Bloodshot: Kingdom of Shadows (Kindle Worlds) Page 2

  The cold nudge of the weapons against his hip and his back. Malcolm hadn’t commented on the bulge in the back of Lazarus’s trench coat as they sat on the park bench, but Lazarus knew Malcolm had noticed it. Noticed it and been afraid.

  The acrid, corrosive odor of cigarette smoke. A woman of perhaps thirty-four, her face already stretched by at least two plastic surgeries, stood smoking a cigarette as she babbled on her cell phone and ignored the baby in the designer stroller she was pushing.

  The feel of the breeze against his throat. It felt nice.

  And the smell of Malcolm’s shirt, sweaty but a peculiar sort of sweat. Not the sweat of exertion and exercise, but the unwholesome stench of fear. Malcolm wasn’t telling him everything, and that bothered him. But he’d let it go for now.

  Lazarus approached the glass double doors of the futuristic building and eyed the plaque on the white façade: SOLOMON R. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM, it read.

  Malcolm looked up at him in alarm. “You aren’t just going to barge in, are you?”

  “You have a better plan?”

  Malcolm gesticulated faintly. “But the presentation doesn’t begin for another ten minutes. Can’t we rest?”

  “You shouldn’t drink so much.”

  “We can’t all have state-of-the-art blood,” Malcolm grumbled.

  “All the more reason to lay off the booze.”

  Lazarus grasped the door handle, opened it.

  “But everyone will see you,” Malcolm persisted. “You’ll put the assassins on their guard.”

  Half in, half out of the door, Lazarus stopped and stared down at Malcolm. “How do you know there’ll be multiple assassins?”

  A livid red blush crept up Malcolm’s neck. Shrugging nervously, he said, “I don’t know there will be, I’m just guessing. Regardless, doesn’t it make sense to keep a low profile?”

  “That’s not how I work,” Lazarus said and went inside.

  He’d never been to the Guggenheim before, but the gigantic building seemed familiar nevertheless. The curving walkway spiraled steadily upward in gradually broadening concentric rings, the place looking to Lazarus like some sort of futuristic racetrack. But prior to the long, uprising spiral, there was a large open atrium, where a platform had been erected with a microphone stand and microphone. Before the platform sat approximately fifty folding chairs in two sections, with about ten feet of walkway between them. These chairs were already populated by numerous spectators, most of them looking rich and pompous. Dignitaries of one sort or another, Lazarus assumed. Or just really affluent folks who’d come out today to appear important.

  To Lazarus, they just looked soft.

  To the left of the platform were eight security guards, a couple of them NYPD, but the majority likely on the museum payroll. In other words, Lazarus thought, there was little to no security present.

  All of a sudden a young man was standing before them. He addressed Malcolm, but it was to Lazarus that his animated blue eyes kept flitting.

  “Thought we might see you here today,” the young man said.

  Malcolm shook his head. “I hadn’t planned on attending, but Lazarus coerced me.”

  The young man looked up at Lazarus admiringly. “I wouldn’t have argued with him either. He’s even bigger than Jillian described.”

  That got Lazarus’s attention. “Where is she?”

  “She said she had to use the restroom a few minutes ago. She’ll be around soon, I imagine. Certainly in time for the presentation.”

  Lazarus swiveled his head slowly, continuing his scan of the museum. Above the winding, inclined walkway he spied fragments of the artwork on display this afternoon. There were surreal images of cats, and faces, and toilets that he assumed were examples of Dadaism in modern Spain. One flight above that, he could discern black-and-white photos of bare buttocks and numerous pairs of breasts. He figured those were the “Nudes of the New Noveau,” whatever that meant. A level higher resided immense spheres of what looked to Lazarus like copper, sheet metal, and wood. Some of them were ten feet high and probably weighed twice as much as Lazarus. The sheet metal sphere had a hundred tiny spikes jutting out of it, looking to Lazarus like the weapon of some bloodthirsty giant, a deadly mace with which to crush his foes. How the hell they had ever hauled Elizabeth Austin’s orbs up so high in the museum was a mystery to him. An even greater mystery was why Elizabeth Austin wasted so much of her time constructing useless balls of metal and wood. Was the woman that bored?

  “There’s a seat reserved for Mr. Lazarus,” the young man was saying. “We didn’t plan on you, Malcolm, but I’ll have another chair brought out.”

  Malcolm sighed wearily. “That’s very kind of—”

  “I don’t need a chair,” Lazarus said. “Malcolm can take mine.”

