24. Dante #2
"What do you mean, gone?" His voice is slightly muffled. "One moment, please. I'm afraid you caught me in the middle of my dinner."
"And I apologize for the intrusion," I grit out. "She is missing . Along with her guard—since this afternoon, last known location is a gas station on Crown Point Road, in New Jersey—"
"By the gun range, I'm familiar. Are you en route?" His voice is clearer now, and I can hear him typing with fervor.
"We are. ETA fifteen minutes."
"Ten minutes, sir," Roman interjects.
"Ten, my apologies." I correct myself and nod at Roman, mouthing a thank you.
"Oh-ho, what have we here," The Paimon snickers. "Nothing worse than some past due taxes and a shoddy—but functional—camera system. God, I bet the password is 'password.' Ha!"
"Please recall that my wife is on the line, Paimon," I snarl, feeling my blood rush through my veins with fury. "Can you get in, or not?"
"Don't insult me. Of course I can. Here we go—when was she there?"
"A little before two this afternoon. What do you see?" I wait for his (most likely) sardonic response, but it doesn't come. There's only silence, except for a few taps of his keyboard.
"Nothing. There's nothing. At exactly 1:55 and 32 seconds, a black SUV pulls up to pump two.
Your wife—lovely woman, by the way, happy to hear she took down that asshole, Frank—but your wife gets out of the car, and the video cuts.
Black. Nothing. This continues for…" He mumbles to himself.
"… seven minutes. At 2:03, the feed returns.
The SUV is gone. Melody isn't in the store.
The only person in the store looks to be a middle-aged man scrolling on his phone behind the register. "
"Fuck!" I shout and pound my fist on the dashboard. "This has to be the Seraph! They just—they killed Valencia, they have my wife , they have Helena."
"Why target you? Why not target, I don't know, The Belial? The Belphegor?" Paimon's questions rattle around in my brain, and I'm ashamed to say, I don't know.
"Fuck if I know. God, shit. Send me a screenshot of the clerk. I need to know if I'm ripping the right man apart." My grip on the grab handle nearly cracks the piece of plastic in half. Roman pulls an extremely illegal left turn and screeches to a halt in the gas station lot.
"Done. Give 'em hell, Dantalion." Click .
Without a word, Roman flips open the center console and pulls out two pistols. One for him and one for me—only the finest German engineering that money can buy: customized SIG Sauer. I check the magazine to find it full—as expected—and flick off the safety.
"Is that wise, sir?" Roman slides his into the inner pocket of his coat.
"Quite frankly, Roman, I don't give a shit.
Someone is going to die tonight. If it's not Melody's kidnapper, it'll be an accomplice.
Let's go." I swing open the door and stomp towards the stupid little mini-store.
Just like The Paimon said, a balding middle-aged man sits behind the register, scrolling on his phone.
He doesn't even look up when the bell jingles as I enter.
The man is balding, with a slightly greasy look to him. A heavy brow casts his eyes in shadow from the fluorescent lighting. Yes, this is him. I'm vibrating with rage when Roman holds up his hand, stepping between myself and the clerk.
He's got this. Of course, he does; this is what he's trained for. He is in complete control of his emotions, and I've never been more envious of the man in my life. All I want to do is rage: trash the store, stomp the man's head in, rip out his throat, and laugh at his corpse.
Roman raps his knuckles on the yellowing laminate of the counter. "Evening, chief. How's the day been?"
"Same ol', same ol'. What can I get for ya?" The man finally clicks off his phone screen and looks up at me. "Oh, hey. Welcome in."
"Man, my buddy here thinks his old lady ran off on him.
I keep telling him that's not a crime, but he's…
agitated. Thinks she's been here today. You mind taking a look?
" Roman pulls out his phone and scrolls through his camera reel.
The folksy affect he's adopted is stunning; I swear, he's a chameleon when he needs to be.
Thank god he's on my side.
"Ah, that sucks. I feel you, man. My wife took off after the market crash.
Yeah, I'll take a look. What are we workin' with?
" The clerk leans forward over the counter, peering over the reading glasses perched on his nose.
As his eyes focus on the screen, his eyebrows jump up—I grip the handle of my gun a little tighter—and he schools his face back into a neutral expression. "Haven't seen her, sorry."
I almost believe him, but the look of surprise at her photo and the fact that his eyes keep flicking between myself and the security camera give him away, wholesale. His greasy forehead breaks out in a sweat, and he quickly wipes it away, rubbing his grimy hands on his filthy shirt.
"Wrong answer, chief ." Roman's down-home ruse is gone, replaced by the hardened professional I know him to be. Quick as a flash, he reaches across the counter and grabs the man by his shirt, yanking him hard. The clerk launches over the countertop and tumbles to the floor, whining and sputtering.
"It wasn't me, I swear, I swear, man! They were just here for a second, I don't—I don't know nothin'!" He continues blubbering and sobbing, holding his arms over his head.
I crouch down next to him and tap the barrel of my gun against his forehead. "I want you to think carefully. Think before you speak . Where did they take her?"
He eyes the gun and gulps audibly, tears pouring down his reddened face. The smell of urine hits my nose, and I see he's wet himself. Fucking pathetic.
"I… I don't know. They went south. I swear, man, they got wings everywhere.
I don't know anything about where they go, what they do, I just—they use my shop, okay?
Sometimes. And I'm not the only one—honest!
Sometimes they lure people here and use the store as snatchin' grounds.
I keep my mouth shut, and they pay me. That's all.
That's all ." He gulps in another breath of air. "See? I told you what I know. We good?"
I stand up tall and look down at the man cowering before me. He whimpers again as I slide my finger into the trigger guard. "No."
Bang!
The man's head—or what remains of it—lolls back to the floor with a thud.
Roman hurries into action, heading to the back office to gather whatever else might be on the dead man's computer.
I wander over to the hot bar and snag a few napkins, wiping the blood from my face.
I much prefer the basement. Clean up is so easy with a power washer and a built-in drain.
Dropping the napkins on the corpse, I head to the office to find Roman yanking power cords out of the computer tower.
"Anything interesting?" I ask casually, flicking the safety back on my gun.
"No cloud backup," he grunts. "Cheap fucker, but good for us."
I sigh. I'm so goddamn tired. All I want is to crawl into bed with my wife, but the Seraph stole her from me. If they brutalized Valencia like that, I don't dare to think what they might do to Melody. My feral queen. My murderous wife.
I hope to god she's giving them all the hell they deserve.