Blood Crimes Book One

Chapter 10

Metcalf had maintained his lotus position for hours, his back straight, his eyes closed and his finger tips touching lightly as his hands rested on his knees. He ignored the sounds of Dr. Ravi Panjubar moaning and rustling about on the floor-they couldn’t be helped, it was all part of the infection process. Bronson’s fidgeting and periodic heavy sighs and comments to himself made loudly enough for Metcalf to hear about how unbearably hot and stuffy it was in the van were a different matter. It grated on him, but he didn’t let it show. To any outside observer he would’ve been the picture of tranquility. Inside, though, he was fuming because of the other vampire’s restlessness and lack of discipline. But he knew if he let himself move he’d rip Bronson apart, and now was not a good time for that. Later, when they returned back to the compound, but not now.

Yeah, it was hot and stuffy back there, with the temperature reaching over ninety degrees, but it didn’t bother Metcalf. Instead, it brought back his pre-infection days when he was a field agent for the CIA. Back then he spent countless hours in the back of vans like this one in countries throughout Europe and the Middle East, at times the temperature baking the inside of his van to well over a hundred and twenty degrees. He’d sit quietly for hours to get the job done, sometimes eavesdropping, sometimes peering through the scope of a sniper rifle waiting for his target to show, but never letting the temperature or anything else affect him. Early on the CIA realized what they had-a pure sociopathic personality with a high intellect- and they put him on the dirtiest work they had. Metcalf flourished with it. What helped was he didn’t suffer from the other psychological defects that most other sociopaths tend to exhibit-he had no sexual deviancies, no sadistic tendencies, and took no pleasure from his killings. He didn’t enjoy it, but it didn’t bother him either. To him it was no different than flipping a light switch. He was good at what he did, one of the best the CIA had.

After ten years as a top assassin, he was unofficially brought back to New York and very quietly introduced to the wife of a dot-com billionaire. Her husband had supposedly fallen under the spell of some Eurotrash whore, and had transferred most of his wealth to this woman, leaving the wife only the fifty million she was allowed under the prenup she signed. The husband had since dropped out of the real world to live in this whore’s converted hotel that was located in the Union Square area of downtown Manhattan. The wife met alone with Metcalf, telling him how she wanted this bitch killed, figuring that that would break the spell and send her husband back to her, and she was prepared to transfer two million dollars to an offshore account for Metcalf to get the job done. He agreed to do it. Two million dollars would more than adequately pay for his retirement, and the job had a wink-nod sanction from his boss who was an acquaintance of the wife’s family. Anyway, it didn’t matter to him what light switches he flipped as long as he was compensated properly for it.

He spent a week in an untraceable van parked outside of the once-upon-a-time hotel that his target now owned and operated as a private residence, all the while peering out a rifle scope that was trained on the building’s front door. This was during a brutally hot and muggy period in August, but Metcalf sat motionless as he waited for his target to show. Anyone looking at him would’ve thought he was a marble sculpture, not even a drop of perspiration showing. If he got his chance to take his target out, the van would disappear from the face of the planet, and nothing would ever be able to connect him with the hit. After a week without seeing anyone enter or leave the building he was beginning to have his doubts whether anyone was actually inside. The windows had all been painted black so he couldn’t look through them, and if people were leaving and getting back into the hotel he had no idea how they were doing it. For all he knew they had all packed up weeks ago to go to the Hamptons for the season. He decided to break in, do some recon, and take her out if she was actually holed up in there. Breaking in was easy, he used a grappling hook to scale up to a fourth floor landing, then broke in through a window. He had a. 45 with an attached silencer and enough extra magazines to take out a small village. His plan was to move from room to room until he either found his target or uncovered information as to where she was. Anyone else he came across would be knocked unconscious if he could do it quietly, if not, he’d take them out also.

The first room he entered he was quiet enough that no one should’ve been able to hear him, and was surprised when a scrawny-looking man turned to face him. What seemed odd to him was the way the man’s nose wrinkled, almost as if he had smelled Metcalf. The man was a skinny runt who couldn’t have been more than half of Metcalf’s weight. Metcalf put a finger to his lips to warn him to be quiet. Instead the man came after him, moving faster than anyone should’ve been able to. Metcalf still got off two kill shots that hit the man squarely in the heart, but other than knocking him back a foot, didn’t stop him. He just kept coming. Metcalf couldn’t believe the strength or the quickness of this man as he grabbed Metcalf’s wrist and snapped it, then picked Metcalf up and slammed him to the floor. It didn’t make any sense. The man couldn’t be more than a buck thirty, and Metcalf should’ve been able to handle him easily, instead he was held immobile on the floor until his target was called into the room.

