Chapter 10 #2
The problem of Melody hadn’t completely left his thoughts, and he wanted to act on his intuition before he could change his mind again.
That accomplished, he turned his mind to the task at hand.
He couldn’t set foot on the warehouse property, but a few circles around the block had revealed several vantage points from which he could capture photos and video.
Parking a mile away from the warehouse, he slunk through the shadows with his duffel slung over his shoulder, sticking close to the walls of the buildings.
The security around these warehouses was pitiful, and Mateo only needed to climb a fence and dodge a nightguard before he could climb a set of steps from the outer side yard to the roof.
As he watched through the camera, four vans with blacked-out windows pulled into the rear yard of the Berenger Warehouse.
A square shaft of light illuminated the shadows of men coming from within the warehouse, weapons drawn.
Mateo zoomed in, snapping photos as the men approached the vans and swung open the back doors.
More appeared from the fronts of the vans, but Mateo kept his eyes on the cargo.
He estimated about forty to fifty women being coerced from the vans on unsteady legs.
The long-range camera allowed him to get close, capturing faces.
They were a mix of races and body types, and seemed to range in age from sixteen to twenty-five.
Carlisle and the brass wouldn’t be able to ignore the physical state of these women.
Most of them were filthy, smudged with substances he’d rather not guess at.
Clothing was scarce, and what they did wear was eaten away by holes, and hanging or clinging with an ill fit.
They all looked like they had been rolled through a dumpster.
Mateo set the camera aside and reached for another, this one for capturing video.
He recorded footage of the men using the noses of their guns to prod the women into the warehouse.
Another group of men appeared from within, pushing dollies loaded with wooden crates.
Mateo zoomed in on the boxes, ensuring to capture what was written on the sides.
BAZ-024. Handle with Reverence.
He didn’t have time to make sense of what must be some kind of code.
Darcy could help him make sense of it later.
The handlers transferred the crates into the vans, managing them as if they contained short-fused dynamite.
Mateo recorded a few more minutes of video before switching cameras again.
He snapped photos of the license plates on the vans just before their drivers mounted up and drove off into the night.
Then, he captured an image of Wilson and Morrison standing together near the open hatch of the warehouse, cigarette smoke billowing around them.
Mateo hadn’t recognized Suede among the accomplices, but assumed the man had remained behind at the club.
Not that it mattered. He was confident he had enough evidence to convince Carlisle to press for a warrant for a raid.
Of course, by the time the raid could be conducted, Mateo fully expected the girls to have disappeared, but there was a chance they could find another piece of the puzzle.
If nothing else, he could justify his earlier stance by presenting Carlisle with proof of what he’d already known to be true.
He moved quickly now that he had what he needed.
The faster he got out of the area, the less his chances of being spotted.
The sun wouldn’t come up for another couple of hours, and anyone seen lurking around the docks this late would surely be assumed to be up to no good.
The last thing he needed was for some rent-a-cop to call attention to him.
Duffle bag slung over his shoulder, he rushed down the stairs and went back over the fence.
The darkness of the hours before dawn swallowed him as he set off toward where he’d parked his car.
It didn’t take long for him to detect the soft thump of footsteps behind him. He might not have heard them if not for the stillness and the darkness. Not only did he hear someone approaching; he felt them. Felt eyes stabbing through his back. Another sound—a click and then a sharp inhale, a cough.
He took a wrong turn on purpose to test the theory.
Maybe it was just some homeless person seeking a place to sleep.
But the footsteps followed, picking up speed as he ducked into an alley between warehouses.
By now, he had walked too far away from Berenger.
No security guard would trail him this far away from his post. Someone else was on his trail.
Someone who might have spotted him on that roof.
With an annoyed sigh, Mateo slung his duffel between two overstuffed trash cans and turned to meet whoever was breathing down his neck.
The alley had abruptly come to a dead end, leaving him nothing to do but fight his way out.
His hand hovered over his sidearm, but he wouldn’t draw it yet.
Gunshots would bring attention he didn’t need.
“First and only warning,” he growled at the shadowy figure converging on him. He could only make out broad, masculine shoulders and long legs, putting the man a few inches taller than Mateo. “Walk away.”
The man proceeded as if he hadn’t heard Mateo, his movements stilted and erratic.
As he came closer, Mateo noticed that he spasmodically clenched and unclenched his fingers while convulsively ticking his head to one side and then the other.
He frowned, uneasy as the shadow fell on him with a feral, canine growl.
The heavy weight of the man’s body slammed into Mateo before he could react, throwing him to his back on the ground.
He rolled away just before a booted foot could crush his head.
The man spun to face Mateo as he rolled and bounced to his feet.
“Blood and breath,” he rasped. “Blood and breath, blood and breath…”
He faltered while finding his footing, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
Blood and breath …
A tremor rocked Mateo and he grew sick to his stomach so fast he nearly doubled over. He had heard those words before, somewhere. But there wasn’t time to dwell on it, because the big brute chose that moment to advance, still chanting, “blood and breath.”
