The Wild Side: Urban Fantasy with an Erotic Edge (29 page)

No. No point in counting on luck. Twenty-two hours.

“What’s the name of Matt’s club?” he said.

“Changes.” she said. “It’s, uh, a sex club. Serves everybody. He runs it, makes the
Chronicle
now and then, keeps it clean and on the level. They say.”

Chan nodded. That was good: He had somewhere to start.

“I’ll catch the first flight I can,” he said.

“Will that be soon enough? We only have”—she choked back a sob—“before . . .”

“I think so,” Chan said, “but that doesn’t matter. It’s all I can do, so we have to assume it will be.” He paused. “Sam’s gone either way. You understand that, right?”

“Yeah,” she said, “I do, but this is what he would have wanted. He always said that.”

“Yes,” Chan said, “he did.” He terminated the call.

He opened a browser on his laptop to search for flights.

“I’m coming,” he said to the still, empty room.

* * *

The American Airlines terminal at Raleigh-Durham International Airport sported the same chrome and wood and glass design of every major airport with a redesign within the last five years. Chan liked it well enough when he bothered to look at it, but mostly he didn’t notice it. He wasn’t on a job, but he might as well have been, so he focused on the people and watched for signs of trouble. He had to assume that Matt would know Barbara would call him, but he had no reason to believe Matt would know where he was. Still, it always paid to be careful.

He needed to be rested when he arrived, so he blew almost two grand on a one-way first-class ticket on the 10:15 via Chicago, then forked over the day fee for the Admiral’s Club. He crammed himself into a corner chair where he could watch the door. No way had they designed these things for people his size; at six four and 240, he rarely found comfortable seats.

Decision time.

He could try it on his own, but that would cost time, maybe a lot of it, to acquire what he’d need to invade a club that he had to assume would be full of them. If he asked for help, though, he’d owe his occasional employer.

Chan hated owing anything to anyone.

He was wasting time. He already knew the answer. He’d promised Sam, so he had to do everything in his power to keep that promise.

He booted his laptop, brought up a clock, sent the message with the number of the mobile he was about to destroy, and waited.

The phone rang two minutes later.

He pressed the connect button but said nothing.

Silence.

After thirty seconds, he said, “I need a package and some data.”

“We have no current contract,” a scrambled voice replied.

Chan waited. They both knew how this would go, so there was no point in playing.

After a few seconds, the voice laughed, a sound more like car fenders screeching on impact than human laughter. “It’ll come out of the next job.”

“Yes.”

“How complete a package?”

Chan glanced at his nearly empty backpack. Between jobs, he never carried more than the pack could hold, and he rarely took that much. Aside from his documentation, the usual travel basics, a few wads of cash, and the slim, waterproof envelope of key papers—one of which was Sam’s—he had nothing he’d need.

“Complete.” He shrugged. The heavy leather jacket slid over him, so worn and smooth it moved liked water. “I have a jacket; that’s it.”

After a pause, the voice said, “Will this come back on us?”

“No. The paperwork is good.”

“Where?”

“San Francisco.”

“The data?”

“All filed paperwork for Sam Flynn, plus background on Matt Gresham.”

The pause was longer this time. “Matt Gresham is involved in this?”

Chan sighed. “Is that a problem?”

The car fenders screeched again. “No, but if you end up canceling him, we might make a little profit on this.”

“It’s only him if he forces it to go that way. It’s not my goal.”

“Then we’ll hope for the worst.”

Chan said nothing. The easiest way to get in trouble with these people was to talk. The less he said, the less likely he was to screw up.

“Intercontinental Hotel. A room will be waiting in your name. It’ll be there.”

After a pause, the voice added, “You know you owe us, right.”

It wasn’t a question.

The call ended.

Chan went into the men’s restroom, closed the door of the rearmost stall, and smashed the phone. He broke the SIM card in half, then flushed those two pieces. Habit. Probably unnecessary now, but not harmful, either.

9:35 a.m.

6:35 there.