She took his. 45 off him, then pulled his black knit mask off his face and stared at him with both curiosity and amusement mixing in her eyes. With a short nod she had the other man get off him while she took his place. She was tall but as skinny as a rail, and couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds, and he couldn’t budge under her grip. It made no logical sense. He accepted the fact that he was in over his head, that this was something far outside the norm, and that he was a dead man. It didn’t much matter to him. He was one of those rare sociopaths who valued his own life as little as he did others.

“You came here to kill me,” she said softly, more as a statement than a question, her voice hypnotic, almost trance-like. He found himself strongly attracted to her. It was partly her looks and partly this dense odor of sexuality that came off her like musk, but it was more than that. He could see in her eyes the same cold ruthlessness that he saw every day when he looked in a mirror. They were kindred spirits, and he had met so few in his lifetime.

It didn’t matter anymore. It was over. He nodded. At that moment he felt no allegiance to the woman who had hired him, nor to The Company.

“You’re a hit man, aren’t you?”

He didn’t bother answering her since it was obvious.

She spoke with the man who had disabled him, asking whether Metcalf had made any noise when he broke into the room. The man shook his head and said the only noise was his heart beating. “And it was a slow, calm beat,” he added.

“You must be well-trained,” she said to Metcalf. “You’re not even showing any pain over your broken wrist.”

“What would be the point?” he said.

She nodded at that and asked him who he worked for. He told her. She seemed surprised about that. “Why would the CIA even know about me?” she asked.

“They’re don’t. This is an outside job.”

He explained to her then who he had been hired by and why. “I’d like to ask a favor,” he said. “Could you get this over with quickly?”

She showed a thin impish smile.

“Get what over with, darling?”

“Whatever you’re going to do to me. Kill me, I suppose.”

Seconds before he had seen his death in her eyes, but that changed. Her eyes softened subtly, and he guessed that she must’ve also recognized him as a kindred spirit.

“But darling,” she said, laughing lightly. “If I were to do that I’d have to offer you a last meal first, and I’m afraid what we have here isn’t anything you’d care to imbibe in, at least not at this time. Later, perhaps.”

A small crowd that had gathered behind her, and they started to complain once they realized she’d had a change of heart. She quieted them, then moved in close to Metcalf, her teeth caressing his throat for several seconds before biting in. Somehow he knew she was going to do that. He also knew what was going to happen. None of it came as a surprise, and he quietly made his transition from spook to vampire. Later, after his fever had broken and he had gone through the changes, he cleaned up whatever loose ends had been left. He took care of the dot-com billionaire’s wife, his ex-boss and anyone else who might’ve been able to connect him to Serena. As far as the CIA was concerned he had dropped off the face of the planet.

Metcalf’s cell phone rang and it brought him out of his nostalgic reminiscing of the old days. According to the Caller ID it was Walter Smith, one of the residents of Serena’s hotel. Smith was in his late fifties and was a small bald man who since his infection resembled a lizard more than anything human. Serena had chosen Smith early on for his money, which she later used to buy the hotel, and Smith held a quiet grudge against her. He frequently filled Metcalf in on her activities. Metcalf answered the phone and asked what Smith wanted. Smith tittered on his end.

“Have you been watching CNN?” he asked.

“I’m not near a TV.”

“Oh.” Smith’s voice lowered. “You must know that Serena and her posse left this morning to Cleveland?…Hello, Metcalf, are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m still here. No, I didn’t know that. She promised me she was going to stay in New York.”

There was some more nervous laughter on Walter’s end. “She did, did she? That’s not even the half of it. If you were near a TV you would see what I’m talking about.” He paused for a moment, then went on, his voice more guarded. “There was an incident in Cleveland. Eight police officers slaughtered. According to witnesses, the killers drank their blood and took off in one of the police cars. One of the witnesses made a video recording. It’s not the best picture quality, but you can make out Serena in it.”

Metcalf sat quietly for a moment processing what Smith told him, then asked if there was anything else. Smith seemed surprised by Metcalf’s reaction.

“I thought you’d be spitting nails,” he said.

“It wouldn’t do any good. Again, was there anything else?”

“Nope, but I’d have to think that would be quite enough.”

