italian-American like Giancarlo and Ciccione, was the group's most reluctant member, as she had been forcefully turned by her own mother in Boston's South End. But, she was strong on family and had been faithfully representing her clan's New England interests for years.

The final quartet were the masters he'd been standing with for most of the night. Edge Ringgold went to his limousine, a brunette from his native Toronto on his arm. Pratt had hired her to be a hostess, unaware of her Canadian roots. Tsukiko Matsutaka and Jewel Waterston left together and Riordan found himself actually surprised. He knew Waterston liked women but he thought that Matsutaka abhorred such sexual notions. Finally, Giancarlo and his date, Eva, stepped outside.

"A very delightful evening, Louis," Giancarlo said, with a slight smile. "I might have to admit that such things are possible outside of New York and Newark."

Riordan thanked him. Though, inwardly he hated the man's conceit. He certainly did not want to have such a man in charge of the collective. That ego would only breed contempt among the others. If, however, that conceit was under his thumb, Riordan would find it far easier to control.

Riordan watched as Pratt closed the limousine door and the vehicle drove off. He breathed a sigh of relief and nodded at his chief of security. He bid him goodnight, just as Allison came outside, clad in a stunning burgundy gown. Riordan slid an arm around his secretary's waist and ushered her back inside, to a private room.

Pratt put two men on the door, dismissing the rest of the special exterior detail for the night. Then, something caught his eye, a glint of light from the building across the way. He looked up just as one of his familiars came up to him. He ignored the man as his eyes scanned the twelfth floor.

More than likely, it was just moonlight hitting the building's glass panels, but something still bugged him. He felt as if he were being watched. It was almost simple to guess by whom. Though he'd met with the master vampires' security teams, he didn't doubt at least one of them had brought along a few extras, of a more clandestine nature. He had suspected that from Giancarlo at least and, possibly, the Lupos with their old drug cartel connections.

"Something wrong, boss?"

Pratt looked at the familiar and shook his head.

"Probably nothing," he said. "Thought I saw something."

"It might be the building's security guard getting curious," the familiar offered. "Of course, that would probably mean he'd have to be awake. Should I take one of the boys and go see?"

"That's okay," Pratt replied. "We can't chase every shadow. Besides, you're off the clock now. It's your own time. Go have some fun."

The familiar shrugged his shoulders and moved away to catch up with the other guards who had just gotten off duty.

"This is totally on you, Marcus," Jesus snorted as he pushed back from the table and began to pace the floor. "Ryker has got to play ball with the rest of us, and, leaving the safehouse without letting anyone know doesn't qualify."

"He's probably getting full service at one of his massage parlor hangouts," Jessie suggested, derisively.

Ian gave her a dirty look and shook his head. He was used to that from her. She often berated and demeaned others to hide her own insecurities.

Michael Lee stood in the back, trying to shrink back out of the room. He was a computer expert, not a politician or spin doctor. He had no head for the kind of personal interplay that drove the group. Give him a computer or ask him to design a program and he was content.

His phone buzzed and he was glad for the distraction. Then, he saw the number on the caller ID and frowned. Nothing like a call from Ryker to kill a mood, he thought, as he answered.

After listening for a moment, his face grew ashen. It must have been noticeable for the room suddenly grew quiet. He looked up to see everyone staring at him. He told everyone who it was and passed the phone to Jesus, who put it down on the table after activating the speaker feature.

"We've got serious problems, guys," Ryker's voice came out.

"No, muchacho," Jesus retorted. "You've got serious problems. Like where you're going now that you've gotten on my last nerve."

"If that would make this situation go away, I'd gladly do it," Ryker replied. "But, it's not, so shall we can the attitude and just listen for a change?"

Jesus started to go off on Ryker's insolence, but Dolores touched his arm and shook her head. It was enough for her husband to stifle himself. She moved the phone closer to her.

"Both of you need to can the attitude," she said, curtly. "Now, please tell us why you left the safehouse? And, why this phone call is so important?"

Dolores listened intently. As she did, she grew more alarmed. When the call ended, she was only able to say four words.

"Mary, mother of God."

Ryker wanted to give out a lot more information, but he had his own problems. He heard the distinct bell of the elevator echo down the hallway. The freight car had arrived at his floor. Even worse, he was sure he heard the click of one of the stairwell doors, so he had at least two visitors. The fact that one had come by elevator and the other by the emergency stairs meant they knew something was amiss.

He couldn't figure how he might have given away his presence, but that was not the most important thing right now. He stuffed his binoculars into his backpack and moved to the door. He peeked out quickly and saw that the immediate hallway was empty. He stepped into it and disappeared into the nearest open doorway.

Joachim Danforth had only been a familiar with Travis Pratt for six months, but had been moving up steadily in the ranks, gaining more responsibility. He had a knack for acting on his instincts and that gained him much favor. It had also gained him some enemies among his fellow guards. Which is why he had only taken one other familiar with him into the building. Gina Golightly was the type of person who jumped on the coattails of fast risers like himself.

He looked over at the building's security guard, who was as nervous as a cat. The man was just a low-level familiar, but Danforth needed another body. The man wasn't worth much, but he could, at least, watch both the elevator and the nearby door to the stairs, while he and Golightly searched the floor.

Pratt said it wasn't necessary to check the building. But, he had also said that the guards were off-duty. So, Danforth had opted to check the building, knowing that he could always claim to be acting on his own initiative should things go wrong.

"Gina, see anything?" he asked into the mouthpiece of his headset.

"Nothing yet," came the reply.

"Move down the hall, check all doors," Danforth ordered. "Note the unlocked ones and meet me at the window where Pratt thought he saw the light. Don't go into any rooms by yourself. Got it?"

"Got it."

Just then, the lights went out. The whole floor was cast into complete darkness, save for a couple of emergency lanterns. Danforth gripped his gun tighter and looked back at the elevator. The indicator lights were still on.

"What gives?" he asked the bewildered security guard. "How could anyone have gotten to the power box in the basement so fast?"

"The building has been redesigned," the guard said. "Each floor above the tenth has a separate way to cut power only to that floor. For safety reasons, in case electricians or engineers have to cut out circuits to make changes. We couldn't have power to the whole building cut out for every little modification."

That made sense to Danforth. It also meant that they were dealing with a real intruder, not just a figment of Pratt's imagination. He thought about calling for additional help, and stopped himself. It would be a real feather in his cap if he could catch the intruder with just himself and Gina.

"Gina, meet me at the central point," he ordered.

He told the security guard to stay put and moved down the hall. He never made it to the meeting place. Somebody stepped out of a side door and hit Danforth in the genitals, causing the man to drop like a sack of flour.

The shadow reared back and hurled something at the security guard, who was trying to make a call on his cell phone. The man dropped the phone and clutched at the stiletto buried, just barely, in his chest. It was painful but not fatal.

"Relax, you'll live," Ryker said as he stepped into the light of an emergency lamp on the wall, a cattle prod in his left hand.

The guard saw the cattle prod that Ryker had used on Danforth's genitals and fainted. He dropped to his knees and fell face forward to the floor. Unfortunately, he landed on the knife and drove it into his chest deep enough to kill him.

"Oh, great," Ryker muttered. "One of these days, I may actually kill someone intentionally."

Gina Golightly knew she should have brought her phone with her. Instead, she'd left it charging in her car while she helped Danforth. Now, she had no way of calling for help. She hadn't been able to get Danforth on the radio. And, like a fool, she'd used one of his earpiece units, meaning she could only communicate with him. He obviously wanted more glory for catching the intruder and she had idiotically tagged along.

By rights, she should have been heading home to a nice warm bed. If her luck held out, she might have caught either her friend Sally or Eric in time for them to come over and keep her company in bed. Instead, she was facing off against an intruder who had neutralized Danforth, who was a much better security guard than she.

Peering around the corner, she took in the entire hallway and then pulled her head back. This was bad. Danforth was prone on the floor and the security guard was on his back, by the elevator, with what had to be a knife sticking out of his chest.

Steeling herself, she moved into the hallway and stopped by Danforth's body. She knelt down to check it, hoping to find his cell phone. She then noticed that his submachine gun was missing. That was because the barrel of that gun was now pressed to her right ear and the sound of the safety being released echoed down the hall.

"P-please, don't shoot," she stammered.

She was no fool. Being a familiar had its rewards, but it also held great dangers. Ironically, she wasn't in it for the rewards. She was paying off a serious gambling debt she'd incurred at one of Pratt's rigged parlor games.

No shot came.

"I'm going to ask you for a favor some day," a deep voice said to her. "I'll expect you to honor it, no matter what. In return, you'll live. Do I have your word?"

Golightly was speechless. She didn't know what to say. However, the person pressing the gun barrel harder against her skull brought her back to reality.

"Y-yes," she blurted. "I'll honor it."

She suddenly felt a hand come down over her shoulder and press against her left breast. She caught her breath and thought the worst. However, her mind tried to convince her the indignity was a small price to pay for her life. Just then, the hand lifted the flap of her tunic pocket and slipped what felt like a business card inside.

"Get the hell out of town," the voice said. "Call the number on the card. They'll take care of you. This city is about to explode. I need you alive if you're going to keep your word."

It took almost two minutes before Golightly realized the gun barrel was no longer by her ear. It took another minute to gather enough courage to look back and see no one was behind her. In a flash, she was on her feet and heading down the emergency stairs. By the time workmen discovered the bodies of Danforth and the guard late the next morning, Gina Golightly would be halfway to St. Louis.

Ryker watched Golightly disappear down the stairs. He waited a moment and took the staircase on the opposite side of the building. He really hadn't wanted to kill anyone if he could help it. The last thing he needed was for police to find dead bodies that didn't turn to ash.

And he really didn't consider Gina Golightly another of his "pretty strays." Though she really did fill out that uniform that she wore, she was worth more as a future asset. He had survived three years on the run by using such contacts to stay out of the crosshairs of law enforcements and vampire enforcers. If things went the way he hoped they might against Riordan, he figured he might have to go underground again and he would need even more help this time around.

And if things actually got worse, something that was entirely possible with sixteen master vampires in town, he would need protection more than ever. These were the days he wished he'd never left the Navy. Sitting off the coasts of Iraq or Libya seemed to be a much safer way of making a living.

Back at the compound, Kelly and Heidi walked into the main meeting hall. When they saw everyone sitting at the table, silently, they became concerned. The atmosphere had changed and not for the better.

"You called for us, Jesus?" Kelly asked.

Jesus looked up at the two women and nodded. He had his hands folded. The others either mimicked him or refused to look at the newcomers. Something was definitely wrong.

"Heidi, I must apologize," Jesus finally said. "But, we must hold off on your indoctrination into the group."

Heidi's eyes grew wide with surprise.

"I don't understand, sir," Kelly said. "I thought she had passed the initial checks."

"Something's come up," Wesley interjected. "And it's very serious."

Kelly looked at Heidi. They both had fear in their eyes.

"It goes against everything I've worked for over the last ten years," Jesus said, slowly, while glancing at Dolores, who looked away. "But, I feel I must do it for the safety of the group."

Heidi shivered. Did they not trust her? Were they going to send her away?

"This operation is over," Jesus said, in a heavy voice. "We're pulling out."

Chapter 9

Marcus was in no mood to make any changes to his computer files. Normally, he would be modifying the various contingency plans he created for attacking vampires such as Lin Tang and Louis Riordan. Now, he felt so disgusted at the recent turn of events he couldn't even turn on the computer. He just sat in his room, brooding in the dark.

"Penique pues tus pensamientos, amigo."

Marcus looked up to see Angelica standing in the doorway. Smiling weakly, he motioned for her to come in. She found her way to one of his spare office chairs and plopped herself into it.

"Penny for my thoughts, eh?" he mused. "Well, I think you'll need a boatload of pennies. This is absolutely the wrong decision. We shouldn't run."

"Jesus had his reasons, Marcus," Angelica shot back. "He's got to worry about the entire operation. We weren't looking so good trying to take down Riordan – but, now, add another fifteen clan masters in town, most likely with their most trusted lieutenants and security staff. Our task is virtually impossible. We'd be vastly outnumbered by them alone."

Angelica had a point, but Marcus had not survived as a mercenary by running from fights. The whole nature of his profession was to take on superior enemy forces. Mercs countered such enemies by using extensive experience and superior tactics. More than once, a platoon of highly-trained mercenaries, together with one or two helicopters, had routed entire Third World armies.

Marcus had never run from a fight. Once, when he and two others had found themselves surrounded by Robert Mugabe's Zimbabwean army, outnumbered one hundred to one, he had fought on. After killing sixty Zimbabweans, he and the others had escaped the trap, having put fear into their lesser-trained foes. His reputation had soared after that, and, to this day, he still had a high price on his head from Mugabe's ilk. Of course, he'd always joked, the price was in Zimbabwean currency, which wasn't worth enough to cover the bullets necessary to kill him.

"So, we wait for the clan masters to leave, is that it?" he asked. "What do you think?"

"You don't want to know what I think, Marcus."

"Yes, Angelica, I do," he said.

Angelica took a deep breath and thought about her words. This wasn't one of her bodybuilding contests. It wasn't even one of her bodyguard assignments. It was a virtual life-or-death decision.

"I think Jesus and Dolores are right," she finally said. "There will be other fights against Riordan. He's not going to pack up and leave Fort Worth to the clan masters. I say we wait until this little get-together is over and then come back."

Marcus was disappointed. He really thought he knew Angelica. He could never imagine her backing down from any fight. He got up and moved to the back of the room so she wouldn't see the look on his face.

"Oh, my God, Marcus," she exclaimed. "Don't tell me you want us to try to take on that many clan masters? I can see it with Cantrell, but you?"

Marcus moved over to a desk. Callously, he began tossing odds and ends into a small box. Behind him, Angelica folded her arms and fussed.

"You can't make me go away with that distraction, Marcus," she snorted. "You're a mercenary. You live very Spartan. A few minutes from now, you'll be packed and have nothing else to do but talk to me."

Marcus sighed and turned.

"Okay, hear me out on this," Angelica said, pushing herself to her feet. "Be the rational mercenary I've grown to care about. You said that, on paper, we should be as organized as the clans. And then you emphasized on paper. In reality, we're paper tigers. You know Jesus and Dolores recruited most of us over the past three years. We don't have the cohesion to take on such a large task. Maybe, at one time, we did, but not now and you know perfectly well why."

Marcus did know. It was the untimely deaths of sixty members of the now-defunct Moonrise, Inc. in a cataclysmic explosion in California three years earlier. The effects of that disaster were still being felt.

The mercenary knew just one and possibly two percent of the world's population was actively aware that vampires existed. Discounting victims, most of those in the know were familiars or corrupt people on the take from vampires. The rest were hunters, outnumbered ten to one, sometimes worse depending on the geography.

By nature, hunters tended to be loners, pariahs in a civilized world. They rarely came together, but when they did, it was often for some huge mission. So, losing sixty in one event was devastating. A huge chunk of the most experienced hunters were suddenly gone.

From what Marcus had learned of the Hunters, at one time, the group had almost thirty-five members, second in size only to Moonrise. After the latter's demise, all but one person – Manuel Acevedo – left the group. Some got cold feet. Others figured it was safer to hunt alone or in pairs, so that any losses would be smaller.

"I wish Ryker would hurry up and get back," Marcus blurted, shifting to find a more comfortable stance.

"If that's your ace in the hole, amigo, we definitely have to get out of town," Angelica retorted. "Ryker will never convince Jesus to stay, if only because of the bad precedent it would set by having Jesus agree with Cantrell on anything."

"Yeah, you're right," Marcus said, with a heavy sigh. "It just galls me to run like this. I didn't run from Gaddafi or Mugabe or Gbagbo or the Junta in Myanmar. But, I have to run from a scumbag like Riordan."

"Look on the bright side," Angelica said, as she got to her feet and moved toward the doorway. "It will take the rest of us a few days to get packed and moving. Who knows what might happen in that time?"

Michael Lee couldn't type anymore than Marcus could design another tactical plan at that moment. Now that the mission was being abandoned, he had the staggering task of packing up the compound's computers for storage. That meant sanitizing them of sensitive information, like personnel identification, with special computer programs.

What bothered him is that he normally sanitized the computers when the group either finished a successful operation or moved onto another one. Doing so now, only reminded him that they were running away from a mission.

He walked into the underground compound's surveillance control room. He knew he could not sanitize these computers because of the security issue. He was just here to talk.