  The young man gave a little start, chuckled at himself. “Where are my manners? I’m sorry, Mr. Lazarus. I’m Philip Wheatley, Mr. Alcott’s new assistant. I’m sort of making sure everything runs smoothly today.” Philip extended his hand. “I’m a big fan of your work.”

  Lazarus moved away from them, leaving Philip and his outstretched hand beside Malcolm. Several men that didn’t look like art lovers lounged on cushioned benches around the concourse. And if they were here for the presentation, why weren’t they seated in the folding chairs or gathered with the others who were clustering around the chairs to get a better view of the platform?

  Moving in a gradual loop around the seating area, Lazarus spotted a balding guy in a black tee shirt nodding his head and tapping the toe of his right sneaker. There was no discernible rhythm in the man’s movements, though he wore white ear buds plugged into some device concealed in his hip pocket.

  Moving around the corner of the seating area, Lazarus peered at a bearded, broadly built man about fifty feet to the right of the platform. The man leaned against the wall, checking his phone, but his eyes kept darting over to Lazarus. There was something familiar about the guy. Something Lazarus didn’t like.

  When Lazarus approached him, the bearded man’s thumbs froze over his mobile device, his sidelong gaze at Lazarus full of wary trepidation.

  “You winning?” Lazarus asked.

  The man stared blankly up at Lazarus, then scowled and said, “I’m not playin’ a game.”

  The guy’s voice shook. Though the bearded man was around six-five, two-sixty himself, Lazarus loomed over him as if he were a cocker spaniel. Lazarus could tell the guy wasn’t used to being addressed so aggressively. He decided to have a little fun with him.

  “Way your thumbs were moving, I figured you were playing some sort of shooting game.”

  The guy’s eyes narrowed. He’d begun to sweat at the hairline. “Like I said, I’m not a gamer. I was checkin’ on the Mets.”

  “What’s the score?” Lazarus asked.

  The man’s mouth opened, closed. “Three-to-two, top of the eighth.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  The bearded man licked his lips. “Look, that’s what the—”

  Lazarus snatched the mobile device out of the man’s hands.

  “Hey, what the hell?”

  Lazarus gripped the phone, closed his eyes.

  “Gimme back my phone,” the man said.

  When he opened his eyes again, Lazarus said, “The Mets don’t play until ten tonight. They’re in Arizona.”

  The man put his hands on his hips. “Look, why don’t you just leave me alone, okay? I’m mindin’ my own business.”

  “You’re communicating with the balding guy behind me,” Lazarus said. “The one who has ear buds plugged into nothing?”

  The man paled. “Look, buddy—”

  “I’m not your buddy.” Lazarus stepped closer, grasped the man by the front of his shirt. “Whatever you, the bald guy pretending to listen to music, and the rest of the clowns on the benches have going, you better call it off. If anyone harms Neville Alcott, I’ll rip his head off and eat his brain.”

  Lazarus left the man gaping after hi
m and headed back to where Malcolm and Philip were still talking. Let the bearded guy think about what he’d said. Whoever he worked for and whatever they had in store, Lazarus would be ready.

  But he was more troubled than ever. When he’d grasped the man’s phone, he’d seen one of the man’s contacts. It was a name from his past, a name he thought he was done with.

  Benito Carboni.

  Scowling, Lazarus moved nearer the platform. He was almost to the place from which he’d decided to observe the presentation—a position to the left of the platform about thirty yards away from the mike, which would allow him both a clear sightline in all directions and a close enough proximity to Neville should things go wrong—when he heard two women’s voices, one harried and polite, the other shrill and full of outrage.

  “… does terrorism have to do with artwork? It’s unforgivable!” the shrill one was saying.

  “I didn’t schedule this, Ms. Austin. The presentation was announced last night by the head of the museum board and was evidently a favor to Mr. Alcott—”

  “This Mr. Alcott sounds like nothing more than a warmonger. How dare he divert attention from my life’s work? This is not how you treat an artist of my stature. I am one with my art, do you understand? The two cannot be separated!”

  “Of course, Ms. Austin, we feel terrible about the timing …”

  The argument continued as the women passed. Elizabeth Austin, all 105 pounds of her, sounded to Lazarus like a royal pain. The woman’s sleeveless purple jumpsuit and kinky dyed-black hair made her look like an aging acrobat.

  “Ah, there he is,” Malcolm said when Lazarus returned.

  “Where’s Jillian?” Lazarus asked.

