Page 19

18

THE NEXT TWO

T he shooter stretched out on their stomach, conscious of the changing direction of the wind, of its tendency to blow in gusts. The blasts of cold air brought up interference in the headset, the tone changing depending on the exact direction.

A lot of those adjustments happened instinctively now.

They came from a less conscious part of the mind, one that picked up rough patterns without thought, that knew exactly how to compensate for windspeed given the trajectory and angle, how far to push the curve, given the distance from the balcony to the rooftop gardens and pool of the adjacent building, when to wait or shoot into a strong gust.

The hunter slowly pulled in a breath.

The gun’s sights notched exactly on the head of the first target.

Then slowly… slowly … the adjustments began to be implemented by rote, systematically and one by one, for all those factors the experienced mind had already catalogued.

Those calculations might be a near habit by now, but they required concentration.

The shooter concentrated. Breathed slowly, deeply, in and out.

There was no need to rush.

Not for this one.

When the trigger finger finally squeezed, it was soft as an exhaled breath.

The silencer hadn’t been necessary. Nor had it been desirable, since it decreased accuracy by the smallest of fractions, and the shot would be tricky even with every element working in unison and according to plan. The target was too important to take that kind of risk. Worse, if the shooter missed, the man on the other end of the rifle had enough resources to make any future attempts exponentially more difficult.

This was important.

It must be done right.

The bullet left the end of the rifle with a sharp crack.

The shooter felt the faint delay in blood, in breath, in broken bones, in pain.

Then, as satisfying as an orgasm, a visible red mist plumed upward, the same instant the projectile hit the target.

The shooter watched, fascinated, as the body fell.

The man who’d been standing close to the target prior to the impact continued to stand there without moving. Through the scope, his face appeared frozen, likely in shock, blood speckling his cheeks and mouth and nose and forehead, eyes stretched so wide they barely looked human. The shooter realigned the rifle.

For the second one, the delay must be shorter.

This would be the tricky one.

The other male’s immediate, instinctive reaction could go a number of different ways.

For the same reason, the shooter couldn’t wait. On the other end of the long rifle’s sight, the second man’s mouth fell open in numb shock.

Paralysis. Good.

That would probably last another few seconds.

The shooter adjusted the rifle the barest amount for a slight change in the wind.

The rifle let out a second sharp report.

Smoke drifted from the barrel’s end.

The second shot misted out even further, maybe from the slight difference in angle. A significant chunk of that target’s skull broke off, flying wide and landing in the lit swimming pool along with part of his brain. The body collapsed before the man standing there managed to break out of the shocked, silent scream of seeing his companion murdered right in front of him.

Heat pooled in the gut of the shooter.

It was good work.

And now another chapter was done.

Three down.

Four more to go.

J em blinked, then turned his head.

Had he heard something?

Was he imagining he’d heard a distant shot in the wind?

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, fighting off the remnants of his jetlag. He checked the time on his phone, and gritted his teeth. His eyes scanned through the list of messages and calls he’d missed already, and his jaw clenched harder.

“Fuck.” Jem muttered it under his breath.

He should have called Nick.

He should have called Black, too, given he was on the job, but at the absolute, rock-bottom least, he should have called his mate at least once. He was being cruel. It wasn’t intentional, but that didn’t really matter when it came down to it, did it? He’d never even told Nick he was fine with him keeping the dog.

He knew better. He knew it would hurt Nick to leave like he did, yet he’d done it anyway.

He couldn’t even quite decide why he’d done it.

He told himself it was because he didn’t want to fight.

He told himself he’d be back before Nick even knew he was gone.

He knew there was an element of bullshit to both things, which made him wonder what his real reasons had been.

Dalejem glanced down the bar, making his look as idle, bored, and arrogant as he could manage. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched someone walk through the front doors of the hotel. Had he missed one of them, spacing out while he thought about Nick?

He looked for the features of Frasier first, and then for his live-in companion, Ungerman. He’d memorized the appearances of both men from the electronic files Black sent while Jem had been on his way to the airport. He didn’t see either among the new faces lined up at the bar, or in any of the leather booths behind him when he casually turned his head.

He got plenty of returning stares.

A number of those stares showed an undisguised interest.

Jem ignored all of them.

Black had been specific about how to pull Frasier and his companion. He’d given precise instructions, even around exactly how Dalejem should wear his hair (down and relatively coiffed) and what style of clothing would work best on either and both of them. Luckily, Black had experience infiltrating this type of target, in addition to knowing Frasier personally. He knew exactly what colored lure to dangle in front of the two men.

There were areas of crossover between them, which made Jem’s job easier.

Still, he’d leaned more heavily into what attracted Frasier, as Frasier was the primary target. Black assured him that the two of them “brought people back” for one another, and that each was intimately familiar with the other’s taste, so it wouldn’t necessarily matter, precisely, which of them he dressed for.

Dalejem glanced down at the full glass in front of him, and tried to remember when he’d ordered it exactly. Unfortunately, he hadn’t checked the time, either right before or right after he placed his last order for a drink, so he had no idea how much of it had passed.

