But the breeze that floated over smelled like a morgue with no central AC.
And also of . . . Old Spice?
John straightened, his heart going all hi-how're-ya. His first thought was to lunge out and tackle the bastard, but Qhuinn caught him with an arm bar.
"Wait for it," the guy said. "Better to find out the whys."
John knew his buddy was right, so he pulled the parking brake on his body and got busy memorizing the license plate on the chromed-out LS 600h.
The sedan's other doors opened and three guys got out. They were not as pale as really old lessers got, but they were a fair shade of white boy, for sure, and they stank to high heaven.
Man, that baby-powder shit was straight-up nasty in the nose.
With one slayer staying behind to watch the ride, the other two fell into formation with the little cowboy in front. As they walked onto the concrete, all the eyes in the park went to them.
The kid by the middle ramp straightened and put his lighter in his pocket.
"Shit, I wish we had my fucking ride," Qhuinn whispered.
True enough. Unless there was a skyscraper nearby where they could get a roof's-eye view, there would be no way of tracking the Lexus.
The dealer didn't move as he was approached and didn't seem surprised by the visit, so chances were this was an arranged meeting. And what do you know, after some conversating, the slayers surrounded the guy and the bunch walked back over to the sedan.
All but one lesser got in the car.
Decision time. Did they bust into a vehicle, hot-wire it, and take off in pursuit? Did they materialize onto the hood of the fucking Lexus and throw down? Trouble was, both of those solutions ran the risk of a serious disturbance of the peace--and there was only so much mental cleanup they could do on a group of twenty humans.
"I think one's staying behind," Qhuinn murmured.
Yup. Flyboy was getting left in the lot as the Lexus K-turned and started to head out.
Letting the car go was the hardest thing John had ever done. But the reality was, that bunch of bastards had just picked up one of the prime dealers of the territory--so they were going to be back. And they'd left a lesser behind.
So there were things to keep him and his boys busy.
John watched the slayer walk into the park. Unlike the guy he was taking the place of, he was a roamer, pacing off the perimeter, meeting all of the eyes that were on him. He clearly made the skaters anxious and a couple of them who'd made buys the night before left. But not everyone was wary . . . or sober enough to be concerned.
As a soft ticking sound rose up, John looked down at himself. His foot was tapping in the dirt, going up and down as fast as a rabbit's.
But he wasn't going to blow it. He waited behind the shed . . . and waited . . . and waited.
It took the fucker nearly an hour to wander his nasty ass around, but when he was finally in range, all that foot tapping was so worth it.
With a quick shot of mental will, John canned the closest street lantern to give them a little privacy. And as the bastard looked up, John stepped out from behind the shed.
The lesser's head snapped around and clearly he recognized that the war had just come and knocked on his door: The sonofabitch smiled and put his hand into his jacket.
John was not concerned that he was going to flash heat. The one rule of engagement was that there was no going at it in front of human bystand--
An autoloader appeared and went off in a quick one-two punch, the discharged shot sounding out with a pop that carried loud as a curse through the park.
John dived for cover, a whole lot of what-the-fuck giving him wings. And then more bullets went flying, the lead ricocheting off concrete as humans screamed and scrambled.
Behind the shed, he slammed his back against the wood and pulled his own piece. As Blay and Qhuinn slid into home, there was a split second of who's-bleeding? that coincided with a pause in the bullet shower.
What the fuck is he thinking? Qhuinn signed. Public much?
Heavy footsteps approached and there was the clicking sound of a sleeve of ammo being changed. John glanced at the shed door. The Master Lock on a chain was a godsend, and he reached up with his palm, mentally unlocking the thing and slipping it free of its links so that it hung loose.
Go around the next corner, John told his boys. And make like you're wounded.
Oh, hell, no--
John swung his gun muzzle into Qhuinn's face.
As the guy recoiled, John just stared right into his buddy's blue and green eyes. This was going down John's way: He was going to be the one to do business with the slayer. End of discussion.
Fuck. You, Qhuinn mouthed before he and Blay dematerialized.
With a loud groan, John let himself fall hard to the side, his body hitting the ground like a massive bag of concrete. Sprawling out on his stomach, he kept his SIG under his chest with the safety still off.