The Vampire in the Iron Mask (Page 9)

“Why? Why are you going to do it? If you’re not sure?”

“One, because I was paid to do a job. Two, I saw her. She’s no demon. I have to help her.”

“Knight in shining armor.” Veronica rolled her eyes.

“Pun intended?”

“Yes.”

I remembered how weak, yet determined, those eyes were. Young eyes.

“She’s not a kid, Spinoza. Neither are they.” Veronica locked eyes with me. “I’m serious, Spinoza.”

“So am I.”

“I see those timeworn wheels turning.” She made a squeaky, old sound.

“Funny.”

“You’re not that old. But seriously…an Arnold Palmer?” Veronica laughed. I regarded the drink I was nursing with disdain. Okay, I was old, so what? I made a mental note to start going to the gym, maybe after this case was over.

“You can’t just go in and get her out,” she observed. “That’s why you owe me.”

“That makes no sense whatsoever.”

“You did something for me, now I’m going to return the favor. You don’t have a choice in the matter.”

I considered this. It would be good to have a partner. I trusted Veronica. Also, I knew how stubborn she was. She’d probably follow me whether I wanted her to or not.

Hell, we were telepathically linked.

I drummed my fingers on the bar and listened to the music and couldn’t help but start to plan. I’d seen enough, I believed, of the building’s layout. I thought of Al Pacino, of Bruce Willis, and then sighed as my plan worked itself out in my mind. Hell, I still had it in me.

I think.

Veronica knew I didn’t take bullshit from anyone. For sure I wasn’t going to let anyone get away with clobbering me. She was expertly applying lipstick to her full lips, without the aid of a mirror.

“How many are there?” I asked.

“Not sure, but I’d say about ten.”

I thought about how to get her out of there.

“It won’t be easy,” Veronica said, reading my damn mind again.

“Sorry,” she added.

She didn’t sound sorry. “All right,” I conceded. “You’re with me. But on my terms. Got it?”

“Sure,” she said, tossing back the last of her martini.

“We move tomorrow night,” I told her. “Here’s what I want you to do…”

Chapter Eleven

I stepped into AJ’s gun shop.

The shop is located in a not-so-nice area of Hollywood. Hookers, dealers, crazy people with big signs warning of the end of the world. It was late afternoon, and another customer was buying supplies. AJ nodded a greeting to me. I nodded back and waited until the customer left.

“What can I do you for?” There were hundreds, hell, probably thousands of gun and ammo dealers in Los Angeles, but AJ was one of those who respected privacy. And confidentiality. Two virtues that I considered essential. At least in a gun dealer.

“Lock the door,” I said softly. “Turn off your cameras.”

AJ was a tough guy. In his business, you had to be tough. He looked like a muscle-head bouncer, but was far more shrewd. He was six-foot-four and none of his two hundred and forty pounds were fat. His head was shaved, and he had tattoos up and down his massive body, including an unlikely pair of red lips on his scalp.

We’d known each other for a few years, and he respected my work. Hopefully, he still would after my purchases today. He flipped a switch under the counter, turning off the cameras, and crossed the room in two long strides to bolt the door. He also turned his door sign around to: “Closed.”

AJ knew I was in the business of finding lost kids, but he never asked me questions. Smart. The less you know and all that. But he wasn’t quite prepared for this request.

“I need two semi-automatics that can hold silver bullets,” I said, as if I were ordering coffee. Or maybe a Bloody Mary. Pun intended.

AJ regarded me a moment with a stone-faced expression, then went into the back. I listened as he shuffled around a few things, and soon he returned with a long, polished wooden box and a few boxes of ammo. He watched me expectantly, arms crossed over his chest.

“May I?” I asked.

He grinned and opened the box. The inside was lined with red velvet that surrounded the finely made but very lethal rifle. The piece itself was hard, smooth silver. The handle was crafted out of obsidian. It was beautiful, a work of art. If an assault rifle could be considered as such.

“This here’s a Colt M4 Carbine,” he said. “Silver plated. Carries ninety-rounds per clip, and has a custom extended extra clip for easy…ah…access.”

I drew it out of the casing. It felt heavy but comfortable in my hands. I could see the red-aim dot at the top.

“Nice,” I commented. I held the weapon’s butt to my right shoulder and took aim at the mirror. It wasn’t loaded, but I still felt a chill, and a perverse sense of power holding it.

I set the Colt back into its velvet case. “What about the bullets?”

AJ pulled a carrying case out of one of the boxes. “These are lead, but silver chrome plated. They’re hollow points, and the BBs inside are also silver.”

A hollow-point meant the bullet would explode upon impact. It wouldn’t just go inside a person—or vampire—and cleanly out the other side, like a regular bullet. I whistled. Was I really going to do this?

“How hollow are they?” I asked him, maintaining a calm demeanor. I wasn’t feeling too calm, but he didn’t need to know that.

AJ retained his professional attitude as well. “Say from about six feet, a small entry hole, and internal damage about the size of a baseball if you hit your target’s chest. No exit wound.”

I processed this. Apparently I wasn’t the first one to request such a weapon. I considered asking AJ, but he answered questions about as much as he asked. He added, “You hit point blank, you will have a bloody mess on your hands.”

“I’ll take two.” I guess I was going to do this. “How many clips do you have? With the silver BBs?”

“Oh, I think I got seven or eight. You want a carrying case for these?”

“No. Yes,” I amended, reconsidering.

“How many clips do you want?”

“All of them.”

Chapter Twelve

Sometimes the overhead cost in my line of work is a little high, but I really don’t mind.

I considered the rifles a nice little investment. I had also purchased a couple of silver-bladed knives, also with obsidian handles, from AJ. He sent me “packing” with definite inquiries he’d never ask and I’d never answer. All for the best.