In a simple motion, Truxa grabbed the big troll’s back and hung on as he turned and leapt from the window, landing with ease on the roof of the stepvan, which buckled slightly under his weight. The van accelerated back out into the street, with Truxa and Flak still on the roof.
Sinunu watched as smoke began billowing out of the window. A couple of men in dark body armor made their way through the smoke and tried to level their weapons at the fleeing vehicle.
Too bad you spent so much on body armor; boys. All the less nuyen going to your grieving widows. With that thought, Sinunu opened fire.
Three rounds, three head shots, three kills, clean and by the book.
Climbing rapidly to her feet, she took the Barret apart quickly, placing each piece back into its individual holster.
Slowing only to pick up the Colt Cobra from where it had fallen, then putting two rounds into the unconscious elf’s head, Sinunu exited the roof top.
When she reached the alley, she carefully wiped the Cobra clean and dropped it into a dumpster. Then she tightened her duster around her and headed toward the Street, where a gaggle of Lone Star patrol cars had just arrived screaming on the scene.
She figured she might as well watch the show. That, and make sure Carlos was hauled out in a body bag. She’d meet up with the rest of the crew after.
4
Mike, got your request and did a little digging. Unfortunately there isn’t much to tell. Fratellanza, Inc. seems to be legit, despite the fact that they’ve got contracts with some high-ranking Mafia and Yakuza members. Especially since Butcher Bigio got the nod as the new capo of Seattle. Fratellanza’s small, but they got a rep for doing personal security like nobody else. I’ll keep my ears open on the son’s death, but I think you’re probably wasting your time on the Mafia angle.
–
Inter-departmental email, Lone Star Security Services Inc., Stem Carlson, Department of Organized Crime. to Mike Powell, Department of Homicide, 03 August 2060. Transmission intercept by Fratellanta deckers. Scan word: Fratellanza, 05 August 2060
The morning rain felt in gentle sweeps, bordering on mist. Tall, opulent gravestones lined the roadway, extending back as far as the eye could see through the drizzle. Dotting the landscape were spires of rock topped with everything from carved angels and lions to robed saints and mitered popes.
The graveyard was a huge, grassy expanse near the University of Washington. Founded in the early eighteen hundreds, it was old enough that even the burial ground’s thirty thousand square meters had become crowded.
Stone statues fought, elbow to elbow, with granite markers for the remaining clear areas. The only free space was deep in the heart of the grounds. There stood the small mausoleum where the city’s founding father was buried.
The cost to bury a loved one here was astronomical. But to the people attending the funeral today, money was no object.
Just behind the founding father’s mausoleum, a group of the city’s wealthy had gathered to bury one of their own. In their tailored suits and designer dresses, with not an income in the group below several hundred thousand nuyen a year, most of them would have found the idea of an annual salary ludicrous. One had money, and it was managed. There was no thought of a wage.
Among the dead man’s mourners were a number of the family’s business acquaintances, those whom Fratellanza, Inc. counted among its stable of clients.
The corporate brotherhood.
Fratellanza Inc. had started small, but rather than trying to compete with Lone Star or Knight Errant, its owners had taken a different angle. Instead of trying to offer comprehensive protection for their clients’ assets, they’d concentrated strictly on personal security, leaving all other Sec duties to the bigger boys. This had allowed them to offer a level of personal service and pampering that the larger, more unwieldy corps didn’t even try to match. In this way. Fratellanza had carved a small niche for itself that had become immensely profitable beyond what the size of the corporation might have indicated.
Many of Fratellanza’s best and brightest had also turned out for the funeral. Derek D’imato was the son of CEO Marco D’imato. Showing respect was important to an employee’s long-term health and prosperity.
Old men and young, with their wives. All of them appropriately grim-laced, a few even shedding tears. For some, however, the demise of Derek D’imato was a priceless gift in an ugly wrapper. Some of the mourners stood to gain much by this burial. So for many, tears were harder to find, unless they were tears of joy.
Also present were three solo women, each from a distinctly different social circle. The chesty brunette was a high-society girl. used to fast cars and faster men. The two blondes looked enough alike to be sisters though one was originally from Sweden, where her father had made his money in pharmaceuticals, and the other was from the Confederate American States, heiress to nearly a hundred million nuyen in real estate. Each woman cried, foolishly thinking the same thought. That she had been the only one to lose her lover.
Then there was the D’imato family.
The man in the dark overcoat pushed his older brother’s wheelchair to the grave site. Twin wheels left deep grooves in the lush green of the immaculately kept lawn.
The priest began his benediction. The crippled man did not cry, and no one expected him to. This was Marco D’imato- Derek’s father and founder of Fratellanza, Inc.
No, Marco D’imato was not the type to shed tears at a death. Though if any of those present had known the reason behind that implacable calm, that steely expression their horror would have far outweighed their grief.
“The light burns me, brother,” Marco said, sitting in his wheelchair, relishing the sprinkle of rain. “And yet I endure it and survive.” Through the heavy makeup he wore, the daylight was a glorious scalding on his skin. Everything seemed so bright that it took all his willpower to remember why he was here. He felt a mad desire to grin, even though he knew that would be deemed inappropriate by the lovely, blood-filled humans who surrounded him.
Julius touched Marco’s shoulder. “You should be considering the death of your son,” he said.