"You can't be starting here with the sanitizing?" Garvey asked, looking up in surprise at Lee's entrance.

Jessie, who had been leaning back in her chair playing solitaire on one of the room's computers, glanced at Michael and then returned to her game.

"He's not, bumpkin," she replied, with a yawn.

"Just came here to talk," Lee said, grabbing the only empty chair. "Everybody else is busy. Jesus and Dolores. Kelly is helping Heidi, and Marcus and Angelica are having a long discussion."

Jessie suddenly sat up.

"Where's Ian?" she asked. "With Dr. Patel or Elvis?"

"Naw," Lee answered. "Elvis is trying to convince the doc to pack up. I think Ian is bailing."

"Shit," Jessie spat.

She jumped to her feet, rudely pushed past Lee's chair and stormed out of the room. Lee stared after her and gave Garvey a questioning look. The former Marine just shrugged.

"Don't ask," Garvey said, simply. "Now, what do you want to talk about?"

"But, you can't stay here, Patel."

Patel let his shoulders sag as he took a deep breath. He'd been listening to Wesley's reasons for packing up and leaving ever since Dolores and Jesus had made the decision. He sought what he thought would be the peaceful security of his lab, but Wesley had invaded the sanctity of it anyway.

"Surely, you realize the breakthrough we have just made," he said. "The serum has been proven to work. It now needs to be tweaked so that it can serve as a vaccination for all of us. If we pack up and move now, that momentum is lost. Jostling the equipment might throw off the calibration and affect the results. No, I simply cannot move now. Please impart that information to Jesus."

Wesley leaned back against a bench and scrunched his eyebrows. He wondered if the dull ache in his head was the beginning of a migraine. He'd never met so many stubborn people in one organization as this one – and he'd been a Marine drill instructor.

"Okay, Doc," he conceded. "Let me see what I can come up with. I still have a few connections in town. Maybe not as many as Marcus or Angelica but I might know someone at PJS who can help."

At that, Patel's ears perked up. Turning from his microscope, he looked at the former Marine with newfound interest. Peter Jaysmith was the main public hospital in Tarrant County and one of the top medical facilities in not just Texas, but the entire Southwest. It was also famous as both a teaching hospital and a research facility for the area's college medical programs.

"Well, Staff Sergeant, I might actually be persuaded to begin packing," he said, with a smile.

"Finally, a ray of sunshine in an otherwise dreary day," Wesley quipped as he stood tall.

"By the way, has anyone informed Cantrell?" Patel asked.

"Thanks for raining on my parade, Doc," Wesley groaned.

"I'm confused."

"Join the club," Kelly said, as she flicked a stray tress of black hair out of her eyes.

She and Heidi had retreated to the compound's cafeteria, which actually consisted of a few tables and chairs, two microwave ovens and a small refrigerator. Kelly had very few items to pack and Heidi, of course, had none.

"Let's see," Heidi said, holding up fingers to count. "In the course of a few days, I've been on the worst blind date ever, gotten attacked by a vampire, watched Ryker cut a guy's head off, became a vampire, got cured by a mad scientist, got recruited into a secret society, and, just when I was finally pumped enough to start kicking vampire ass, found out my new leaders are wimps."

Kelly sympathized with Heidi Nguyen. She had signed on with the group in hopes of taking down Lin Tang. Now, it seemed that chance would pass. Oh, sure, she knew Jesus and Dolores had promised to return once the clan masters left, but Kelly wasn't stupid. Something big had to be occurring for so many clan leaders in one spot. She doubted things would go back to the way they had been; certainly not enough for the Hunters to slip back into town and set up shop with nary a notice from the powers-that-be.

"Not wimps," Kelly retorted, though she didn't sound sure of her own words. "Over-reactive maybe, but not wimps. You don't know the hell they've been through or the hell they've dished out. If anything, with most of us having joined piecemeal over the past couple of years, they might have felt we didn't have the organization to take on such a big threat."

Heidi sighed. Maybe she was overreacting herself, but, at least, she had a good excuse. She'd had not one but two life-altering moments in the past couple of days. She was angry, first at herself but, mostly, at a scourge she had no idea existed a few days ago. She needed something to vent her rage on and now she was being asked to put that rage on hold for God only knew how long.

"Look at it like this, Heidi," Kelly said, placing a hand gently on one of her new friend's shoulders. "We'll have more time to see those fantastic moves you keep telling us about. Akira jitsu."

"That's aki-jitsu," Heidi corrected.

She smiled weakly, gave in and started laughing.

Jesus knew he'd find his wife here. She did not turn at the sound of his footsteps, as he approached the holding chamber that had once caged Heidi Nguyen. Even when he put his arms around her shoulders and gave her a reassuring kiss on the left cheek, she did not respond. Taking the hint, he stepped back and gave her some space.

"I thought we both agreed that it was necessary?" he asked, looking frustrated.

"We were on top of the world, weren't we?" Dolores murmured. "We cured Heidi and it looked like we finally found an edge in our long war. Now, it all might have been for nothing."

"It's just for a short time," Jesus said.

"Don't lie to me," Dolores shot back, turning to look at him with tear-stained cheeks. "I know you – you've never run before. And make no mistake, Jesus, we are running. Not laying low for a few days, but running away."

"He who fights and runs away..." Jesus wisely let the idiom peter off.

Throwing up his hands in frustration, he began pacing back and forth. It was true that he was in a very unfamiliar position. For ten years, he and Dolores had fought the good fight. They had always taken that fight to the enemy and refused to let the enemy intimidate them.

Except now.

"Why is now any different?" Dolores asked, as if she'd read her husband's mind.

"Well, you have to admit the sixteen clan masters have a lot to do with it," Jesus replied, trying to remain cool and collected. "Surely, you can't expect us to take on that many masters. We need more training. Marcus and Elvis are working on it, but we need a lot more time."

Dolores turned away.

"We knew that when we started this whole thing," she said, slowly. "It's why I pressed you to allow Cantrell in. We knew Riordan was up to something big, just not this big. We agreed he had to be taken down but the whole operation has been a foul-up from the start. What the hell were we thinking?"

Jesus held his tongue. What could he say, really? He had been as gung-ho as his wife putting this operation in motion. Riordan had to be stopped before he realized whatever plan he was working on. Only, Jesus had thought their foe was trying to expand his territory to include most of Texas. He certainly could not have contemplated the man bringing in fifteen clan masters.

Dolores was right in one respect. The whole mission was a cluster. He had been assembling the team little by little, bringing them along slowly with limited missions in outlying areas against relatively weak master vampires. He had hoped to cultivate a fighting force that was close to, if not as good as, the group he'd led before things went to hell in a hand basket after Moonrise Inc.'s horrific demise.

Now, he realized he fooled himself and the others as well. He'd unnecessarily risked all their lives. Simply put, while each of them was very good in his or her respective field, as a team, they were simply out of the league of Lin Tang, much less the clan masters. Assassinating Duke was bold, and it had been a coordinated effort that had left no trail to his group, while baffling Lin Tang. But, it was just one success.

"All the more reason to pull back and regroup," he blurted out. "At the very least, we can lie low until Lin Tang cools down. We can go someplace far from here and train. I mean really, really train. Make ourselves a force to be reckoned with, not one going against impossible odds, hoping to get lucky and take Lin Tang."

Dolores said nothing and Jesus knew why. It wasn't the money they had wasted setting up the compound or the valuable time lost. It was the notion that the vampires were going to win again. Even Jesus couldn't guess what those clan masters were planning with Riordan. He couldn't tell how bad things might be after the Hunters left or if they'd even be able to return once they did get their act together.

Worst of all, for Jesus, he had blown a golden opportunity. It was rare for a large group of hunters to set up shop in any clan-controlled territory without drawing notice. A man like Riordan had an army of familiars, along with crooked cops and politicians, spying for him. And Lin Tang's half-deads only made matters worse, for they often prowled night clubs, strip clubs and bars looking for recruits. Meaning the main places that the Hunters counted on for inside information were compromised.

Suddenly, Dolores turned, walked quickly over to her husband and threw her arms around him. She buried her head on his shoulder and let her tears flow unhindered. Jesus said nothing, but just held her tight.

"It'll be okay, baby," he cooed. "We'll make it through this like we always have."

"Promise?" she sniffled between sobs.

"I promise," Jesus replied, though he wondered how he'd ever be able to keep it.

"Things have definitely taken a turn for the surreal," Ian Hendricks said to himself, as he walked toward the staircase that would lead up to Manuel's garage.

He really didn't know what to say about Jesus' decision to pack up and leave. One part of him said it was a wise decision as this group was no match for Riordan. The other part of him was angry because he'd been risking his life as a double agent, so to speak, and the thought all of that effort had been for naught was enough to make him burn up inside. True, he was being paid well for his services and he didn't like losing clients – especially ones that paid – but this was an entirely different game.

He still had Aurelia Hernandez to contend with. She was growing desperate for answers about Duke's assassination and he was wondering if Lin Tang would let that particular matter die down if she did not get immediate results herself. It was unlikely, meaning that the Hunters might have to make a fighting retreat.

Anyway he looked at it, he was screwed. He'd either lose a well-paying client or he'd lose a well-paying, beautiful, corrupt detective who paid even better.

It was times like these, Ian wondered how he'd gotten into this game in the first place. Certainly losing his ex-fiancee and her entire family to vampires had something to do with it. But, there had to be more since he was, technically, working for the enemy. Money was a big part (he'd always loved his trucks and expensive clothes) but that couldn't explain it all. Big trucks and fine clothes meant nothing if he was dead. And he would be dead if anyone on Riordan's payroll ever found out about his double-dealing.

"Ian, wait up!"

Ian groaned. He knew that voice. Yet another reason why he wondered why he'd stuck by these hunters. Jessie was a beautiful girl, no doubt about it, but she was too high-strung and stubborn, with not much of a backbone to back up her bravado. She was still just a child and it had been a big mistake to date her.

He stopped under a light and waited for Jessie to catch up. She was out of breath, yet another sign that she needed a lot more training if she was going to be an effective hunter. He waited for her to get her wits about her.

"Don't tell me you're leaving," she said, at last.

"I'll be around to help out," he replied. "When I can."

"Humph," she snorted, crossing her arms and scowling. "Where have I heard that before?"

"Look, Jessie, I never meant to hurt you or lead you on," Ian said, after rolling his eyes. "God, I sound like a soap opera."

"Well, you wrote the script," Jessie shot back. "I guess I was just another notch on that gun belt, right?"

"Jessie, I like you. Really, I do. It's just that..."

"That you're getting better stuff from Aurelia Hernandez," Jessie assumed. "Sleeping with a snake, you're liable to get bit, Ian."

"It's not like that," Ian retorted.

"Yes, it is, Ian," Jessie snapped. "I'm not a little girl anymore. Haven't been for years. I know how it goes. Take care of yourself. You've always been good at that, since you are the only person you really care about."

Jessie stormed off before Ian could react. He watched her walk away and threw up his hands in disgust. He spun around, cursing under his breath, and continued up to the garage.

Ryker scanned the area with his night-vision goggles. No heat signatures, human, animal or vampire, disturbed the dense undergrowth running along Jacksboro Highway. Ryker put the goggles back into his backpack. He checked his pistol once more and then slid it into the shoulder holster under his jacket.

He was careful – for recklessness in this game meant death or worse. In this regard, he had learned well from some of the best at Moonrise, not to mention Marcus Van Niekerk and his fellow mercenaries. Though he was the only member of the Hunters who had not been personally affected by vampires before joining the war against Hominus Nocturna, he made himself a target almost from the start of his new profession.

He looked down the hill at the garage. The lights were on, always a good sign as Manuel was a stickler for conserving energy when his business was not in use. He checked his watch again, for the umpteenth time and cursed mildly. What was taking so long?

Finally, his earpiece beeped twice. It was the signal from Horace Garvey in the control room that Ryker could come in safely. The woods around the compound were bugged with miniatures cameras and sensors courtesy of Marcus's "don't-ask" connections. Ryker had to wait for the all-clear signal as his identity was confirmed.

He slung his backpack over his right shoulder and pushed his way out of the trees. Making his way down a barely seen, but well-trodden path, he was at the front doors of the garage in no time. He went in through the left door, which was open, and saw Ian Hendricks' truck. A moment later, he saw Ian.

"Hey, amigo, what's up?" he called out to Manuel, who was shutting the hood of the pickup truck. "Ian, where are you going?"

"Got things to do, no time to stick around and chat," Ian said, rather coldly, opening his truck door and climbing in.

"Say, you told your people not to throw my name around town, didn't you?" Ryker asked. "Tell them to build their reputations without me. I don't need the free publicity. I'm supposed to be dead, remember?"

"God, you are such a dick, Cantrell," Ian snapped.

"Wow, that was original," Ryker mocked. "Where are Jesus and the others? Already down below? Aren't they meeting to discuss the next move?"

Ryker was perplexed. He thought Ian Hendricks was full of crap when he claimed to be a big man around town, so he wondered why he was leaving now. The private detective was a key part of the group, their eyes and ears in the outside world. He had to be in on the decision on what to do with the information Ryker had given.

"We already met," Ian said, leaning his head out of his now-open driver's side window. "Start packing."

"What?" Ryker asked, now even more confused. "What do you mean start packing?"

Ian started the truck engine and Ryker suddenly couldn't hear anything. While he waved away the exhaust fumes, he watched Ian shoot out of the garage, veer left to reverse direction and head for the closed front gate. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Manuel reaching over to push a button on the wall next to the office door. The gate opened and, soon, Ian was out of sight and both the front gate and the garage door were closing.

"Yeah, nice talking to you, too," Ryker snorted. "Tell your sister thanks for last night, you stupid inbred redneck."

Manuel frowned at the insensitive remark.

"What did he mean by start packing?" Ryker asked, turning to look at the mechanic, who suddenly had a guilty look on his face.

"It was Dolores' and Jesus' decision," the mechanic said, avoiding Ryker's stern gaze. "We're pulling out. As soon as we can pack up and shut this place down."

Ryker was flabbergasted. For once, he was absolutely speechless. Maybe he'd heard it wrong. He always did have trouble catching Manuel's mangled English.

"Pulling out?" he asked, incredulous. "You mean, like pulling up stakes and scattering into the wind?"

"Don't shoot the messenger, amigo," Manuel retorted. "But, si, that is what Jesus said. We are going to lie low, at least until all those clan masters leave town."

Ryker was beside himself.

"What the hell?" he scowled. "We've got them right where we want them. Where the hell is Jesus? Maybe I can talk some sense into him."

"I think we both know how that's going to end, amigo," Manuel said.

Ryker knew and it pissed him off to no end. But, what else could he expect from people who played at war and tilted at windmills? What a bunch of gutless bastards, he thought.

"Son of a bitch!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.

He took off his backpack and chucked it across the garage. He didn't care if he smashed the expensive goggles within. He kicked out and toppled a stack of oil bottles, much to the chagrin of Manuel who, nevertheless, declined not to act for fear of being Ryker's next target.

"Are we finished with our little temper tantrum?"

Ryker spun around, seeing Angelica and Marcus standing in the doorway of the office. He wasn't surprised. He knew a warning was always sent out whenever he arrived at the garage. He rubbed people the wrong way, but screw it. He hadn't survived this long by pussyfooting around or sugarcoating anything.

"Did you agree with this decision, Marcus?" he asked, accusingly. "I know you did, Angelica, because that's just how you are."

Angelica reddened in anger. "What did you say to me? Listen, vendejo, I seconded the motion to bring you in. Now, you have the nerve to fu–"

"Please, Angelica," Marcus cut in, raising his hand in front of her face. "Don't stoop to his level. And, for your information, Cantrell, I did not agree. But I will abide by the decision."

"In the interest of team unity and esprit de corps," Angelica added. "Something you should try for a change, Cantrell."

Ryker frowned.

"Come on, Marcus," he cajoled. "You, of all people, should be on my side. Or least, able to see things from my viewpoint. We might never get another chance like this. Sixteen – count 'em, sixteen clan masters in one place. We can't let a golden opportunity like this slip away."

"Doesn't matter, my friend," Marcus shot back. "The decision has been made and we will all abide by it. Cantrell, we asked you into this group because we needed you. We need your expertise, but we need to know if you can stick with us, even when things don't go your way. Can we count on you?"

Ryker said nothing. He turned away and walked up to one of the windows on the garage door. Looking out through the dirty glass, he saw the traffic on Jacksboro Highway whizzing by. All those innocent people, he thought.