Metcalf told him it was and disconnected the call. He tried calling Serena, but as he expected she didn’t pick up. Bronson was watching him, his lips pursed as he tried to figure out what had happened from Metcalf’s end of the conversation. The other vampire knew better than to ask Metcalf. One look at the darkness clouding Metcalf’s face told the other vampire that much. Metcalf shifted his gaze to meet Bronson’s eyes, and the other vampire looked away.

“I want you to take me to San Jose International Airport,” Metcalf said. “After that you’re going to drive back to the compound. You’re not going to be able to get into the lower level by yourself, so you and the Doctor here will stay in the house. It might take me a day or longer to get back, but if you do anything other than that I will hunt you down wherever you end up, and I’ll make you suffer worse than you could ever imagine. Do you understand that?”

Bronson forced a crooked smile. “Yeah, fuck, don’t worry. You should know me better than that. I’m going to do as I’m told, okay?”

“You know that I’ve had tracking chips implanted in all of your skulls. The same that’s done with show dogs.”

Bronson’s smile dimmed a bit. “Yeah, I know that.”

“Well?”

Bronson looked confused. “I’m going to drive you to the airport, then back to the compound. What else are you asking?”

“What the fuck do you think? Get your ass up there in the driver’s seat.”

“What? But it’s still a couple of hours before sunset.”

“Yeah?”

“What do you mean? I don’t have any protection against the sunlight. I’ll get sick as a dog doing that.”

“That’s probably true. The sun’s going to make you feel like your flesh is burning off your body. But you know what? You’ll get over it. If you stay back here any longer with me, the pain’s going to be a lot worse, and it will be forever.”

A shadow fell over Bronson’s eyes. He looked away from Metcalf, a sourness shrinking his mouth. “Chrissakes, Metcalf, there’s no need for that. Not after everything we’ve been through together. When you said you wanted to go to the airport, I thought you meant after it got dark out. I didn’t know you meant now. If I did, I’d just take you.”

Bronson continued to sulk as he left the back of the van and went up front. Metcalf stayed where he was. While Bronson drove, Metcalf called the airlines and arranged the first flight he could to Cleveland. After that he got Vanessa on the phone and told her what he needed her to do.

Jim had stashed the sword behind a dumpster and now stood across the street from the bar that he had robbed Raze at the night before. Mostly hidden in shadows, he watched for Raze or any of his gang members to show up but so far hadn’t seen anyone with skull tattoos displaying winged dragons and Chinese letters. It was hard for him to just stand still and wait like he was doing-his insides were knotted up to where it was like a fist squeezing his heart. He needed to do something, anything, to look for Carol. On the way to the bar he had picked up a carton of smokes and was sucking down one cig after the next, but they weren’t helping much with his nerves. He tossed a half-smoked cig to the ground and crushed it out with his heel. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe it wasn’t, but he couldn’t stand there any longer. He walked across the street and entered the bar.

The place was a lot quieter than the night before and a lot emptier. It was several hours before a live band was scheduled, and maybe twenty people sat around the bar and at tables drinking while a sound system cranked out Mellencamp tracks that were older than most of the people there. A lone bartender was on the job. He was in his thirties, a big man with a pink face the color of bologna and a shaved scalp that would’ve been mostly bald if he’d allow his hair to grow out. He watched Jim approach, his stare disinterested. He crossed his arms along his chest to show off thick forearms and large fleshy hands. He looked like someone who’d have no problem busting skulls and tossing drunks head first out into the gutter if given the opportunity. Jim took a seat at the bar across from him. He leaned forward so he could talk without anyone else other than the bartender hearing him. The bartender stood impassively and flexed his large forearms.

“What’s your name?” Jim asked.

The bartender scratched his jaw, yawned. “What difference does it make?”

“Come one, I’m just trying to be friendly. I like to know who’s pouring me drinks. Nothing more than that, and if it helps any my name’s Jim.”

“Pete.”

Jim put a twenty dollar bill on the bar. “Okay, Pete, a Bud.”

The bartender started to pull a draft. Jim leaned closer to him.

“I’m looking for Raze,” he said.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pete said, his stare focused on the draft beer he was pouring.

“Sure you do. Raze was here last night dealing like he always does. The two of us ended up doing some business and we need to do some more, so I’m looking for him.”

Pete gave Jim a quick look, then moved his stare back to the draft. He finished pouring the beer and placed the glass in front of Jim.

