I, Jequon: Part One of the Nephilim Chronicles Read online

  No way.

  I retrieve a fork from the discarded room service tray and break off three of the four curved tines. Straighten the remaining tine with respect to the handle so it looks like a prison yard shank. Using my molars as a vice, I bite down near the tip of the pointy end and bend the last sixteenth of an inch to form a right angle. Now I have a crude torque wrench. One-half the toolset needed to pick a lock. The wire-thin, flexible frame of my aviators will serve as the second half. I break off the left earpiece at the hinge and remove the plastic cover from the curved end. A couple more tweaks, and I’m good to go.

  This isn’t a completely silent operation like in the movies, but it beats knocking. I’ll just have to go slow and hope no one has their ear up to the door. For most locks, the tumblers are on top of the barrel. Raking them up out of the way and into their chambers isn’t much different than gesturing come-hither on a lover’s G-spot. By dexterity, or experience, I can’t say, but the process goes smoothly. Very slowly, I rotate the slack out of the knob. The moment of truth.

  I throw the door wide open and dive into the room headfirst, tucking and rolling into a somersault so the door clears my feet as it slams shut behind me on the rebound. I come to rest in a low crouch. Ready to spring, to strike, to roll under the bed.

  I check the closet. Clear. The bathroom. Clear. Balcony? Empty. Nobody’s in here. All the things we worry about that never happen.

  The last time I visited San Diego, I made good use of this room. The interior’s been upgraded since then. The bedspread used to be a more practical red. Now it’s an aqua-hued floral pattern. But other than a few decorative touches, it’s how I remember it. A king bed. An easy chair. A media center made to look like a wardrobe. I suppose I should make use of the writing desk before Mercy gets impatient.

  Realistically though, it could be weeks before a Naphil or Veingel checks into the Del. We have almost a thousand safe houses around the world. The only way a written warning will do any good is if the SOJ don’t set up shop in the hotel before the next Naphil checks in. Bottom line, I’m an idiot. The only shot I had at warning anyone, is if they’d checked in already. And in that case, the SOJ would have most likely beaten me to the punch.

  At least I don’t need to keep looking like an idiot. No sentries, so no need to keep wearing this disguise. The wig is my first casualty. I throw it along with everything else but the track suit into a plastic laundry bag I find in the closet. Tie it off and set it against the door so I don’t forget it on my way out.

  Leaving a note—just in case—is arguably better than doing nothing. But dammit, I wish there was something more I could do. In the face of genocide, I’m writing a letter. Fucking pen to a gunfight.

  At any rate, Mercy’s probably getting anxious for me to wrap this up. If turning on my cell phone were at all prudent, and if I hadn’t tossed hers off the bridge, I’d call her and tell her to park. I haven’t slept much since the tranquilizer-induced coma on Air France and the mattresses here are first-rate. Maybe she’d like to cuddle. Another time, perhaps. I take a seat at the desk and compose my warning on a sheet of hotel stationary. Stash it in the room service wine list facing the impressive selection of Napa Valley cabs.

  As I stand to leave, I hear footsteps in the hallway. Heavy steps. Confident sober strides. Either a sumo wrestler or three men walking in lockstep. Getting closer.

  I backpedal to the door leading out to the balcony, never taking my eyes off the front door, reach behind my back and turn the deadbolt, crack it open the first crucial inch in case I need to leave in a hurry.

  The footsteps in the hallway are very close now. They stop.

  Knock-knock-knockety-knock-knock.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Mercy wasn’t scared of heights, of course. But she could tell that her bounty hunter cover had made Patrick a little nervous. She decided to play up the Acrophobia angle to appear less threatening. Unlocking Big-Man-Protecting-Little-Woman mode was a tried and true approach for getting a guy to lower his guard. And as soon as he pulled over to let her drive she knew the ruse had worked. That said, maintaining her cover demanded a delicate balance. Too much false fragility and he’d see right through it. It’s why she told him she was a bounty hunter, instead of pretending to be a secretary or a psychotherapist. You didn’t sport an ass like hers by sitting on it all day.