He abruptly moved to his right, aiming for a red button on the wall that would make the door lift.

"I can't let you do that, Cantrell," Marcus blurted.

"Oh, so I don't like a decision – I'm an ungrateful jackass," Ryker sniped, without turning to look back. "But, if you don't like a decision, it's okay? You know what, Marcus? I'd tell you to fuck yourself, but you've got Angelica for that."

"Why, you ungrateful piece of crap," Angelica snapped.

"Now, now, Angelica, I'm sure that's just the steroids talking," Ryker said, mockingly, as he went back to trying to open the garage door. "You guys can keep my stuff. I'd rather leave it than spend another minute with a bunch of cowards."

"That is enough!"

Marcus' words boomed throughout the garage. Ryker stopped reaching for the red button, instead, let his hand drop. He was no fool and his hearing was still as good as ever. He mentally sifted out Marcus' booming voice and keyed on a sound so slight anyone without his experience would easily have missed it.

"You'd better pull that freakin' trigger now, Marcus," Ryker snorted, after taking a deep breath. "If it's come to that, this group is completely finished."

No sound came. Turning around slowly, Ryker saw Marcus pointing a large ominous black revolver right at his head. He recognized it as a .454 Casull, normally a hunting pistol. The bullet wouldn't even leave enough of his head for identification.

"Always the mercenary, eh, Marcus?" Ryker said rather calmly. "Nothing or nobody interferes with the mission. Not even a colleague. I guess the vampires win. Again."

Next to Marcus, Angelica was freaking out, unsure of what to say or do. Behind Marcus, Manuel had the phone receiver in hand, no doubt calling everybody up to the garage. Soon, a half dozen, or so, guns might be pointed at heads in this Mexican standoff.

If that were to be the case, he wouldn't go down alone. When he'd turned, he'd snuck his right hand up inside his jacket and onto the Czech Skorpion submachine pistol in his other shoulder holster. He'd already decided that his regular nine-millimeter Browning was too small to compete with a .454. He pointed the Skorpion right at Marcus, knowing if he fired, the spray pattern would undoubtedly take out Angelica and Manuel as well.

For what seemed like an eternity, but was actually just a minute, the two men stood opposite one another, perhaps seconds away from tragedy. Neither was willing to so much as blink. Next to Marcus, Angelica was frozen with fear. Nothing in her days as a bodyguard ever prepped her for such a situation.

"You bloody, conceited, arrogant bastard," Marcus finally said, after a bead of sweat rolled off his forehead and into his eyes. "I will not let you jeopardize this mission, put the gun down – right fucking now!"

"Make me!"

A different sound suddenly entered the garage and Angelica stepped forward, even as a look of utter fear spread across her face.

"No, don't!"

A loud boom echoed through the garage and out into the once silent night.

Chapter 10

Jesus wished he were ten years younger. Then, he would have been at the front of the group rushing toward the garage in answer to Manuel's frantic call. From what he could make of Manuel's hurried mix of Spanish and English, people were pointing guns at each other in the garage. He could only think Ian Hendricks, who had been in a foul mood when he'd left the meeting. At least, he hoped it was Ian; the alternative was that Riordan's people had found their hideout.

With Dolores watching Kelly and Heidi, Jesus had a rapid reaction force (so to speak) of Wesley, Horace and Jessie. All three of them were close to leaving him in the dust as they approached the stairs to the office. Fortunately, they had to stop at the top to activate the secret door panel. Jesus caught up and, though breathing heavy, forcing Horace and Jessie to get behind him.

"Michael, talk to me," he ordered through his headset. "What's the situation?"

"Can't tell," Lee replied. "I think Manuel took down the interior cameras already."

Jesus cursed under his breath. Manuel could never prioritize anything and must have started moving the cameras as they were the easiest task. It looked as if he was going to have to do things the old-fashioned way.

Letting Wesley take the lead, he moved into the office. Wesley had stopped at the doorway. Then, as if on some mental cue, Wesley, crouching, moved out into the garage, through the bay once occupied by Ian's truck and took up a firing position by a metal tool cabinet. Jesus moved through the door, brought up his semiautomatic pistol and scanned toward the garage door.

WTF?

He spotted Marcus pointing his infamous .454 Casull and Angelica Morales next to him, looking beside herself. Looking past the mercenary, he saw that gun pointed not at Ian, but at someone pointing a submachine back. When he saw the man – he only saw red.

Ryker!

It was then Angelica peered over her shoulder and did something he did not expect. She moved into his line of fire. He tried moving out further into the garage to get a new firing position, while Horace took his old spot. He saw Jessie behind Horace and she looked like she wanted to puke. She had a death grip on her .50-caliber Desert Eagle (a gun totally disproportionate to her size but not her ego).

"No! Don't!" Angelica cried out.

Boom!

The only thing stopping Jesus from shooting Ryker at that particular moment was, the fact that, the sound came from behind him. He and Wesley both looked back to see Manuel standing next to a toolbox that lay on its side on the floor. Manuel himself had a look on his face that was both embarrassed and frightened.

Jesus looked at Jessie in the doorway and saw her fiddling with her gun. Cristo, he thought. She had gone into action with the safety still on! Just as quickly, he believed it might have been a good thing. As nervous as she was, she could have blown off her own foot.

"Marcus, what the hell's going on?" Jesus called out.

"Why are you asking him?" Ryker interjected. "He's the one who pulled on me."

"Had no choice, Jesus," Marcus answered. "He was going to leave. I couldn't take the chance."

Jesus didn't need this, not now. He had a compound to pack up. He had safehouses to reactivate. He had no time for stupidity.

"Okay, guys, first things first," he said, slowly. "I am going to lower my gun. When it is on the floor, Marcus, I need you and Ryker to put yours down, too. Okay?"

"Oh, to hell with this," Ryker blurted. "I'm not giving you guys any more excuses to shoot me."

Abruptly, Ryker pulled his gun back and aimed it at the ceiling. Engaging the safety, he calmly dropped it down by his side. When Marcus and Wesley relaxed their weapons, he crouched, set his Skorpion down and then kicked it away.

Jesus breathed a huge sigh of relief.

"Okay, now that cooler heads have prevailed, anyone care to elaborate on what the hell started this?" he asked.

"You and Dolores were right, Jesus," Angelica said, as she slumped against the nearest wall and wiped sweat from her brow. "This vendejo is loco. I guess, maybe, I didn't want to admit that I had made a mistake backing his membership."

Ryker looked daggers at her. "After everything I've done for you guys, this is my reward?"

Jesus felt sick. He had override authority. He could have nullified the vote and kept Ryker and his volatile personality out of the group. He could have explained it to Dolores well enough for her to accept it. But, in the interest of team unity, he hadn't.

"Start from the beginning, Marcus," he said, wearily.

Marcus looked at his boss; it was obvious he was still steamed. He had to take a moment to compose himself, and even had to hand his gun to Angelica, lest he do something stupid.

"I'm sorry, Jesus," Marcus said. "It shouldn't have come to this, but I could see Cantrell was losing it. He found out from Ian that we were pulling out and flipped. Threw his backpack somewhere, kicked over the pile of oil cans. Totally disrespected Angelica. Just lost it."
"Why, Cantrell?" Jesus demanded. "What is it this time? Why is it always something with you?! Do we need to give you a drug test or something?"

Ryker fumed. His eyes darted about the room, as if he were seeing ghosts. Finally, he just threw up his hands, stifled himself and walked to the other side of the garage.

"Okay, so I lost it for a moment," he snapped. "That doesn't give you the right to put a gun to my head."

"He was so agitated, Jesus, I felt I had to stop him," Marcus blurted. "He wants to go after the clan masters. I've been in some lopsided battles in my time, but it's pure suicide. Even worse, it could lead right back to us and get all of us killed. I had to keep him from leaving."

"Ryker doesn't see reason, Marcus," Wesley butted in. "We've been trying to tell you that all along. If it's not his way, it's no one's. This is probably what happened at Moonrise."

"Screw you!" Ryker practically screamed. "At least they weren't a bunch of cowards!"

"What the fuck did you just say?"

Wesley had holstered his gun because he didn't need it. He charged Ryker like an angry bull. Horace and Marcus went after him, but he was too fast.

It said something to Ryker's experience, he stood still right up to the point of impact. Then, in a blur, he hooked, spun and flipped Wesley over on to the floor. Unfortunately for Ryker, Wesley was far too strong and back on his feet in no time flat. Ryker couldn't avoid him. Hefted off his feet in Wesley's crushing bear hug, he was slammed down through a stack of boxed pistons.

"Get up!" Wesley roared. "Get up and repeat what you just said, man! Get up so I can kick your sorry ass!"

Ryker kicked Wesley in his crotch instead. When Wesley doubled over and staggered back, Ryker rolled to his left and got back on his feet, stumbling a little as he grimaced from unseen bruises. Then, Angelica was on him in a flash, while Horace and Marcus went to help Wesley.

"That's it, Cantrell!" Jesus roared. "You just attacked another team member! I guess you're going to call that self-defense, too!"

"He attacked me," Ryker corrected. "Are you guys freakin' blind?"

"You provoked it, muchacho," a seething Jesus spat. "I don't know why I'm even explaining myself to you."

"Maybe because you know I'm right," Ryker suggested.

That was the wrong thing at the wrong moment. Jesus looked at Ryker and then threw up his hands. He turned away from the man.

"Fuck you!" he snorted. "You're out! Get your things and leave!"

"Belay that order!"

Everyone looked toward a very angry Dolores stomping out of the office, Kelly and Heidi meekly in tow.

"Dolores, I'm sorry, but he's gone much too far this time," Jesus countered.

"No," Dolores said. "He is not leaving here. Not until we find out what is wrong with him."

She looked right at Ryker.

"And for your sake, you'd better be straight with us," she said, sternly. "Or I will personally kill you myself."

Aurelia Hernandez had just finished putting her kids to bed. Normally, they'd have been in bed much earlier, but she had interrupted family game night to go talk to Ian Hendricks. She knew he was holding back on her, yet she wasn't sure why. She certainly paid him well enough for his services.

She retired to her bedroom where she hooked up her laptop computer on the dresser. She had a more powerful computer in her office downstairs, but that did not afford her any privacy. Now, she was in her closet, going through her personal safe. The floor of the closet was strewn with papers of every color and size.

She sat back, unfolding a packet of papers. It was the deed to her house, marked "paid in full." She should have been smiling. She had the house of her dreams, the one she'd desperately needed in order to raise her sister's children. However, that dream had long since become a nightmare.

"You fool," she whispered. "What did you think you were doing?"

She wished to God she never accepted that money to clear up her late mortgage payments and her back taxes. That led to her doing favors for people in league with Louis Riordan, favors that introduced her to the frightening world of vampires. It was too late to turn back, though. Any move to abandon Riordan and she would join the ranks of the undead. Even worse, Riordan himself had made it perfectly clear that, once she became a vampire, her first victims would be the children.

She folded the packet again, stuffed it into a manila envelope and tossed it back into the safe. She grabbed the other papers and unceremoniously shoved them in as well. After closing the safe door, she got to her feet, turned off the light and padded across the bedroom floor to her dresser.

There, she took a seat in a metal folding chair, typed her password into the computer and perused a few files. The most important of them was the one holding her current case files.

She had long since put Heidi Nguyen on the back burner. No trace of the woman had been found and that relegated the case to just another missing person. Even the ashing of Kane was out of her hands. She had the more important task of finding Duke's assassins before Lin Tang ripped the town apart.

Making matters worse, she'd been ordered – ordered – by Riordan to find Duke's killer. It was downright humiliating. It wasn't even in her jurisdiction, but that mattered little. To the vampires, she was little more than a lap dog.

She blew a lock of her brunette hair out of her eyes as she pondered the facts that Ian Hendricks had gleaned for her. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms was crawling all over the case because of the high-powered weapons used in the attack. The Texas Department of Public Safety, as well as the Texas Rangers and the local sheriff also had hands deep into the situation. Yet, she, an outsider, was supposed to match up to the big boys and demand a place in the investigation.

The guns used in the attack were military-grade sniper quality. The attack was classic military. One sniper from the front and another from an angle not just to the rear, but, out of the crossfire. She knew Duke's car had been modified with extra armor and, yet, the bullets had punched through it to detonate the drug chemicals in the trunk.

There couldn't be many people in the state who not only had military training but military-grade equipment. She thought maybe the federal government itself was responsible for the attack, but neither Ian nor Travis Pratt had found any such link. That still left former military members, most likely snipers or Special Forces. It was possible they could have been mercenaries working for one of the Mexican drug cartels.

"Come on, girl," she chastised herself. "You have got to come up with something better than that. Duke and his idiot cousin were in business for themselves. You don't send in a professional hit squad for low-level thugs. That's overkill. A waste of time and money."

That's when it dawned on her. Why hadn't she seen it before? Kane's ashing. Porter Coleman's apprehension upon hearing Ryker's name. Duke's assassination. It all fit.

"So, Riordan's got enemies," she mused.

Aurelia was used to Riordan running a tight ship. The man did not suffer fools gladly. Between threats and outright graft, he had the entirety of Tarrant County in his vest pocket. She was sure that his reputation carried well beyond the limits of both the Metroplex and Texas. She could not imagine any rival vampire clans challenging him.

No, there was only one logical explanation. There were hunters in town. She didn't know much about them other than they were the bane of vampires everywhere. That much she read when she found the need to find out about her new bosses.

From what little she'd learned, most hunters were either loners or of rather suspect mental capacity. Some had deep connections to the Catholic Church while others hunted vampires for revenge. They tended to be amateurs. However, if hunters had taken down Kane and Duke, they certainly weren't loners or amateurs by any stretch.

She wondered if she might be able to use them, possibly as a hedge against Riordan. That meant finding a way to get in touch with them. Of course, she told herself, if they were easy to find, Riordan wouldn't be on her ass to bring them down.

Another thought struck her and, this time, it wasn't good. She wondered what these hunters might do to her. If they were willing to take out Lin Tang's right-hand man and challenge Riordan on his own turf, what would they do with a cop on the take from the head man himself?

She shivered just as her cell phone buzzed. She reached over to her purse that lay on her bed, opened it, grabbed her phone and checked the number. She sighed heavily and answered.

"Lieutenant, do you know what time it is?" she snapped. "Wait a minute...let me get something to write with...oh, I see. When was she brought in? Whoa, who did she say attacked her? I'll be at the hospital as soon as I can."

She cut off the call and snapped the phone shut. Cursing under her breath, she scrambled to find her running shoes. Grabbing her purse, she headed out.

"Isn't that redundant?" Ryker asked. "Personally kill you myself isn't good grammar, Dolores."

"It's time to stop being a smart ass, Cantrell," Dolores answered, her arms crossed. "It's time to grow up. I can't understand it. We've got sixteen clan masters in town. Yet, the biggest threat to us is you."

Ryker said nothing.

"We have got to pull out and wait for those masters to leave, but if we leave you here or let you roam free, you're going to do something totally stupid," Dolores continued. "I know it – you're going to get yourself killed or worse. Then, you might compromise all of us. Tell me why I shouldn't have you sedated and dragged away with us?"

"Go ahead, do what you want," Ryker snorted. "Nobody listens to me anyway."

"Because you're a nut job, Ryker," Wesley grunted, still bent over and walking very gingerly. "Why are we discussing this anyway?"

"Wesley, shut up," Dolores said, curtly. "No, Cantrell. That is not good enough. You don't follow orders. You bring home strays as guinea pigs for Patel. You're insubordinate. You pulled a gun and threatened Marcus, Angelica and Manuel. And what the hell did you say to Heidi after giving her that steak? She hates your guts."

"Oh, great, don't tell me she's vegetarian?" Ryker joked, though no one laughed.

"Humor is not going to get you out of this one, Cantrell," Dolores remarked, coolly. "Is this what you were like with Moonrise?"

"Ah, now, we come to it," Ryker snorted.

He pulled away from Angelica, slapping away her hands when she tried to grab him again. He backed up a few feet until he hit one of the shuttered windows.

"They died, I lived, get over it," he said, coldly. "Oh, I forgot. It's never simple with me, is it? Okay. Tell me what a piece of crap I am because I'm here and they're not. You want the truth? They didn't listen to me and look what happened to them."

"Then, isn't it swell that we've got the great Cantrell Ryker to protect us," Wesley mocked. "If we listen to you, we'll all come out okay, is that it? Maybe we should vote you in as leader? Think that would work, Horace? How about you, Jessie?"

