spilled out into the night. Vicki swallowed hard and fought for control. While an incredulous voice in the back of her head demanded to know just what she thought she was doing, she stepped over the threshold and moved silently along the dark corridor created by two racks of floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with industrial tile.
At the first cross corridor, she found a body. He'd been shot four times in the back at skin-touch range- the choice of professionals as it soaked up the muzzle blast and decreased the chance of being heard.
She could hear movement up ahead and the quiet drone of voices beyond that. It sounded very much as though the voices were being surrounded. The rising Hunger made it hard to think, hard to plan. She should leave. This hunt did not concern her.
Scrubbing one hand over her face, trying to block the distraction of the spilled blood, she stood and glanced up into the steel rafters. No one appeared to have taken the high road. Smiling, she reached for the crossbrace on the closest rack and began to climb.
"No. The bottom line is if weapons move out of this city, I move them. Me. Not me and you." The older of the two men sitting at the table leaned for?ward, scowling. "You're what, twenty-six? Twenty-seven? You've come far, David Eng, and you think you're hot shit, but you're not hot enough yet to take me out and you know it."
The other man nodded, but the motion was more acknowledgment of a point made rather than agreement with it. "Street wars are bad for business, Mr. Dyshino."
"Fuckin' A, they are. Which is why you and me are going to work this out if we have to fucking sit here until dawn."
The table sat in the middle of the open area where the forklifts were usually stored. One section of the overhead lights had been turned on, but they didn't quite manage to illuminate the oil-stained floor. The shadows of the six men standing blended into the sur-rounding shadow.
"You don't have to take this," one of the six an?nounced belligerently from behind David's left shoulder.
"Let's hear Mr. Dyshino's suggestion of com?promise."
Adan Dyshino rolled his eyes. "We aren't going to 'compromise,' you fool. You're going to stop."
A manicured hand rose to cut off the protest from his enraged second. "Admittedly, arms dealing is a very small part of what I do, but I do not wish to stop doing it. We appear to have reached an impasse once again."
From her seat in the rafters, Vicki watched Eng's men take up positions just outside the open area.
Grinning ferally, she enjoyed the view. If the vermin wanted to slaughter each other, that was fine by her.
The unexpectedly close whisper of metal against metal drew her gaze to the top of the nearest rack. A prone gunman, his sights sweeping the perimeter of the light, lay half hidden behind a crate of "parquet style" vinyl tiles. Carefully searching the shadows, she spotted another three.
This could get interesting....
David Eng had the advantage in numbers, but Dy?shino's men held the high ground.
Brought up short by Vicki's scent, Henry wondered what the hell was going on. Growling low in his throat, he pushed open the warehouse door. The air inside smelled of sweat and fear and anticipation.
"We haven't reached anything, you immigrant punk!" Dyshino surged to his feet. "This isn't Hong Kong, this is Canada, and I say... "
A 9-mm round from a burst of machine gun fire caught him in the right shoulder and spun him around. The rest of the burst killed the man behind him. He hit the floor and rolled under the table as all hell broke loose.
Crouched beside the man who'd been shot in the back, Henry flinched away from the sudden roar of gun?fire. By the time answering shots had been fired, he was on his feet and racing toward the sound. Vicki. ..
Vicki watched in amazement as Henry exploded out into the light, face and hair a pale blur above the moving shadow of his body. The gunman on the near?est rack muttered something that sounded like "Po?lice!" as she realized he had Henry in his sights.
He got the shot off just as she knocked him into the air. Henry's howl of pain drowned out the ripe melon sound of the gunman's head making contact with the concrete floor, nine meters down.
The scent of Henry's blood rose to obliterate the singed sulfur smell of the gunpowder, the hot metal