Twenty-plus hours.

He headed for the gate.

* * *

On the first plane, Chan bought Internet access with a credit card in an identity so thin it would rip easier than a wet sheet of notepaper.

Barbara was right: nothing about the Changes club was secret. Its web site offered an event listing, membership plans and costs, the disclaimer forms you’d have to sign to enter, customer testimonials, photos of all the rooms—play spaces, it called them—and even a floor plan. Formerly a theater, it sprawled across three levels: balcony, main, and basement. Every floor had at least one room with dirt for burial and rebirth play.

Great. Lots to search.

Matt’s picture graced half a dozen pages that explained how very safe you could be there as you indulged your wildest dreams. Sex club. Kink club. All in private or in public, as you chose. Watch, play, or do both. Regularly inspected and licensed by city and state health authorities. Full bar, alcohol and blood. On-site security and medical staff. Humans and vampires playing together. Open from ten to sunrise.

Its neighbors—strip shows, cheap hotels, two diners open late—gave endorsements that included thin pitches for their own goods and services.

Chan enlarged his search to include articles about the club. News services attacked it in slow times but lost their energy for the fight faster than three-pack-a-day smokers sprinting up Lombard Street. No one had ever found any evidence of anyone being turned there without the proper paperwork. Members and even a couple of former beat cops gave testimonials when it won an online vote for being the safest of the late-night San Francisco clubs. Not a single news story mentioned a fight or an arrest inside it.

All of that information proved only that Matt was smart, which Chan already knew.

He also knew but had no way to prove that Matt had taken Sam. Since before he’d turned, Matt had been evangelical on the benefits and how good it was. He’d want to save Sam—and to have Sam join him.

No, Chan had no doubt that Matt had Sam. The question was, which risk was greater for Matt: leaving the club in the wee hours to go somewhere at the key time, or bringing Sam there.

Matt hated variables he couldn’t control, so he’d prefer Sam be there, but then he’d be taking on other risks: finding a safe burial spot, minimizing the number of people who knew, and making sure no one checking the club found out. Meeting Sam elsewhere might be a simpler answer.

No way to know by staring at the screen.

Chan would have to ask Matt.

When they announced the descent into Chicago, Chan turned off the laptop. He knew all he could about the club without going there.

* * *

Chan dozed the second leg and left it feeling as rested as he reasonably could given that even the first-class seats weren’t a good fit for him. He’d normally invest the first few days in a new place making sure no one was tracking him, but he didn’t have the time. The plane landed slightly late, so he didn’t make it to the cab line until 4:45, which put him smack in the middle of the worst of the rush-hour traffic.

He walked into the gleaming glass tower of the Intercontinental a few minutes before six.

Eight hours to go, give or take.

He fought the urge to rush everyone he encountered. It wouldn’t help, and it could attract attention to him or even slow him.

At the check-in desk, he gave his name and asked if they’d bring the package from his room so he could keep waiting for his friends in the lobby.

Their smiles never wavered. An earthquake wouldn’t change their expressions; it was that kind of hotel.

He tipped the bellman a twenty and grabbed the heavy, locked duffel bag from the guy’s two hands with one of his. He headed for the bar and kept on going past it, through the restaurant and out the side door. The short time meant he had to ask for the package, but he didn’t have to trust his occasional employer to give him a room. He could expect them to be watching him, because if they thought they might be able to make money off him, they’d try to steer events their way. With no definite engagement on the line, however, the surveillance team wouldn’t be large.

Chan quick-walked to the corner, turned, and cut through the parking garage. On the other side, he caught the light, crossed the street, entered the multistory mall, and crammed himself into an elevator with a mother with two little boys, one on each arm.

They stared at him.

He ignored them.

When the doors opened on the top floor, the mother rushed them out of the elevator.

