Powder Trade (Black Magic Outlaw Book 4) Read online

  "I feel like a third wheel here," Milena confessed.

  I threw her a sideways glance. "You do realize there're only two of us."

  "So a second wheel then. You can drop me off at the hospital, right?"

  Wow. The Russian mob she could take, but an obstinate grandfather was her limit. "Bikes need two wheels," was all I said. She really needed to work on that expression.

  Milena waited with a face that was too exhausted to smile.

  "Okay," I said. "Maybe the hospital's a good place for you now. It'll give me a little time to prepare for tonight. I can drop you off and figure that out. There's one complication, though."

  "What's that?"

  "We picked up a tail." I watched the green sedan slow unnaturally to stay behind us. No one drives that slow in Miami. "Take the wheel."

  She did, with her left hand, but she didn't understand what I was going for.

  "Switch with me."

  She creased her eyes and looked around, then climbed over me.

  Pickups from the seventies aren't small vehicles. There's plenty of space around the bus-sized steering wheel. I slid to the side and Milena sat on my lap, putting both hands on the wheel. She scooted right over me and landed in the driver's seat. I sat facing her, with my back against the passenger door, so I could easily swivel my head front to back.

  Milena finally worked it out. "You're not coming," she said flatly.

  "I shouldn't be there."

  "You could help talk sense into him. He's fond of you."

  I took my eyes off the sedan to face Milena. "Hernan's a target because of me, right? They let him live because they think he doesn't know anything else. I should keep my distance for a while."

  She chewed her lip. "Not to mention the guy following us." She eyed the rearview mirror. "You think he's from Pop Stars?"

  "No way. I would've noticed if someone was on us since then."

  She scoffed. "Right. Forgot you were perfect."

  I smiled. "No worries. It's easy to forget when you're not perfect."

  I got the sassy eye roll I expected. Look at that, a hint of danger and she was getting her groove back. What an adrenaline junkie.

  "What about someone from the museum?" she reasoned. "You said something was there."

  "That's putting it lightly. But this doesn't feel as sophisticated as that. I wonder if someone was watching Evan's house. Keeping an eye on the family. If that's the case..."

  Milena met my glower. "Then whoever's in the car behind us is the guy who roughed up my abuelo."

  "Bingo."

  I wasn't a fan of this business with the Russians and the Ukrainians and the Serbians. It had more moving parts than I could track. Extra security for Agua Fuego was one thing, but a personal meeting with Connor Hatch went above and beyond. Then there was the little detail of following my family and friends.

  As we approached a red light, I checked up and down the block. A long building hugged the corner. A string of shops with a low red-tile roof.

  "Drop me off here."

  "You serious?"

  "As serious as this sun. There aren't too many pedestrians here. I'll get out and draw him off. I'm the one he's after."

  "And if he decides to follow me?"

  "Then go up a few blocks, turn around, and pick me up in the alley behind these shops. But he won't follow you. I'll jump out, he'll stop, and you can break off and go see Hernan."

  She pressed her lips together. "I don't know about this."

  "This is where I need to get off the bus, Milena. I have the mob on my ass and a ticket to a drug deal between them and the biggest cartel operating in Miami."

  She nodded as I laid out the full circumstances. Neither of us were letting the old man get hurt again. "Okay."

  The light turned green. I hopped out and shut the door.

  "Call me if you need something," she called out.

  "Ditto."

  Milena gassed the truck. I turned away and checked the shops.

  The small restaurant was closed, its windows and door locked tight with security bars. The unit on the corner was empty. A "For Lease" sign hung in the window. That left a single shop in between, thin as a hallway. The front door was propped open with half a cinder block. No display windows, but a faded mannequin stood on the sidewalk wearing a red gown and a sun hat. I pretended to admire the bargain dress to ensure the tail saw me. Then I strolled inside.

  The place was a cross between a run-down fashion boutique and a walk-in closet. I squeezed between circular stands of coat hangers and women's clothes. At the far counter, a radio blared lively Cuban music. An older woman moved her shoulders to the beat while filing her nails. The two overhead fans wobbled ineffectually. It was almost as hot in here as it was outside.