  Mercy drew in a deep breath. Let it out. He’d instructed her to turn around at the second stoplight, but she ignored this and went one more block further down Orange Avenue before turning into the parking lot of a seafood joint. She’d loop back to the hotel after she checked in with her handlers. She reached inside her purse as she had on the bridge, but this time, she reached into a different compartment. A compartment she had to unzip first; a compartment that required a bit more digging before she could remove the lone object it contained: An iPhone indistinguishable from the decoy the target threw into the bay.

  You didn’t risk an ass like hers without solid planning and preparation.

  Her handlers were a lot of things she could do without. But stupid? Not so much. They warned her the target would be nervous about her phone because they’d been taunting him with texted updates of their kills. And because his phone’s signal had gone dark while he sat on the runway in New York, they knew—he knew—they were attempting to track his location via the signal. He’d even been savvy enough to remove the battery.

  Mercy turned on her real phone, waited for it to boot, and pressed down the Home button until she heard the chime.

  “Siri, call Piece-O’-Shit on his cell phone.”

  Siri complied. “Calling Piece-O’-Shit’s mobile phone.”

  One of the handler’s picked up on the second ring. She couldn’t tell if it was the misogynistic prick she’d talked to before, because they were using some kind of voice distortion hardware on their end.

  “Yes?”

  “He’s inside as of five minutes ago. He wants me to circle back around until he comes out, but…”

  “Do as he instructed. He might be testing you. He probably won’t be returning, but just in case he decides to bail before our men are in place, you need to be ready to continue with the mission. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  Mercy ended the call and returned the phone to her purse. She watched as two ravens sized up a seagull in the empty space beside her, working out how they would outsmart the much larger bird and make off with its bounty of spilled french fries. She didn’t need to stick around to know the outcome. She backed out, turned the Mustang around, and cruised back onto Orange Avenue for another loop in front of the Hotel Del.

  Everything had gone smoothly thus far. If the hit went down as planned, then she wouldn’t even need her more specialized training. This should have brought her a sense of relief, given that Cynthia’s freedom was contingent upon a successful mission. But Mercy felt something else entirely. An unfamiliar mix of dread with an emotion that wasn’t longing, exactly, but definitely a relative. She’d need a little time to process it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Room service.”

  As in service weapon barrel-to-glass on the peephole.

  Add never underestimate the enemy to the list of sound advice I’ve ignored lately.

  Still facing the hall door, I inch the balcony door further open, aiming for total silence. Unfortunately the hinges could use some oil. They screech exactly like door hinges inevitably do when a little stealth might save your ass or your marriage. About as subtle as the explosion of wood splinters ushering in the bellhops clad in red polyester, packing suppressed pistols.

  Thanks, Dad, for my blinding speed. I’m hurdling the balcony rail. The guy on point must’ve tripped over my guido-bag just as he squeezed the trigger. His first three shots miss their mark.

  I land hard on the red shingled roof, so steep it makes all comparisons to vertical academic. My feet shoot out from underneath me as two more bullets pfft past overhead. I slide to
ward the gutters, fast enough to melt a hole in the nylon of my ADIDAS pants. Yes All Day, I Dream About surviving three-story falls. Just before I run out of roof, which might as well be on fire as far as my sand-papered ass is concerned, I pull my knees into my chest for leverage and spring into the air Superman-style toward a palm tree, avoiding three more lead slugs, which tap-dance harmlessly in my wake.

  I slam into the tree trunk with all the grace of a one-eyed flying squirrel with no depth perception. Maneuver to the opposite side to put wood between me and the shooters. Eventually these assholes might get lucky.

  Note to self. Wear a cup next time you decide to play shoots-n-ladders with a Royal Palm.

  Half way down now. A bullet grazes my forearm. Better than a repeat of the Sarajevo shot, but still too close.

  Fuck it. Sliding down poles is for strippers. I back-flip away from the tree, bust a half-twist mid-flight because I’m cool like that, and hit the ground running.