"I think we need calmer heads right now, Wes," Horace replied.

Jessie started to say something, but stopped when Horace looked at her and shook his head. She bit her lip and turned away.

"We're wasting our time, Dolores," Jesus huffed. "Jessie, go get Dr. Patel. Horace, you and Manuel watch Ryker. The rest of you, continue preparations to leave. Dolores, uno momento, por favor."

"No!"

Jesus had turned and now he spun back around to see Ryker charge him. Fortunately, Angelica caught him by his collar before he made contact. Still, Horace had to disengage from Wesley to help her.

"No!" Ryker screamed. "No more! Do you hear me? No. More. Running!"

Jesus was shocked by the outburst, but Dolores did not seem surprised. She put a tender hand on her husband shoulder and eased him back. Then, she took his place in front of Ryker.

"We are not running, Cantrell," she said, simply.

"Yes, you are!" Ryker shot back. "Do you really think that sixteen clan masters just dropped in on Riordan for a holiday? No, they are in town to talk business. What do you think would happen if sixteen Mafia families got together in one place? Huh? Don't you think the feds would be all over it?"

"How do you know this, Cantrell?" Dolores queried. "Inside information? Something even Ian doesn't know about?"

Ryker stopped struggling and let Angelica and Horace pull him back a few feet.

"I know because I've seen it," he answered after composing himself. "For three years, I watched it happen. For three years, while I ran. Remained dead to the world, hoping none of the coven's allies would catch on that I was still alive. I slept in barns, in drainage pipes. I lived among the homeless, even as I killed the ones who turned. I hunted and was hunted, by vampires and humans.

"I saw the smaller clans attach themselves to bigger clans to survive. I saw the big clans recruit to increase their power base. I was running into Riordan's people long before you ever thought to."

Ryker sagged against the window and ran a hand through his hair.

"Before Fort Worth, Riordan was running from a failed clan in Canada," he continued. "But, he fled to Fort Worth. Consolidated power in no time flat, right under our noses. Because, we were too busy fighting amongst ourselves to see the signs right in front of our eyes.

"I tried to form alliances when I could, but, inevitably, we came up against a large clan and my so-called allies would run. Now look at us. Fighting a clan in control of an entire city when we could have taken Riordan out years ago. Do you know how that feels? To have failed and have to sit back and watch all those innocent people get killed, corrupted or converted because of it?"

"Yes, Cantrell, we do," Dolores said, with sympathy.

Ryker looked up at Dolores and glared.

"No," he said, sharply. "No, you don't. Otherwise, you wouldn't be running. And it's not just you. It's everyone. Gangs virtually control whatever the vampires don't. We've practically written off two entire generations to drugs. Morality is disappearing almost as fast as loyalty. Everywhere you turn, people have abdicated their responsibilities and duties and, as a result, evil has moved in and thrived.

"But, there's nowhere to run anymore. That's why I came in from the cold. I had to start making a bigger difference. I couldn't stay in the shadows anymore and neither can we. We need to make a stand. We need to take back our society. Every day we don't is another day the enemy wins."

Dolores closed her eyes and absorbed what she'd just heard. Could it have been true, she wondered. Were her Hunters running away from their responsibilities by settling for easier target?

"You know what, Cantrell?" she finally said. "I'm going to agree with you. On some of what you said, okay? I can see some of your points, but you can't let it destroy you. Don't you remember the old saying 'he who fights and runs away lives to fight another day?'"

Ryker dug his hands into his pockets and began to pace back and forth.

"Okay, Dolores, tell me this then," he said. "What's the plan? For us."

"Pack up and move to the safehouses," she said, nonchalantly.

"All of us together in one safehouse?"

"Well, no," Dolores answered, looking confused. "Of course not. Too conspicuous to the locals. We stay at different houses. Keep in constant communication. Then, we can meet at neutral sites for training. Like we did before we came to Fort Worth to try to get Lin Tang."

"Those clan masters aren't doing it," Ryker riposted. "It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out. There have been rumors for years about the clans getting together to form a super alliance. It never happened before because the clan masters let their egos get in the way. However, this time, it's different. We've got sixteen clan masters in town at the same time. They've put aside their differences to do that, so who knows just how far they'll take the initiative.

"If they do form some kind of alliance, then we're screwed. All the smaller independents will eventually join up or be swallowed up. We'll fall further and further behind. Imagine if Lin Tang were to suddenly start training security details from these clans?"

Horace whistled low when the realization hit him.

"We wouldn't stand a chance," he deduced.

"No, we wouldn't," Ryker concurred. "Hell, I'd be surprised if we could even sneak back into town once we leave. Who knows how many eyes would be on us?"

Jesus let out a huge breath of air, ran his fingers through his hair in frustration and turned away. Kelly and Heidi stared at him, looking for answers. He could sympathize as he was just as confused as they were. He turned back to look at his wife.

"All of this is just talk, Dolores," he finally said. "We don't know why these clans are in town. There's too much at stake to go on half-assed guesses and theories."

"Fine, whatever," Ryker replied, with disgust. "Just go on and leave then. And, don't worry. I'll wait 'til you're all gone before I go off the deep end. I guess I owe you all that much."

"And that's still not good enough, Cantrell," Marcus chimed in.

"Well, what the hell would you have me do then?" Ryker demanded.

Jesus started to answer, but stopped when Dolores looked at him. She had that curious look in her eye again. He'd seen it too many times before to know she had something unusual up her sleeve.

"No, Cantrell," she started. "I think the question is what would you have us do?"

Ian Hendricks couldn't believe the evening he was having. It was bad enough learning that his primary meal ticket was pulling up stakes and leaving. Now, he had to go to the county hospital to meet Aurelia Hernandez for reasons unexplained.

He pulled into the parking lot, found a space not too far from the emergency room entrance and went inside. As expected, the place was full. Crying children, anxious mothers, drunken frat boys who had learned the hard way that alcohol and stunts didn't mix, the homeless and indigent, everyone normally seen in a county hospital ER.

He eased his way through the crowd to the check-in desk. He saw Aurelia and waved to her. She disengaged herself from two police officers and came over.

"What the hell is so important that I had to cancel a date?" Ian lied.

"You are, Ian," Aurelia snorted. "You're not doing the job I'm paying you for."

"What?"

"One of the girls who was in Duke's car is in surgery," Aurelia explained. "Somebody worked her over pretty good."

Ian furled his eyebrows.

"I didn't know that," he said. "I talked to both women and they lied through their teeth. Said they were hitchhiking when Duke and his cousin picked them up. I checked them out and they had links to Duke's cousin. I could see them, maybe, being attacked by the thugs who killed Duke, but why leave them alive?"

"I don't know," Aurelia answered, sounding frustrated. "All I know is I've gotten virtually nothing useful out of you in the past week. You say you know this town front and back. You can go places I can't. Yet, you have no leads on Heidi Nguyen, you don't have a clue who ashed that vampire under the bridge. You can't tell me anything about Duke except to say the two women with him lied."

Ian frowned. He had messed up. He spent too much time helping the Hunters and not enough time placating Aurelia. With Jesus and Dolores blowing town, he had to reinvigorate his relationship with his only source of income.

"Do you want a refund?" he asked, trying to make light of the situation.

Aurelia slipped and let a thin smile break out across her face.

"I'll take a rain check," she quipped. "Actually, the real reason I asked you here is because I need a big favor."

"Anything for you," Ian commented, making Aurelia blush.

"We have a witness to the beating," Aurelia said. "I need to keep it low-key since it involves Duke and our secret world of vampires. Can you stash her with one of your contacts for awhile? At least until we catch the guy who did the beating so she could identify him or her?"

"Uhm, yeah, I guess I could," Ian said. "Who is she?"

Aurelia looked over her shoulder and motioned to a woman sitting in a chair in the waiting room. Ian did a double-take when he saw her. She was gorgeous. And there was something oddly familiar about her.

"May I introduce you to Ian Hendricks," Aurelia said, with a look of jealousy when she saw how Ian eyed the woman. "Ian, may I introduce you to Diane Simmons."

"Pleased to meet you, Diane," Ian said, with a big smile and a proffered hand.

"Oh, I'm sure the pleasure will be all mine," Diane replied, coyly. "I have a feeling we are going to get to know each other very well."

Chapter 11

Diane Simmons felt lucky. None of the men she was previously assigned to seduce had ever looked as delicious as Ian Hendricks. And as an added bonus, she could tell by the look in Aurelia Hernandez's eyes that the detective desired Ian, so it was fun to think she had stolen Ian away from the competition. Even better for her (and worse for the detective), there was no choice in the matter.

Ian could not know Aurelia had been forced to lie to him about the real reason for the trip to the hospital. It was really to set the trap. Lin Tang had already deduced what the detective couldn't – Ian Hendricks knew far more than he let on about the people responsible for not only Duke's death but Kane's as well. Of course, Lin had the ability to read body language more thoroughly than Aurelia, and, after viewing some surveillance tapes of meetings between the detective and Ian, had figured out that Hendricks had been holding back.

Perhaps it was for more money. Maybe not. That was for Diane to coax out of Ian.

As for Aurelia Hernandez, Diane expected no trouble. The detective had to cooperate; if not to continue getting her bribes but to avoid being exposed to the police department's Internal Affairs division. Lin Tang's "ambush" in the hospital parking lot, where she had her fangs at the detective's throat to gain her cooperation did not hurt either.

Now, at one of Ian's safehouses, Diane studied him and found him to be very engaging, with a forceful personality that had ignited her own passions quite easily. She wasn't naïve, though. She knew he checked her background. He had to know she was one of Lin Tang's half-deads or at least suspected it. That he hadn't kicked her out of the house, said he had his own motives for staying with her.

"I normally do this in the dark, you know," she said, coyly.

The early morning sun was already peeking through the blinds of the master bedroom. It had taken more time than she was used to in order to sweet talk her way past his skittishness. He'd seemed apprehensive, at times, downright hostile, but, fortunately, that anger was directed at someone else. Maybe, she hoped, it would be at the people her master was seeking and she could get him to give them up.

"That's okay," Ian replied, his arms behind his head. "I like to see what I'm getting."

Diane tossed her bra aside and seductively stepped out of her shorts. Ian, already undressed, pulled her back on the bed. She laughed and spread her legs to receive him. Instead, he surprised her by crawling between her legs and settling down to send her into another dimension of ecstasy. She gasped and felt an intense wave of pleasure rip through her body almost immediately.

"W-whoa, I wasn't expecting that," she said, out of breath. "Okay, you've made your point. You don't have to continue."

"Okay," was all he said before diving back in.

Diane had never had a man or woman who took so much time to please her. She lay back, enjoying the fantastic sensations rippling through her body. Orgasms made her back arch almost to the point of breaking.

There was no question that she'd take him to bed. That was her forte. He wanted to know her secrets, but she was a master of turning the tables and eliciting others' secrets instead.

Finally, he finished his oral ministration and she pouted. She was so used to faking her pleasure with her targets she didn't know how good sex could really feel. After he pulled her on top and let her ease herself down onto him, she felt even better. She wasn't used to being in control during sex.

Hours later, she fretted. Ian was dressed and she was alone in bed, covered by a thin silk sheet. He had to leave, of course. They all do, she told herself. That was okay. He'd be back and she could finagle the information Lin Tang wanted out of him.

"Don't keep me waiting too long," she said as he left the room. "I definitely want to learn a lot more about you."

"And I want to learn all about you," Ian replied, with a wink. "I don't know who's been pushing your buttons, but you really need to learn to open up."

Diane sat up, clutching the sheet to her bosom and watched as he opened the front door to let the relief guard, a rather stout woman, inside. She'd been with women before, but she wanted no part of this one. Rolling out of bed, she headed for the bathroom

"Score another one for me," she laughed to herself as she stepped into the shower.

Louis Riordan looked at the clan masters ringing the large oval oaken table in his main conference room. Each looked none the worse for wear after the previous evening's soiree and eager to get the alliance meeting started. He liked that. His hard work had paid off so far.

"My friends," he began. "Once, long ago, all vampires in the world were governed by the Supreme Council which is, as you know, based in Budapest. While they were good at controlling vampire affairs in the Old World, they left the New World to the whims of lesser lieutenants. In response, we in North America began forming clans. By the 20th century, we began to use the Mafia as a model, especially in the years during Prohibition. However, we were not efficient. We let pettiness and jealousy get in the way of proper relations between us."

"I think we all know this, Riordan-san," Matsutaka interjected. "Why must we rehash it?"

"For emphasis, my dear," Riordan answered. "The Supreme Council, through its various agents, both vampire and human, used those rifts to keep us from uniting. They still hope to regain their power base in North America, even as they see their European and African bases eroding under the threat from Asia. And they can do it, too, if they begin to round up the various rogue clans."

He paused to let the information sink in. Every clan master present had problems with unaffiliated clans running around, interfering in their operations. For too long, though, those rogues had been ignored because they were deemed too small to bother with.

"I'll give you an example right here in Texas," Riordan continued. "My clan is the largest in the Southwest. Yet, there are smaller clans in the other large cities – Dallas, Austin, San Antonio, Corpus Christi, Amarillo, El Paso to name a few. They are all wary of joining our stronger organizations for fear of being swallowed up. Monsieur Lucabaugh from Houston can attest to this."

Lucabaugh nodded.

"And you think that presenting these holdouts with an even more powerful alliance, will allay those fears?" Giancarlo asked, with a smirk. "I would think that they would be even more intimidated."

"That is most certainly true," Riordan replied, succinctly. "However, it is then a question of power and inevitability. Once the largest clans are united, the smaller ones must make a decision. Do they join with the alliance? Do they side with the Supreme Council, which is too far away to protect them? Or do they remain rogues, fighting for the scraps?"

Riordan did not wait for any replies. Instead, he walked over to the closest wall and pushed a button to activate the intercom. He said something and stepped away.

A moment later, the door to the room opened and Riordan's secretary Allison walked in with an armful of thick packets, akin to prospectuses. She distributed one to each clan member, nodded to her boss and left, closing the door behind her.

Riordan turned away from the group and peered out the heavily-tinted windows at the Fort Worth skyline. It was fully bright now as the rush hour commuter traffic had finally ceased. Outside of his building, an unsuspecting world carried on with its business, mostly oblivious to the power plays that would affect their lives down to their very blood. If he played his cards right, he would be watching this unsuspecting world from a more powerful vantage point as head of the new alliance.

"Have we had a chance to glance at the particulars of the alliance?" he asked after a while, glancing over his shoulder.

Jewel Waterston flipped through a few pages before dropping the packet on the table. Clearly, She was not pleased.

"It seems like you're aiming to lead all of us," she said, huffily. "Or am I misreading this?"

"No, you are not," Riordan answered. "But, you are getting a little ahead of yourself. We all know that this alliance is a done deal. This meeting is to work out the particulars. We all submitted our questions about the alliance; the prospectus is the culmination of the compromises we have made. We ultimately must see if those problems and questions have been sufficiently answered."

"You still haven't answered my question, Louis," Waterston retorted. "Do you intend to lead this alliance?"

"I will put my name into the ring," Riordan replied, perturbed at Waterston's insistence. "As, I suspect, you will."

"You might be disappointed, my dear Jewel," Ringgold chimed in. "You don't have the edge our dear Riordan has, namely a ninja enforcer named Lin Tang."

"I object to that, Edge," Matsutaka snorted. "Ninjas are Japanese, not Chinese. So are samurai, in case you were thinking of stealing that moniker, too."

"Okay, master swordsman then," Ringgold relented. "Or swordswoman, to be PC. Whatever. Riordan's got one, we don't. As long as she's the enforcer, que sera sera."

"By the way, where is our nimble little minx?" Lucabaugh asked, with a lascivious grin.

"Out finding Duke's killer?" Aguelo Munoz remarked, sarcastically. "How's that going, by the way? While we're at it, did you ever find who ashed that bastard Kane?"

Riordan looked daggers at the clan masters. The men was challenging him in front of the others, when they could just as easily done so last night – in private. Perhaps it was another test of leadership.

"That is an internal matter," he said, brusquely. "Am I to deduce none of you have unsolved murders of vampires in your respective areas?"

"Yes, we have," Elizabeth Lupo said, brusquely. "But, I'm sure we didn't send an enforcer to wipe out a fellow clan master. However, I digress, as I am sure that Kuster's demise was meant as a warning to the rest of us."

