Eric Lustbader - Blood Trust

“Ease off, Evan, and the girl will put down the gun, are we clear?”

“I’m not putting down anything,” Alli said.

The shadow in the doorway sighed. “Thatë.”

The kid stepped to Alli’s side. “You don’t want to shoot anyone,” he said. “That’ll just get both of you dead.”

“Tell him to let Jack go and step away more than an arm’s length.”

Thatë turned to the shadow in the doorway.

“Do as she asks,” the shadow said.

Evan slid his arm away and Jack took a long, gasping breath, then began to cough.

“Go on,” Alli said, waggling the barrel of the Glock.

She tracked Evan with the gun as he backed up. When he was a sufficient distance from Jack, she turned the Glock on the shadow in the doorway. “Now we—”

The word froze in her throat as Thatë pressed the muzzle of a .25 to her temple. “Put it down.” When she didn’t move, he said, “It may be a little gun but it’s loaded with Tokarev brass-cased bullets, corrosive, Berdan-primed, 87-grain lead core. In other words, full metal jacket ammo that, at point-blank range, will blow half your head off.”

Alli sighed and, at the same time, glared at Jack, as if to say, Another betrayal. I told you so. She lowered the Glock until it was pointing at the floor. The kid took it from her.

“Thatë,” the voice said, “now bring them to me.”

“I MUST say I’m intrigued by you, yes, I am.”

The man who was now their host in the small, closeted room off the auction site was speaking directly to Alli in heavily accented English. He ignored Jack entirely, even though Jack and Alli were standing side by side. Thatë, the .25 handgun still in his hand, stood with his back pressed against the closed door.

The room, which seemed claustrophobic, held a heavy antique desk, a single chair, a task lamp. No telephone, nothing so much as a paper clip on the surface of the desk. On one wall hung a horizontal painting, far too large for the space, titled Korab, depicting in exacting detail the spine of ice- and snow-capped mountains beneath a piercing blue sky.

The man tapped an exceedingly long forefinger against his lips. “You’re a tiny slip of a thing, but you burn oh so brightly.”

He was tall, with square shoulders and the slim hips of a dancer. He leaned back against his desk, hands in the pockets of his striped trousers, but his torso was bent forward, his head at the end of its stalklike neck thrust forward. His eyes were huge, slow, and cunning, in the particular way of evil. Like a reptile’s eyes, they seemed to drink in everything with a single glance. He had a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once, and ruddy skin like badly tanned leather. His priestly fringe of prematurely white hair was so out of place it was difficult to reconcile with the rest of his face.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Alli.”

“Ah, well, I know that name.”

Alli shook her head. “How could you possibly?”

“A reasonable question.” He considered for a moment. “I believe you’ve earned the right to know. My name is Dardan.”

Alli gave a small, involuntary gasp.

“That’s right.” A smile like a scimitar curved his lips. “You’ve heard my name, as well.”

He walked to the wall with the painting and, taking it off its hooks, set it onto the floor. There was, incongruously, a window, which the painting had hidden. Dardan flipped a switch and hard light flooded the room on the other side of the window.

Alli cried out and put her hands against the glass. “Oh, my God!”

Through the window, Jack saw a young girl, blond and exquisite, her porcelain skin perfect and bloodless, laid out on a black bier. Her skin was pearl white, her bloodless lips bluish in the harsh illumination. Flecks of blood were strewn through her hair.

“Alli, you know this girl?” Jack said.

“Arjeta!” Alli cried.

“Arjeta Kraja?” The mystery girl who had been with Billy Warren at Twilight, the one everyone was searching for.

“I see you know her,” Dardan said. “She had been my plaything for some months, but then…” His voice trailed off and he shrugged.

Jack rounded on him. “Then what?”

At last, Dardan looked at Jack. “It was a bad idea to bring her.”

“Bad particularly for your men outside,” Jack said. He produced his ID. “This doesn’t look good for you.”

Dardan shrugged. “Thatë will not hesitate to shoot you in the back.” He craned his neck. “Isn’t that right, Thatë?”

“It certainly is,” the kid said, brandishing both the Glock and the .25.

Alli turned away from the window, and again her eyes cut to Jack to show her displeasure. They were red-rimmed, but she had not shed a tear.

“You wouldn’t harm a federal agent,” Jack said. “The glare of that spotlight would wrap up your dirty trade and put you permanently out of business.”

“But, no, I think not.” Dardan wagged his forefinger. “Because, you see, I’m protected, Mr. McClure. Even the death of a federal agent cannot harm me. The resulting investigation will be deflected … elsewhere.” He shrugged. “So you see, I can do with you whatever I wish. However”—he pushed off the edge of the desk—“it’s this little hellion—that’s the right word isn’t it?—that interests me.”

As he approached Alli, his hands came out of his pockets. He ran a finger down her cheek, tracing the jawline, then plunging the tip between her lips. She made a sound in the back of her throat and pulled away.

“Don’t.” Dardan held a switchblade, which now swung open, its long blade gleaming. The edge approached Alli’s throat. “I propose to entertain myself with her, Mr. McClure, while you watch. Sounds like fun, no?”

Jack touched Alli on the right hip and she swung away from Dardan. Jack launched himself forward. Instinctively, Dardan swung the knife, aiming for Jack’s face. Jack came in under the blade, struck Dardan a powerful blow that rocked him back against the desk.

At once, Jack was on him, pinioning the wrist of his knife hand, bringing his knee up into Dardan’s groin.

Alli whirled around to confront Thatë, but to her astonishment, he hadn’t pulled the .25.

Still, she was compelled to say, “Don’t.”

Thatë held his empty hands up. He grinned at her.

Behind her, Dardan had managed to free the knife, which slashed through Jack’s jacket and shirt, questing to slide between his ribs. Jack felt the blood running hot down his side as he struck the inside of Dardan’s left knee. The knife blade missed its mark, but Dardan slammed his fist into Jack’s solar plexus, doubling him over.

Dardan slammed him against the edge of the desk and Jack, dazed, slid to his knees. Dardan reached down and began to draw the blade across Jack’s throat. The pain cut through Jack’s wooziness and he jammed the heel of his right hand against Dardan’s wrist as he tilted his head back. The knife passed directly in front of his face. Jack, struggling for purchase, slipped and, in desperation, and grabbed the base of the blade. As the edge sliced into the meat of his palm, he shoved the point back and up. It passed just above Dardan’s cheek and punctured his eye. He screamed. Jack pushed the blade deeper, burying it in his head. Then he slumped down, his heart hammering in his throat, the adrenaline surging so strongly he thought he would retch.

Then Alli was prying the body off him, pulling him to his feet, drawing him away.

“Fuck me.” Thatë was staring at Dardan’s corpse.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Alli said without knowing who she was addressing.

A sudden hammering at the door brought the kid out of his trancelike state. “I know a way.” He came away from the door. “But you must promise to take me with you.”