Stupid thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid thought. I forced myself to breathe, breathe, slowly, deeply. Underneath the blood-death-stink I smelled vamp. Now-familiar vamp. The vamp I was chasing. I drew my weapons back into firing readiness. I’d let them drop at the sight of the man. Stupid rookie mistake. Stupid thoughts. I blinked away tears I didn’t know I’d cried and scanned the small jet, looking for anything alive or undead.
There was no way to avoid stepping in blood, but I did my best as I peeked into the cockpit and then circled around to the galley. Both were empty. I flipped the light switch in the sleeping quarters. There was no blood here. No. The vamp had left me a different kind of message. The new part-time first mate was naked, positioned on the bed where I had slept. Dead, with two holes in his neck, still trickling blood. A smile on his face. An envelope lying on his fish white belly.
It had my name on it.
I toed off my bloody boots, walked barefoot to the bed, and took the envelope. Tucked it into the blood-bottle tote. Grabbed my belongings and slid back into my boots. Not sure where the calm actions were coming from. Training or instinct. Maybe a bit of both, taking over when my mind went on hiatus and my soul was aching. I paused at the hatch and looked back at the crucified man.
The ancient, blooming horror opened before me, in fast forward.
I had a momentary vision of another man, white, bearded, bloodied, hanging over hot coals, deer antlers piercing through his shoulders, ropes leading up from the antlers into the dark of night. The sound of drums. The smell of herbed smoke and blood. A phantom memory, new, yet oldoldold. And then it was gone, as if it had never been real. As if the memory was a dream, half lost upon waking.
I went down the steps, leaving bloody footprints, and washed my boots at a low faucet on the terminal building wall. Entered the terminal. I was sawing at the bindings on the hog-tied air traffic controller when the tears that were gathered in my eyes started to fall. This was crazy. People were being drained, were being crucified. People were dying of plague. I was on a mission of peaceful parley that should have been known only to a few specific people, but it felt as if my every move had been telegraphed to Leo’s enemies and I didn’t know how, or who was giving away inside information. More people were dead by violent means and I didn’t know why. I didn’t know a lot of stuff, and it had come back to haunt me.
I blinked and saw the man stuck to the Learjet wall like a bug on felt. I took a steadying breath. I could mourn later. I bore down on the bindings holding the air traffic controller. Dulling my blade. Because his hands had swollen around the plastic strips, it took all my strength and concentration to saw through the strips on his wrists and not cut him badly. One of the zip strips parted. I bent into the struggle with the plastic. It took a whole minute and several cuts to his hands and wrists, even with my highest-quality steel edges, to free him. Whoever had trussed up the air traffic controller had known what he was doing. When the last binding on his hands broke through, the man collapsed on the floor, pulling his hands up to shoulder height. They looked awful, but I thought they would be okay. Tying up someone’s hands that tight can result in permanent damage from something called compartment syndrome. I’d seen it before and it wasn’t pretty. “See a doctor,” I said shortly, not letting my relief sound in my voice.
I cleaned his blood from the blade by wiping it on his pants and put it away in a sheath not easy to hand. I didn’t want to draw it again until it had some attention. I should question him again. Hard and thoroughly. Just because he had been trussed up at a crime scene like a young calf didn’t mean he hadn’t been culpable on some level. Maybe he let the bad guys in. Maybe he did something else. But I wouldn’t interrogate him. I would take the coward’s way out and vanish. I stood and said, “Is there video surveillance of the attackers?”
Using one purpled palm, he pushed up and rolled over, looking at the destroyed computer and electronic equipment. He laughed, a pained chuffing sound. “I doubt it. Looks like they shot up the whole works.”
“I need transportation.”
“I have a Yamaha Super Ténéré bike beside the building out front. Can you ride?”
“I’m a Harley girl. Yeah.”
“Keys in my pocket.” He tried to move his fingers and hissed through his teeth at the pain.
“Give me ten minutes before you call the cops,” I said. “Mr. Pellissier will make it worth your time.” I fished for the keys and left through the front door. The bike was in the shadows at the side of the building, hidden from the parking lot, helmet on the back. It was a sleek, sporty street bike, all black, built for speed and comfort. I stored my weapons and clothes in the aluminum side cases and strapped the Benelli to the bike along my knee. The weight and balance were different from Bitsa, and it used a key start, which I had always thought was a wussy way to start a bike, but I wasn’t complaining. I keyed it on and it had the nice steady purr of a well-kept engine. The last thing I did before leaving the airport was to throw the new cell phone as far as I could and let my braids down from the crown to put on the helmet. It smelled of the air traffic controller but wasn’t too horrible. I’d been around worse smells today. I tucked the braids into my collar and was on the road in seconds, heading toward the city lights.
Popular wisdom says it’s supposed to rain all the time in Seattle, but it was dry and balmy for November, in the high seventies, even this late. Scudding clouds were advancing across the sky, and the night was black with buffeting winds and unfamiliar scents, mostly fecund earth and dense greenery, exposed rock, still warm from the sun. I shifted gears and climbed a hill, gaining speed. Putting the past behind me. Right now no one knew where I was. No one could contact me. If I wanted, I could take off and just disappear. Start over.