Raw Deal

1. Taking Care Of Business

1Taking Care Of BusinessThe dog yapped up a storm trying to gain the attention of passing strangers. Soren Huxford looked again through the sights of the rifle. It was a handbag dog. A tiny white fur ball with a pink tongue and scrappy hair tied up over its paper-thin skull with a purple bow. Trapped in the car, it raced between the seats and desperately licked at the little fresh air that floated through the sliver of an open window. With the temperature off the charts, it wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer.

Soren growled lightly in the back of his throat and caressed the trigger of his gun: he would be doing it a favor.

A sudden movement pulled his attention back to the car parked in front of the overheated mutt.

Although under cover, the sun was just at the right angle to bounce off his target’s bald head as he leaned forward and peered into the side mirror to check his teeth. He’d been eating a burrito packed with sloppy meat, chopped lettuce, and a nice thick layer of bright orange cheese. Soren’s mouth had watered for the food, his usual lean breakfast had been hours ago.

Balancing Oakleys above his eyebrows, the target continued to pick at his teeth in an effort to dig out the trapped green leaf without the distraction of a dark tint. The teeth were ebony black and sharpened to points, studded with little jagged diamond shards that flashed in the burning sun. A bone cruncher. A rich one—no one could afford that tooth job without great dental.

Despite the easy shot, Soren waited. If he fired now, Bald Guy would end up slumped out the window, blood spraying the perfectly white paintwork of his bog-standard Ford sedan. Too messy. He wanted a clean job. Besides, the car was a rental. Why should a low-paid high school kid have to clean up blood and brain? Not fair. He’d wait longer.

Still motionless, lying flat on his stomach, Soren eased out a breath. It tickled the feather, which had landed on his stretched out forearm thirty minutes ago, making it shimmy a fraction then settle again. It was down, a fluff feather used to keep the bird warm not to help it fly. The magpie, the most probable owner, watched him from the stainless steel railing of the balcony. It was eyeing Soren’s wristwatch with a beady look he sporadically returned. Was it figuring out the time, or just attracted by the slight reflection on the opaque black surface? Most probably the former. Birds weren’t stupid.

The apartment block was unusual for Las Vegas, only two stories high but right in the middle of town. It sheltered behind one of the huge flashy hotel complexes right on the Strip. It was a holiday let, cheaper than the others because of the mall car park he was staring into. No view of a swimming pool or fountains moving in time to the Star Wars theme tune, just concrete, and row upon row of bland rental vehicles with the occasional celebrity d**k-mobile thrown in for good measure. He guessed the rich and famous occasionally needed mall stuff too. Or else wanted their egos stroked for being seen out among Regular Joes.

For a man who lived an invisible life, Soren didn’t understand the need for fame nor did he want to try to figure it out. Unless they were targets, he wouldn’t be able to tell Miley Cyrus from Kim Kardashian. Of course, if they had been his targets, he’d know everything about them, down to the number of times they visited the bathroom in the course of a day, or how many glasses of designer water they drank in an hour.

Bald Guy had settled back in his seat, slurping a Coke direct from the can—his fourth that day. The opportunity for the shot had passed.

Soren blinked and flexed his fingers. He’d wait all day if he had to.

Demons were ten-a-penny in Vegas. Some had always been here, others had come to escape the Risings elsewhere. It was a place where they could make some fast cash in industries designed for the purpose: gambling, s*x shops, gun sales. Everything in plain sight, the way Vegas had always done it.

As a whole, the western cities weren’t doing too badly. Seattle and Portland had fallen, and further south, San Francisco. LA was holding its own for now. The demons there were like those here, already well ensconced in the city. They’d always made a good living and food was plentiful. So, why rock the boat?

The biggest surprise so far had been Texas with every city gone. He’d thought they would have held out longer, but it was as if the decision-makers had just handed over the keys. Done and dusted in a month.

Not like Detroit, the first city to fall. That was five long and painful years from the arrival of the first demon to the destruction of the last human. He’d been there. Experienced it firsthand.

Soren grunted, and as though in response, the magpie hopped along the railing toward him, its head c****d, eyes staring. When its persistence forced brief eye-contact with the gunman, it shook its wings to release a second feather. This one was for flight, a beautiful midnight blue. It floated straight down past the sights of the rifle through which Soren had focused once more. He grunted again: still no wind to factor.