Mateo lunged to meet him, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and pushing him against the wall of the warehouse.
The man broke his hold like he was shrugging off a sweater and then slammed a palm into Mateo’s chest, sending him flying against the opposite wall.
Wind knocked from him, Mateo sank to the ground, gasping and clawing at his throbbing sternum.
He’d never been hit so hard in his life, and with an open palm at that.
Before he could get to his feet, the man had him by the throat.
Mateo kicked and twisted, stunned to find that the tips of his toes barely touched the ground.
The man shook him like a rag doll and then slammed him against the wall again.
His head bounced off the brick, vision going hazy.
Forcing a knee between the asshole’s legs, he drew it up, aiming for his softest, most vulnerable parts.
The hold on his neck loosened enough for him to suck in a desperately needed breath, but the man merely fell back a few steps with a grunt.
No fucking way.
Mateo ducked just before a fist came at him out of nowhere, registering the impact and sound of bones breaking. The man didn’t whimper or flinch or so much as slow down. He simply shook his battered hand and kept coming, rough snarls and grunts huffing from him like those of a bull.
“You cannot escape the truth,” he snarled. “You cannot escape the light. Azrael sees. He sees all.”
Mateo drew his sidearm and thrust it forward before the man could take another step, pressing the muzzle against his chest. “Yeah? Then that motherfucker can watch me do this.”
He swung the pistol up and clocked the man under his chin, sending him staggering back.
Without giving him a chance to recover, Mateo whipped the gun at him again, catching him in the jaw.
He spun away and crashed into the brick wall, and Mateo followed.
He managed to get an arm around the man’s neck before he could straighten.
He locked it in with his opposite hand and held on with every ounce of his strength as the man began to buck and roar.
Hands grappled at him, tearing his hair, scratching his face, gouging his neck.
But Mateo only grunted and squeezed tighter, wrapping his legs around the man for good measure.
He threw himself against the wall, trying to dislodge Mateo.
The impact of the brick rattled his teeth and sent a jolt of agony down his lower back and legs, but he wouldn’t let go.
To let go would mean death unless he could get to his sidearm, which had fallen somewhere into the shadows.
If the guy got his hands on Mateo again, he was a dead man.
“Pass out, you crazy fuck!” Mateo bellowed, the tendons in his neck straining as he went on choking the man out.
It took twice as long as it should have, but the man eventually went down on one knee and then the other, gurgling and wheezing.
Mateo held on until the man went limp, then let his body fall into a pile of garbage.
Mateo went silent and still long enough to determine that no one had been around to hear or see anything before going for his duffel.
Fishing out a flashlight, he crouched over the prone form of his attacker.
His head was pounding, and he felt as if he’d just been put through a meat grinder, but adrenaline kept him alert as he swept the light over the man, mentally cataloguing every detail.
White male. Mid-twenties to early thirties.
Six foot four or thereabouts. Normal looking enough, even though he’d been drooling and growling like a dog.
He’d been practically foaming at the mouth, spittle drying in white clumps at the edges of his lips.
Mateo flipped him over to rifle through his back pockets.
No wallet, no ID, not even a wad of cash.
A sudden thought occurred to him, and Mateo lifted the hem of the man’s black hoodie, dragging it upward until he found what he was looking for.
The same tattoo he had seen on the man at Solstice.
“Motherfucker,” he spat, snarling at the prone form.
From the front pocket of the man’s hoodie fell a circular object.
Mateo would have missed it if not for the sound it made when it clattered to the pavement.
He tried to hold it up and inspect it in the light, but was unable to identify what it could be.
It fit in the palm of his hand and was black.
Caressing his thumb over it, he found markings—the slashing lines of the pentagram and the notches along the outer circle.
The Seal of Azrael. Shoving it in his pocket, he decided to take a better look in the safety of his hotel room.
With no further reason to remain, Mateo scooped up his duffle and made a run for it.
Never mind that he was alone in the dark.
The need to get as far away from this place as possible seized him.
By coming here, he had put himself in a precarious situation.
He had thought security of the neighboring warehouse was lax, but hadn’t counted on his suspects having security of their own.
Especially not security that could lift a man off the ground with one hand or take a knee to the balls without throwing up his kidneys.
He couldn’t bring himself to regret it, not when the cameras in his duffel carried the proof he had come to collect.
There was obviously more at play here, but Mateo couldn’t figure out what that might be if he was dead.
So, he high-tailed it to his car and sped off toward his hotel, his heart in his throat the entire way.
As he went, he couldn’t ignore the echoing refrain filling his mind corner to corner.
The words his attacker had muttered just before striking.
Words he had heard once before … on the day of his wife’s death.
Blood and breath.