The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(70)



“I know, I think she’s in big trouble. There’s a guy in here, a Calles banger named Raymundo—I think he knows where she is, but he wouldn’t tell me.”

“No worries,” she said. “He will tell me.”

I held her, keeping her close, savoring every second of her warmth and the scent of her musky perfume. Her eyes glowed faintly in the dark, swirling with motes of copper light.

“Anyway,” I said, “the Outfit’s not our biggest problem.”

I walked her through it, from the curse that left everyone with memories of a trial that never happened, to my hallucination in Buddy’s cell of a ravaged Las Vegas.

“So this Fleiss woman…” Caitlin’s voice trailed off as she thought it over.

“She orchestrated it for her boss: this ‘Enemy,’ the man with the Cheshire smile, whoever he is. Whatever he is. As far as I can tell, this scam wasn’t about me at all. They just needed a patsy who they could swap into the ‘Thief’s’ place, so someone else would die in here instead of him. I was on their radar because I’d just pulled that heist in Chicago for them. Once they heard I’d been arrested, well, you couldn’t ask for a better stooge. They needed somebody behind bars, and there I was.”

“They rewrote people’s memories on a massive scale, Daniel. Like some sort of…mental contagion. I don’t know anyone who can do that.” Her voice, already soft, dropped to a whisper. “I don’t even think my father can do that.”

“And it sounds like they’re just getting warmed up. At least I got Buddy out of here. If he can deliver his message to the right person, they’ve got a shot at stopping whatever the Enemy’s got planned.” I shook my head. “His twin sister told me I shouldn’t get in the way. Seems I’m not ‘the chosen one,’ so I don’t have a chance of standing up to this guy.”

Caitlin’s fingertips trailed along the nape of my neck. She studied me, eyes glittering.

“Oh? And what do you say?”

“Sweetheart, in the last two weeks I’ve been abducted, cut off from everyone I love, and left to rot in a prison cell. I’ve been beaten, tortured, starved, and I’ve got bruises in places I didn’t think you could get bruises, all so the Enemy could hand somebody a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

I leaned in. Our lips brushed. As I pulled away, her rising smile mirrored my own.

“Fuck being the chosen one,” I said. “I say we track this * down and wreck his world.”

“The Enemy,” Caitlin mused. “He chose his name well. If he intends to wreak destruction upon my prince’s territory—my territory—then he’s made himself an enemy of humanity and hell alike. We should teach him the consequences of hubris.”

“Good idea. Let’s rescue Jennifer, push the Outfit out of Vegas, and then we can go hunting.”

Caitlin glanced back toward the cell door.

“First, though,” she said, “we do have the slight matter of your escape to attend to. Which reminds me: Bentley sent along a present for you.”

She held up a deck of cards. Cherry-red Bicycle dragon backs, my usual brand, glistening with enchantment and the residue of exotic oils. I opened my palm. The cards leaped through the air in a stream, riffling into my hand, eager to play.

I slipped the deck up my sleeve.

“Perfect,” I said. “Bentley and Corman should be on their way with a getaway van. I don’t see any way of slipping out of here quietly, so assume we’ll be setting off a few alarms on our way out. That means we’ll have to deal with roadblocks on I-80. Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan for that. Think you can take care of our sniper problem?”

She cracked her knuckles and smiled.

“Just one thing,” I said, “Warden Lancaster. Don’t kill him. I assume he’ll run for it when the blood starts to spill, and that’s good. Let him think he got away.”

“Don’t kill him?” she echoed. “Why on earth not?”

In the dark, I stared grimly over Caitlin’s shoulder. Toward the door.

“Because I’ve got a plan for him, too. And he’s not getting off that easy.”





38.




My eagerness, when the guards came to get me, was a smoke screen. I didn’t want them looking too deep into my cell, noticing the woman crouched in the farthest, darkest corner. Waiting, patient as a cobra.

When they brought me down to the arena floor, lining me up with the other prisoners, I had a pretty good view up toward my cell. I got to see Vasquez trundling over with a toolbox, opening the door—and the hand that clamped over his wrist, hauling him into the darkness before he could scream for help.

Not long after, I glimpsed the spidery shadow that skittered across the ceiling of the hive high above our heads. Clinging to the concrete, making her way toward the guard tower.

Soon the bodies rained down, terrifying the crowd into a petrified, confused silence. And then Caitlin joined the party.

I’d been running the numbers. Seven guards spaced out along the gallery floor, plus Lancaster with his long-barreled .45. Maybe fifty people in the audience, and more than a few bodyguard types with conspicuous bulges under their tailored jackets. Lousy odds, and I knew I should be worried.

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