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Plus he was good at the teaching, evidently. Although these gang members learned fast and hit hard, so he had something to work with.
And these were definitely gang members. Dressed the same. Colored their hair the same. Packed the same weapons. What was not so obvious was what they were about. These boys had the focus of military men; none of that sloppy bullshit most street thugs covered up with bravado and bullets. Hell, if he didn't know better he'd have assumed they were government: There were squads of them. They had top-notch gear. They were intense as shit. And there were a lot of them. He'd only been on board a week and he'd taught five classes a day, each filled with different guys. Hell, this was only his second trip through the park with this particular bunch of men.
Except why would the feds use someone like him to teach?
He blew the whistle for a long beat, stopping them all. "That's it for tonight."
The men broke ranks and went for their bags of gear. They said nothing. Didn't interact with each other. Didn't pull any of that macho, nut-busting routine that guys usually did when they were in a group.
As they filed out, Van went to his own bag and got his water bottle. Sucking back some, he thought about how he had to head across town now. He had a fight scheduled in an hour. No time to food up, but he wasn't that hungry anyway.
He put his windbreaker on, jogged up the basement steps, and did a quick tour of the house. Empty. No furniture. No eats. Nothing. And every single one of the other places had been exactly the same. Shells of houses that from the outside looked all cheery normal.
Fucking weird.
He went out the front, made sure he locked the door, and headed to his truck. The locations they met at had been different each day and he had a feeling they always would be. Every morning at seven a.m., he got a call with an address, and he stayed put when he got there, the men cycling through, the classes on mixed martial-arts fighting lasting two hours apiece. The schedule ran like clockwork.
Maybe they were paramilitary whack jobs.
"Evening, son."
Van froze then looked over the hood of his truck. A minivan was parked across the street, and Xavier was leaning up against the thing as casual as the mommy-mommy who should have been driving the POS.
"What up?" Van said.
"You're doing well with the men." Xavier's flat smile matched his flat, pale eyes.
"Thanks. I'm just leaving now."
"Not yet." Van's skin prickled as the guy eased off the car and crossed the street. "So, son, I've been thinking you might want to become more closely involved with us."
More closely involved, huh? "I'm not interested in crime. Sorry."
"What makes you think what we do is criminal?"
"Come on, Xavier." The guy hated it when he dropped the Mr. So he did it often. "I've done time once. It was boring."
"Yes, that carjacking ring you fell into. I bet your brother had a lot to say about that, didn't he? Oh - I don't mean the one you did the stealing with. I'm talking about the law abider in the family. The clean one. Richard, isn't it?"
Van frowned. "Tell you what. You don't bring my family into this, I won't drop a dime and turn in these houses you use to the CPD. I mean, cops would love to come for Sunday dinner, I'm damn sure. Wouldn't need to ask 'em over twice."
As Xavier's face became remote, Van thought, Gotcha.
But then the man just smiled. "And I'll tell you what. I can give you something no one else can."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Undoubtedly."
Van shook his head, unimpressed. "Isn't this a little early to invite me in? What if I'm not trustworthy?"
"You will be."
"Your faith in me is so f**king sweet. But the answer's no. Sorry."
He expected argument. All he got was a nod.
"As you wish." Xavier turned and walked back to the mini-van.
Weird, Van thought as he got into his truck. These boys were definitely weird.
But at least they paid on time, And well.
Across town, Vishous took form on the side lawn of a nicely kept apartment building. Rhage was right behind him, materializing into flesh and blood in the shadows.
Shit, V thought. He wished he'd taken a moment for another smoke before he'd come here. He needed a cigarette. He needed... something.
"V, my brother, you okay?"
"Yeah. Perfect. Let's do this."
After pulling a little mind bend with the lock system, they walked in the front door. The inside of the place smelled like air freshener, a fake orange stench that coated the nostrils like paint.
They skipped the elevator because it was in use and hit the stairwell. When they got to the second floor, they headed past apartments C1 and C2 and C3. V kept his hand under his jacket and on his Glock, although he had a feeling the worst thing that could come at them would be a hall monitor. The place was neat as a pin and QVC cutesy-pie: Fake flower bouquets hung on doors. Welcome mats with hearts or ivy on them were on the floor outside each apartment. Framed inspirational pictures of pink and peach sunsets alternated with ones of fuzzy puppies and clueless kitties.
"Man," Rhage muttered, "someone hit this place with the Hallmark stick."
"Until it broke."
V stopped in front of the door marked C4 and willed the locks to shift.
"What are you doing?"
He and Rhage wheeled around.
Holy shit, it was one of the frickin' Golden Girls: Three feet high with a crown of kinky white on her head, the old lady was decked out in a bunchy quilted robe, like she was wearing her bed.
Trouble was, she had the eyes of a pit bull. "I asked you young men a question."
Rhage took over, which was good. He was better with the charm. "Ma'am, we're just here visiting a friend."
"You know Dottie's grandson?"
"Ah, yes, ma'am. We do."
"Well, you look like you would." Which was evidently not a compliment. "I think he should move out, by the way. Dottie died four months ago and he doesn't fit in here."
And neither do you, those eyes tacked on.
"Oh, he's moving out." Rhage smiled pleasantly while keeping his lips together. "Moved out, really. Yeah, tonight."
V cut in, " 'Scuse me, I'll be right back."
As Rhage shot him a don't-you-dare-leave-me-with-this-hot-potato glare, V stepped inside and shut the door on his brother's face. If Rhage couldn't handle the biddy, he could just swipe her memories, although that would be a last resort. Older humans sometimes didn't deal well with the erasing, their brains no longer resilient enough to withstand the invasion.
So, yeah, Hollywood and Dottie's neighbor were going to get tight while V cased the place.
With a sneer, he glanced around. Man, everything smelled of lesser. Sicky sweet. Like Butch.
Shit. Do not think about that.
He forced himself to focus on the apartment. Unlike most lesser pads, this one was furnished, though obviously by its former occupant. And Dottie's taste had run toward flower prints, doilies, and cat figurines. She fit right in with this building.
Chances were good the lessers had read about her passing in the paper and had copped her identity. Hell, maybe it even was her grandson camping out here after he'd been inducted into the Society.
V walked through the kitchen and out again, not surprised there was no food in the cabinets or the refrigerator. As he headed for the other half of the apartment, he thought it was so curious that the slayers didn't hide where they crashed. Hell, most died with ID on them that was accurate. Then again, they wanted to encourage conflicts -
Hello.
V went over to a pink and white desk where a Dell Inspiron 8600 was cracked open and running. He swiped his finger across the mouse and did a quick poke around. Encrypted files. Everything password protected up the wazoo. Blah, blah, blah...
Although lessers were all welcome mat about their cribs, they were very tight about their hardware. Most slayers had a compy at home, and the Lessening Society pulled a lot of the same protections and coding maneuvers that V did at the compound. So basically their shit was impenetrable.
Good thing he didn't know the meaning of impenetrable.
He clapped the Dell shut and unplugged the power line from the unit and the wall. He stuffed the electrical cord in his pocket, zipped up his jacket, and tucked the laptop in close to his chest. Then he went deeper into the apartment. Bedroom looked like a chintz bomb had gone off with flower and frill shrapnel covering the mattress and the windows and the walls.
