The Invoker: A Lawson Vampire Novel 2 (The Lawson Vampire Series) Read online

  The Invoker

  by

  Jon F. Merz

  Don't miss these other Lawson Vampire Adventures!

  The Fixer

  The Invoker

  The Destructor

  The Syndicate

  The Courier

  The Kensei

  Visit the author on his website: Jon F. Merz

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Sneak Peek at THE DESTRUCTOR

  Chapter One

  Killing is never easy.

  Between the preparation time, tracking your target, and making sure things go like they’re supposed to-it gets complicated.

  In the end, pulling the trigger is actually the easiest part.

  For some.

  Lying underneath the battered rusting hulk of an abandoned Volvo station wagon on crumbling cinder blocks wasn’t the kind of activity I normally prefer for a Saturday night. Especially since the freezing rain made the ground underneath me soggy and home to all sorts of creepy crawlies that enjoyed the warmth bleeding out of my body and into the ground.

  But a job’s a job.

  My name’s Lawson.

  I’m a Fixer by trade. I serve and protect the community. But mostly I help maintain the Balance. It’s a noble profession and those of us born into it would never really feel at ease doing anything else. But there were days when I’d give anything to know the monotony of an accountant who stared at numbers all day long.

  Right now was one of those times.

  Thunder boomed somewhere overhead and a second later the lightning flashed briefly illuminating my surroundings. Damn. I could be seen if the lightning lit up the area at the wrong time.

  And I definitely did not want to be seen.

  Otherwise I wouldn’t have been under that damned car.

  But cover and concealment in this deserted auto wreckage yard was scarce. I could either hide inside a compacted car or under one. And since trying to get out of a car is harder than rolling out from under it, I chose the latter.

  But I didn’t like it.

  I shifted and instantly regretted it when a fresh pool of rain found its way south to my groin, quickly soaking through the tough denim of my jeans. The cold helped shrink my balls further into my tight scrotal sac, making me feel more like a castrato gunslinger than the professional killer I am. It would take a generous serving of gin and tonics and a hot bath to help me relax after this escapade.

  The air shifted, blowing in sideways from the east and I caught a scent I hadn’t detected before. Cologne. Cheap. Like the million department store samples that come with my credit card bills every month.

  I heard the squishing sound of water and mud under shoes. Uneasy steps, though. Not focused. Random, even.

  It wouldn’t be long.

  That was good. I didn’t like soaking in fetid rain water and melting ice any longer than necessary.

  The footsteps approached just as another thunder clap exploded in the night air. I held my breath and waited for the

  lightning.

  Nothing. No flash of bright light. No nothing.

  I exhaled just as the shoes drew abreast of the car. I could see the soles and what looked like hand made brown leather uppers. Even in the dark, I could see the cuffs on his suit pants seemed like they were professionally tailored at a designer store.

  The smell of cologne was killing me. I tried to mentally analyze it – to break down its individual components so it wouldn’t bother me as much. I got as far as the ethyl alcohol before I realized I was going to sneeze.

  There are a few techniques you can normally employ when sneezing isn’t appropriate. The first involves sticking your tongue to the roof of your mouth right behind your front teeth. I did that.

  It didn’t work.

  The next best option is to rub the spot under your nose and press in with a finger. It’s an old pressure point a Japanese martial arts master once showed me.

  I’m sure that would have worked fine, had both my hands been free. They weren’t. In one hand, I held my modified pistol. In the other hand I had my small black bag that contained some other items I might have needed tonight.

  Hands unavailable, I steeled myself for the sudden expulsion of air. I tried to stifle it and did a good job. But as the air rushed out, I tensed my body which then caused me to jerk upward suddenly and hit the steel, aluminum, and iron undercarriage of the Volvo with the back of my head.

  And since bone and metals do not make fond friends or even remote acquaintances, I saw stars.

  Shit that hurt.

  My eyes clouded briefly with tears before I realized the shoes had shifted.

  Double shit.

  I’d been heard.

  Calmly, I thumbed the safety off of the pistol and waited. Most folks don’t think to look above them or below them so if I stayed cool, he might not see me.

  The shoes moved around the car. I could visualize him checking the area, searching the heaps of rusted mufflers and hubcaps, looking for the source of the sound. I watched as the shoes started to take a few steps away. Seemingly satisfied, he turned and came walking back toward me and the car.

  Which, of course, was the exact moment Mr. Lightning decided to put in his overdue appearance and illuminate the entire area – including the Volvo, the cinder blocks. and yours truly.

  The shoes stopped.

  Past experience has taught me it’s better to go on the offensive at times like this, rather than wait. I’ve debated that idea in the past and usually come away with some bad scars because of it.