Given he’d been there over two hours already, according to his phone, he definitely should be drinking faster, or someone might notice.

He took a sip, and had to fight not to spit it out.

What on earth had possessed him to order a rum and coke? He’d never liked sweet drinks. They always made him feel ill after a few swallows.

No, he never would have ordered this.

Someone else must have bought it for him.

He hadn’t been paying attention to what the bartender said when he brought it over. Again, though, why that drink? Was someone being cute?

He suspected they probably were.

Whoever it was, they’d probably given up on him by now.

Dalejem signaled the bartender, nudging him a bit with his light.

The man walked over, and Jem pushed the rum and coke towards him.

“Could I get something different?” he asked politely.

The man gave him a strange look, but only nodded.

“Just a bourbon,” Jem said. “Neat. The best you’ve got.”

The man nodded once, gave him a faintly appreciative look, and walked away. When he returned a few seconds later, he traded out the rum and coke for the bourbon, wiping the bar and setting down a new napkin for the new drink.

Jem raised his glass to the bartender in thanks, then took a few swallows.

Much better.

Gaos. Much, much better.

They actually had a decent bottle squirreled away back there.

He’d drank down half of his second glass when sirens screamed down the road outside. Jem tracked them with his eyes, but didn’t think much of it consciously at first. Not until they pulled up in front of the doors to the expensive apartment complex across the road.

It had to be a coincidence.

Watching cops pour out of patrol cars and armored vans as the ambulance screeched to a hard stop in front of the doormen, Dalejem knew, somehow, it wasn’t.

It wasn’t a coincidence.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

He slid off the barstool, landing lightly on expensive Italian shoes.

He left enough cash to pay for the two bourbons and one more, and began making his way with long strides for the revolving glass doors that led out to the street.

“ W hy have you been dodging my calls?” Black’s voice was a growl, his light chaotic and swirling with emotion as soon as Jem heard him pick up on the other end. “What the hell is going on with you right now, Jem? Is it Nick?”

Black seemed to re-think that line of questioning as soon as it left his lips.

“Never mind,” he grumbled. “If it’s Nick, I don’t want to know.”

His voice grew harder, more warning.

“…But if it’s anything else, Dalejem, I need you to tell me. Now. I sent you out there for a fucking job. Hell, you volunteered. Whatever is going on with you, if it’s interfering with what you––”

“Nothing is interfering with anything,” Jem said, irritated. “And nothing is wrong with me. I didn’t have anything to report until now. Both times you called, I was talking to someone, or in a place I couldn’t pick up––”

“Bullshit.” The more emotional yet strangely lighter tone dropped from Black’s voice. He sounded deadly serious now, and borderline dangerous. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m an idiot, Jem.”

“Fine.” Jem exhaled through his nose. “I didn’t want to talk to you.”

He stared out over Fifth Avenue, only halfway paying attention to where he was walking, but knowing it was in the broad direction of Central Park. It was still strange as fuck to be here, even after all this time.

This wasn’t the New York he knew.

The New York Jem knew existed on a different version of Earth.

“You’re right,” he said, exhaling. “It’s Nick. I offered to come on this because we needed some space from one another…” Jem let his words trail, feeling subtly for the other seer’s reaction, then cleared his throat. “It’s nothing serious,” he added, gruff. “Just… you know… mate shit. I’m sorting it out––”

“I didn’t ask,” Black grumbled.

“You sort of did.”

“Well, I’m not asking now,” Black warned.

His voice and light had calmed, though.

Jem could feel the difference tangibly.

Black cleared his throat. “What about Frasier? Have you managed to make contact with him or Ungerman?”

Jem exhaled. He shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked up the sidewalk. He avoided the stares he got, from both male and female humans.

“Yeah,” he said, frustration reaching his voice. “About that.”

“What?” Black picked up on his tone at once. “What the fuck happened? Were you blown?”

“No.” Jem rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t blown, Quentin. Gaos, give me some credit.” He paused. “Have you seen the news yet this morning? Or last night?”

He waited a few seconds.

He distinctly got the impression Black was at home, meaning the penthouse on California Street he shared with his wife, Miriam. It was nine in the morning in New York, which meant it was only six a.m. there. Both of them were early risers, though.

Knowing Black, he’d been to the gym already.

That, or he’d gone on a run, possibly all the way to the Presidio and back, or even to Ocean Beach and through the park.

“Not today,” Black grunted, clearly hearing him. “We have our own distractions here at the moment, brother. Have you talked to Nick yet?”

Jem stiffened. “No. I just told you––”

“Whatever,” Black cut in, voice annoyed. “We have a house guest. Me and Miriam. It’s been a little all-consuming with our time.”

Jem opened his mouth, hesitated as he reconsidered, then closed it again. He had other things he really needed to talk to Black about. He didn’t want to be distracted from that until he knew what his orders were now, given everything.

He felt the younger seer wait a few beats longer for him to ask.

Dalejem cleared his throat.

“Let me know when you’ve got the news on,” he said instead.

He listened as Black walked out of what was probably his bedroom and into the living room and kitchen. There was flicker of sound, which promptly got muted, but not before Jem recognized it as the television news.