Ringgold got to his feet and put his hands up like a referee. "Enough. I think we all get the point. What's done is done. Kuster was a leech and I know none of us really care that he's gone."

Riordan saw Giancarlo roll his eyes. Apparently, the man had heard enough of the bickering and loudly set his now empty glass of port on the table. That got everyone's attention.

"This is exactly the kind of bickering that stopped us from uniting before," he stated. "Let us agree, we are better off without Abel Kuster and his ilk. And let us agree, we all have unsolved killings in our territories. Riordan should be free to handle his own business. That's fair, isn't it?"

"No, I don't think so at all," Elisa Fusco blurted out, drawing a harsh glare from Giancarlo. "It goes to the heart of this alliance. I may just be representing my family in this matter but I'm not naïve. Duke's killing suggests some unsettling things. Since the act was done in broad daylight, that eliminates direct vampire involvement. But, it doesn't exonerate us. You could have rivals who hired familiars or other humans to do the deed."

"Or there could be humans with a completely different agenda," Alberto Lupo added. "In Mexico, we have come across some former cartel enforcers who had loved ones turned by our kind. Those enforcers then became hunters."

Riordan kept his cool at the mention of hunters. He hadn't told any of them of the rumors of potential allies of the late Cantrell Ryker, possibly being in the area. He certainly didn't want unfounded rumors added to his already full plate. He tasked Lin Tang with putting the rumors to rest and she always came through for him, at least since she returned from training with Lo Chang. However, he hadn't heard anything recently from her and could feel the gray trying to creep back into his hair.

"All the more reason to put aside our squabbling and agree on a compromise," Riordan lied. "I have recent information that the Supreme Council has been talking to outsiders."

"That is not new, Louis," an indignant Giancarlo shot back. "The council has the equivalent of a consulate in most of our territories. It helps to prevent any, shall we say, differences of opinion that might become real problems if not tackled early."

"But, what if those same Council representatives have been seen talking to members of unaffiliated clans?" Riordan offered. "That would be a violation of our agreements of non-interference."

Munoz nearly spit out the Bloody Mary he had been sipping.

"What are you proposing, Louis?" he asked as he wiped the mess off his tie. "We cement our new alliance with a war against the Supreme Council?"

"Yeah, let's not forget the Council has enforcers with centuries of experience," Nelly O'Roarke said. "Let's all think clearly before we do something that could have long-term repercussions."

Nyrobi Kenya stood up and looked crossly at her fellow clan masters.

"And let's all remember this alliance was meant to strengthen us against the Council's machinations," she stated. "How about we all put the fear away and start acting like clan masters? And, as for you, Louis, what are you planning to do about both the Council and whoever killed Duke and Kane, if they're not related?"

"My friends, I can assure you I have things under control," Riordan replied, as he paced back and forth across the room. "Pardon my hostility at being taken to task in my own territory. However, plans are in motion to flush out the people responsible for Duke and Kane. And, as for the Council, that plan is in the back of your prospectus. Page twenty, I believe."

He waited for everyone to get to that section.

"Special enforcers?" Alexia Ciccione queried, with a very puzzled look.

Riordan nodded. He touched his wall screen and it came to life. The screen showed various clips of military Special Operations units in training, mixed in with combat videos. Some of the clips showed actual members of the clans' security units doing their things. The montage ended by showing a black-clad Lin Tang going through her sword practice.

"Lin Tang has made amazing strides in the time since she got back from training with Lo Chang," Riordan stated. "Before his untimely demise at the hands of Moonrise, Inc., he made her into one of the best enforcers I have ever seen – that includes the best the Supreme Council has to offer. But, such power makes no sense if it is ultimately wasted. And that would happen if some of it is not passed on.

"I propose that each of us send two or three of our best enforcers to Lin, to train into a SWAT-style force. We could then learn from the best what each clan has to offer in the ways of interrogation, investigation, et cetera; until we have groups capable to taking on whatever the Council throws our way."

"I'm not too sure about that," Ringgold said. "But, what the hell? I'll agree to it just to get this meeting moving again."

For the first time that day, Riordan felt some weight come off his shoulders. If he kept on playing his cards right, he might just be able to pull this alliance off. Just then, Allison quietly stepped in, walked over to him and whispered something in his ear.

"Okay, let us take a short recess to stretch our legs," Riordan abruptly said.

"Anything wrong?" Giancarlo asked on his way out of the room.

"No, maybe some fresh blood will help us get back to concentrating on the meeting," Riordan lied again.

Allison had just told him more bad news. Pratt had found one of his familiars dead and another critically injured in a building near downtown. Worse, the perpetrator had apparently been spying on the reception the previous evening.

When everyone left the room, Riordan crossed back over to the nearest window and looked out. Somewhere amidst the plethora of buildings and houses stretching as far as the eye could see was an unseen enemy. One that threatened everything he had accomplished.

Somebody was onto the alliance and was playing for keeps.

Chapter 12

Heidi thought she and Angelica were just passing through downtown Fort Worth. However, Angelica cut off the highway via the Belknap Street exit, heading over the bridge and into downtown Fort Worth. Just before the courthouse, the former bodybuilder turned right, curved around, and got onto the Main Street Bridge. Heidi recognized the spot, inhaled sharply and closed her eyes, trembling.

"Sorry to do this, babe," Angelica said, emotionlessly. "But, the first step in training is to face your fears. Isn't that what you tell the women in your training class?"

Forcing herself to calm down, Heidi slowly opened her eyes. She looked hard at Angelica and then sighed again. She nodded in agreement, sitting back as Angela parked in a lot at the low end of the bridge. She waited as Angelica climbed out. After some hesitation, she climbed out, too.

"That's the Fort Worth Police Department right across the river," she pointed out. "Aren't you worried I'll be recognized since I am, officially, a missing person?"

Angelica shook her head. "To the powers that be, you're just another faceless person."

"This is so embarrassing," Heidi said, as they carefully made their way down to the jogging path that ran alongside the river.

"Hmm, not quite the reaction I expected," Angelica noted. "This is where you basically died and became a vampire, and, you're embarrassed?"

"Ah, no, I mean I always tell my clients to face their fears," Heidi explained, sheepishly. "I had a woman in one of my classes who was raped and refused to go back into her own bedroom for years afterward. I got her through it. But, something happens to me and I act like some novice student instead of the instructor. What does that make me?"

"Human."

Smiling at Angelica, Heidi thanked her for the support. She stopped at the pathway where she had been attacked and stared hard. The blood was gone now but her memories remained. Angelica kept watch, her eyes darting about while her right hand remained near her jacket pocket.

"This is almost too much," she said, slowly.

"You almost died," Angelica answered. "You have a right to be anxious."

"No, I mean these past few days have been so weird," Heidi clarified. "Just when I thought I was going to learn something, Jesus says we're leaving town. Then, Ryker and Marcus have a Mexican stand-off, and Wesley actually got into a fight with Cantrell. If this is what passes for training to join the group, I might have to rethink this whole thing."

"Can't blame you," Angelica sighed. "Ryker's definitely a product of his environment, but that doesn't excuse the rest of us. We have definitely got to get our...crap together.

"Strange as it might seem, I can actually sympathize," Heidi countered, much to Angelica's surprise.

"Really?" Angelica said, with more sarcasm than she meant.

"A couple of nights ago, all I wanted to do was kill vampires," Heidi explained. "I don't think I could imagine what drove the rest of you into this fight. People are shaped and altered irrevocably by past experiences. I've often referred clients to psychiatrists and therapists, but I imagine there can't be many, if any, of those types available for people like you and Dolores and the others."

"May I ask what your degree was in, Heidi?" Angelica asked, curiously.

"Psychology," Heidi replied, with a slight blush. "Never got to practice, though. I thought teaching women to defend themselves was of more immediate importance. Seems like I should have kept at my profession. Then, maybe I could get to the root of this Moonrise thing."

Angelica shook her head, as the wind blew her tresses across her face.

"I don't recommend going there, Heidi," she warned. "You haven't been around long enough to understand even a little bit of what went on there."

"Then, he had a point with Moonrise?" Heidi asked. "Ryker, I mean."

"Just drop it, okay," Angelica snapped, looking back over her shoulder.

Heidi walked closer to the river. "I guess I'm not the only one who needs a first step. Maybe Dolores letting Ryker stay is that first step."

"Not quite," Angelica corrected. "She allowed Ryker to not get booted out. We're still leaving. Dolores is just letting Cantrell come up with possible plans to use against Riordan and those clan masters, should we find out that they're actually planning something that could harm us. Does that explain it?"

"Yeah, sure," a disbelieving Heidi replied. "In other words, she sidelined him. And when we get to the safehouses, would it be too much of a stretch to say that he won't be called back in when – or if – we decide to rejoin the fight?"

Angelica said nothing and didn't even look in Heidi's direction.

"Thanks for clearing the air on that one," Heidi said.

"You know, you're right," Angelica stated. "You might get recognized. We'd better go pick up Patel from the hospital."

Heidi knew she wasn't going to get anything else out of her guardian. Reluctantly, she nodded. After one last look at the spot where she had died, she shivered and quickly turned away to catch up with Angelica.

Chapter 13

Aurelia Hernandez shot up out of bed, sweating profusely. Despite the perspiration, she was shivering. She rubbed her eyes and arms before throwing back the covers of her bed. She looked out the window and saw it was still night.

She needed to call Ian. She wanted to know what he'd found out from Diane Simmons. After all, that balderdash about witness protection had been a farce dreamed up by Lin Tang. She shivered again, thinking of Lin's ambush in the hospital parking lot. The woman was crazy, Aurelia had told herself. She'd actually bitten her!

Sure, the enforcer had quickly closed the wounds, but that did not diminish the true terror of the attack. In the moment when she was bitten, Aurelia could only see her children's faces. She felt an intense fear like she'd never felt before. That had driven home the need to find Duke's killer that much faster, before Lin Tang took care of the matter herself. It didn't take a genius to see Tang would add the detective to the ranks of the half-deads.

To avoid that fate, she needed Ian to come through. At the thought, she switched from being frightened to being angry. She wanted Ian, but had to let him go into the clutches of Diane Simmons. Nausea threatened to overpower her stomach and she reached over to her nightstand for the half-full glass of water she'd left there earlier.

She felt completely helpless. She'd lost Ian, Riordan was losing faith in her abilities and Lin Tang had had actually threatened her family, the one thing she cared most about in this world. And she was powerless to stop it.

Or was she?

She reached over to her phone, picked it up and dialed furiously.

"Hello, Kamarov, this is Aurelia," she said. "Yes, I know it's late. I have a job for you. Yes, it's urgent."

Cantrell Ryker typed furiously into the computer, navigating through at least three Internet search engines. He found pages, copied them to regular document files, and moved onto to more research.

For hours on end, since that turbulent night less than twenty-four hours earlier, he devoted himself to his plan. It was all he really had, all that kept him from the street, from another stretch of being a fugitive.

"Need some help?"

Ryker glanced at his computer screen and saw from the reflection on the monitor that Kelly White Cloud had just entered the makeshift computer lab.

"I'm fine," Cantrell muttered. "You shouldn't be here. I might be infectious."

"Coffee break then. Can you spare the time?"

Ryker looked over his shoulder. It was then he noticed she carried two extra large cups of something hot and steaming. He relented a bit and accepted one from her. It smelled like French vanilla cappuccino, his favorite.

He took a quick sip and apologized for his behavior. "I shouldn't be taking my frustrations out on you. And, yeah, I've got time. This little project here was something Dolores dreamed up to sideline me."

"I'm sorry it had to happen like this," Kelly said, slipping into the room and onto a folding chair. "But, if you ask me, it's been building for a long time. Some days, it seems like we're just a bunch of people standing around instead of a team of professionals. Hell, I've been stuck at base since you brought me in. Because I might run into one of the half-deads among the three million people in this county."

Ryker couldn't argue.

"What are you looking at?" Kelly asked, changing the subject.

"Computers."

"Okay, wise ass, what are you looking at on the computers?"

"Searching for information on our targets," Ryker replied, setting his coffee down on a side table. "Sixteen clan masters together in one place has never happened before. That I know of. This is more than just a social gathering."

"You said there were rumors of an alliance?" she asked between sips of her coffee.

"It's possible," Ryker confirmed. "Maybe it's true. Maybe it's not. But, it's one of those things you don't joke about. This war is already lopsided. An alliance would be the final nail in our coffin."

Kelly shivered at the thought and its implications.

"Hold on," she suddenly said. "What if Dolores and Jesus are right? Maybe they'll leave town once their business is finished. They can be an alliance from afar, right? Like at the United Nations?"

"You'd think, but you'd be wrong," Ryker answered, solemnly. "There's another reason for an alliance that doesn't involve us. In fact, I'm pretty sure they don't even know we exist."

"Then, who would they blame Duke's death on?" Kelly queried.

Ryker typed something into his computer and a screen popped up with a sinister dragon logo. Kelly studied it and saw it was some sort of European family crest, for the dragon held a shield and a sword. Kelly also noticed that the monster had vampire-like fangs.

"Ruling crest of the Supreme Council," Ryker explained. "Sometimes they go by the Tribunal or a few other names depending on who's in charge at the moment. They run things in Europe, as well as parts of Africa that used to be European colonies. They've been around for centuries, at least since the time of Vlad Tepov, a.k.a Vlad the Impaler, a.k.a. Dracula.

"The most powerful and aged of these Hominus Nocturna formed the Supreme Council to take care of their affairs in the Old World, what you know as Eastern Europe. Eventually, they expanded to all of Europe, plus colonies in Africa and the Middle East. They were who first decided it was best to keep vampire numbers small and controlled. They created rules and formed networks to help protect their kind. Later, when European explorers reached the New World, they began organizing things here on this side of the Atlantic. However, they tended to use proxies as few wanted to venture to such a faraway land. Let's just say that, without discipline, these proxies went a little overboard."

"And the clans here formed Mafia-like families to run their own affairs?" Kelly asked.

"Not at first," Ryker explained. "But, plans were made, especially when the Supreme Council failed to protect their own from the Salem Witch Trials and the Puritans."

"The Salem Witch trials were real?" Kelly gasped.

"They didn't get any witches, but they cleaned house of the vampire menace," Ryker expounded. "Ironically, it was an alliance of Puritans and Native Americans, a feat unto itself considering all the bad blood between colonists and Indians after the Great Swamp Fight and the Narragansetts' burning of Providence.

"Anyway, the clans got bigger and bigger until they directly challenged the Supreme Council. The Council reached a truce because it had to. However, as part of the truce, they got to build the equivalent of a consulate in the main city of each clan's territory. To iron out differences and problems, according to the official line, which is pure bull."

"They're trying to influence the smaller clans to ally with the Supreme Council, right?" Kelly deduced. "To contain the big clans, hem them in so they don't get too strong."

"Hey, I'm not the only smart one around here," Ryker quipped, visibly impressed. "But, that's the gist of it."

Kelly silently sipped her coffee as she absorbed the history lesson. Ryker, getting no further cues, shrugged and went back to his work.

"What happened to you, Cantrell?" Kelly said, suddenly.

Caught off-guard by the question, Ryker raised an eyebrow and turned around again. He half-expected Kelly not to follow through on the question. So, he was surprised when she pressed the issue.

"A long story would be an understatement," he admitted. "Let's just say I went from good guy to the quarry almost overnight."

"Quarry, eh? You make it sound like something to do with mining."

"Well, I don't take it for granite," Ryker quipped, though his smile disappeared when he saw the blank expression on Kelly's face. "Hmm, must work on my humor. Seriously, though. I can't talk about it and it's over the head of Dolores and Jesus. Way over."

Kelly gave Ryker a confused look.

"Then, what about Moonrise?" Kelly said. "No one wants to talk about it, but it seems to factor into everything, every decision that's made. And, it all seems to be aimed straight at you."

Ryker couldn't complain. He'd always encouraged young people to learn by asking questions. How could he fault Kelly for asking a sensitive question?

"Moonrise was a big organization," Ryker said, at last. "More than sixty members, active and in reserve. That's huge for anyone in this business. Of course, with so many members and so many missions – vampires, witches, cults, werewolves, lycanthropes, et cetera –there was a lot of infighting. The group had been broken into three parts for ease of administration, but they all drew from the same resource pool.

"The end result was each group vying for funding, computer time and other resources. Add in some of the members were more visible than others, which led to clashes of egos. That's how it was when I joined in. There were two others, besides me, who ended up being liaisons between the groups."

