Dave Zeltserman - Blood Crimes Book One

Jim kept his stare out the window.

“Only thing you should be worrying about is whether your buddies try something stupid, because if they do you’re going to be wishing you were in Zeke’s place.”

“I’m not worried.”

Jim didn’t bother responding. Five minutes later he heard the roar of Harleys. Not too long after that he saw them. Two bikes pulled up, both riders were big guys, both showing the same tattoos that the other gang members had. Carol was not with them. From out of the corner of his eye Jim saw Pearce’s smirk widening. Jim broke a hole through the window with the butt end of the. 45 he had taken off Zeke.

“Where’s Carol?” he yelled.

One of the bikers put a hand to his ear as if he couldn’t hear him. Both of them kept coming closer. The barrel of a sawed-off showed from under one of their leather jackets. They were moving faster now as they took their guns out. Jim raised his. 45 to take out the closest of the two but Pearce rushed him, stabbing at him with a knife that he must’ve had hidden in one of his boots. The point of the blade hit him in the cheek, and if he were a normal human being it would’ve cut through to the bone. Instead it bounced off the same as if his skin were coated with metal. Pearce’s fist flew backwards, and he ended up hitting himself in the face. The biker fell to the floor as if he’d been sucker-punched by a heavyweight.

The door was kicked open. The biker with the sawed-off leveled the weapon at Jim’s chest and pulled the trigger. The other biker had pulled out a Glock and was firing at him. The force of the bullets knocked Jim against the wall. He hit it hard, then tumbled to the floor.

“Piece of shit asshole,” the biker with the Glock spat out. He fired a couple of more shots at Jim’s body. One of the bullets ricocheted and took off the tip of his pinky finger.

“What the fuck?” he started, but before he could say anything else, Jim had gotten to his knees. He dove forward and knocked the biker to the floor, then crawled on top of him. With a small twist of his shoulders he separated the biker’s head from his body. The other biker, the one with the sawed-off, was helping Pearce to his feet. When he saw what happened to his buddy, his jaw dropped open, his eyes quickly turning glassy. Pearce grabbed the shotgun from him and got off another round, again knocking Jim off his feet. Then Pearce slapped the other biker who he was calling Ash out of his stupor and the two of them ran from the room.

Jim pulled himself back to his feet and heard both of the Harley’s engines being gunned. He was still holding the dead biker’s head. In a heartbeat he was outside, throwing a fastball at Pearce. The biker ducked at the right moment and the bowling ball-sized head missed him by inches. Jim started running. It was almost five, and while the sun wasn’t as intense as earlier, it still hurt like hell, but he ignored it and kept running, moving a lot faster than either biker could’ve expected. A block later he had gained on them, and was now in stride with Ash. The biker pulled a 9 mm from his waistband, but before he could get a shot off Jim threw himself at him, hitting him with a solid tackle. They went down hard, the Harley skidding across the street and taking them with it. A Land Rover slammed on its brakes and tried swerving out of the way but still went over Ash’s skull, crushing it like a grape. Jim rolled away. He collected himself, saw the biker was dead, and went through his pockets taking out a wallet and a cell phone. The driver of the Land Rover was a woman in her seventies with reddish-orange hair. She wore skintight black leotards and knee-high leather boots which made her look like an eggplant with long straws sticking out of it. Her cosmetically-caked face looked aghast as she explained how there was nothing she could do to avoid the man she ran over. Jim ignored her, pushed the Harley back up and went after Pearce.

Pearce had a block and a half lead on him. Jim gunned the Harley’s engine and squeezed in and out between cars, sometimes driving on the other side of the street, at other times pulling the bike onto the sidewalk and sending pedestrians scattering. Pearce tried to do the same, but he had lost his nerve and kept looking over his shoulder which slowed him down. His bike fishtailed taking a turn and by the time he righted himself Jim had made up the lost ground and was alongside him. He was about to launch himself at Pearce when the biker saved him the trouble by wiping out. Both Pearce and the Harley skidded along the road leaving a streak of rubber, blood and skin behind. After thirty yards, the bike hit a hydrant and knocked it over. Jim got off the Harley and checked on Pearce. Most of the skin from Pearce’s face had been torn off and there wasn’t much left to recognize him from. One eye was missing, the other was fluttering, and the little skin that was left was as white as milk. He was going fast. Water from the busted hydrant soaked Jim and washed away a thick stream of blood oozing from the biker.

“Where are they keeping her?”

Jim shook Pearce, but there was no recognition in the biker’s remaining eye. It was glazing over, becoming the eye of a corpse.

“Where the fuck is she?”

It was no use. Pearce was slipping away and death was already dropping over his face like a veil. Jim watched helplessly as his world seemed to be slipping away from him also. He needed the sonofabitch alive. He needed to know where Raze’s hideout was. Without any awareness of thought, he bent over the dying biker and sunk his teeth into Pearce’s already torn and bloody neck. A gush of blood poured down his throat. For a long moment the blood was all he was aware of, then he could feel the biker start to stir. He backed away, wiping the gore from his mouth. A blur of motion from out of the corner of his eye froze him. Then he was hit. Hard. Violently. The impact sent him flying.

For the few seconds that he was airborne the world slowed down on him. The sky floated above, the sun a reddish ball off in the horizon hung suspended as if by a string, a plane crawled overhead as if it were barely moving. Thoughts also slowed in his head. He found himself wondering what it was that hit him. It was only a few seconds but it seemed an eternity before he went crashing through a plate glass window, his shoulders first, then his head. If he were normal he would’ve been sliced to ribbons. As it was, he felt like he’d been worked over with a baseball bat. He picked himself up and crawled through the shattered window. He rubbed the dust and broken glass particles from his eyes, blinked a few times, and saw that a white Lincoln Continental limousine had hit him. From the driver’s side, a skinny dark haired woman with a cat-like face grinned ferociously at him, her hands clenching the steering wheel, her body stretched through a torn opening that separated the passenger area from the driver’s compartment. He blinked and rubbed his eyes again so he could focus better. Serena.

He took a couple of dazed steps towards the limo, still not believing what he saw. It didn’t make sense for her to be in Cleveland. Then he remembered the news story about Duane Posey. It must’ve been a national story. Somehow Serena made the connection.

Fuck.

He wanted to run, but the thought didn’t quite make it to his legs. He found himself still moving closer to the limo, still trying to convince himself that that wasn’t Serena. There was a body slumped over next to her wearing a chauffeur’s cap. She must’ve seen him feeding on Pearce, broke through the Plexiglas barrier, and either knocked out or killed the driver so she could take control of the wheel.

It was Serena alright.

Fuck.

The sidewalk had been empty but bystanders poured out of several of the shops lining the street, also some cars pulled over, and a small crowd gathered. The people kept their distance, a low murmur coming from them. Jim looked away from them and saw the back doors of the limo open. He recognized Zach and Wilfred as they left the car, both of whom looked amused. Two more men got out also. These two he didn’t recognize. One was about his size, the other maybe half a foot shorter, and both were carrying three and a half foot long swords, the blades polished to where they gleamed. The two men moved fluidly, and from the way they held their swords it was clear they knew how to use them.