Bald Guy was on his phone, getting pretty animated, too. Lots of hand-waving and shoulder-shrugs. His car was side-on to Soren’s view, right by the walkway. People were passing by the demon all the time, always it seemed with some kid dragged by the hand behind a parent or pushed in front in a buggy, everyone laden with bags and balloons. Holiday towns! It was another reason not to shoot yet; he didn’t want to be responsible for some poor kid’s PTSD.

The walkway emptied at the same time as Bald Guy put down his phone and stared out of the side window. It was a perfect shot.

Soren got ready. His breath continued to flow gently. These days, he only felt a rush if it had been a long hard slog to get to this point. This job had been textbook: a contract, an easy target, a three-day stakeout, and now, the shot. Job done. Money in hand.

Just taking care of business like always.

This was the third of such contracts in as many weeks, Soren had needed it. He’d needed to get his mind off her and back to normality.

There was never any likelihood that Tazia would fall into his arms, not after what they’d been through in Detroit and Boston. But he’d thought she might at least throw him a small bone. Some sort of kind word, or a promise of a time in the future when they could talk. Just talk. Christ, was that too much to ask for? But turning human hadn’t sat well with her. She was having problems adjusting. And that vicious tongue!

Soren growled again, deeper this time. Long and low. That special sound he kept just for her. She hadn’t given him a chance. But then, did he deserve one?

His explanations about why they’d played Boston the way they did had failed to ignite even a spark of interest in her. They’d used her to get to the angel. Trapped her. Practically forced her into giving up her demon. He was sorry, so f*****g sorry, but heartfelt apologies had fallen on deaf ears.

Finally, he’d offered to go wherever she wanted. He would just run alongside, keep her safe. No strings. But she wouldn’t even give him that. He should have known she wouldn’t let him, she could take care of herself. Still, in his view, her last words before she left to go walkabout were unnecessary: I’ll cut your f*****g heart out if you follow me.

Soren breathed out slightly more heavily, with conscious effort this time.

Box it up, soldier!

Still, he struggled. She stalked his thoughts, sometimes dancing on the periphery, smiling and teasing him. At other times, she came clearly into view, glaring, and flipping that damn knife from hand to hand.

He didn’t know this new Tazia. Human now, was she as capable a killer as the vampire she’d once been? She hadn’t even wanted Billy with her. That was a little satisfying, the fact she seemed to blame Billy as much as him, but only a little. Billy was the good guy in all this. He was flying with the angels, making plans to save the world, and would probably lead the charge against the demons when the time was right.

He’d told Soren to relax. This was the teen strop Tazia had never been allowed to have in one hundred and fifty years: Give her a break, bruv. Let her go twist her knickers for a while.

Well, she’d been twisting them for six weeks, and the waiting was killing him—

Box it up!

The shot was still perfect. Soren did the final checks and prepared to squeeze the trigger.

For now, he worked. He took the contracts and killed the targets in this sweatbox of a city that both intrigued and repelled him. It was as good a place as any to wait for Heaven to make its plans, and to tell him what his role would be in the coming battle.

And, for his own angel to return.

The musical fountain surged to its crescendo. He braced, and fired.

The loud crack shocked the magpie up into the air, but it soon settled again a couple of feet away. They don’t give up ground that easily, little bastards. In the parking garage, no one seemed to notice.

For Bald Guy it was over in an instant. He fell back in his seat, head hitting the neck rest and bouncing slightly before becoming still. He blinked once then his eyes stuck open, wide and staring, his head tilted to the side. A dark blue trickle of blood flowed from the small wound between his eyes and followed gravity over the bridge of his nose and across the top of his cheek. One drop fell from him into the darkness of the car then stopped. Coagulation was quick for this sort of demon.

Soren nodded, clean enough.

The dog whined from the car behind, a pathetic whimper that drifted over the road and onto the balcony. It was a last desperate plea for help before it was cooked in the heated recesses of the vehicle. Still lying in the same position, Soren shot again, this time at the SUV where the dog sheltered. The front windscreen exploded.

Without checking on the result, he broke up the rifle and put the pieces back into its padded carrier. He took a few quick photographs through the spotting-scope then packed that away too. As he stood up, he replaced his sunglasses, and briefly bared his teeth at the magpie who squawked in mild alarm, then turned its back.

Soren casually walked through the living room leaving the balcony doors wide open. Behind him, he heard the dog yapping loudly as it breathed cooler air at last. He smiled. No doubt it would soon be in the arms of a puppy-loving Good Samaritan.

As he left the apartment, he gave a satisfied grunt: it was time to collect his p*****t.