"So, you never got anything done?" Kelly asked.

"On the contrary," Ryker countered, strongly. "We had success. Mixed success, but success nonetheless, especially in the deprogramming area. In fact, we had one big operation right after I joined. This cult recruited and brainwashed fifty college students. The aim was to send them back to their colleges to recruit others, in some weird black Sabbath MLM."

"Sounds like something went wrong," Kelly said.

"Don't get ahead of the story, please," Ryker lightly admonished. "As I was saying, we had to use the entire organization and were still outnumbered three to one. Absolutely, horrible planning. A bunch of cultists escaped because we weren't coordinated."

"Like I said, something went wrong."

"You get a cookie," Ryker snorted. "Now, shut up and drink your coffee. Anyway, I wasn't supposed to be active in field ops, but, I had to go in to stop all these guys, including Lo Chang, from getting away. It was like the O.K. Corral. Bodies were dropping like flies."

"Wow," Kelly whispered, stunned. "Were the cops there?"

"Not until the end," Ryker replied. "When I realized just how much clout this cult really had. I mean, the cops should have been there by accident considering the whole operation took the better part of a day. But, the cops got all the credit when the news cameras showed up."

"You got no credit for anything?"

"Not a thing," Ryker answered, with a shrug. "I still don't know how it got covered up. Guy must have had a whole lot of favors owed to him. Oh, sorry, Guy Laroux was one of the founders of Moonrise. He used to run with Dolores and Jesus back in the so-called good ol' days. Yeah, right, as if there were any good days in this war."

"You don't sound happy," Kelly noted. "I would have thought a mission with such a resounding success would be cause for some of those good ol' days."

"You'd think, but the success gave us hubris," Ryker said. "Well, not me. I tried to get the others to analyze the battle and fix the mistakes, but it's hard to convince a victorious army to do things like that. That sense of being unbeatable didn't last long."

"You mean the incident in California, right?" Kelly asked.

Ryker sighed and nodded, his shoulders sagging.

"We got word on this incredibly well-organized, religious cult," he said. "Guy and the others insisted we had to take it down, no matter the cost. Somehow, he'd gotten wind of something really big, possibly between the cult and one of the big vampire clans. I objected and got shunted aside. No way were we ready for something like that. They went ahead anyway and you know the rest. Everybody died, on both sides. A hundred or so in all. Complete disaster."

"Wow, no wonder Dolores and Jesus and the others were so emotional," Kelly stated, whistling low.

"The founding members of Moonrise were friends with Jesus and Dolores," Ryker said. "Jessie, Horace, Angelica, Elvis, Manuel, Marcus; they all had a friend or two in the group that died that day."

"And they blame you for living?"

"I committed the ultimate sin in their eyes," Ryker commented, his arms crossed and his head hung low. "I was a cancer to team unity. As Guy said, I was opposed to the whole spirit of Moonrise. I was expected to mold myself to fit the ship, so to speak. It was all flowery, but I'd read Sand Pebbles, too.

"You see, groups like Moonrise are like the Marines, or police SWAT teams, or Special Forces. They're tight knit, like family. I was the outsider, brought in by the leadership to add fresh blood, so to speak. At first, it was good because, as a stranger, people could open up to me and say things they wouldn't say to friends. Then, it got bad. Real bad."

Kelly didn't realize that she'd been holding her breath during the last explanation. She slowly let it up and drained almost the rest of her coffee to settle herself.

"How come everyone thought you were dead?"

"Laroux had a list of the people involved in the operation on his person," Ryker said. "Incredibly stupid, of course. Another silly mistake. The FBI got hold of the list and my name was still on it, so, with the incident spread all over the news, I was officially dead. And I had to stay dead."

Kelly sat silently for several minutes. Ryker said nothing to break that silence. Instead, he went back to creating his plan on his computer.

"You weren't with the group during the operation?" she finally asked. "Where were you during that time?"

"Nowhere," Ryker answered, without emotion. "I got sidelined."

A knot formed in the pit of Kelly's stomach. Easing herself out of her chair, she headed for the doorway. There, she ran flush into Marcus.

"Oh, hey, Marcus," she said.

"Can you give us a moment?" Marcus asked.

"It's okay," Kelly answered. "I was just leaving. Thanks for answering my questions, Cantrell."

"Cantrell," Marcus announced after Kelly was gone. "We need to talk."

Chapter 14

Marcus sighed when Ryker didn't acknowledge him. He forced the issue, stepping into the room, and taking the seat Kelly had vacated. Ever the patient one, he simply whistled for what felt like an eternity.

"Is there something I can help you with?" an irritated Ryker demanded. "I've got legitimate work to do."

"You can be a real asshole sometimes, Cantrell," Marcus noted, sourly. "I just wanted to see how you're feeling."

"You pointed a gun at my head," Ryker snorted. "How do you think I feel?"

"And you disrespected myself and Angelica," Marcus shot back. "After we went out on a limb to sponsor you. I had half a mind to let Angelica break you off a new one, and, we both know she could have done it."

Ryker sat silent.

"That's right, Cantrell," Marcus droned on. "Deal with a serious issue by acting like a child with the silent treatment. Let me tell you what I think. You spent so much time hiding, you lost sight of who your real friends are. Having to rely on no one but yourself, you had to become a killer. You couldn't afford to make friends who might become targets of vampires, or, who might get turned and attack you. So, you kept everyone at arm's length. Am I right so far?"

Ryker was still silent, but he also stopped typing on his computer.

"We didn't just bring you in to the group for your experience, Cantrell," Marcus continued. "We brought you in so you could get used to society again. If we're to finally get the upper hand in this war, the days of hunters being loners has to end. But, to do that, we need people to cooperate and be team players."

Ryker started typing again. Marcus muttered under his breath. He'd tried. Pushing himself wearily to his feet, he walked out of the room.

"You know what the hardest part about being on the run was?"

Marcus stopped and turned around. He saw Ryker lift his head. There was no anger anymore, but the mercenary couldn't quite put his finger on what had replaced it.

"Not having anyone to talk to," Ryker finished. "No friends, no family. You find yourself reacting to things, because one slip and you could suffer a fate worse than death. You anticipate it from everyone around you. Are they vampires? Are they human and, if so, are they freakin' familiars? That's why I wasn't surprised when you pulled the gun on me. And, God help me, I was prepared to shoot, just to go down fighting, like I'd readied myself for every damned night I was on the run. That's why I hate running."

Now, Marcus was the one at a loss for words. Why hadn't he seen it before? Hadn't he trained himself to look for adverse effects among his fellow mercenaries? Did he think it would be different in a highly civilized nation like America?

Ryker was one of the toughest hunters he'd ever met. Yet, before all of that, he had been a Navy officer, not a warrior trained for combat, like a Marine. The war had been forced on him, made worse by the unflinching egos of Moonrise. And now, here in Fort Worth, the same conditions manifested themselves again, like he'd heard Ryker talking about before he'd interrupted.

Even worse, Ryker had no one to turn to. At that, he thought about Angelica and was glad he had her. Dolores had Jesus. Horace had an eye for Jessie. But what about a man like Ryker, who feared making relationships when the next day could bring death or capture by the police?

Just then, Kelly brushed past, forcing her way into the room. A stunned Marcus deduced she must have been in the hallway, listening as he had been doing during the earlier conversation between the two. She stopped and looked back him, with a mix of pleading and angry eyes.

"Christ, Marcus, you're the asshole, you know that?" she snapped.

Before Marcus could answer, Kelly threw her arms about Ryker's neck and shoulders. It was then the mercenary realized that Ryker was crying. After a moment, he watched Ryker grip one of Kelly's arms, whereupon, she moved to one side and pulled his head against her body. She held him tightly, letting him sob uncontrollably even as he wrapped his arms about her and hugged her tightly.

Feeling out of place, Marcus turned and left.

Bartoli Kamarov hated his life. He'd been quite comfortable in his house when Aurelia Hernandez called. He would have hung up on her, had he not been certain of his life ending. Aurelia had kept him out of prison on a third strike, but could send him back to Huntsville in a second if he didn't cooperate.

Bringing the binoculars back up to his eyes, he looked over the edge of the roof upon which he lay. He instantly zeroed in on a small auto repair shop. It was nondescript and he wouldn't have paid any attention to it, except, he hadn't seen a single customer go in or out of the place. He'd been watching the place all morning and the only movement he had observed was from a burly man in overalls working under the hood of a sedan. At least, it appeared that the man was fixing it, Kamarov had not seen the mechanic – if he could be called that – taking anything out of the vehicle or putting any new parts in.

"That's interesting," he said to himself. "Looks like Andujar actually earned his pay this time."

Kamarov had learned from one of his own snitches the auto repair shop had been open a few months, but no one in the area knew much about it. A man named Manuel Avecedo ran it, but only took special clients – who were always coming to the garage for repairs. Unless this Manuel was a piss-poor mechanic and those clients were incredibly naïve, something was amiss.

Kamarov had once been one of the most trustworthy members of the Russian Mafia, until Vladimir Putin found it expedient to crack down on his bosses, right around election time. Kamarov fled to Miami. Joining up with the Russian mob there only to be become a guest of the state twice, –he had struck out on his own, working freelance to scout locations and individuals for discerning clients.

He liked working for Aurelia. She might have been good at forcing confessions out of people, but she was a lousy detective. In less than half a day, he found out more about the people she was hunting than she had in a week. Of course, he had scores of associates who would never dream of talking to a cop. That was why she paid so well, to cover her deficiencies.

And, Kamarov had to admit, he had no problems getting dirty, unlike the detective. He didn't mind being on top of a dilapidated building. It gave him a great view of the garage. In fact, he could see the entire block and began to wonder about it. The fences that once separated the individual businesses had been taken down. Even more mysterious, the other three buildings besides the garage looked to be occupied, with lights on. Yet, he saw no one going in and out of them.

"Finally, some business," he said to himself.

He watched a black SUV roll up to the gates of the repair shop. The gates rolled back to admit the vehicle and closed behind it. He continued to watch until the vehicle stopped inside the first garage bay. When the driver climbed out, Kamarov did a double take.

"Ian Hendricks?" he gasped. "But, that's Aurelia's primary source. Well, well, well, this ought to be good for a big pay raise."

Kamarov knew Aurelia used Hendricks to find out things about people who did not like publicity. He also knew Hendricks was not unfamiliar with the supernatural, especially vampires. Kamarov still shuddered at the thought that vampires truly existed and was not anxious to meet any. That was his only condition when working with Aurelia – he would not work or meet with vampires.

Back to the present situation, Kamarov could only deduce one thing. Hendricks was working both sides. He was a mercenary. Yet, Kamarov had to know who the other "side" was. He put away his binoculars and brought his telephoto camera up, snapping more pictures of Manuel, plus some new ones of Ian.

"Who's around?" Ian asked as he slammed his truck door shut. "Or all they all still packing?"

"Jesus and Dolores are here," Manuel answered, while stacking old tires. "So are Michael Lee and Jessie, of course. But, be careful what you say. Jesus is not really in a good mood."

"What else is new?" Ian joked, until he saw the serious look on Manuel's face. "What happened?"

"Well, you'd find out anyway," Manuel answered. "Marcus got into a stand-off with Ryker. They were pointing guns at each other, amigo."

"Jeez, are you serious?" Ian asked, incredulous.

"Somehow they didn't shoot each other," Manuel continued, carefully leaving out how he almost caused disaster by knocking over his toolbox. "But, then Ryker and Elvis got into it. Elvis went after Ryker and slammed him right into that stack of carburetors. Then, Ryker kicked him in the cajones. Elvis had to go to the hospital to get checked out this morning."

"Too bad I missed it," Ian remarked. "You'd think Wesley would've pounded Ryker into a pulp. Cantrell certain had it coming in spades. Will wonders never cease? So, I'm guessing they won't be in a mood to part with any money today?"

"I would say no, amigo," Manuel answered.

"Well, nothing beats a try but a failure," Hendricks countered, with a beaming smile. "Because, today, I might just have something that will cheer everybody up."

Ian went into the office. Manuel merely shrugged and continued cleaning up his garage.

"You know why Dolores and I started the Hunters, Ian?" Jesus asked.

Jesus sat in a rather large office, occupied by two cheap, battered metal desks. At least half the drawers were jammed shut but it did not matter. The Hunters' operation was such that things might have to be abandoned in a hurry.

Dolores occupied the second desk, carefully going through a stack of file folders. To her right was a medium-sized box in which she placed two of the folders. Jesus was at the desk closest to the door, while Ian had a heavily dented folding chair.

"For personal reasons," Jesus explained. "Our daughter, Evangeline, was turned and we had to kill her. We made it our life's work to save others from that fate. I like to think we've made a difference. We made a dent. A family here. A master vampire there. Mostly in small towns. We've kept our group small to attract little attention but, I'm afraid that is all about to change."

Ian listened politely. It didn't pay – literally – to be ungracious to someone paying the bills. In truth, as long as the cash flowed, Ian would possess the most attentive ears.

"Doesn't sound like anything's changed, Jesus," he commented. "In fact, it sounds like business as usual. Now, don't take this the wrong way, but neither of you can honestly expect to keep doing this strenuous small-scale stuff at your ages."

Dolores stopped messing with her file folders and shot a dirty look at Ian. It did not last long, though, as the truth of Ian's words hit home. She leaned heavily against her chair, contemplating things.

"What would you recommend then, Ian?" she asked. "Maybe we overreached with such a small group. Maybe taking down Lin Tang is too monumental a task for anyone. How can we compete against a man like her boss, Riordan, who controls police like your so-called friend Aurelia Hernandez? He has enough clout making the victims of his underlings go away. He's got an enforcer like Lin, plus hundreds of familiars spread out around the county that we have to account for. His headquarters is an armed fortress with a small heavily-armed protection force to guard it."

Ian repressed a sigh. This was not going well.

"You wouldn't be here for a mere social visit," Jesus added. "So, amigo, tell me what's on your mind?"

Ian took a deep breath, held it for a moment and then let it out to steel his nerves. Standing up, he shed his coat and tossed it over the back of his chair. The weight of it nearly tipped the chair over, but Ian coolly stuck a foot out and caught the bottom crossbar. When he had set things right again, he looked at his benefactors.

"Okay, let's get the hard part over with," he started. "I was a bit pissed you were leaving town, and, not just because of the loss of a reliable paycheck. Living in a town secretly controlled by vampires was a bit easier knowing the people, and means, existed to threaten that control. However, my mood was tempered by an interesting turn of events. A special project landed in my lap. I am doing witness protection with a woman named Diane Simmons."

Neither Dolores nor Jesus seemed to recognize the name.

"She's a half-dead," Ian explained.

The Montoyas recognized that.

"Jesus Christo," Dolores uttered. "Ian, are you crazy? Getting involved with a half-dead?"

"You didn't tell her anything about us, did you?" Jesus demanded. "Don't you know from Kelly, Lin Tang keeps a tight rein on her half-deads?"

"Relax," Ian countered. "It's not like she's the leader of the half-deads. According to my people, she's not even in the hierarchy. She's just the numerical replacement for Kelly. But, we can still use her."

"And just how were you planning to do that?" Dolores queried.

"Well, that's why I'm here," Ian admitted. "I've got a plan that just might work, but I'll need your help. Normally, I know you'd use Marcus to do the particulars. In a pinch, maybe Elvis, but both of them are pretty busy with the logistics of the move. That just leaves Ryker."

"No, it doesn't," Jesus corrected, giving Dolores a stern look that said not to contradict him. "Dolores and I were planning complicated missions long before he arrived. What is it you want us to do?"

Ian smiled. His plan had worked. Who knew that Ryker would actually be useful? He mused. Brimming with confidence, he reached into a vest pocket and produced a small notebook.

"Well, what I have goes something like this," he said, as he laid his plan out.

Chapter 15

Lin Tang watched, impressed, as the vampires successfully navigated the obstacle course she'd set up for them at an old gun range in far north Tarrant County. It was pitch-black and yet they navigated the course with ease. Whenever enemy silhouettes popped up, they took them out with their shotguns, submachine guns or pistols. Only once did someone mistakenly take out a vampire.

She'd gotten a vampire from each of the masters now allied with her boss. She hoped for at least two per clan, but understood the reluctance and skepticism. After all, she was trying to take fifteen huge egos and meld them into one unified ego that could, potentially, take on the best the Supreme Council had to offer.