  Not tonight.

  I rolled out and got a bead on him center mass even as the shocked expression began to register on his face and he started to back away.

  I squeezed off a single round – watched as it caught him square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and pitching him back over. He crashed to the ground, kicking up mud, icy water, and sludge before rolling a short distance away.

  I got up – my gun at low-ready position – and walked over, squishing all the way thanks to the mud and rain clogging my clothes.

  He was breathing, but just barely. Dark blood soaked his shirt diluted by the icy rain pelting him from above, turning it a softer shade of frothy pink. The shocked expression still clouded his face, almost as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.

  I knelt
down. "The Council sent me."

  He tried to speak. It came out as a stutter of gurgling consonants. "F-f-fixer?"

  I nodded. His eyes grew wider. I’d seen the look before. Technically most of my kind don’t think we exist. That we’re just legends told by parents to kids to get them to behave. But we’re real enough. We work in the shadows. Our accomplishments go unnoticed by all but a select few.

  Unfortunately for Shoes, tonight was the time he found out we really did exist.

  I frisked him, looking for his gun. I came up empty. "Narcotics trafficking is bad business for humans to be in. It’s even worse for a vampire."

  He grimaced, feeling the agony of the wooden splinters in his heart courtesy of the wood-tipped rounds my pistol packed. In the night air he drew his head back, trying to inhale a raspy breath. His canines lengthened, fully exposed. That happened only during feeding or when a vampire is close to death.

  "You could have exposed the community. You threatened the Balance." I leaned closer. "You know the penalty for any of those violations is death."

  He frowned, but it looked more like an upside down grin. "They…they told you that?"

  "The drugs? Yeah. I wouldn’t be here otherwise." He only had a few minutes left.

  "Lies…all of it….lies…."

  I’d heard that before. Claims of innocence come with the job. Even when you’ve put them down, some of the most hardened criminals will deny they did anything wrong. They go off to the afterlife convinced of their own innocence.

  "Whatever you say, pal." Time to end the repartee. I started to stand.

  But he grabbed my hand, clutched it and squeezed. Hard.

  I started to pull away, started to try to break his grasp. He wouldn’t let go. He still had some strength in him.

  He pulled me closer, until his mouth was just a few inches away from my ear. I could hear the rasping of fluid in his lungs as he breathed in short gasps of dwindling air. And then he managed to cough out two words.

  "My son."

  I frowned. "What about him?"

  He closed his eyes, tears running out of them now dripping off his wet face to the ground beneath him where his blood ran crimson tinged with silt and grime. "You…must…protect him."

  His head lolled back and to the side then as his hand went limp in mine. As it opened, a small photograph rolled out and fluttered toward the rain-slicked ground.

  I scooped it up, wiping the bloody mud off of it. Lightning flashed again and I peered closer. The picture showed a small boy. His son, no doubt.

  But protection? What the hell was that about? The mission had been a simple termination order. Punishment for crimes committed. There had been no mention of protection.

  None whatsoever.

  And that’s precisely what worried me even as the rain increased and pounded against my back. I looked up, feeling the cold rain pour down my face, coat my lips, and bleed into my mouth.

  I swished around a mouthful and spat it back toward the ground.

  Why was nothing ever as easy as I wanted it to be?

  Chapter Two

  It actually took more hot bath water than Bombay Sapphire to help elevate my mood after my nocturnal jaunt. For some reason, I didn’t feel much like taking a drink.

  My muscles ached after lying prone in cold rain water for so long, but the steamy vapors seeped into every pore and gradually wound me down to almost total relaxation.

  I love hot baths.

  I picked up the affection for them while I was in Japan some years back. It’s a cultural necessity over there. The super-heated ofuro baths can scald you if you don’t treat the water with the respect it deserves. I suppose it’s got something to do with the Shinto religion. Respect nature and it will respect you back.

  Following one of my Japan trips, I had a hot tub installed at my house. Actually, it looked more like a really deep bath tub than a hot tub. It was built for one. Or two people planning on getting very very intimate with each other.

  Time was, I would have been pretty mellow after a quick shower and a few hours of sack time. Nowadays I preferred the luxury of a good soak followed by a generous dollop of rapid eye movement.

  So I sat neck deep in the bubbling water as steam rose in misty swirls around my head, opening pores, unclogging sinuses and generally making things very…wow.

  But as I approached that delightful Nirvana state of total relaxation, something barred my way. Something stood out in my mind as strange. And it wouldn’t leave me alone.

  Moderately annoyed, I replayed the events of the evening in my mind, looking for the culprit.

  Henry Watterson dealt drugs.