“That’s three dollars,” he said. “Drink it and get out of here, ’cause I don’t know anyone named Raze and I don’t appreciate the insinuation.”

He reached for the twenty on the bar. Jim covered Pete’s hand with his own. A bare trace of a smile showed on the bartender’s lips as he looked up.

“That was a mistake,” he said.

He reached for something under the bar-an axe handle, a lead pipe, maybe a baseball bat, but before he could do much with it, Jim squeezed his hand to the point where bones started to break. Tears flooded Pete’s eyes and his knees buckled enough to drop him several inches.

“Ow ow ow,” he cried. “For Chrissakes, let go!”

Jim could sense other faces turning toward him.

“Quiet down,” he ordered softly. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself. Anyplace we can talk privately?”

Pete nodded fervently as if his life depended on it, which in a way it did.

“Okay. Drop whatever it is you’re holding under the bar, then lead the way. And don’t fucking test me.”

Pete again nodded. Jim heard something drop, and out of curiosity looked down to see an axe handle rolling on the floor by the bartender’s feet. He let Pete go, and the bartender pulled back his damaged hand and held it at an awkward angle while he massaged it.

“This really hurts,” he said. “I think you broke some bones.” He squeezed his eyes shut, then stumbled for a second before regaining his balance. “I don’t feel so good,” he said. He didn’t look too good either, like he might pass out.

“You have any aspirin?” Jim said.

Pete nodded glumly.

“Take some.”

Pete fished out a bottle of aspirin from a drawer, but struggled with the child proof cap.

“Why do they have to do this?” he muttered, frustrated. “How’s someone with a broken hand supposed to open one of these things?”

Jim took the bottle from him and opened it. Pete tossed a handful of tablets into his mouth, chewed them as if they were mints, then stumbled out from behind the bar and led the way to a room in back. People in the bar were still watching them, but no one seemed overly interested, and no one bothered to say anything.

“I really think you broke some bones,” Pete complained once they were alone. They were standing only a foot or so away from each other in a cluttered stockroom no bigger than a coat closet. Beer kegs and cases of vodka, whiskey and gin were stacked along the walls. The bartender’s face had become wet with tears. “It really hurts.”

“Where’s Raze?”

“I don’t know any Raze.”

Jim edged closer to him. Pete started to raise both hands in a defensive gesture, winced and grabbed at his damaged hand again.

“Goddamn, I really think you broke up my hand. And I don’t know who you’re asking about. I’m just a bartender here. I serve drinks, I clean up the bar, I restock the beer kegs, and I bounce when there’s trouble. That’s all I do here. I don’t know anyone named Raze.”

Jim stopped, gave the bartender a skeptical look. “Why the attitude with me earlier?”

Pete met his eyes. “Because part of my job is to smell trouble, and I could smell it on you the second you walked into the bar. I could also see you’re packing. You don’t really have the body type to hide a big piece of iron on you.”

Jim opened his jacket and pulled out the. 45 that he had shoved in his waistband. He held the gun loosely by his side. The bartender tried hard not to look at it.

“You’re not being honest with me, Pete. If you’re tending bar here, you have to know who I’m talking about. He was here last night with two of his boys dealing product out of your men’s room.”

Pete nodded. “The bikers with the skull tattoos. Yeah, I see them here, but I keep out of their business. Other than taking drink orders, I’ve never said word one to any of them. I swear.”

“That sounds like bullshit.”

“It’s not.”

“Someone here has to know them.”

Pete lowered his eyes enough to answer that. He tried to meet Jim’s eyes again, but it was too late.

“Okay, so who is it?”

The bartender looked away and shook his head, his lips making a red gash across his face as they pressed tight together.

“I really don’t want to hurt you if you’re not involved,” Jim said. He pointed the. 45 at one of the kegs stacked on the floor and blew a hole through it. Pete nearly jumped out of his shoes at the sound of the gunshot. Beer poured out of the keg and flooded the area they were standing in.

“Shit! What are you doing?”

“Speeding things up by giving you an idea that this is something you don’t have a fucking clue about. Hopefully then I won’t have to hurt you too badly.” Jim put the barrel of the. 45 against his own chest and pulled the trigger. He had braced himself so the gun blast only pushed him back a few inches. He maintained a hard stare at Pete throughout.

The bartender’s complexion paled to a sickly white. “Fuck,” he mouthed, his eyes dumb and as large as silver dollars, his jaw having fallen slack.

