Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(42)

facade, the place was hopping. Through those huge panels of glass, he could see men and women dressed in black carrying around champagne glasses as they inspected the art on the walls. Which at least from the street seemed to be a fusion between five-year-old finger painting and the work of a sadist with a rusty nail fetish.

John was not impressed with the cultivated avant-garde routine--and

as always, he had no idea why he had an opinion about art. Like any of it mattered?

Trez had told them to head around back, so he and his boys walked

down the block and cut into the alley that ran behind the gallery. Whereas the front of the place was all eye-catching and welcoming, the opposite was true for the business's ass. No windows. Everything painted matte black.

Two flush doors and a loading dock that was locked up tighter than a

chastity belt.

Based on the intel from Trez, piss-poor excuses for "art" like the ones being discussed by those self-important Warhol-wannabes weren't the only products going in and out of the place. Which was clearly why there was a f*ckload of security cameras mounted over the rear exit.

Fortunately, there were plenty of shadows to take cover behind, and

instead of walking by all those lenses, they dematerialized over to a stack of wooden pallets in a dark corner.

The city was still full of life at this hour, the muted honks of cars and the distant sirens of the police and the lumbering groans of the CTA buses marking the cool air with an urban symphony--

At the far end of the alley, a car turned in and shut off its lights as it came forward toward the gallery.

"Right on time," Qhuinn whispered. "And it's that Lexus."

John took a deep breath and prayed for a break before he lost his ever-loving mind.

The sedan rolled to a stop parallel to the loading dock and the door

opened. As the interior light came on . . .

The little lesser from the park, the one who'd smelled like Old Spice, got out of an otherwise empty car. No Lash.

John's first instinct was to jump on the slayer . . . but according to Trez, Lash was supposed to be at the meeting. If they disturbed a

prearranged flow of bodies, there was a chance he'd be tipped off.

And given his bag of tricks, surprise was mission critical.

For a moment, John wondered whether he should text the Brothers.

Let them know. Get some serious backup . . . except the instant it occurred 114

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to him his vengeance sat up and roared.

Which was precisely what had him reaching into his pocket and

taking out his phone. As the slayer headed inside , the text he sent to Rhage was short and factual: 189 St. Francis. Lash on way. 3 of us in the rear alley.

When he put the phone back into his pocket, he could feel Blay and

Qhuinn staring over his shoulder. One of them gave him a squeeze of

approval.

The thing was, Qhuinn was right. If the goal truly was to take down

Lash, there were better odds of nailing the guy if he got help. And he needed to be smart about this--because stupid clearly wasn't getting him where he needed to be.

A moment later, Rhage materialized at the head of the alley with

Vishous and the pair strode down. Hollywood was the go-to guy when it came to Lash because the Brother was packing the one weapon that could go head-to-head with the bastard: That dragon of his went wherever he did.

The two of them flashed down right beside John and before either of

them could ask, he started signing.

I need to be the one who kills Lash. Do you understand? It has to be me.

Vishous immediately nodded and signed, I know your history with

that piece of shit. But if it comes to a point where it's either you or the motherf*cker, your honor's going to get benched and we're going to intercede. Clear?

John took a deep breath, thinking that the extrapolation worked well

enough for a why. I'm gonna make it so you don't have to worry about that.

Fair enough.

They all froze as the lesser who'd driven the Lexus came back out, got behind the wheel . . . and took off as if the meeting had been canceled.

"Roof it," Rhage said, disappearing.

With an inner curse, John took the cue and assumed form on the top

of Benloise's place, looking over the lip and watching the sedan come to a stop on St. Francis Street. Fortunately, the slayer was a law-abider and hit its directional signal to the left, so John scattered his molecules and coalesced two buildings down. As the car progressed, he repeated and repeated until the lesser took a right into the even older section of Caldwell.

Where the flat roofs ended and all you had to land on was a bunch of

pointed Victorian shit.

Good thing the soles of shitkickers had some grab in 'em.

Making like a gargoyle, John perched on turrets and dormers and sills, 115

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following his prey from the air . . . until the Lexus turned off on an alley and ducked behind a row of brownstones.

John knew the neighborhood only nominally--from his one trip to

Xhex's basement place, which was close by--but it was not normal

Lessening Society territory. Usually their cribs were in much lower-profile zip codes.

So there was only one explanation. This was where Lash stayed.

Guy like him, who'd been into the bling and the clothes and that shit when he was growing up, would need a personality transplant to be able to settle for anything less than good real estate. It was what he'd grown up around, and undoubtedly he would see it as his due.