The Chaos Order (Fanghunters Book Three) (8 page)

He went to get up off the floor when a tearing pain split his head; he fell back down, realizing another part of him was sore and hurting. His nuts. Then, it hit him. Trixie. The last thing he remembered was the intense pleasure of throttling her in the freezer of Meatpack Food Solutions; man that felt good. But, what happened? Did he snuff her? He must have. There was no way a goddamned bullfrog like that would’ve overpowered him. No way.

Then, how did I end up like this?

He whipped his head around, ignoring the pain; he was hanging out of an elevator.

What the—?

His head came back the other way. Was this Leviah’s room? Yeah, it was.

How did I get here? And why was I knocked out?

The realization that the bullfrog might’ve incapacitated him reared its ugly head. Nixon refused to believe it.

He hoisted himself up to his feet with a groan, one hand rubbing his head, the other nursing his scrotum. He staggered out of the elevator, just as a blast of cold, wet hair hit him. He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the refreshing gust on his face. But, then a thought hit him. Where in the hell was it coming from?

He snapped his eyes open and gazed around the room. The whole place was empty. Where was Leviah? He should’ve been around. Unless...

With groggy movements, he delved into Leviah’s chamber, and the source of the cold, wet air came into view. The windows had been smashed in; outside was a goddamn monsoon. The wind whistled, the rain smashed against everything. Finding his feet, he dashed over toward the broken windows, just as a strong gust of wind picked up and blew a torrent of rain his way. In seconds, he was soaked through. It was the sobering he needed.

He wiped the rain from his face and looked around, now with more alert eyes. His stare fell on the floor. A couple of big blackish stains were smeared across it, the rain spreading them around. Nixon’s eyes flicked away from the smears and landed on Leviah’s silk robe lying on the ground a few feet away, soaked through with water.

No way...

Nixon glared out of the smashed windows, his mind ticking over. Although it was dark outside, the sun would’ve been shining through that smashed window at some point. He did the math, following the trajectory of the morning sun down to the stains, then that lonely, empty robe.

Nixon’s eyes widened.
The frickin’ bullfrogs!

His mind swam with incredulity. No, it can’t be; there was no way they could’ve killed Leviah. The boss vamp? No way! He raced over to the window and gazed out into the storm. The rain was a sheet, the wind swirling it up and around, making it dance. He poked his head out of the gap and looked downward. The street was abuzz with cop cars and pockets of tiny people fighting. A strong blast of wind then forced him back; he knew he had to get off that floor before the wind changed direction and he was sucked out of the smashed windows.

He scampered back the way he came, going past the elevators and the Japanese blinds out toward the stairwell, his head pounding like a heavyweight boxer was using it for a punch bag. He got out into the stairwell and began running down floors as fast as he could, hoping to bump into one of his guys; there was no way he could be alone in the whole building. He made it down five flights, the thunder outside the building rumbling like the pain in his head. He was about to enter the next stairwell when the door leading to the ninety-second burst open. A whole bunch of guys in combat fatigues and balaclavas swarmed the stairwell, shouting and pointing their guns. Nixon froze.

The lead guy stormed right into Nixon’s face. “Get back against the wall! Get back!” he screamed.

Nixon threw his hands in the air. “Okay, okay, okay,” he stammered, pressing his back against the whitewashed wall.

“Who are you?” the solider barked.

“General James Nixon.”

The solider stared at him sideways. “You Blacklake?”

Nixon nodded. “Sure am. Who are you guys?”

The solider whipped off his balaclava. Nixon winced; half the guy’s face had been chemically burned off, only half his crew cut remaining on his seared head. His skin rippled and sagged off his skull like melted wax. He stared at Nixon hard, his eyes blank, devoid of any semblance of a soul. “Dragon-stay-behind unit,” the burned guy growled. “You work for the Bloods?”

At first Nixon didn’t know how to answer. He swayed his head left and right. “Maybe.”

“Well, they’re gone now.
We’re
running the show. The Dragons have issued amnesty to Blacklake. You either join us or die.” He pumped his shotgun and shoved the muzzle right into Nixon’s chest. “Your move.”

Nixon glanced down at the weapon jammed into him and gulped. He straightened his back and saluted the soldier ahead of him. “You got yourself a new recruit, sir!”

The burned Dragon began smiling, and with the ugliness of his scorched face, it was the hideous expression of a hungry alligator. “At ease, solider,” he said.

N
ixon was led down to the control hub the Dragon-stay-behinds had set up on the eighty-fifth. There, he was brought up to speed by Sergeant Blunt, a mean, crew cut marine type with stone cold eyes; the kinda guy Nixon had a lot of time for. By all accounts, the lobby had flooded and was full of snakes. Nixon had no idea if that was true or not, but the unit were crapping themselves about these snakes they said were all over the Loop. Apparently they were coming from somewhere south; Mexico or Honduras.

“Goddamned spics!” Nixon spat once the info was relayed to him. “Wish they’d just stick to their dump south of the border and leave us here to live clean.”

“Amen, brother,” Sergeant Blunt retorted.

“Where did you serve, brother?” Nixon asked him.

“Falluja, Iraq. Two tours.”

“So, how did you end up with the Dragons? I always thought they were European.”

“They are.”

“I don’t understand, soldier. We’re Americans. They’re Europeans.”