  I moved deeper into the shop, behind a rack of dresses, and checked the door. The green sedan pulled up halfway onto the sidewalk. The sunlight outside framed one figure in the car. He leaned over and squinted into the shop but couldn't make me out behind the clothes. After a moment's hesitation, he threw the car into park and stepped out.

  Why was it these guys were so eager to make public spectacles?

  I marched toward the back of the boutique, passed the woman (who never deigned to look at me), and barged through the back door. An alley parking lot, well hidden from the street. Only two cars, both empty. I kicked the two-by-four block jammed between the door and the asphalt. The metal swung closed with a heavy click. Then I waited behind the door for my tail to follow me out.

  Waiting's only fun for a minute. Then your nerves start up. You second-guess the plan, and with good reason. How long did it take to walk through that little shop anyway? Somehow I doubted Mr. Green Sedan was distracting himself with sequins. I considered ending the charade and opening the door myself, but that would give away my position.

  He was onto me now, and he knew I was onto him.

  My cowboy boots stepped lightly as I began to circle the long building. Past the dumpster and the locked back door of the closed restaurant. Maybe he thought I was running. Maybe instead I'd come up behind him in the car. Catch him off guard while he thought I was rabbiting away.

  As far as plans I made went, it was a solid one. Simple and to the point. My confidence in the strategy dissolved when an ear-piercing howl descended on me from above.

  Chapter 18

  Direct sunlight and shadow magic don't play nice. I could still pull off a trick or two, create manifestations from patches of darkness, but my most powerful spellcraft was quickly neutralized. Sliding through the shadow was my main defense. And impossible from where I was standing.

  I leapt away from the wall and caught a glimpse of the figure in the air. He smacked my shoulder with something as I dove. It hurt, but not nearly as much as it would've had my head still been in the way.

  I landed roughly on the hot asphalt. Rolled away from the threat. A man stood where I'd been. The fucker had jumped from the roof of the strip mall. Not through the store, but over it.

  I took in my attacker. Just a guy, but unlike any Russian mobster I'd ever seen. His black T-shirt and pants were par for the course, but the giant animal skull he wore over his face was a dead giveaway that he wasn't playing a full eighteen holes. The mask was large and long, like a cattle skull, except threatening canines protruded from the bottom. Shaggy gray fur hung over the man's shoulders like some Game of Thrones reject. In his hand, a gnarled wooden club. The weapon was so large and twisted that he should've wielded it two-handed, but he was strong enough that he didn't.

  "Petrovic?"

  Before I could wrap my head around the scene, he lunged at me. I dodged his strike. The massive club took a chunk of rock from the asphalt.

  I swung an alligator boot into the fingers holding the weapon. The man yelped like a dog. We were both left in awkward stances but I'd disarmed him. The club hurtled to the ground.

  I'm not a lefty but I used what momentum I had. Continuing forward, I shoved my left fist into his chest.<
br />
  He caught it as easily as the Terminator. Then his knee found my stomach.

  I doubled over. Instead of falling to the ground, the blow launched me into the air. The kick literally punted me back a few yards. My skin scraped the ground as I landed from orbit.

  I hadn't been hit like that since I got on the bad side of a volcanic elemental. But that was a primal being. This skull-faced brawler was only a man.

  I clenched my stomach and hacked my lungs out. He used the time to recover his club. I was too queasy to stand. And still not within reach of shadow. I bought time by pulling one of those plastic Easter eggs from my belt pouch. People usually put candy or toys in these things, but not me.

  I beamed it at the freak show. He'd seen my wind up and wasn't only strong, but quick too. The unwieldy club swung in a smooth arc ahead of him and picked the egg right out of the air.

  Guess the oversize skull didn't come with an oversize brain.

  The plastic egg exploded open, dispersing white dust. The cloud engulfed him. My opponent paused, confused. Then he swatted at the dust like he was being swarmed by bees.

  The powder was weak. A cheap voodoo trick, really. The toxin would dull his senses, slow him down, make him hallucinate if I was lucky. Already I saw the panic setting in.

