18.
Caitlin and I stood on the rooftop alone. Both of us panting for breath, battered but still standing. The flames of her whip died out, a few last sparks fluttering free and going cold, and she coiled the supple leather around her forearm before hooking it back onto her belt. She looked my way, paused, and wrinkled her nose.
“You’re, ah—”
“Covered in rotten garbage.” I glanced down at my soiled clothes. “Yeah. This was a really nice outfit, too.”
“It might be salvageable.”
I shook my head. “I like my dry cleaner too much to do that to him.”
Down below, the last few gunshots died out. The air filled with raucous voices and the rev of wide-bodied choppers. We might not have gotten our hands on Fleiss, but we’d still won the night. I only hoped my words had planted a few seeds under her skin. Maybe they would bear fruit later on. All the same, I knew better than to count on it. Life had taught me that when you show somebody proof that they’ve been conned, nine times out of ten they just dig their heels in harder.
“I would hug you, but—”
“Right,” I said. “I’m gross. I wouldn’t hug me either. Rain check?”
“Absolutely.”
“Don’t suppose you came across a creepy little guy on your way up here? Sixty-something, balding, wears an expensive suit that doesn’t fit him?”
“Didn’t have the pleasure,” she said. “The creator of the welcoming party downstairs, I take it?”
I nodded, moving fast for the stairwell door, and she fell in at my side.
“Elmer Donaghy,” I said. “Also, would-be emissary of the King of Worms. Once I catch him, he’s going to be my special friend.”
* * *
Elmer was either playing the best game of hide-and-seek ever or he’d seen which way the wind was blowing. He couldn’t be found, but we were tearing the place apart just to be safe.
“Grab those computers,” Jennifer shouted, sending soldiers in brown bandannas scattering in every direction. “Collect notebooks, tablets, anything that might have anything on it. This is the first Network front we’ve cracked, so we’re snatchin’ anything that ain’t nailed down.”
“How are we doing on time?” I asked her.
“Not great. These boys didn’t call the cops when the shooting started—for obvious reasons—but a good citizen called in a noise complaint. We got fifteen minutes, tops.”
“Hey,” one of Winslow’s bikers called out. He kicked a corpse, its blue overalls peppered with bullet holes, and pointed. “What should we do with these ugly fuckers?”
I took a closer look. The man’s mouth hung open, a dead roach lolling out between his blood-flecked teeth. I crouched low and studied the seam where it had been grafted onto the stump of his tongue. Elmer was nothing if not inventive.
“Burn it,” I said. “Can’t have civilians seeing this shit. Burn them all. On that note, anybody bring some extra Molotovs?”
Winslow swaggered over, shirtless under his leather vest, toting a canvas messenger bag over one shoulder. The bag rattled as he walked.
“How many you need?” he asked.
“Three ought to do it. Follow me.”
The first breeding pit went up in a satisfying whump of flame. The roaches screamed. Their bleats filled the smoky air like a herd of dying sheep. I flicked a lighter and held the flame to a second rag-stuffed bottle.
“Hey, Jen,” Winslow said. “Next time you wanna rally me and the boys for a midnight run?”
“Yeah, sugar?”
“Don’t.”
I threw the second bottle in. Burning moonshine smashed across rotting garbage and set the next pit alight.
“Good news is,” I said, “according to Dr. Frankenstein himself, they’re having trouble making more of these particular monsters. With their breeding pits gone and their stock reduced to charcoal, we won’t have to worry about any bug infestations for a while.”
In theory, anyway. I knew better than to hope that we’d killed off the last of the roaches. Just like I knew that if Elmer ran when the shooting started, he didn’t run far. The King of Worms had dangled the perfect prize in front of the necromancer’s greedy, moon-shaped eyes, and to get it, all he had to do was put me in the ground.
Glass shattered, burning alcohol spattered against concrete, and the final pit went up in flames. Fire licked the open air, hot enough to make me sweat through my filth-encrusted clothes, and the acrid black smoke drove us from the room. We shut the sheet-metal door, leaving the chamber to cook.