“And you’re more naïve than you should be, general. The orders are always cutting deals with one another, hiring and firing, moving pieces around the chessboard, forming and dissolving alliances.”

“You mean to say the Bloods and the Dragons were...
allies
?”

“Not exactly. Business partners. My enemy’s enemy is my friend and all that jazz.”

“Christ on a stick,” Nixon said to himself in disbelief.
And I thought I was a merc.

“Right now the spics are trying to take Chicago, specifically this building by flooding it with snakes and cartel gangbangers armed to the teeth. We’re here to protect the interests of the Dragons, namely the remnants of the Blood Order. Now, you in, soldier?”

Nixon straightened his back. “One hundred and ten percent!”

“Good man!”

“Sergeant James Conrad Nixon at your disposal.”

“Go grab a gun, Jim.”

Nixon’s stiff-backed pose melted. “Er, I prefer to be called Husky Flamingo.”

Blunt stared at him with eyes as cold as a serial killer.

Nixon gulped. “It’s just a... nickname, sir.”

“Just go grab a frickin’ gun and start shooting some snakes and spics.”

Nixon slammed his foot down on the floor and saluted Blunt, his back straightening like he just had a rod shoved up his ass. “Sir, yes, sir!”

CHAPTER NINE

D
om woke up to the sound of rain hitting his bedroom window. He spun his disorientated head around for a few moments, trying to shake off the nightmares still stuck in his conscious mind. For a second he was back in the I-Sore Tower, a prisoner to the Blood Order, his life in danger. He witnessed the mighty Leviah snap the head off a Blacklake merc and sling it across the room like a discarded toy. The head landed by Dom’s feet, where the face turned up toward him. But, it was the face of the merc Dom had killed, the one he let drop off the side of the building. The eyes on that head snapped open, the face contorting into a scowl.
“You’re coming with me!”
it snarled.

Dom flinched back in terror, just as his own eyes snapped open to the darkness of his bedroom. He gasped and sat upright, his heart pounding, sweat dripping down his forehead. The image of that merc’s scowl melted back into the shadows of his mind, and his bedroom took over. He looked around, realizing he was in his bed, rain hitting glass the background noise. His chest relaxed and he flopped back down on his bed, wiping the sweat from his face.

My God. All that actually happened,
he realized half in amazement and half in disbelief.

“I killed that guy,” he said to himself.

“It was either you or him,”
Vincent responded in his mind.

Dom shook his head. “Yeah,” he said as he threw his covers off and gingerly got up from his bed and checked the time. It was seven pm.
How long had he been asleep?
However long it was, he’d slept like a rock. He rubbed his head as he made his way out of his room. The mansion was quiet bar the sound of rain outside. Dom trudged down the corridor toward the main stairs. He looked down them; Ralph, head of Sun security, was stationed by the front door. On spotting Dom, he raised his hand. Dom returned the gesture before going down the steps.

“How you doing, Dom?” Ralph asked him as he approached.

“I’ve been better, bro,” Dom replied. “Where’s Vincent?”

“He’s around. Think he’s watching TV. He’s been glued to it all day.”

“Yeah? What’s been going on?”

Ralph shrugged again. “Beats me. I’m just here to make sure no one gets in.”

“Well, you’re doing a fine job so far.”

“Ain’t I just?”

Dom chuckled. “I’ll catch you later.” He headed straight for the lounge to find Vincent standing in front of the TV. He was scrutinizing it like a football coach watching the game unfold. He was analyzing the play, strategizing.

Dom went and stood next to him. “What’s going on?” he asked with a yawn.

Vincent briefly turned to face him. “Ah, Dominic. Feel refreshed?”

“A little.”

“Well, you’ve been asleep for over almost ten hours.”

“Ten? Man, that’s some afternoon nap.” The thought caused Dom to yawn. “Where’s Eddie?”

“He’s back at Sun.”

“Good old Eddie. Nose in the books. How’s Trixie?”

“Still asleep. It’s the best place for her right now.”

“Yeah,” Dom stared at the TV. “So what’s going on?”

Vincent shook his head. “Chaos,” he replied.

Dom concentrated on the TV. The news was showing downtown Chicago. The Loop. The streets were covered in water. The shaky camera was depicting some kind of fighting going on. Cops were hustling with what looked like gangbangers on the streets surrounding the I-Sore Tower.

“As you can see, the Chicago Police Department are having a tough time battling a wave of what we’re told are members from various Central and South American drug cartels, who have apparently teamed up to storm Chicago’s Loop.”
The reporter was decked in a bulletproof vest and helmet as if he was in the middle of a war zone. The rain was teeming down all around him as well as the cops and the gangbangers who were splashing through flooded streets attacking one another in hand-to-hand combat. In the background, sirens and bullhorn-amplified voices raged.

“The banks of the Chicago River have flooded,”
the reporter continued over the madness,
“which has made the work of the police all the more difficult. The rising water has also attracted wildlife to the city center. There have been numerous reports of snakes spotted swimming through the water, with some locals claiming to have been bitten, resulting in poisoning. Authorities are advising residents of Chicago to stay indoors during this crisis and to not enter the Loop at all. They also urge residents to stay well away from the snakes, and report any sightings. And if anyone is bitten, seek medical help immediately. Reporting from Chicago’s Loop
,
this is John Anderson.”

Dom watched the madness with an open mouth. “What the hell’s going on?”