Lover Avenged(70)

When she’d left the clinic with Alix and Stephan, she hadn’t thought to bring her coat, so she huddled into her purse and hotfooted it over the sidewalk and through the door. Inside, the place was as most of them were: red wooden trim, dark gray tile floor, with a lot of windows, stuffed chairs, and little tables. Over at the counter there were mugs for sale, a glass display of lemon squares and brownies and scones, and two humans in their early twenties manning the coffee machines. The smell in the air was hazelnut and coffee and chocolate, and the aroma wiped the lingering herbal bouquet of the death wraps from her nose.

“C’I help you?” the taller guy asked.

“Vente latte, foam, no whip. Double cup, double sleeve.”

The human male smiled at her and lingered. He had a dark brush-cut beard and a nose ring, his shirt splashed with graphics that spelled out TOMATO EATER in drops of what could have been blood or, given the band’s name, ketchup. “You like anything else? The cinnamon scones totally rock.”

“No, thanks.”

His eyes stayed on her as he worked her order, and to keep from having to deal with the attention, she went into her purse and checked her phone in case Lusie-

MISSED CALL. View now?

She hit yes, praying it wasn’t something about her father-

Rehvenge’s number came up, although not his name, because she hadn’t put him in her phone. She stared at the digits.

God, it was like he’d read her mind.

“Your latte? Hello?”

“Sorry.” She put her phone back, took what the guy held out to her, and thanked him.

“I double-cupped just like you wanted. The sleeve, too.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, you work at one of the hospitals around here?” he said, eyeing her uniform.

“Private clinic. Thanks again.”

She left quickly and didn’t waste time getting into the ambulance. Back behind the wheel, she hit the locks on the doors, started the engine, and turned the heater on immediately, because the air coming out was still warm.

The latte was really good. Superhot. Tasted perfect.

She got her phone again and went into the received-calls log and fired up Rehvenge’s number.

She took a deep breath and a long pull on the latte.

And hit send.

Destiny had a 518 area code. Who knew.





TWENTY




Lash parked the Mercedes 550 under one of Caldwell’s bridges, the black sedan indistinguishable from the shadows thrown by the mammoth concrete supports. The digital clock on the dash told him that showtime was getting close.

Assuming there had been no fuckups.

As he waited, he thought about the meeting with the head of the symphaths. In retrospect, he really didn’t like the way the guy made him feel. He fucked chicks. Period. No guys. Ever.

That kind of shit was for cock jockeys like John and his weak-ass crew.

Switching tracks in his mind, Lash smiled in the darkness, thinking he couldn’t wait to reintroduce himself to those motherfuckers. In the beginning, right after he’d been brought back by his real father, he’d wanted to rush it. After all, John and his boys no doubt still hung out at ZeroSum, so finding them wouldn’t be a problem. But timing was everything. Lash was still figuring shit out with this new life of his, and he wanted to be solid when he crushed John and killed Blay in front of Qhuinn, then slaughtered the fucker who’d murdered him.

Timing mattered.

As if on cue, two cars pulled up between some pylons. The Ford Escort was the Lessening Society’s, and the silver Lexus was Grady’s wholesaler’s car.

Sweet rims on the LS 600h. Very sweet.

Grady was the first to get out of the Escort, and when Mr. D and the other two lessers followed, it was like watching the evac of a clown car, given the amount of meat that had been stuffed inside.

As they approached the Lexus, two men wearing slick winter coats got out of the 600h. In sync, the human males both put their right hands into their jackets, and all Lash could think of was, Better guns than badges coming out of those breast pockets. If Grady had fucked up and those were undercover cops pulling a modern day Crockett and Tubbs, things were going to get complicated.

But no…no CPD shields, just some conversation on the part of the coats, no doubt along the lines of, Who the fuck are those three ass-wipes you brought with you to a private business transaction?

Grady looked back at Mr. D with out-of-his-league panic, and the little Texan took the reins, stepping forward with an aluminum briefcase. After he put the case on the trunk of the Lexus, he popped it open to reveal what appeared to be stacks of hundred-dollar bills. In reality, they were just bundles of ones with a single Benji on the top of each stack. The coats looked down-

Pop. Pop.