And, that was her ultimate goal. She had no doubt the Council had hired humans to kill Duke and Kane to embarrass her master. The linchpin to discovering these humans was Ian Hendricks and, once he was in her clutches, she would bleed him for everything he knew. Then, she would sic her new enforcer squad on the Council and exact a bloody revenge. With that, she would also send a message, much as she had when she eliminated Kuster.

"Very impressive," she complimented, when the exercise had finished. "For a reward, you each get to hunt tonight. No corpses or converts, please, but you can have as many meals tonight as you want. Let us see if you can keep yourselves out of the news tomorrow."

The vampires cheered and went about their clean-up tasks. Lin Tang walked away from them, activating her earpiece to call Riordan. She gave him the good news and then made a separate call. She wanted information about Diane Simmons, who had been getting spotty in her performance lately. Lin had worked especially hard to develop the woman and didn't need her flaking out.

Can't even control your own half-deads, can you? How can you expect these enforcers to trust you?

"What news of our little detective?" Lin asked when she made the connection. "Yes, I see. That is good. Very good. I was getting worried. Activate the next phase."

She disconnected her phone and smiled, mischievously. It was time to reward herself with a night on the town. She just had to decide which of her new enforcers she would take to bed when the evening was over.

Diane felt sick. She had done what Lin Tang had asked of her. She had pretended to be a witness to a crime in order to get next to Ian. She had discovered valuable information about him and his contacts. Yet, she sensed that Lin Tang was still not pleased and she worried herself sick. What more did she need to do?

Sitting in Ian's safehouse, being minded by another of his dykish assistants, she thought hard on what to do. After several fruitless minutes, she hit on something. Maybe she was being too one-dimensional in that, she always tried to use her stunning looks to get what she wanted. Maybe if she tried using her brain, she might accomplish her mission and get back in her master's good graces.

She looked up from her thoughts and saw the stout guardian named Jennifer standing in the doorway.

"Excuse me?"

"I said that Ian just called and will be over here shortly," Jennifer repeated, sounding like she was in a foul mood. "In about an hour."

"Thank you," Diane said.

When the woman was gone, Diane went back to thinking. She only had an hour to come up with a completely different plan.

Louis Riordan should have been more confident. He had practically sewn up the leadership of the new alliance. The others had taken his suggestion of a combined enforcer squad under Lin Tang's command without any protest. Despite all the good news, he was very troubled.

Kane's ashing. Having Lin eliminate Kuster. Duke's assassination. Even the failure of Pratt and the police in finding Kane's victim. And now, the latest incident – the attack on familiars in a building right across the street from where he held his ball for the other clan masters. One dead, another maimed by a cattle prod to the crotch. A third familiar was missing and he could only assume that she was dead.

To blame it all on the Supreme Council would be foolish. The Council could be cruel, but not stupid. It would not kill members of the clans, even if it thought seriously about showing the large clans as weak. While it might help the Council recruit among the unincorporated clans, it would invite retaliation and, possibly, war.

No. Somebody was openly challenging his rule. And, he had no real clue who it could be. So far, Lin Tang had sicced her best half-dead on a man named Ian Hendricks, who was also working for Aurelia Hernandez. It seemed that particular avenue yielded no useful information yet. Travis Pratt had gone back to the hospital to question the injured familiar as to his attacker's identity. It galled him to have to depend on others for such crucial information.

To make matters worse, strong doubts had begun to creep into his psyche. Was the person or persons responsible somehow connected to one of the other clan masters? Was it a subtle way of undermining his authority? If so, who could it be?

His first choice would have been Edge Ringgold. The man was an uncouth lout, who felt no apprehension at challenging his authority in front of the others. Then again, only Giancarlo Tesino could have had the clout to hire mercenaries or professionals bold enough to do the deed in Riordan's backyard.

Riordan was going to have a lot of trouble sleeping for the next few days, until he got some answers.

If Louis Riordan was troubled, Travis Pratt was angry. Until now, he had enjoyed the fruits of his position as Riordan's head of security. No one had really ever challenged Riordan, as far as humans were concerned, so the job was a piece of cake. Any upstart vampires faced the wrath (and swords) of Lin Tang.

Now, however, he had been touched. One of his familiars – albeit not a very good one – was dead. Another had been maimed and still couldn't talk. A third had simply disappeared. The best clue he had involved an actual dead guy and the possibility that maybe an ally of said corpse was in town. Of course, nobody knew what allies, if any, Cantrell Ryker ever had. At least, ones who hadn't been killed already.

So, here he was, heading back into the hospital to talk to his only witness, a man who once had the biggest balls among his familiars. Now, thanks to an unknown assailant and a cattle prod, the man had none.

He strode into the lobby, Porter Coleman and two other familiars in tow. Instead of going to the information desk, he cut right and headed for the elevators. He took his group to the basement where the hospital's main laboratories and blood banks dwelled.

Pratt had an intern in one of the laboratories on retainer and relied heavily on the woman to keep tabs on vampire victims, particularly the ones who looked to be well into the turn. This day, he needed to know if anyone had showed up in the emergency room with odd injuries. The injured guard was an expert knife man and Pratt hoped he had gotten in at least one good strike. It was a long shot, to be sure, but it was all he had.

"I can't think of anyone stupid enough to do anything this outrageous," a familiar named Cutchner commented.

"Wake up and smell the coffee, Cutch," Coleman retorted. "This is at least the fourth incident in the past four months. This is making us all look bad."

"Both of you shut up," Pratt snapped. "Try thinking of some names, why doncha'?"

"I already gave you a name," Coleman said. "It's gotta' be those friends of Ryker's we keep hearing about."

"Jeez, give it a rest, Porter," Pratt spat. "Ryker's dead. He was a loose cannon. He didn't have any friends. Think of someone else."

"Au contraire, mon frere," Coleman countered. "He does have a couple of friends. Most notably, a mercenary named Marcus Van Niekerk – pretty nasty character, from South Africa. He'd have the chops and the resources to make that hit on Duke."

"South Africa's pretty far away from here, Coleman," Cutchner noted. "Why would he be in Fort Worth?"

The elevator doors opened and the quartet stepped out. A rather muscular woman and a short man in a lab coat were just getting in to the other elevator. Cutchner took time to get an eyeful of the woman's rear before trotting to catch up with his friends.

"Guys, you won't believe it but I think that was Angelica Morales," he said, when he caught up.

"The pro bodybuilder?" Coleman asked. "Why would she be down here?"

"She's retired from the bodybuilding circuit," Cutchner explained. "She became a bodyguard months ago. Used to have a lot of high-profile clients, but she dropped off the map for some reason. Wonder what she was doing with that doctor?"

"Probably testing for steroids," the fourth familiar, a woman named Eilbacher, joked. "She looks like a man to me. Maybe the doc's gonna' give her an operation to turn her back into a woman."

Pratt ignored the drivel. He longed for the days when more professional people signed on to be familiars. But, with the lack of any real action, most of the good people eventually left for more exciting jobs. Pratt was left with what he could scrape up, namely a pasty-faced Coleman and lightweights like Cutchner and Eilbacher.

A middle-aged, rather comely, light-skinned black woman stepped out of the lab at the end of the hall. It was the lab where the hospital did its blood research. Pratt didn't particularly like the hematology lab because it gave him all sorts of problems when overeager doctors tried to test vampire-tainted blood.

"Vicky, what's the word?" Pratt asked.

Vicky Adevold looked past Pratt and at his companions.

"You know Coleman and the other two are with me," Pratt explained. "Now, out with it. What's new?"

"Did you see that man in the lab coat?" she asked.

"Yeah, so what? I'm not here for him."

"You should be," Vicky answered. "He's been here for the past two days. Doing some really weird work."

"What do you mean by weird?" Coleman asked.

"He seemed to have done most of his research before he got here," Vicky expounded. "He just said he had a few tweaks to make on a serum. Something about affecting invasive enzymes in the blood."

"What are you not telling me?" Pratt demanded. "I told you Coleman and the others are with me. They know. So, spill it, girl. I ain't got time for twenty questions."

Vicky shivered and took an involuntary step back.

"I think he might have mentioned something about the vampire enzyme," she blurted. "I can't be sure, but it's why I didn't let you know right away. I could have just misheard him."

Travis wasn't listening to her excuses. Instead, he immediately ordered Cutchner and Coleman to head back up to the parking to catch the man in the lab coat, as well as Angelica Morales. He stayed with Vicky, grabbing her roughly by an arm and dragging her into a supply closet, while telling Eilbacher to watch the corridor.

"No more games, girl," he snarled at the frightened technician. "Or you'll find yourself in a lot more trouble than I can give you. Understand?"

Vicky nodded, meekly.

"Did you get this doctor's name?" Pratt queried.

"I think he said his name was Ravi Patel."

"Eilbacher," he called to the familiar in the doorway.

"On it, boss," the woman replied.

Pratt released Adevold and she backed away, rubbing her arm and fighting back tears from her fright. He watched Eilbacher check the name "Ravi Patel" on her PDA. Within a minute, she had her answer and, when she showed it to him, he swallowed hard

"Damn it," he muttered.

Now it was all beginning to make sense. Patel had been allied with at least three members of the now-defunct Moonrise, Inc. If Angelica Morales was with him, together they could be the "allies" of Ryker he had so readily dismissed.

You idiot, he berated himself.

"Come on," he told the female familiar. "We've got to catch up with Coleman."

Coleman and Cutchner had taken the stairs to get back to the main floor. When they stepped out into the corridor, they looked first at the elevators. Not finding their quarry, they walked quickly to a hallway intersection. That proved fruitless, as well. Cursing, Coleman realized his mistake and tried correcting it by rushing out into the parking lot.

"Shit," he spat. "I should have known they weren't heading deeper into the hospital. How are we supposed to find them now?"

"Wait, over there," Cutchner said, pointing to a large SUV heading for the nearest exit to the street.

Coleman looked. He couldn't see the driver, but did make out the passenger– a short man in what looked like a white lab coat. There was also a woman in the back seat with her window down. He quickly pulled out his cell phone, activated the camera function, and, using the telephoto option, snapped three quick pictures.

"Did you get anything?" Cutchner asked.

"Not sure," Coleman replied. "Maybe Pratt knows someone in the police forensics lab that can help."

"I hope so," Cutchner said. "Well, at least our targets are good-looking this time. I'm so tired of these gap-toothed dogs we have to drag out of truck stops. Jeez, Porter, are you listening?"

Coleman wasn't. He was too busy staring at one of his pictures. It was of the girl in the back seat of the SUV.

"Cutch, you got that picture on you?" he asked, with a voice gone dry.

"What pic?"

"The picture of that girl the cops are looking for," Coleman answered. "The one Kane attacked before he got ashed. Remember? We had to check all of the hospitals to see if she turned up."

Cutchner reached into his jacket and fished out the 4x6 file photo Aurelia Hernandez had dug up somewhere. Coleman took it and set it next to the photo he had. He and Cutchner studied it carefully.

"Damn, I think that's her," Cutchner commented. "Looks close, but I can't be sure. She sure didn't look turned to me."

"It's her," Coleman said. "It's gotta be. This can't be coincidence. And remember that name I had earlier? That mercenary from South Africa."

"Van Niekerk, right?"

"Yeah," Coleman said. "If I'm not mistaken, he's one of the Fifty, as is Angelica Morales. I should have remembered it sooner. Mr. Riordan and Lin Tang mentioned it that night I gave the bad news about Ryker's name being used around town. Van Niekerk would have the skill – and the cajones – to do that ambush on Duke."

"And Angelica Morales is not only on the list with him, but is guarding a doctor affiliated with Moonrise, Ryker's old outfit," Cutchner added, whistling loudly. "Rolling around town, pretty as you please, with someone who supposedly lost enough blood to be well into the turn, before Kane was done in."

"Maybe the serum," Coleman suggested.

"What about the serum?"

Coleman and Cutchner looked up as Pratt and Eilbacher came rushing up. Coleman showed his boss the photos of Heidi. Pratt went ashen.

"Ain't this a bitch?" he snarled. "If this is good news, why the hell do I feel so freakin' bad?"

Inside the SUV, Angelica Morales fought to keep control of her nerves. Seeing Pratt and Coleman walking toward the hematology lab had been bad enough. Seeing Coleman and another familiar come running out of the hospital was even worse.

Next to her, Ravi Patel sat rather patiently. He held a small box of vials in his hands, the sum total of the "tweaking" he'd felt was important enough to jeopardize the Hunters' safety. Angelica hoped his effort was worth it. If Pratt recognized him in some way or if he or Coleman had spotted Heidi, the game would radically change.

"God, I am so sorry," Heidi apologized from the back seat. "It was stuffy in the car; I didn't think it would matter if I had the window down. Do you think they might have recognized me?"

'Do not worry, my dear," Patel consoled. "We had no way of knowing that Pratt or Coleman would be here. Most likely, it was me they were after."

Angelica had no doubt on that. As for Heidi, she could excuse the Hunters' newest member. She was still young and naïve, but she had to grow up fast. They had already saved her from one huge mistake. There might not be a third chance.

"Dial base," she said aloud. "Emergency one."

Her vehicle was equipped with a hands-free phone that operated by voice command. It dialed a special code. A moment later, the voice of Jessie came on.

"Jessie, it's Angelica. We've got a problem. I think Patel was made."

Ryker walked into Jesus Montoya's office, looking nothing like the man who had just released years of frustration and anger into a flood of tears in Kelly White Cloud's arms. In fact, he looked like the same old Ryker as he took a seat in front of Jesus' desk. Without a word, he plopped a thick manila folder onto the desktop, causing a very annoyed Jesus and Dolores to interrupt their work.

"I take it, this is what you've been working on?" Jesus asked after a moment. "The contingency plan?"

"Basically," Ryker said. "It needs a bit of tweaking, but I think we all know it was just busywork to keep me out of the way until everybody's gone."

Dolores raised a perturbed eyebrow at the inference.

"Well, you might be a psycho, Cantrell, but no one can say you're stupid," she remarked, bluntly. "Miracles do exist. That said, I am actually glad to see you. You might be able to help us out with something."

"Like you said, I'm not stupid," Ryker remarked. "Why do I get the feeling I'm about to be sacrificed for something?"

Dolores stood up. She came around her desk and took a seat on the edge of her husband's desk. Her look was totally serious to the point; even Ryker felt it necessary to listen to what she had to say.

"We're all packed and ready to go," she stated. "However, about an hour ago, we had a very interesting visit from Ian. He has a plan he wants us to use...should the right circumstances arise."

Ryker nodded slightly to tell Dolores to continue.

"Ian has made contact with a low-level half-dead," Dolores explained. "The circumstances are dubious so it was easy for him to see through it. Our friendly neighborhood detective Aurelia Hernandez pushed this half-dead on him, supposedly for witness protection, but Ian believes the woman was sent to spy on him and thinks he can flip her into giving up something big on her boss."

"You're not serious," Ryker snorted. "Ian's messing with a half-dead? And you thought I was going to do something stupid?"

"I can't say I approve of Ian's actions, but he might have something," Dolores said. "So far, we've been banging our heads against the wall, trying to find something, anything that will get us close to Lin Tang. This is our best chance yet. Ian took a big chance coming to us with it."

"No, he didn't," Ryker shot back, sarcastically. "He's looking to continue his pay checks."

"Are you a mind-reader now?" Jesus snorted.

"Go ask Marcus or Angelica," Ryker retorted. "Neither of them use Ian's services. The guy's good at getting information, but he's not hands-on. He's never been involved in one of our operations. I don't remember ever hearing of him actively involved in his own cases, other than being behind the scenes. If it wasn't for his connection to Aurelia Hernandez, we'd have no use for him. But, hey, you're the boss."

Dolores said nothing. She just stared at him, her gazing threatening to bore right into his brain. Ryker could only wonder if he'd finally found the straw for the camel's back. He certainly touched just about every nerve.

"Okay, whatever," Ryker relented. "Who's the half-dead? Have you run the name by Kelly?"

"We're not new at this, you know," Jesus said, gruffly. "Kelly said the woman had just joined the ranks of the half-deads about a few months before her, ahem, ordeal."

"Okay, so what's this woman's name?"

"Diane Simmons."

Ryker rolled his eyes, threw his hands up in disgust and got to his feet. He had actually turned and begun walking out of the office, when Jesus told him to stop. Only when Dolores literally put her foot down, did he stop in the doorway and turn to face his bosses.