  And then the man lowered his skull and charged forward like a bull.

  It should've been easy to sidestep the disoriented attack, but he was inhumanly fast. I barely got out of the way. He rushed past me and shook his skull-head back and forth, trying to clear the fog from his mind. Instead of serving as a distraction, the powder focused his rage on me. This guy was more concerned with me than his own welfare, like a meth addict aware of everything but his own pain. He turned to me again.

  I made a break for the dumpster. The lunatic sprinted after me. I executed a baseball slide, shredding my jeans on the asphalt. My hand found what it was looking for. The shadow underneath the dumpster. I pulled my shotgun from its depths and spun around just in time to blast the masked man in the face.

  Birdshot shattered the skull. It fell away in three pieces. Under the bones and fur wasn't the monster I expected—just an Eastern European with sand-colored hair. Scraggly and disheveled, his youthful face was marred by weathered lines. Crazed eyes flicked over me erratically. Maybe he was just a tweaked methhead.

  The man shook his head, still reeling from the blast. Blood ran down his forehead, but the wound was superficial. I dug for the first shotgun shell I could find while he charged me again.

  Somehow now, without the mask, this dude freaked me out more. He wasn't anything special: average height, lanky. But he fought and moved like no man should. I drew my shotgun up. His club hooked it. The weapon slipped from my fingers as the club reversed direction. It smacked my head and toppled me to the ground.

  I paddled forward, elbows and knees on baking asphalt. The man stomped after me. His foot scraped gravel as he readied his next swing. I rolled to the wall. The club shook the ground beside me.

  Another near miss. Another quick recovery. But I was getting sick and tired of squirming on the ground.

  I drew a tendril of shadow from beneath the dumpster. It locked around the man's ankle. He stopped short with a tug.

  "Vukasin Petrovic?" I asked again, scooting back on the ground.

  He sneered, but finally spoke. "Vukasin? No, but Vucari."

  Where had I heard that before? "Your name's Vucari?"

  He chuckled. "My name's Darko. I am Vucari."

  He said the last word with reverence, like it was supposed to mean something.

  "You Russian?"

  Darko spat on the ground. "We take their money, but we are not them."

  "Right," I said. "You're Vucari."

  Whatever that was, I realized the bouncer in the club hadn't lied to me. These guys, the Vucari, they were Serbians. A mercenary outfit, maybe. This man wasn't Vukasin Petrovic, but he worked with him maybe. Or for him. I was right about him watching Evan's house.

  "I've got a bone to pick with you," I said.

  Darko glanced at the broken skull on the floor and scowled. Not a fan of wordplay. Fair enough. He tugged his leg and the shadow strained in the sunlight.

  "Look familiar?" I asked, flashing the calling card before returning it to my pocket. He smiled at the sight of it. "I want Petrovic," I said gruffly. "Tell me where he is and I'll go easy on you."

  Darko scoffed and pressed forward. My line of shadow suddenly snapped. He was free. Not the best interrogation ever.

  I growled. "You guys are beating up my family and friends." I pulled my knife and sliced it across my palm. "If you wanted to find me, you should've just asked."

  I charged forward before he could ready a swing. My wet fingers snatched at him, the spellcraft already turning the blood, but Darko spun away. I snagged a shag of fur instead.

  Instead of attacking with the club, he spun a full one-eighty and elbowed me in the chest. Another body blow that sent me to my knees. He reversed his spin, a ballerina of death, and the club came down hard.

  Darko didn't expect me to extend my forearm and catch it, but I did. Instead of snapping my limb in half, the tattoo on my arm flared brilliant blue. My body shuddered at the impact, but a powerful turquoise jolt returned the worst of it. Darko bounced away. Still, the damned methhead came back for more.

  He put his foot into my face this time. A quick blow that jumbled my thoughts for a moment. My vision went blurry and my brain fought to keep up. The club came around again and I ducked away. An engine roared into my scattered thoughts. My pickup truck sped through the alley toward us.