“You’ve got this one last chance before I start doing things to you.”

“Why’s this so important to you? Please tell me it’s more than you just wanting to rip them off?”

“It’s more than that,” Jim said. He swallowed hard to keep his emotions in check. “They took someone very important to me and they’re going to hurt her pretty bad if I don’t find them.”

Pete nodded to himself, accepting that. “The owner of the bar,” he said in a soft whisper. “Charlie Drum. He does some shit with them.”

The name of the bar was The Broken Drum. Jim asked if that was how the place got its name.

“Yeah, Charlie used to always be broke and bumming money off anyone he’d see here. Me, waitresses, customers, you name it. That changed a couple of years ago when all of a sudden he was flush every time you saw him. Started paying me more regularly too.”

Jim nodded to himself realizing that must’ve been the same time Drum hooked up with Raze. After a couple of years in business together there had to be some trust between the two of them.

“Alright. You’re going to call him and get him down here. You’re not going to warn him and you’re not going to do anything stupid. I know you don’t want people here to start dying, especially since you’d be the first one. Right?”

Pete nodded, his eyes half-lidded and staring at nothing in particular.

Jim handed him the cell phone he had taken off of Ash. The bartender stared at it and shook his head.

“Caller ID,” he said, finding his voice. “If I call with that phone Charlie will know something’s up. Better that I use the bar phone.”

“Okay, yeah, that makes sense. It’s a good thing one of us is thinking clearly. We’re going back out there now. Anyone asks you about the gunshots, you tell them a few bottles broke, nothing more, and you say whatever you have to to convince them that that’s what happened. Understand?”

Again, the bartender nodded. He asked, “What the fuck are you?”

“You don’t want to know.”

He nodded again, realizing that that was probably true.

Jim slid the. 45 back in his waistband, zipped up his jacket and moved aside to let Pete leave the stockroom first. He followed Pete back into the bar area and stood close enough to hear the bartender explain to a couple of the patrons who asked about the noise that no, those weren’t gunshots, only a couple of bottles that were accidentally knocked onto the floor. They either bought his explanation or they didn’t care enough to challenge it. Pete went back behind the bar and Jim stayed close and listened in as the bartender left a message for Charlie Drum that he needed him at the bar pronto.

Serena garnered open stares when she and Zach went shopping at the XXX Sex Emporium and later at the Beachwood mall. She decided it was more her exotic and stunning look than anyone recognizing her from the video recording that was being shown all over the news. In celebrity-saturated Manhattan, she’d still catch people staring at her as if she had to be someone famous, but nothing like this; and the idea that some of these people might be wondering whether she could be the same person they watched on TV massacre all those cops left her throbbing badly between her legs. At one point she came within a hair’s breadth of pulling Zach into the ladies room at Nordstrom’s. It wasn’t easy but she controlled herself-as much as she needed relief she decided to wait until they returned back to their room so they’d have the space to go wild. The only downer to the evening was when Metcalf had tried calling her. She’d been hoping that he’d stay holed up in his van and wouldn’t be bothering her for at least another twelve hours, but someone must’ve filled him in. She wondered briefly whether that someone could’ve been from her hotel, and the image of Walter Smith’s lizard-shaped face, along with his bulging and nearly lidless eyes popped into her head, but she discounted the idea and decided it had to be someone from Metcalf’s compound. As much as Smith tried hiding it with his false smiles and empty compliments, she had long suspected his animosity towards her but couldn’t imagine him being stupid enough to betray her like this, especially after her adding an expert computer hacker to the family six months earlier. If Smith did make the call through his cell phone (which he probably didn’t think she knew he had), she’d find out about it, and the consequences for him would be dire.

After shopping, they went back to Hayes’ hotel room, and she and Zach went at it as soon as the door closed behind them. Serena, her head pounding with desire, first shredded her leather pants as if they were nothing but wrapping paper, then did the same to Zach’s. It was a long time before they were done, and when they were, Zach lay on the floor with Serena mounted on top of him, his chest heaving as if it were going to explode, and her long black mane pulled in every direction as if she’d been caught in a windstorm, a wildness burning in her eyes. Hayes was lying only a few feet from them and was making a thin mewling noise as he writhed in agony. His hair had turned a stark white and his body had already grown leaner and more narrow. His head had changed also, taking on the same cat-like characteristics of every other infected vampire. Serena got off of Zach to check on Hayes.