After a few seconds, Black cursed in seer under his breath.

“Fuck,” he said then, switching to English. “Did you talk to Frasier at all?”

“No.” Jem tugged his jacket tighter around his chest, then shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “I was at the hotel bar you told me to use. The Twilight, across from their building. I’d been sitting there almost three hours when it happened, so I saw the cops and EMTs arrive. I don’t think he left the building all day. I tried his office and a few other places you gave me, and nothing. Same with the roommate.”

“Ungerman?” Black clarified.

“Yes. Did you see he’s the second vic?”

Black cursed under his breath a second time. “Gods-damn it.”

“Yes. It’s going to be a little difficult for me to ask him or Ungerman about a human murder club now.” Jem paused. “Do you think maybe this Lion Hunter’s Club was behind it? Frasier’s death? Seems like kind of a coincidence.”

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

“Do you want me to look into the deaths while I’m here?”

“No. Maybe later. We’ll keep an eye on the police investigation for now.”

Jem felt Black’s preoccupation through the line.

He waited. He knew the younger seer must be absorbing the details of Frasier’s death through the news report he was watching.

“What did it look like to you?” Black asked a few beats later. “I assume you looked into what they have so far? At least the bare bones?”

“A professional hit,” Jem replied promptly. “And yes, I visited the police station last night, and again a few hours ago. I managed to grab the assigned detective this morning. I only did a basic read, but I got a few things. They definitely think a pro did this.” He hesitated, then added, “In my opinion, likely not a human.”

Black’s voice sharpened. “What makes you say that?”

Jem shrugged deeper into his jacket as he gazed north. “A few things. When you see the logistics of the shot, you’ll understand.”

The silence thickened.

“Where were the shots taken from?” Black asked, his voice harder. “From another building?”

“Yes. To their credit, the police had the shooter’s location within an hour of arriving at the scene. Whoever did this, they used the building just south of Frasier’s, which makes sense, as it’s close enough, but at least ten stories higher. They killed a resident on an upper floor at around four p.m. that afternoon, set up on the balcony, and waited for Fraiser and Ungerman to go outside to their pool area. The forensics team estimated the angle and distance, which is how they narrowed it down to one or two balconies. They found the dead tenant in the bathtub, a bullet hole in their forehead, wrists tied, gagged.”

Black let out an irritated sound.

“Frasier was the main target?” he verified. “Is that what the cops think?”

“They’re still investigating, but the detective I grabbed definitely thought so. Ben Frasier was shot first, and it was his penthouse, so I would guess they’re right. Of course, both could have been equal targets, since whoever did this made a point of taking out Ungerman with equal precision, and he could have just as easily left him there. There was nothing sloppy or indiscriminate about this. Two bullets. Two dead bodies.”

“What do you think?” Black asked. “Based on what you found out?”

Dalejem exhaled, thinking.

He gave Black his honest opinion.

“I think Ungerman was probably on the shooter’s list from the beginning,” he said frankly. “This doesn’t strike me as arbitrary, or a crime of opportunity. Whoever this fucker is, he’s methodical as hell… he could have let Ungerman walk. He made a deliberate choice not to.” Jem frowned at the trees of Central Park, his voice practical. “I would go even further and say the shooter maybe knew enough about the two of them to have some idea which would be more likely to react quickly to get out of harm’s way. They took out the one who might prove more difficult first… then took out the second before he could recover.”

A silence fell over the line.

Then Black grunted.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “You might be right. And yes, the faster thinking of the two would definitely have been Frasier. No doubt.” He paused, obviously still thinking. “Still, I think we can assume that Frasier was also the primary target, even if Ungerman was on the list, as you put it. If this is a grudge thing, connected to the Rucker death, then Ben would have been the main person they’d want dead––”

“A grudge thing?” Jem asked, puzzled. “I thought this was about some super-secret tech? Something you thought might be based on one of Charles’ organic machines?”

Black exhaled, and Jem heard him rub a bristly jaw.

“The situation changed since you left,” Black said. “I’ll explain that later. My point is, Rory was never one for thinking. He generally did whatever Ben told him to do. Ben was definitely the leader and Rory the follower in that relationship… and that doesn’t even get into Ben having the net worth of a mid-sized country. I’d be surprised if Rory had so much as a million to his name, and whatever he had likely came from Ben, too. He lived off Ben, had done for years.”

“Were they married?” Jem asked.

“No.” Black paused. His voice grew thoughtful. “I’m not even positive they were ever seriously involved. I’m not sure how they ended up spending so much time together. Rory lived with Ben the entire time I knew them. I always figured they just shared certain tastes––”

“Right,” Jem muttered coldly.

Black paused, as if questioning something he heard in that word.

He seemed to dismiss it seconds later.

“Come back,” Black said, blunt. “I need you here. Unless you’re going to persist in this juvenile shit and stay in New York to avoid your mate. If so, consider yourself fired.”

Jem felt his jaw harden. “No, I––”

“Good. The jet is waiting for you. I expect you to be in the air within the hour.”

Before Jem could say anything in return, Black had already hung up.