  I round the corner of the hotel’s recently completed day spa just as Mercy pulls into the driveway for another pass. I remind myself that not even Usain Bolt runs this fast, and I slow to a jog. She waves excitedly, like she’s happy to see me, and I signal for her to pull a U-ey as I trot the rest of the way to the Mustang. Hopefully she didn’t see the inhuman blur of pumping arms and piston-like strides before I caught myself and put on the brakes. I’ve blown my cover if she did.

  “Go! Go! Go! U-turn it!”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Later. Just drive.”

  She stomps on the gas pedal and ratchets the wheel all the way to the left. Perfect doughnut, like she’s raced in NASCAR.

  “Nice.”

  “Thanks. Which way?”

  “Left.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  She’s worried about the bridge. I’m worried about the guys wearing suits and shades and slicked-back hair, streaming from the front entrance, some running our way, others to their cars.

  “Now’s not the time to fret over traffic signals or stop signs.”

  Eight fuel-injected cylinders growling in beautiful haul-ass harmony tells me Mercy can take a hint. Unfortunately, Orange Avenue’s dinner-date traffic pulls the reigns on all three-hundred of the Mustang’s horses. We’re stuck dead last in a long line at the first light we come to.

  “Shit!”

  “I’m sorry! There’s nowhere to go!”

  “I know—it’s not your fault.”

  In the rearview, three vanilla Chryslers with red flashers on the dash fishtail out of the Del’s driveway. They’re not civilian vehicles, which is strange for more reasons than I have time to dwell on at the moment.

  “We should have tried the Strand.”

  She’s referring to the traffic. The Strand is a narrow eight-mile strip of land with superior beaches and not much else. The Navy owns most of it. In fact, it’s where aspiring SEALs go through BUDs and survive Hell Week if they’re to continue their career in the Special Forces. And since Orange Avenue turns into Highway 75, running south along the Strand all the way to the Imperial Beach, it’s also a way off of Coronado that doesn’t involve tall bridges, ferry rides, or standstill traffic headed for downtown.

  Even so, it’s not an option. Too obvious. Too isolated. If the enemy wants to take me out, I’m going to force them to create a spectacle. In plain sight of a major Southern California city, with a treasured landmark as my stage. It might be enough to give them pause. To force them to call off the chase and wait for a more discrete opportunity.

  “Out.”

  “What?”

  “Get. Out.”

  Splitting lanes at the front of the line, a guy with a braided beard and more embroidered patches than actual denim on his denim vest straddles a Harley Electra Glide. I take Mercy’s hand and hustle us up to our new ride before the light changes.

  “Hey! Big guy! On the bike!”

  Of course he can’t hear me over they Harley’s brain liquefying exhaust, but we beat the green and I tap him on the shoulder to snag his attention.

  “Yeah?”

  “Sorry to bother you, but you see those suits with guns running toward us?”

  He glances over his shoulder in the direction I’m pointing. “Yeah?”

  “Well, if they catch up, they’re going to shoot us. Me, I probably deserve it, but letting this little angel die in the crossfire would be tragic.”

  “Bet your ass it would. Hop on, sweet mama.”

  I was afraid of that.

  And poor Mercy, she’s rubbernecking back and forth between us like it’s Sophie’s-fucking-choice.

  “Thanks, but I was hoping you might loan me your ride. I’ll make it worth you while, believe me. How’s three-hundred for the privilege, cash, delivered to your door via courier within a week’s time?”

  “Yeah, man. Of course. I was just fuckin’ with ya. You definitely need it more than I do right now. Just slug me in the gut so it looks like you’re stealing it.”

  I plant a firm left hook under his ribs, but not hard enough to do any real damage. He doubles over convincingly enough and slides off the bike like he needs to puke. I take his place. Mercy climbs up behind me on the saddle.

  “I owe you. What’s your name friend?”

  He’s still bent over, hands on his knees like I knocked the wind out of him.

  “Friends call me Deany Hopper. I live in OB, 5150 Voltaire Street. My shit’s way insured, but I gotta report it stolen case you dump it, dig?”

  “Got it. I’ll be in touch. Hold on, Mercy.”

  There’s no hesitation. Just the warm union of her cheek against my shoulder. The form-fit of her breasts pressed into my back, arms encircling my waist, holding on for dear—infinitely more tenuous—life.

