As a vampire I have supernatural powers. The Toyota doesn’t. The two vehicles ahead were closing the trap. If I whipped around, at this speed the Toyota would flip over. I’d survive, but I couldn’t risk injuring Phaedra.
I reached for the H&K.
Phaedra grabbed my arm. “Stay cool. Stay cool.”
The black pickup bore at us suicide-bomber style. I couldn’t swerve out of the way and slammed the brakes to keep from colliding. My Toyota skidded on the wet asphalt, the tires screeching when they burned through to dry pavement.
The front end of the red pickup following me dipped as the driver rode his brakes.
The two pickups boxed me in.
Each of the pickups had a driver and passenger. I didn’t need a program to know they intended to knock me around. Four of them, one of me. Even without the H&K, the odds were in my favor—if I fought as a vampire. Phaedra’s presence complicated the situation. If I revealed myself as a vampire to these goons, no problem, as I would kill them. But Phaedra, what if she was caught in the cross fire?
As soon as the vehicles stopped, we were all out in a flurry of opening doors and starting the showdown. The black mouths of three shotguns and a pistol gaped at me.
I fixed each shooter in my mind. I could snatch my pistol and drop each one with bullets to spare. Those I didn’t kill outright I would finish off with my fangs.
Phaedra bolted from her seat in the Toyota. She moved so fast I didn’t realize what she was doing. Phaedra grasped a wiper arm on the Toyota, set a boot against the front tire, and hoisted herself on the hood.
Phaedra stood erect between the guns and me. She balled her fists and screamed hysterically. “Stop it. Stop it.”
The men drew back and lowered their guns, acting unexpectedly concerned about shooting her. Vinny, Gino’s friend who I met yesterday, waited by the door of the red pickup.
One man didn’t lower his pistol. The driver of the black pickup. His eyes burned with venom. Like me, his Mexican roots were obvious in his indio face. He had the lean hungry physique of a Tijuana alleycat. His neck appeared withered like his body had been drained of everything good and decent. Go to a crowd of a thousand people, look for the psychopath, and this was the man you’d pick.
A third vehicle—a blue Chevy Blazer—came straight at us from the direction of the hospital. The Blazer fishtailed and straddled the road, its front tires rolling into the weeds along the shoulder. A kid with a ponytail hopped from the Blazer and shielded himself behind the opened driver’s door. He drew a bead on me with his pistol.
A man with a thick face like the front end of a battering ram came out the front passenger’s side. Loose striped shirttails flapped from under the bottom of his jacket.
“Phaedra,” he shouted. His big chest heaved from exertion. He hustled between my Toyota and the black pickup. He carried himself like the man in charge. Two of the men clustered around him, psycho at his left.
“Uncle Sal,” she yelled.
Sal? Had to be Sal Cavagnolo.
He waved his hands in a downward motion. Pistols disappeared under jackets. Shotguns fell across car seats.
Everyone relaxed a bit except for the psycho, who kept a snarl in his eyes.
Phaedra climbed down over the front bumper of the 4Runner. She kept repeating, “Gino’s dead.”
“How do you know?”
“We were at his place. There was blood everywhere.”
Cavagnolo glared at me like I was responsible for the bad news. “What were you doing there?”
She raised an arm in my direction. “We were looking…”
“I was talking to him.” He turned up the heat in his glare, thinking—wrongly, of course—that I’d wilt. “What’s your business here?”
“That’s between Gino and me.”
Cavagnolo’s eyes simmered with insult. He approached me. His men reached for their guns.
“Was he there?”
“No. Like Phaedra said…”
Cavagnolo cut me off. “I only asked if he was there. Otherwise keep your mouth shut.”
My fists balled up, ready to bash Cavagnolo’s meaty face.
“Uncle Sal”—Phaedra moved between him and me—“don’t be stupid.”
His lips screwed together in a way that told me she was one of the few—maybe the only one—who could speak to him like this.
“So you couldn’t find Gino. That doesn’t mean anything,” Cavagnolo said.
“Maybe he’s in Saguache visiting what’s her name,” Vinny chimed. “That chick Dirty Tina.”
I stepped from the 4Runner toward Cavagnolo. I kept my hands open and above my waist. Phaedra moved to stay in front of me.
Cavagnolo’s expression turned acid. “My nephew Gino had shit for brains for talking to you. Your name is Felix Gomez, right?”
“You got it.” Hearing my name coming out of his mouth made me feel unwashed.
“It’s a pretty name.” Cavagnolo paused to let the other men chuckle. “Goes with a sissy asshole who hides behind a girl.”
I was going to lance Cavagnolo’s head like a boil. I tried to nudge Phaedra aside, but she clamped onto my arm and stayed close.
“Gino’s truck is still at his place.” I pulled up beside Phaedra. “Lot of blood on his bed. Looks like someone cut him bad and hauled him off.”
The men tried to remain stone-faced but they shuffled like they felt razor blades under their feet.
Cavagnolo’s gaze focused to a point on the horizon. He kept quiet and his mouth curled into the makings of a scowl. His expression abruptly relaxed as if he’d made a decision. “That’s my problem. I’ll deal with it.” He motioned to Phaedra. “You, get home.”
She gave a rebellious shake of her head.
Cavagnolo cocked a thumb to the Blazer. “Now, darling.”
Phaedra looked at me over her shoulder. What should I do?
I gave her a gentle push toward the Blazer.
Cavagnolo said, “Cleto, help her out.”
The psycho clasped her arm with his bony, paw-like hand. For a second, the hatred in Cleto’s eyes morphed to pleasure. She jerked her arm loose and continued between him and her uncle.
Cavagnolo whispered as she passed. Phaedra turned subdued and humbled. He gave her a tender pat on the shoulder.
The kid with the ponytail came forward and helped her get in the front passenger’s seat of the Blazer.
Cavagnolo closed within arm’s distance to me.
Behind him, the Blazer pulled away and headed north.
“You and me”—he held up two fingers and pressed them together—“let’s go back into town and talk.”
“We can talk here.”
Cavagnolo didn’t reply. He walked to the black pickup and climbed in. Cleto drove. A guy in a light green jacket got into the backseat of the cab.
I remained standing.
Cleto gunned the engine of the black pickup. Cavagnolo lowered his window, hooked a thick arm out, and thumped the door. “You got tampons in your ears, pussy face? That wasn’t an invitation, it was an order.”