  Specifically, he imported them from China via Amsterdam and then sold them to the local gangs here in Boston. Cocaine used to be the drug of choice and for the Mexican and Jamaican cartels, it still was. But a newer crop of addicts wanted opium and heroin. Injectable, sniffable, smokeable, they’d take it anyway they could. Add to the more hard-line narcotics a heaping pile of special designer drugs like Ecstacy and something new called Saber, and Watterson’s business must have been booming.

  Nowadays, the addicts could afford whatever prices he charged as well. Following the dot-com explosion of the late-nineties, a lot of young millionaires were born. Those who didn’t suffer the financial equivalent of a nuclear meltdown when the dot-com world imploded around the new millennium, found themselves with even more power and money than before.

  With all that disposable income and a lot of stress, they craved release the same way I crave Tia Carrere.

  The Communist Chinese government in Beijing kept them supplied. Slave labor camps outside of Manchuria worked by imprisoned Falun Gong members churned out the designer drugs, while other camps closer to Qinghai in center-west China harvested opium and derivative narcotics.

  In exchange, the money Beijing earned from drug sales went to fund their nuclear weapons research. Current speculation was that the Chinese would have a new and improved inter-continental ballistic missile able to reach out and tough the U.S by 2005. At least, that was the intelligence coming at me off the rumor mill.

  Normally, that information would have been supplied by my Control. Currently, I didn’t have a Control.

  I killed my last one.

  He’d been dirty. He’d forsaken the Balance in favor of the promise of power and prestige at the hands of a maniac. Unfortunately for the both of them, I put an end to their grandiose plans for world domination.

  The Council, the governing body for whom I worked, hadn’t found me a replacement. Which meant I wasn’t working with a net. That was okay with me. I’d been out in the cold before. Alone. Strung out. With only myself to rely on.

  Or blame if I failed.

  I had my own networks to some extent. I called a old friend of mine who worked down in Washington at some office building that ostensibly doubles as one of the major clearinghouses of raw intelligence for the US. He tuned me into the Chinese connection.

  The Council had turned me onto Henry.

  Explanations never came with the dossier. Just a name and a face. That was it. That was the Council. If I’d had a Control – a decent one – I could have asked what the deal was. I liked knowing why I was being dispatched to dispatch someone.

  It takes a lot to get a call from me.

  There are rules though. Laws, if you will. Our community survives because it obeys those rules. There’s not a lot of wiggle room. A delicate Balance exists that ensures the safety of my society.

  Individuals who compromise the Balance put all of us at risk. It’s not allowed.

  I take my work seriously.

  Time was I didn’t much like it. Time was I didn’t know what I wanted out of life.

  Time was.

  Nowadays, I’ve mellowed a lot. I’ve got other interests aside from my work, but more on that later.

  My mind revolved back to Henry Watterson and his dying plea. So he had a son. So what? A lot of my targets in the past came from big f
amilies. That fact hadn’t stopped them from breaking the law. And it didn’t lessen the sentence.

  It never did.

  What made Watterson’s son so special that he needed protecting?

  And then I thought about how vehemently Watterson denied his crimes. Sure, I get that sometimes, but the tone in his voice seemed so…genuine?

  Maybe that’s what disturbed me.

  Coupled with more than a polite request to make sure some tike stayed safe, something definitely felt odd.

  Watterson’s request to look after his kid echoed in my mind – a real plea for help.

  Strange.

  I sank deeper into the hot water, letting it come up to the edge of my nostrils, closing my eyes and trying to allow anything to pop into my head. Positive ions help me think as much.

  But right now, they weren’t doing shit.

  I left the bath reluctantly, quickly dried myself off and wrapped a towel around my waist. I paused before the mirror and appraised the results of my recent resurgence of interest in lifting weights. My pectorals were rounding out nicely and my arms seemed a little denser than a few weeks back. Good.

  There was something instinctively primal about heaving iron plates. I loved the rush of blood into my muscle bellies. I loved the effort it took to push past my thresholds into higher ground. And damned if I didn’t like cranking up some old ACDC tunes and feeling the walls reverberate as Angus Young cranked out his rifts and solos.

  Go figure.

  I stepped into a pair of loose black cotton pants that were fitted around my ankles and padded up to the third floor where I keep my television set. I slumped onto the faded blue couch covered with tufts of cat hair courtesy of Mimi and Phoebe, and flipped on the television, searching for something decent. I passed the History Channel’s documentary on the Allied Advance across the Pacific during World War Two (seen it twice) and settled on the local news.

  No mention of Watterson.

  Good.

  There shouldn’t have been. If his body had been found, it would have spelled disaster. I took care not to leave any evidence behind. My presence – the entire community’s presence – had to leave no trace in our passing.