"Low-level?" he asked, derisively. "Is that what he thinks Diane Simmons is? Low-level?"

"Yes, that is what he said," Dolores replied, angrily. "Oh, wait, let me guess. Wesley was right. You do know everything."

Ryker sighed, crossed his arms and leaned against the door jamb.

"Diane Simmons is Kelly's replacement," he said.

"Yes, we know," Jesus said, testily. "She was the numerical replacement. According to Kelly, the next in line for the top position was a guy named Lincoln; the one who betrayed her. He left her for dead at the hands of two other half-deads, he left at the scene to finish her off. As I recall, she would have been dead if you hadn't happened along and taken care of her would-be killers."

"Lincoln did not take Kelly's place in the half-dead leadership hierarchy," Ryker stated. "Think about it. He leaves with Kelly and two others, but comes back alone and none of the others ever show up again. I can pretty much guarantee you his body's one place and his head is in another. Plus, I saw Diane with Lin Tang that night at the banquet hall. She was being escorted by two others acting as bodyguards. I doubt Lin does that for anyone else."

"Look, whatever she is, she's in Ian's pocket now," Jesus snapped.

"Uh-huh," Ryker snorted. "Pocket's not the word I'd use."

"Cantrell!" Dolores admonished.

"Alright, cut to the chase. What am I supposed to be helping Ian with, as far as Diane Simmons is concerned?"

"We're not asking you to bring home another stray," Dolores said, as she got to her feet and stretched her legs. "I think we can all agree she does not need to see our operations. However, I would like you to meet with Ian and Diane. He's going to try to get her to flip."

"Won't happen."

"He's going to try to flip her," Dolores continued. "I need you in the shadows – listening. I want to see if she is pulling the wool over Ian's eyes or if she is genuine."

"No."

"Why not?" Dolores asked, perplexed. "We're not asking you to physically meet her."

Ryker had a knowing demeanor. "You want to use me as bait. Somehow, someway my name is going to slip out to Diane. Then, she is going to repeat it to Lin Tang. And if there is anything that is guaranteed to get that bitch out of her safety zone and into doing something irrational and stupid, it would be trying to get revenge on the man who she believes killed Lo Chang. Tell me I'm wrong."

Neither Dolores nor Jesus said anything to contradict his words. Ryker could only shake his head. Fortunately for everyone, Jesus' cell phone rang. Making a sour face, he answered it. He only listened for a moment before cutting the connection.

"That was Jessie," he said. "Angelica just phoned. She thinks Pratt and Coleman just ID'ed her and Patel at the hospital. It won't take long for them to check her out and find Marcus's name among her known associates from her bodyguard days."

"Well, we all knew it was only a matter of time," Ryker noted.

"Don't be smart," Jesus said. "It also means your grandiose plan of taking on all sixteen clan masters is out the window. As I recall, your plan's primary benefit was the element of surprise."

"Enough, both of you," Dolores interjected. "We have to leave right away, so Ian's plan will have to wait. What I need to know from you, Cantrell, is can we trust you to at least give us time to get set up in the safehouses before you shoot up the town?"

"Yeah, yeah, I gave my word up top, didn't I?" Ryker replied with mild irritation. "I'll stay behind with Michael to ensure the place is scrubbed. Then, I'll drop him off where we stashed the last car. And, like a good boy, I'll go blow in the wind, 'til you guys call me."

Ryker left abruptly, before either Dolores or Jesus could say something. It didn't matter. All three of them knew no phone call would be forthcoming.

"I don't know what our future holds, Dolores," Jesus began, as he stared after Ryker, "but I can guarantee that we cannot have any more people like him in the group."

Dolores nodded in agreement and went to make preparations for departure.

Chapter 16

Ian took Diane to dinner at Sundance Square that very night and enjoyed a fantastic meal. The food and ambiance left Diane wanting more. For some reason, though, she kept fidgeting with her stiletto heels. Ian didn't ask, though, because her ministrations gave him continuous views of her ample cleavage.

"I took a big chance retrieving those heels for you, Diane," Ian commented, as he sipped a glass of red wine. "Don't tell me they're too big."

"No, they're not too big; one of the straps just won't stay tight," Diane said, after straightening up and propping herself on an elbow. "Anyway, I want to thank you for this wonderful dinner. You shouldn't have."

"I always have time for a beautiful woman," Ian said, coyly.

"I mean I am a witness who is supposed to be protected, right?" Diane said. "This doesn't look like a protective detail."

"I was right," Ian countered. "Aurelia said you were a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but I knew different."

"The detective is just jealous," Diane said, with a slight laugh. "You must know that she wants you very badly, Ian. A woman can tell. She'll tell you lies to get what she wants."

"And are you telling me lies, Diane?"

Diane looked mortified.

"How can you say that?" she gasped. "After I've cooperated so far. And I'm sure you know I haven't been faking it when we're together."

Ian suddenly put his wine glass down. He stared directly at Diane, as if he were trying to see into her soul. She looked away, feeling both guilty and uncomfortable.

"Diane, we need to talk," Ian finally said. "But, not here."

"What is it?"

"Not here," Ian repeated. "Too public. Come on. I know a place where we won't be bothered."

"Weren't you waiting for a phone call?" Diane asked. "You said it was important."

"No, it was only important if they didn't call," Ian replied. "They haven't, so we can go."

Diane shrugged, fiddled with her heels one more time, and got up to follow Ian out of the café.

Riordan was in much better spirits when he received Lin Tang that night. She was dressed in workout clothes and looked as if she had just finished a session at the gym. Riordan sniffed the air and knew she had, indeed, been working out, and so, he did not give her his customary kiss on the cheek.

"Are your people ready for action?" he asked, taking his seat behind his desk.

Hmm, does he not trust you to do the job?

"They have proven to be worthy warriors, my master," Lin replied, obediently. "There were some who were reluctant, but they have come around."

Ryker decided not to ask how Lin had gained their compliance.

"That is good to hear," he said instead. "I have just received some very important information. We may end up needing your new enforcer unit."

"I must take offense, my master," Lin retorted, looking hurt. "My half-deads and I are more than capable of carrying out your missions. And you do have Pratt. I thought the enforcer unit was strictly to placate our new allies."

It seems you thought wrong.

"And that is why I am in charge and not you, my dear," Riordan shot back, his voice quiet but his gaze so intense that Lin bowed in deference to atone for speaking out of turn. "The enforcer unit was created so we could sweep through the state and put pressure on the other smaller clans to join with us. Several of them reside on our borders, in case you have forgotten. Plus, I believe we need to send a clear message to the Supreme Council to stay out of our affairs.

"But that's neither here nor there. The reason I called was, initially, to find out where we stood on finding Duke's killer. Now, however, I may have answered that myself."

Lin straightened up and looked at her boss with wanting eyes.

Go ahead, Lin. Beg him.

"Travis called from the hospital," Riordan continued. "What do you know of Angelica Morales?"

"She is, excuse me, was a professional bodybuilder from Fort Worth," Lin replied, wondering what her boss was getting at.

"She was seen escorting a doctor," Riordan explained. "A hematologist who has been working on a serum that supposedly counteracts the vampire enzyme."

"Surely, Travis is wrong, my lord," Lin said, stunned. "That is impossible, isn't it?"

Afraid of losing your half-deads? What will they do if they find that there's a cure for you?

"I wish I could be sure," Riordan answered. "This revelation has left me rather shaken, I must admit. It could very well be that Pratt was clutching at straws. He got his information second-hand. However, the subject is not something even to be joked about, so we must treat even a rumor with concern. As for Angelica Morales, we discussed her before, along with a colleague of hers."

"Marcus Van Niekerk," Lin said.

"Yes, thank you, mademoiselle," Riordan said. "Both are among the last vestiges of the Fifty. By themselves, they pose no threat, but if Senorita Morales is, indeed, escorting this doctor, she now poses a serious threat."

"Begging my master's pardon, but surely she can't really hurt us."

Riordan sighed and stood up. He walked over to his favorite window and peered out across the city.

"It is true, the list of the Fifty has been treated more as a novelty in recent years, since Moonrise went away, but it seems we may have erred gravely in the matter," Riordan said after a moment. "Still, Morales is not quite as important as this doctor. The man's name is Ravi Patel. He has friends who were part of Moonrise."

"Moonrise was destroyed utterly," Lin reminded. "No one survived, if the official reports are to be believed."

"But, it shows that this doctor is still working hard, if he is still in the game," Riordan explained. "This serum may or may not be a reality, but he's working on it as if it is. Besides, somebody ashed Kane and also killed Duke. Angelica Morales' presence here could mean the mercenary is here as well. He is more than capable of carrying out the hit on Duke."

Lin fought to keep back her anger at the mention of her right-hand man. She'd had virtually no success in finding his killer. All she had was Diane and a hunch about Ian Hendricks, but that failed to bear fruit. It was becoming extremely frustrating, a feeling she thought she'd let go long ago.

This conflicts with your theory about the Supreme Council's involvement, doesn't it?

"Which brings us to another matter," Riordan said, turning away from the window to look at his main enforcer. "Travis is sure he spotted Heidi Nguyen with Morales and Patel. Mademoiselle Nguyen, if you remember our earlier heated meeting with Porter Coleman, is the woman who was attacked by Kane before his demise. According to Detective Hernandez, the woman lost enough blood to begin the turn. More than likely, she was the new vampire we sensed.

"However, Coleman said she did not appear to be a vampire. While I'm not going to say Porter is psychic, he has been around us long enough to recognize a vampire, especially a new one. Yet, to have lost so much blood and to have the sensing of a new vampire, so soon after her attack, can only imply that this so-called serum works."

Here it comes, Lin. He is going to add to your burdens with yet another mission.

"I want your enforcer unit ready to move at a moment's notice," Riordan ordered. "Things are very delicate right now. The future of this alliance, as well as my own mission to lead it, could hang in the balance. It is doubly imperative we find these people immediately. Whatever it takes, Lin. No egos, please. And, as always, keep me informed."

"Yes, my master."

See, he still doesn't trust you, Lin. He dismissed you rather easily. Are you going to continue to take that?

"Oh, shut up," Lin said, after she had left Riordan's office. "Why must you torment me so?"

Suddenly, the cell phone clipped to her waistband buzzed. Tossing a stray tress of black hair out of her eyes, she checked the Caller ID. Surprised, she answered.

"What? Where? Get the others and meet me at there."

She hung up.

"Very interesting," she said, stepping into one of the elevators to the lobby. "I have a mission much sooner than even my master realized."

You had better call those enforcers, like your master wants.

"I won't need them," Lin shot back. "My half-deads and I can take care of this. I will show my master that I can do this myself."

She smiled devilishly as the elevator doors closed.

Dolores and Jesus finally got the room quieted down. Their Hunters had all gathered in the makeshift meeting hall, except for Ryker, who manned the monitor room. Everyone else had at least one backpack with them, save for Patel, who had nothing. All of his equipment sat in the lab, waiting to be loaded.

"Okay, you all know your assignments," Jesus announced. "I know this is a rush job, but we've got a serious problem. Angelica was spotted in Patel's company by Travis Pratt and Porter Coleman. We have to assume he found out about Dr. Patel's serum experiments in the hospital lab.

"So, we have to leave a little earlier than planned. We will break off into teams. Wesley, you help Angelica and Dr. Patel. Marcus, you go with Manuel, Jessie and Horace. Heidi, you and Kelly will go with Dolores and myself."

"What about Michael?" Jessie asked.

"He's staying behind to shut down the monitor room," Dolores replied. "He'll leave with Dolores and myself. Ryker will make sure the place is locked down tight and then go. We will all communicate when we get to our respective safehouses. Questions?"

Heidi raised her hand, tentatively.

"Yes?" Dolores acknowledged.

"Kelly and I volunteer to go with Ryker if you need us to," Heidi said. "Safety in numbers."

Dolores smiled at the suggestion. It wasn't all that long ago Heidi wanted nothing to do with Ryker. She was sure Kelly had something to do with Heidi's change of mind.

"That is admirable, my dear," Dolores said. "But it is better if Cantrell goes off by himself. I'll explain it to you when we're safely on the road."

"Are we going low key, Dolores?" Horace queried, as he helped Jessie cinch up her backpack.

"To start, yes," Dolores answered. "We don't want to attract undue attention."

Jesus went to the room's lectern and reached behind it. He pulled out a small radio and keyed it. A moment later, Ryker answered.

"Cantrell, are we ready?" Jesus asked.

"I'll be able to cover you completely," Ryker replied. "Michael and I replaced all the heavy duty cameras with smaller hidden ones. Hard to spot. We can access the system remotely, drawing power from the solar panels hidden on the roof."

"What about the cars?"

"All ready and waiting. I passed out the keys, once you leave through the various emergency exits, the vehicles will be waiting. I've got cameras on all of them."

"What about you?" Dolores chimed in.

"Don't worry about me," Ryker answered, rather curtly. "I've got a way out."

"Okay, okay," Jesus relented. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, where the hell is Ian?" Ryker asked, sounding miffed. "Wasn't he going to help escort you guys out of town?"

"Michael, didn't you call Ian?" Jesus asked.

"Left a message," Lee replied, suddenly looking guilty. "Sorry, I was so caught up with last-minute stuff, I forgot to tell you. His phone went straight to voicemail."

"Well, Ian's a grown man," Dolores commented. "We'll call him when we're safely away."

"Say, Jesus," Ryker called out. "Remember that thing we talked about earlier? You don't suppose the right situation came up tonight, do you?"

Jesus looked at his wife in horror.

"Oh, God."

"What are we waiting for?" Diane asked, looking, around the empty warehouse.

She and Ian had arrived here a half hour earlier, the latest stop on a confusing evening. After leaving the café, they had gone to another warehouse only to see it surrounded by fire trucks. Then, Ian had taken her to another of his safehouses, where they made passionate love for almost an hour. And now, instead of cuddling, Ian had checked his cell phone three times and dragged her out to another warehouse.

"Ian, you're scaring me," Diane said, her voice edgy. "What are we doing here? You're not making some kind of drug deal, are you?"

Ian stepped out of a large office that had a single dust-covered metal desk, which was almost as dirty as the large window in front of it. He was very anxious and kept looking at his watch. It was clear he had something other than Diane's body on his mind.

"Ian, I swear, if you don't tell me what's going on, I'm going to walk out that door," Diane threatened.

Just then, Ian's phone buzzed. He answered it, listened and smiled broadly. With a puzzled Diane looking on, he cut the connection, shoved the phone back into its holder on his waist and walked up to her. Taking her by the shoulders, he gently guided her to the nearest wall.

"Diane, I know what you are," he said.

Diane suddenly shivered.

"W-what do you mean?" she stammered.

"I know Aurelia Hernandez put you up to this," Ian expounded. "She believed that I was something besides her friend and wanted you to find out. Of course, we both know that you are under the thrall of Lin Tang and her bite, so we know who's really pulling the strings on this whole charade."

Diane tried to pull away from Ian but he held firm. She refused to look at him, but he was constant and relentless in not letting her go. Finally, as tears began to flow from her eyes, she looked directly into his.

"Oh, Ian, I-I'm sorry," she cried. "You don't know what it's like. Th-the bite. Her bite. It's incredibly addictive. After she turns us, she...she lets us feel what it's like to not have it. It was so horrible; I vowed never to go through that experience again. I have to do what she tells me."

"And I'm here to tell you that you don't," Ian countered. "Can you listen to me for just one moment? Please."

Reluctantly, Diane nodded.

"I know you were sent here to spy on me," he began. "And, whatever Aurelia and Lin Tang told you, it's true. I do have friends who are enemies not just of Riordan, but vampires in general. They can help you."

"Really?"

"Yes. My friends have deep connections. They can cure you. Diane, you have to stop letting Lin Tang control you. There is a way out."

"Oh, really."

Diane looked up and screamed.

To read the rest of this book, please check out Hunters, available from Red Hot Publishing.

Author Bio

Gregory Marshall Smith, born in Somerville, Massachusetts and raised in historic Medford, is a decorated Navy veteran. In his career, he has been, among other things, a sports writer, a national columnist, playwright, engineer, asset protection agent, editor, safety auditor, fingerprinter, training instructor and sometime actor. He is the author of the novellas Crawl and They Call the Wind Muryah. He has had numerous short stories appear in Farspace 2, Writer's Bump, Far Side of Midnight, Spectacular Speculations and SFH Dominion, among others.

Ever restless, he currently resides somewhere in America.