  Philip Wheatley smiled. “I already told you, Mr. Lazarus, she—”

  “Something’s wrong,” Lazarus said.

  Wheatley’s smile faltered, and the young man exchanged an uneasy look with Malcolm. “Mr. Lazarus,” Wheatley said, “the museum is a vast place. Who knows where Jillian chose to use the restroom?”

  “You should know,” Lazarus said, glowering at him. “You’re Neville’s assistant, you damn well better know where his daughter is.”

  Wheatley appeared to shrink several inches. “I’ll tell security about it right—”

  But he cut off as a voice sounded over the P.A. system.

  The presentation had begun.

  Lazarus’s muscles thrummed with pent-up energy and growing anxiety. The young blond who’d been getting chewed out by Elizabeth Austin earlier had introduced herself as Kelly Carr, the museum’s public relations director, and had proceeded to provide the audience with a biography of Neville Alcott so detailed that even Neville himself seemed bored by it. The elderly scientist sat impatiently in his wheelchair, his gaze even sterner than usual behind the thick frames of his spectacles. Of course, Lazarus mused, Neville Alcott was far more than a scientist. Lawyer, secret agent, head of multiple clandestine organizations, Neville was one of the most important men in the never-ending worldwide battle against all manner of evil. But Neville preferred to be thought of as a scientist, so that’s what Lazarus called him.

  When Neville finally wheeled himself into position behind the mike stand and Kelly Carr had lowered the mike so Neville could be heard through it, Lazarus performed a cursory scan of the lobby. The balding man bopping to the non-existent music was still present, but the bearded man had disappeared. So too had several of the men who’d been too-casually lounging on the many benches lining the walls.

  Lazarus’s sense of disquiet grew.

  The applause for Neville Alcott gradually abated.

  “Thank you, Ms. Carr,” Neville was saying. He tapped the microphone. “Can you all hear me alright?”

  Several audience members said they could.

  “Good. The fine citizens of New York City understand the importance of domestic security better than anyone,” Neville Alcott said. His British accent and crisp, precise diction endowed his words with an undeniably persuasive gravity. “Unfortunately, New Yorkers have learned the hard way that there are evil people in the world and that those people will stop at nothing to strike at our way of life.”

  This was met with sober faces and murmurs of agreement.

  “But far from being defeated by the cowardice of our enemies, New York has become a global leader in coordinated security and anti-terrorism efforts. Our city is a beacon for the free societies of the world.”

  More affirming murmurs and scattered applause.

  “It is due to this success and courage that we have decided to unveil the newest advance in security and the protection of our freedoms right here in New York City, the bastion of—”

  The microphone went out.

  Neville’s eyebrows drew together. He asked if the audience could still hear him. They couldn’t, of course, but Lazarus could. He could also hear Kelly Carr snapping orders at some poor technician who was evidently in charge of the sound system. The pretty blond, Lazarus decided, wasn’t as patient with her own underlings as she was with pretentious artists in purple jumpsuits.

  The blushing technician hurried onstage and began fiddling with the microphone. Lazarus strode a few paces to the orange microphone extension cord, which had been taped to the floor, knelt, and placed his hand over it.

  The technician, Lazarus realized, wouldn’t be fixing the microphone anytime soon. Because the problem wasn’t with the sound system. The problem was that there was no juice running through the extension cord.

  Someone had cut it.

  Lazarus threw a glance at the platform, which was covered with a glossy piece of royal blue vinyl. The blue material was draped over the front of the stage, with about an inch of clearance between the floor and the down-hanging edge of the vinyl. Lazarus got down on all fours, peered into the gathered darkness beneath the stage.

  And saw the man hiding there.

  Lazarus pushed to his feet and had taken two strides toward the stage before he noticed another technician standing beside the first. The first technician, a nondescript man in his mid-fifties, was looking bewildered and a little put out. The second, a slick-looking guy with jet-black hair and sharp, handsome features, was muttering something about a radio mike and was engaged in wrapping a cord about Neville Alcott’s waist.

  “Hey,” the first technician muttered. “Radio mikes don’t work like that. What the hell are you—”

  “This,” the slick guy said, pulling a pistol on the man. The first technician’s eyes doubled in size. The slick guy pistol-whipped the technician, who seemed to fold in on himself before sprawling out on the blue vinyl.

  Lazarus rushed toward the stage. He was thirty yards away.

  Another guy—this one was young and short and had a black ball of curly hair that reminded Lazarus of a miniature version of one of Elizabeth Austin’s orbs—appeared from nowhere, attached the false radio mike cord to what looked like a harpoon, and fired it into the air.