He rode it back down one level, stepped out, and followed signs to a luggage store. They’d have a tracker in the bag to help the follow team. It’s what he would have done. With a small team, they’d use it to know when he left the mall. They might also have observers on the exits, but they wouldn’t risk following him in a five-story structure: too much turf to cover. He bought a huge, red, rolling suitcase composed of some polycarbonate material so light it weighed less than his reinforced jacket. It cost all the cash in his wallet, but he had ten grand more in the backpack.

At a big-and-tall store a floor further down, he picked up a tweed sport coat that billowed around his waist but fit his shoulders and was tight but tolerable on his arms.

He snagged a Giants cap and XXXL T-shirt from a templelike shop dedicated to the team.

An electronics store sold him a prepaid mobile phone.

He bought clear spectacles at an eyewear kiosk.

In a public restroom he went to the handicap stall. The duffel’s locks were keyed to his last payment account, as usual. He transferred the contents of the bag one at a time into the suitcase, checking each one carefully for tracking chips. The short sword’s handle might hide one, but his experience was that inserting a chip there was more trouble than it was worth, so he didn’t worry about it. Ditto for the dozen purpleheart wood stakes. He tossed out the bands on the five stacks of twenty hundreds. The bills would be traceable, of course, but not as quickly as Chan would finish here.

He added his backpack, shirt, and leather jacket to the big suitcase. He closed the suitcase and folded the duffel. He tore the tags off his new clothing and donned the T-shirt and sport coat. He tied his hair in a ponytail and tucked it under the cap. He put on the glasses.

He checked himself in the restroom mirror. He was too big to blend in easily, but with a bit of a slouch to cut some height, he could pass for an overweight local fan, at least from a distance.

He stuffed the duffel in the first trashcan he passed.

He bought a giant red slushie in a transparent cup and sipped it very slowly as he rode the escalators to the bottom floor and ambled out of the mall. No one on the run drinks a slushie.

If they were looking for him, they’d now have trouble finding him. They’d know he’d end up at Changes, but at least he could establish a private base of operations.

If Matt was expecting him, and Chan had to assume he was, anyone Matt sent would be unlikely to recognize him. It was still daylight, though just barely, so Matt himself certainly wouldn’t be out.

Both his employers and Matt would expect him to keep a low profile, so he did the opposite: walked to Union Square and checked into the Westin St. Francis with another paper-thin ID. With a few sad comments about a rough divorce and a big cash deposit, he persuaded the guy at the desk to record but not charge the long-dead credit card he showed them.

He’d need more throwaway identities after this was over.

He chose a suite near the stairs and was finally settled in it at 8:15. An hour and a half before he had to leave so he’d arrive at Changes just as it opened, then four hours to find Sam.

Not much time, but all he was going to have.

Maybe it did happen later, maybe closer to three or even four, and he’d have that extra hour or two.

He shook his head. He wanted the extra time so badly that he kept circling back to it, but wanting it didn’t make it real. Stick with the worst case. Let the good news surprise you.

He ordered the room service club sandwich, stretched until it came, and then wolfed down it and two bottles of water. As he ate, he studied the Changes site one last time and made sure he had memorized the routes to it and all the available interior detail. The data was far from perfect, but it was all he had.

He stood under a long hot shower and pushed everything out of his mind except what he had to do.

At 9:15, he loaded his jacket with everything he could from the package. The slots and clasps in the sleeves held the stakes and baton firmly.

At 9:40, he walked out of the front of the hotel.

Night owned the city now. The streets fought back with neon and crowds and cars and trolleys, but before it surrendered to the morning sun the night would claim victory, first in the suburbs, then in the rougher areas, and eventually even here, in the heart of the urban resistance.

Chan turned left and left again at the corner. About a mile to walk, twenty minutes to do it, plenty of time to check out the area around Changes before he entered it.

* * *

One more street to cross, then a turn at the next one, and the club would come into view down the road on his left. Chan’s constant stride had carried him a step into that street when he noticed an alley ahead on his left.

If he were Matt and thought he was coming, he’d consider an ambush. No point in letting potential trouble into the club if you could help it.

He backed out of the street and slid to his left until he was in the shadow of an awning over a dark doorway.