  With the traffic and narrow streets no longer a problem, we put some serious distance between us and the bad guys. In a matter of minutes we’re clear of Coronado’s residential areas and approaching the bridge, doing ninety. I have no idea how far back our pursuers are, but with two miles of arcing blue steel and concrete between us and the relative safety of downtown, I’m game to widen the gap by at least half that. It’s no crotch-rocket, but one-twenty shouldn’t be a problem for the Harley.

  We accelerate past the decommissioned toll plaza like demonic doves cast out of heaven. Speed limit fifty. Doubling that easy. We dodge, we weave, we split lanes. Centrifugal force molds the tires into narrow discs of rubber that barely make contact with the asphalt; it feels like we’re soaring above the bay. A feeling too good to last.

  We reach the midpoint of the bridge and a bad day is about to get worse. They’ve set up a roadblock; outrun by radio.

  I lock my arms straight into the handlebars and brace for rapid deceleration.

  “Hang on tight!”

  I brake hard, front and rear, just shy of a skid.

  “What’s wrong?”

  With her face buried between my shoulder-blades Mercy can’t see the three black sedans lined up at a right-angle to the guardrail and the center divide. Nor the Mister-Smith-from-Matrix-looking-motherfuckers standing in front of the barricade with guns drawn. Once we come to a full stop, she finally looks up.

  “Oh.”

  “Stay low and try not to get run over.”

  She does what I say, but I can tell she’s not happy about it. She hates heights. I motor the Harley a guess-timated distance toward the roadblock and then slide sideways to a stop in the slow lane. There was a big rig we passed right after the toll plaza and it should be topping the hill any time now. With any luck, I’ve given the driver enough space to come to a stop.

  I motion for Mercy to join me, but she stays put against the center divider where I left her. There’s no pedestrian traffic allowed on the bridge, so of course the lookey-loo’s are slowing down to stare at her, pulling out their cell phones to 911 another jumper, or to Tweet a photo of one. Her phobia must have her paralyzed with fear, but I can’t go and walk her by the hand, or it’ll
mess up the timing with the big rig driver. Finally, Mercy shuffles a step in my direction just as the semi rumbles into view. Two more steps now. And before I can say road kill, she’s running down the slope at me, picking up speed as the driver of the Volvo Diesel locks ‘em up, downshifts, and no doubt swears profusely at the asshole blocking the road in front of his multi-ton delivery. Mercy’s running at an all-out sprint now. The tractor trailer is threatening to jackknife. If the trucker hasn’t already crapped himself, he’ll be shitting diamonds at the next rest stop.

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  And now the trucker gets out to add his two cents to Mercy’s. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  I think, nothing in God’s name, for damn sure. I tell him sorry for the close call. I point out the roadblock at the east end of the bridge.

  He swaggers toward me, brandishing one of those wooden mini-bats they sell in truck stops. This one has Fuck Carjackers engraved into the business end.

  “You’d have had to stop, anyway. Relax. Enjoy the view. And put down the stick.”

  The trucker keeps coming. Adjusts his grip a little lower on the bat handle.

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  And I really didn’t, until he clocks me right under the ear with his redneck stun gun. Lucky me, the mouth-full-of-Doritos sound is the bat shattering and not my skull.

  “Ouch.”

  A little foreshadowing for the left-hook I land on the point of his chin. Nap time.

  Mercy’s flabbergasted.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Nothing an aspirin won’t fix.”

  “But he just broke a bat across your face—are you sure?”

  I turn my head so she can see I’m no worse for wear, glad to distract her for a moment from the dizzying two-hundred-foot drop.

  “Wow. A red mark. That’s it. You should be concussed after a blow like that.”

  “Lucky, I guess. Come on. Stay close.”

  At the end of the semi-trailer, I loosen the rigging which secures the rearmost of five spools of steel cable. I hop up next to it on the flatbed and shove as hard as I can until it starts to tip up on edge toward the middle lane. Fortunately, all the cars behind us decided to park and watch some crazy dude hijack a trucker, because if one of these spools were to fall on a passing motorist, it’s goodnight and good luck. They’re each about the size of an SUV.