blown to high heaven. There was still a black soot ring on the building from the bomb's heat and he reached out, putting fingertips on the cold brick.
It had all started here.
A gust of wind came up and flashed under his coat, lifting the fine cashmere, getting to the fancy suit underneath. Dropping his hand, he looked down at his clothes. Overcoat was Missoni, about five grand. Suit underneath, an RL Black Label, about three grand. Shoes were amateur night at a mere seven hundred bucks.
Cuff links were Cartier and into the five-digit category. Watch was Patek Philippe. Twenty-five grand.
The two forty-millimeter Glocks under his pits were two grand a piece.
So he was sporting... Jesus Christ, about $44,000 worth of Saks Fifth and Army/Navy. And this wasn't even the tip of the iceberg for his threads. He had two closets worth of the shit back at the compound... none of which he'd bought with his own cash. All of which had been purchased with Brotherhood green.
Shit... he dressed in clothes that weren't his. Lived in a house and ate food and watched a plasma screen TV...
none of which were his. Drank Scotch he didn't pay for. Drove a sweet ride he didn't own. And what did he do in return? Not a whole hell of a lot. Every time action went down, the brothers kept him on the sidelines-Page 16
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Footsteps rang out at the far end of the alley, pounding, pounding, getting closer. And there was more than one set.
Butch eased back into the shadows, slipping free the buttons on his coat and his suit jacket so he could get at his heat if he needed it. He had no intention of mixing up someone else's biz, but he wasn't the type to hang back if an innocent was getting cracked.
Guess the cop in him wasn't dead yet.
As the alley had only one open end, the track-and-fielders heading this way were going to pass by him.
Hoping to avoid any crossfire, he got tight with a Dumpster and waited to see what turned up.
Young guy flew by, terror on his face, his body all jerky panic. And then... well, what do you know, the two thugs in his trunk were pale haired. Big as houses. Smelling like baby powder.
Lessers. Going after a civilian.
Butch palmed one of his Glocks, speed-dialed V's cell phone, and took off in pursuit. As he ran, the call dumped into voice mail, so he just shoved his Razr back into his pocket.
When he caught up with the drama, the three were at the base of the alley, a loose knot of bad news. Now that the slayers had the civilian cornered, they were moving all lazy, closing in, backing off, smiling, toying. The civilian was shaking, eyes so wide the whites glowed in the dark.
Butch leveled his gun at the scene. "Hey, Blondies, how 'bout you show me your hands?"
The lessers stopped and looked at him. Man, it was like getting pegged with headlights, assuming you were a deer and the thing coming at you was a Peterbilt. Those undead bastards were pure power backed up by cold logic-a nasty combination, especially in duplicate.
"This isn't your business," the one on the left said.
"Yeah, that's what my roommate keeps telling me. But, see, I don't take direction real well."
He had to give the lessers credit; they were smart. One focused on him. The other closed in on the civilian, who looked as if he was way too scared to be able to dematerialize.
This is quickly going to become a hostage situation, Butch thought.
"Why don't you head out?" the bastard on the right said. "Better for you."
"Probably, but worse for him." Butch nodded toward the civilian.
An ice cube breeze shot down the alley, ruffling orphaned newspaper pages and empty plastic shopping bags.
Butch's nose tingled and he shook his head, hating the smell.
"You know," he said, "this whole baby powder thing-how do you lessers stand it?"
The slayers' pale eyes traveled up and down him as if they couldn't figure out why he even knew the word.
And then they both flipped into action. The lesser closest to the civilian made a grab and hauled the vampire Page 17
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against its chest, turning the hostage potential into a reality. At the same moment, the other one lunged at Butch, moving quick as a blink.
Butch wasn't into getting rattled, though. He calmly angled the muzzle of the Glock and shot the steamrolling sonofabitch right in the