  There was a zzzzzlllip-ing sound, and the grappling hook caught on the fourth level of the museum. Then Neville Alcott was jerked upward out of his wheelchair and was rising rapidly above the lobby floor.

  The crowd was shouting and in some cases screaming. Several audience members had gotten to their feet and were drifting mindlessly toward the stage. Lazarus shouldered past a pair of cops, elbowed a rich-looking guy in an Armani suit out of the way. The man started to shout at Lazarus but shut up quick when he saw who’d bumped him. Onstage, Kelly Carr was shouting at the sharp-looking guy, the one who’d pistol-whipped the technician. He looked Italian, like someone out of a mob movie. A memory flitted through Lazarus’s head.

  The curly-haired guy who’d fired the zipline wire was reaching into his shirtfront. Lazarus ripped open his own trench coat, tugged out the Desert Eagle .357. Zipline was about to fire on the two NYPD cops, who were converging on the stage. The sharp-looking guy—again a scrap of memory tugged at Lazarus, a name or something, but he thrust it away so he could focus—produced a Kahr
E9 handgun, a small, sleek-looking thing that showed the guy didn’t care as much about appearances and looking manly as he did about getting the job done.

  Zipline leveled his gun at the NYPD officers, who had just begun to draw their sidearms. Zipline was about to fire when Lazarus opened up on him, hammering his scrawny frame with three quick rounds from the .357. The first slug blew his hand off, the guy’s gun twirling uselessly to the vinyl platform cover. The next two caught him in the chest and lifted him off his feet. Zipline landed in a tangle on top of the pistol-whipped technician, who yelped and slapped at the corpse as if it were on fire.

  Then the sharp-looking guy

  (Eddie Maza, his name’s Eddie Maza)

  threw down on the officers. Eddie Maza—though Lazarus had no idea how he knew the man’s name—fired his Kahr E9 at the first cop who reached the stage, and the right side of the cop’s head dissolved in a crimson haze. Blood and brains and dull gray chunks of skull showered an older woman in a white fur coat, who tossed up her hands and screamed for a moment before her eyes rolled white and she passed out in a puddle of the cop’s blood.

  A couple of the security guards had finally sprung into action, and that was good for them because the four guards who hadn’t entered the fray were being gunned down in their seats by five Uzi-wielding men in dark suits.

  Men from the benches, Lazarus realized.

  One of the Uzi-wielding killers was laughing maniacally, a high-pitched cackle that reminded Lazarus of something you’d hear in a funhouse. The quartet of security guards thrashed and jerked in their seats like marionettes controlled by someone in the thralls of a seizure. Their pristine white shirts bloomed with red splotches, their feet pounding the floor like heavy metal drummers. The reek of smoke and the coppery scent of blood commingled in the cool lobby air. There were five men with Uzis, and there was Eddie Maza. And Neville Alcott was still rising into the air toward the fourth level, the old man’s spectacles defying gravity and remaining on the man’s stunned face.

  Lazarus brought his .357 to rest on one of the Uzi men with a derby hat on, and the man’s hat exploded as well as the top of his head. A couple of the Uzi men halted their security guard massacre, but the other two brought their lethal automatics up to aim at Lazarus. It was these two Lazarus shot next—one in the throat, the second in the chin. The one who’d been throat-shot sank to his knees looking like someone had dumped a bucket of red paint over his front. The one whose chin took a .357 slug had it much worse. The man’s jaw had displaced—or at least what was left of it—leaving the right side of his face a fleshless toothy grin. But the man’s eyes weren’t grinning; they were opening wider in horrified disbelief. Toothy’s full-moon eyes regarded Lazarus with something that might have been hopefulness, as if Lazarus would tell him his face really hadn’t been mutilated, that the misshapen twist of bone and gristle was only a gag or a fantastic makeup job some movie special effects guy had whipped up. But Lazarus couldn’t provide that reassurance, of course, couldn’t even put the dying man out of his misery. Because the other two Uzis had recovered their wits, or at least a small percentage of them. One Uzi in a black suit—the one, Lazarus realized, that was laughing like a deranged clown—pivoted toward Lazarus, while the other one rolled away, came up in a crouch, and prepared to fire on Lazarus too. As Lazarus calculated which one to blow away first, he caught a whiff of some noxious odor lurking beneath the other scents and realized one of the remaining Uzi men had crapped himself.