“His bindings are threadbare,” Serena noted as she examined the cloth strips securing his wrists and ankles. “Another few minutes and he’d be breaking loose from them.”

Zach grunted an acknowledgement, then got to his knees so he could hold the PI’s wrists while Serena replaced the cloth bindings with handcuffs that she had bought at the sex store, then they did the same with Hayes’ ankles. After the PI was secured, Serena fed Hayes a pint of blood and that seemed to calm him down.

“I still don’t see why we need him,” Zach noted, his voice dripping with petulance.

Serena smiled wistfully at the other vampire, but didn’t bother with an explanation. It was always like this whenever she added a new member to their family. For whatever reason Zach had a difficult time with change, especially if it meant sharing her affections. She motioned for him to take a seat on a cushioned chair so she could join him on his lap. While they sat like that she played with his spent and limp penis. Even after humping more times than two caged rabbits, it didn’t take long to get him hard again. There was both a longing and a pleading in Zach’s eye; he wanted her again, but he wasn’t sure if he had anything left inside for another go around. She showed some mercy and left it alone. Instead she called Wilfred on his cell phone. After some pleasantries, she asked whether he’d had any luck finding the Blood Dragons.

“Not yet. We’ve been driving all over this hick city, but nothing yet.” Wilfred paused, then asked, “You and Zach have been fucking like crazy, haven’t you?”

“We’ve been christening every square inch of our hotel room,” Serena said, laughing. “Darling, how’d you know?”

“I could hear it in your voice. You don’t know how jealous I am right now. Or how hard.”

“I can imagine. Please do be careful walking about. You don’t want to be poking any holes in walls.” Her laughter died down. “Have you found anything about these Blood Dragons?”

“A little. Stefan and I have been going to nightclubs and spreading some money around. They’re a biker gang, and from what I’ve been told, very particular in what they ride. Only Harleys. They also sell drugs. Meth, heroin, acid. Stefan’s at one of the bars waiting to be hooked up with one of them for a drug buy. Right now I’m riding around looking for any bars with Harleys out front. Oh, and guess what? They all have the coolest tattoos to identify themselves. Skulls wrapped in barbed wire and flying dragons. We’ve got to get ourselves some. It would be the rage back home.”

“That biker-type Jim was feeding on when I hit him with the limo…” Serena pondered out loud. “I was wondering why Jim would be doing something so brazen like that right out in the open.”

“I was wondering about that too. So now we know. The guy he was feeding on had to’ve been a member of these Blood Dragons. If I remember right half his face was gone. Jim must’ve been trying to keep him alive so he could get information out of him.”

“We had one right under our noses. What a shame. Do you remember seeing this Blood Dragon afterwards?”

“Unfortunately, no. With all the commotion I didn’t bother looking for him.”

“Neither did I. Oh well, so we’ll find another one of them.”

“Probably Stefan before me.”

“My money’s on you, Wilfred. Keep doing what you’re doing. It all sounds very clever.”

Serena blew him a kiss over the phone and hung up. Zach was staring stone-faced, watching. “How about me?” he said. Serena caressed Zach’s cheek as she thought about it. “I’d like you to drive around and see if you can sniff Jim out,” she said. “If you do find him, don’t go after him alone. Jim is too dangerous and resourceful for that. Call me, and we’ll handle him together.”

Zach nodded, hurt showing in his eyes over Serena’s assessment of his abilities. “How about you?” he asked.

“I’d better stay here,” she said, making a sour face. “I’m expecting company later tonight.”

“From whom?”

She sighed, her face for a moment ageing to something closer to death. “The same person who tried calling me earlier this evening,” she said.

“I don’t think so. How would he find you here?”

“Oh, he’ll find me. He’s very clever that way. And it would be best if I were alone when he does. My guess is he’s going to be a grouchy bear. To say the least.”

Zach nodded, still showing some hurt, and lifted Serena off of him so he could get dressed. He put on a pair of Hugo Boss jeans, a silk shirt, and a smart lightweight calfskin jacket that Serena had bought him at Bally’s.

“I’m going to find Jim,” he promised her. “Count on it.”

“If you say so, I believe you. And you’ll call me when you do?”

“Of course.”

He left the hotel room, and Serena gathered up her ruined clothing and took out a new skintight peach-colored leather outfit from her suitcase to peel over her body. She wanted to look her best for Metcalf. It had been a while, and nothing was better than angry sex-or as would be the case with Metcalf when he showed, psychotic rage-filled sex.