Marco nodded, but he was thinking, Derek’s body and soul died long ago, as did mine. Marco turned his head and glanced upward into Julius’ somber, grieving brow, and the slightest hint of a smile touched his bloodless lips. Everything about his brother seemed to pulse, vivid with life. Marco could smell the faint odor of sweat under his sharp cologne, could hear, dimly, under the patter of rain and the shuffling of feet surrounding the grave site, the gentle thump of his brother’s heartbeat. Could see the coursing of blood through Julius’ veins that stood out like some glorious road map through his skin.
Marco tried to bring himself under control. The ability to withstand the light of day had also brought with it increased bloodlust. I must maintain my restraint around Julius. His feelings about my most recent change have not gone unnoticed, but he will understand in time.
Marco glanced around at those gathered around the grave of his son, all of them listening to the droning of the priest. So purposeful, so intent, all of them. Marco forced down a small chuckle. These petty humans with their stupid ideas about life and death they thought they were looking at their own mortality in this place, but in reality their own mortality was busy Watching them, seeing nothing more than a delicious feast.
Julius laid his hand on Marco’s shoulder the weight a chafing comfort, as if he could read Marco’s thoughts and was trying to help him stay calm. Julius knew of Marco’s condition, and supported him, though of late, his support had been more formal, more stiff than ever before. Julius’ feelings came through most strongly whenever the subject of the procedure came up. His vehement reaction to Marco’s proposal that he himself undergo infection was simply the most obvious change in Julius’ attitude.
In time he will be persuaded.
Marco’s thoughts shifted slightly, settling on the plan, his plan. The men of Ordo Maximus had made his role in their scheme clear, but they were short-sighted, thinking only of walking in the daylight again and the power it would give them. They seemed oblivious to the next steps, to where that power could take them. To them, he was simply another cog in the wheel, a vampire who would be in the right place at the right time. It had been their idea for the personal protection angle exploited so profitably by Fratellanza, Inc., and it had been their money that had funded it. All so that when the moment came, certain powerful individuals-individuals who might be in position to cause problems for Ordo Maximus-could be quietly disposed of. It angered Marco to think that they could discount him as a simple tool, but soon they would learn of their mistake.
With considerable effort, Marco stifled a surge of anger. “Thank you, brother,” he said to Julius.
Sorrow, he thought, sorrow is what I’m supposed to be feeling. He looked at the bronze-tinted casket, and forced himself to think about Derek. His son, his heir, his dreams for the future. The casket was normal size, though Marco knew that Derek’s body, once so strong, so commanding, only took up a small portion of the casket’s interior.
The only way Lone Star had been able to identify the eviscerated, burned thing that now rode inside the plush interior of the metal box was by Derek’s credstick, which had been jammed into the blackened, cracked mouth. That mouth had been stretched into an eternal scream of fear and anger. That scream had been so hard, so violent that it had actually unhinged Derek’s jawbone.
There were doubts at Lone Star whether the body was actually Derek’s, but Marco had known instantly. He’d been expecting news of his son’s death ever since the trid chip had been delivered. Silent anger began to build inside as he remembered the trid recording. He felt an itch of madness take hold as the face of Martin de Vries came into his memory-the smug self-assurance in those undead eyes, the casual way a fellow vampire could torture and kill one of his own.
Even now, Marco’s men and hired mercs were scouring the city for any sign of the rogue vampire, searching with extreme prejudice to find the man who had murdered the heir apparent to Fratellanza. Inc. And when they found him, Marco would be there.
Now. Marco looked down at the skeletal ruin of his legs, the vicious twist of his hip bones that spoke of the helix that had been his spine. He looked like a cripple, but Marco knew that if needed, his body would respond in ways that would surprise even another vampire. When the moment came, he would be the one looking down at Martin de Vries’ dead-white skin, and de Vries’ death would make the murder of Derek look like a mercy killing.
The pressure of Julius’ hand increased ever so slightly on Marco’s shoulder, and Marco could sense his brother leaning in to whisper in his ear. “There he is. I told you he would make it.”
Marco squinted to see into the distance and through the hazy drizzle, he saw the metallic-gray Saab Dynamit in the cemetery’s roughrock gateway, idling behind the electrified wrought-iron fencing.
Marco watched as Biggs, a big red-haired ork and one of Fratellanza’s best captains, checked Warren for ID. Biggs was in charge of today’s security arrangements and had personally taken over the gate. He was ambitious for a meta, and Marco had even considered breaking one of his unspoken rules for the man. No meta had made advancement past captain in Fratellanza, Inc. Riggs might just be the first.
Tires hissed on the wet pavement as the sleek car rumbled through the now-open gate and accelerated up the narrow asphalt path into a forest of granite and marble.
Marco watched as Warren got out and walked across the wet grass to the gravesite, stopping at the outer fringe of mourners.
The young man was dressed in a suit just barely appropriate for the occasion, not nearly somber enough for a member of the family. He stood there, head bowed, his spine rigid and angry.
He is no Derek.
The thought brought just a hint of bitterness to Marco. There had been a time, not so many years ago, when Marco and Julius had discussed Warren as the logical heir to Marco’s wealth and power. There had been no doubt that Warren was far more intelligent than Derek, but Warren lacked other qualities that Derek had possessed in spades. Where Warren was soft, Derek had been hard, where Warren was understanding, Derek had been demanding, where Warren was squeamish, Derek had shown delight. Derek had been a warrior. Warren an artist.