  Darko and I watched the out-of-control battering ram for a full second before we scrambled to get out of the way. This time I teased the shadow beneath the dumpster into a spring. As the Serbian rushed to get behind it, I released the projectile. The dumpster collided into him and shoved him into the path of two thousand pounds of Ford steel.

  The truck smashed into the dumpster too. The whole train of carnage jostled past me and came to a stop against the wall. The dumpster was dented and the pickup was mostly okay, but poor Darko was pinned between the two of them, leaning forward onto my hood.

  Milena unbuckled her seat belt and launched out of the truck.

  "What the hell was that?" I shouted, still catching my breath.

  She came to my side. "I have no idea!" Her playful expression darkened when she eyed Darko hacking up blood. "Is this the guy?"

  "It's not the same one who beat up Hernan," I started.

  "Oh, God," she said. Her hand covered her mouth as Darko's head leaked all over my hood.

  I spun her away from the sight. "He's one of them, Milena. And even if he wasn't, you still saved my life."

  She nodded slowly. Then flinched as the man rasped for air. I couldn't believe the little tweaker was still alive. I approached cautiously.

  "Who are you guys?" I asked.

  He turned his head with a twitch and froze, just realizing I was there. His eyes were a little less wild now, a little glassy and distant. His breaths came heavy and loud, in hydraulic rhythm. He was in shock.

  "Who are you?" I repeated.

  "I... am... Vucari," he said with a snarl.

  He struggled against the truck like he was invincible. Like it would budge against his efforts and he would walk away from all this. It was impressive, but ultimately feeble. The blood coming from his mouth told the true story.

  Vucari. These guys clearly had different motives than the Russian mob. Whatever Connor had planned in the Port of Miami, these guys were playing a separate game.

  "Where's Petrovic?" I demanded.

  Darko watched me. Bared his teeth but didn't move.

  "How do I use this?" I flashed the calling card again. "What do the Vucari want?"

  He smiled and coughed, red spilling from his teeth. "Blood," he said. Then his eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed on the hood.

  I stood for a full minute, fuming, watching the bl
ood pool under the pickup. I was pissed that my best lead was dying on me. I was pissed that I couldn't do anything about it. I was pissed that Milena had come back for me. But she had probably saved my life. I'd been unready and outmatched in the sun.

  A jet of liquid spattered to the cement. Milena was across the alley keeling over. Her face plainly displayed what was running though her mind. She had never killed anyone before.

  "Get in," I said, snatching up my shotgun and taking the wheel of the pickup. I kicked it into reverse and pulled away from the dumpster. Darko's body slumped to the asphalt. "Get in the truck, Milena."

  She nodded absently and did so. My tire crushed a piece of skull as we rolled out of the alley.

  "He was trying to kill me," I stressed. I didn't feel like conversation but she needed to hear it. "It was either him or me."

  She stared blankly ahead, not looking at anything specific. "I still took his life."

  "You saved my ass, Milena."

  Her eyes fell to her hands in her lap, clasping and unclasping open air.

  "What are you gonna do?" she asked.

  "I have to go to the Port of Miami. Meet up with Chevalier."

  More thinking. "You trust him?"

  "No, but I need him. And he's come through for me before. I'll drop you off at the hospital on the way."

  She nodded again, but her heart wasn't in it. Damn it. She didn't want me to go. By all accounts, I shouldn't go. Not anymore. I should have stayed with her now, supported her. But it was impossible.

  "Look," I assured her. "I'll find the others. I'll do everything I can to help Hernan. You know that. Right now that means keeping on top of Connor."

  "Don't worry about me, Cisco," she said. "I'll protect my abuelo, whatever it takes. And I know you try hard for your friends and family." She put her hand on my shoulder. "Like you did with Seleste."

  Now it was my turn to look away. I stretched in the seat, soreness overtaking my chest and stomach.

  Chapter 19

  I dropped off Milena and made a pit stop in the Everglades. The idea of taking my own truck to the heist wasn't perfect, but I was running late as it was (and it wasn't like the drug van was an option). The pickup bed was necessary. And to make sure I didn't advertise that I was driving around Miami with stolen contraband, I tied a tarp down over the back.