The rest of this mission was a smash-and-grab. Anybody not running out to the vans with armloads of stolen records and hard drives, anything that might hold a stray clue, was on arson detail. By the time the first police lights swam into view in the distance, red and blue strobes cutting the darkness, Donaghy Waste Management was burning. Flames blew out windows and spat plumes of smoke into the cloudless sky.
I didn’t ask Caitlin if she could give me a ride. I knew she would, but I also knew how she felt about keeping her car seats pristine. Instead, I crammed into one of the loot-stuffed Calles vans with Jennifer. Shooters piled in, high-fiving each other, celebrating their victory. A few of them gave me weird looks and wrinkled noses.
“You are a little ripe, hon,” Jennifer told me.
I sighed. That was an understatement. At least I was alive, intact, and I didn’t have any alien parasites making themselves at home in my intestinal tract. I counted that as a solid win.
“Yeah, just drop me off at Della’s, and I’ll remove my odor from your presence. First order of business is taking these clothes and burning them.”
“And after that?”
“After that…”
Good question. I’d survived the night and escaped Elmer Donaghy’s trap, but he was still out there. So was Fleiss, and now that the Network had joined forces with the Enemy—against the odds, given that one of them wanted to rule the multiverse and one wanted to burn it all down—the danger had effectively multiplied.
“After that, I’m taking a shower,” I told her. “We’ll see how things go from there.”
* * *
I trudged into my apartment, a remodeled one-bedroom over Della’s Pool Hall on the east side of town, and stripped down on the doormat. My clothes went into an extra-strength garbage bag. So did the doormat, just to be safe. Then, just like I said I would, I hit the shower like an athlete at the end of a long, hard game. The hot water and steam coursed over my aching muscles, pounding the knots out, and I ran my fingers through my slicked-back hair.
For a second I thought I might find a stray roach there, a hidden stowaway. The thought made my skin crawl and I had to pat my entire body down again until the jitters went away, but I was clean. Cleaner by the heartbeat as the water and the soap foam did its work, scrubbing away everything but my sins.
The pulse of the water drove out the sounds outside. It blanketed the world in white static and gave me some time alone with my thoughts. I spent a couple of idle minutes indulging in the One Last Score fantasy. Everybody in the life knows that one. It’s the dream where you pull a single heist, the heist, then hang it up forever. The one where you take a score big enough to float you all the way to the end of the line. It always has a happy ending, sipping frosty mixed drinks on a beach in Mexico or maybe Bora-Bora, dipping your toes in the warm surf.
Everybody has that fantasy. Most of us even have a target in mind, that big fish we could hook if all the planets lined up just right. The thing was, though, I’d known a lot of professional heisters in my day. Some were still working; some landed in a prison cell or ate a bullet. A couple retired and took on semi-legit jobs, hanging out at the edges of the underworld. Those guys, they understood: once you’re in, you can’t ever get all the way out. The life calls to you like a siren song.
Maybe that’s why not a single one of them had ever made that fantasy real. The One Last Score doesn’t exist, not really. And if it did, most of us would find some excuse not to reach for it. Because we don’t want to quit.
I wondered if it was the rush that kept me going. Every day I rubbed shoulders with solid citizens. People who lived in the daylight Vegas, far from the underbelly I called home. They could go their entire lives without someone sticking a gun in their faces, or taking the kind of job that ended with spilled blood and closed caskets. For that matter, they’d never find themselves forced into a death match with a necromancer from another dimension because some alien “king” wanted to see what would happen.
No. It wasn’t the rush. I was never much of an adrenaline junkie—I didn’t even like roller coasters that much—and I’d survived this long as a career criminal by balancing every risk against the potential for reward. That wasn’t it.
So why, then?
Answers eluded me as the shower steam wrapped warm arms around my weary flesh, tempting me with the pleasures of sleep. I wasn’t going to figure anything out tonight. I toweled off, stumbled to my bed, and crawled under a storm-gray comforter, losing myself in an oasis of soft linen.