Guillermo del Toro - The Fall. Book II of The Strain Trilogy

Murders in the park didn’t get solved. Because there was no outcry. If you were brave enough to enter A Park after dark, then you were dumb enough to die. Just in case, Creem had coated his fingertips with Crazy Glue to obscure his fingerprints, and had readied a flat razor’s handle with Vaseline and bleach — just like he would with a gun handle — to avoid leaving any DNA traces.

A long, black car pulled down the street. Not quite a limousine, but something swankier than a tricked-out Cadillac. It slowed at the curb, stopped. Tinted windows stayed up. The driver didn’t get out.

Royal looked at Creem. Creem looked at Royal.

The back door opened to the curb. The occupant got out, wearing sunglasses. Also a checked shirt unbuttoned over a white tank, baggy pants, new black boots. He removed his pinch-front hat, revealing a tight red do-rag beneath, and tossed the hat back onto the seat of the car.

Royal said, under his breath, “What the fuck is this?”

The puto crossed the sidewalk, entering through the opening in the fence. His white tank shirt glowed with what was bright in the night as he strolled over grass and dirt.

Creem didn’t believe his own eyes until the dude was near enough that his collarbone tat showed plain.

SOY COMO SOY. I am what I am.

Creem said, “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

Gus Elizalde of Spanish Harlem’s La Mugre gang smiled but said nothing.

The car remained idling at the curb.

Creem said, “What? You come all the way here to tell me you won the fucking lottery?”

“Sort of like that.”

Creem dismissed him with a look up and down.

Gus said, “Fact, I’m here to offer you a percentage of the winning ticket.”

Creem snarled, trying to figure out the Mexican’s play. “What you thinking, homes? Riding that thing into my territory?”

“Everything is a dis with you, Creem,” said Gus. “Why you stuck forever in Jersey City.”

“You talking to the king of JC. Now who else you got with you in that sled?”

“Funny you should ask.” Gus looked back with a chin nod, and the driver’s door opened. Instead of a chauffeur with a cap, a large man stood out wearing a hoodie, his face obscured in shadow. He came around and stood before the front wheel, head down, waiting.

Creem said, “So you boosted a ride in from the airport. Big man.”

“The old ways are over, Creem. I’ve seen it, man. I’ve seen the fucking end. Turf battles? This block-by-block shit is so two-thousand-late. Means nothing. The only turf battle that matters now is all or nothing. Us or them.”

“Them who?”

“You gotta know something’s going down. And not just in the big island across the river.”

“Big island? That’s your problem.”

“Look at this park. Where your junkies at? Crack whores? Where’s the action? Dead in here. ’Cause they take the night people first.”

Creem snarled. He didn’t like Gus making sense. “I do know that business is down.”

“Business is set to vanish, homes. There’s a new drug hot on the street. Check it out. It’s called human fucking blood. And it’s free for the taking if you got the taste.”

Royal said, “You’re one of those vampire nuts. Loco.”

“They got my madre and my brother, yo. You remember Crispin?”

Gus’s junkie brother. Creem said, “I remember.”

“Well, you won’t be seeing him around this park much anymore. But I don’t grudge, Creem. Not no more. This here is a new day. I gotta set personal feelings aside. Because right now I am pulling together the best team of motherfucking hard-asses I can find.”

“If you’re here to talk up some shit-ass scheme to take down a bank or some shit, capitalizing on all this chaos, that’s already been—”

“Looting’s for amateurs. Them’s day wages. I got real work, for real pay, lined up. Call in your boys, so they can hear this.”

“What boys?”

“Creem. The ones set to dust me tonight, get them in here.”

Creem flat-eyed Gus for a few moments. Then he whistled. Creem was a champion whistler. The silver on his teeth made for a shrill signal.

Three other Sapphires came out of the trees, hands in pockets. Gus kept his hands out and open where they could see him.

“Okay,” said Creem. “Talk fast, Mex.”

“I’ll talk slow. You listen good.”

He laid it out for them. The turf battle between the Ancients and the rogue Master.

“You been smoking,” said Creem.

But Gus saw the fire in his eyes. He saw the fuse of excitement already burning. “What I am offering you is more money than you could ever clear in the powder trade. The opportunity to kill and maim at will — and never see jail for it. I am offering you a once-in-a-lifetime chance to kick unlimited ass in five boroughs. And — do the job right, we’re all set for life.”

“And if we don’t do the job right?”

“Then I don’t see how money’s gonna mean shit anyway. But at least you’ll have gotten your fucking rocks off, ’cause, if nothing else, this is about going out with a bang, know what I mean?”

Creem said, “Fuck, you’re a little too good to be true. I need to see some green first.”

Gus chuckled. “Tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna show you three colors, Creem. Silver, green, and white.”

He raised his hand in signal to the hooded driver. The driver went to the trunk, popped it open, and retrieved two bags. He ported them through the fence opening to the meeting place, and set them down.

One was a large black duffel bag, the other a moderately sized, two-handled leather clutch.

“Who your homie?” said Creem. The driver was big, wearing heavy Doc Martens, blue jeans, and the large hoodie. Creem couldn’t see the driver’s face under the hood, but it was obvious this close that this guy was all wrong.

“They call him Mr. Quinlan,” said Gus.

A scream arose from the other end of the park — a man’s scream, more terrible to the ears than a woman’s scream. The others turned.

Gus said, “Let’s hurry. First — the silver.”

He knelt and drew the zipper across the duffel. There wasn’t much light. Gus pulled out the long gun and felt the Sapphires reach for theirs. Gus flipped the switch on the barrel-mounted lamp, thinking it was a normal incandescent bulb, but it was ultraviolet. Of course.

He used the inky-purple light to show the rest of the weapons. A crossbow, its bolt load tipped with a silver impact charge. A flat, fan-shaped silver blade with a curved wooden handle. A sword fashioned like a wide-bladed scimitar with a generous curve and a rugged, leather-bound handle.

Gus said, “You like silver, Creem, don’t you?”

The exotic-looking weaponry piqued Creem’s interest. But he was still wary of the driver, Quinlan. “All right. What about the green?

Quinlan opened the handles of the leather bag. Filled with bundles of cash, anti-counterfeiting threads glowing under the indigo eye of Gus’s UV light.

Creem started to reach into the bag — then stopped. He noticed Quinlan’s hands gripping the bag handles. Most of his fingernails were gone, his flesh entirely smooth. But the fucked-up thing was his middle fingers. Twice as long as the rest of the digits, and crooked at the end — so much so that the tip curled around his palm to the side of his hand.

Another scream split the night, followed by a kind of growl. Quinlan closed the bag, looking forward into the trees. He handed the money bag to Gus, trading him for the long gun. Then, with unbelievable power and speed, he went sprinting into the trees.

Creem said, “What the…?”

If there was a path, this Quinlan ignored it. The gangsters heard branches cracking.