Chapter Twenty-One

Topside: downtown San Diego, same night

The Park Place Condominium complexsat at West Harbor Drive and Kettner Boulevard in San Diego's swank Marina district, soaring thirty stories into the night sky. It was a ritzy-looking tower of sparkling lights and balconies stacked one on top of the other, zipping up every side of the structure.

Not many stars were visible, blotted out by the power of the surrounding city lights, but the moon hung like a bulging eyeball off the building's right shoulder. Across the bay, a US carrier hulked in port at the North Island Naval Air Station on Coronado. In the other direction, the city skyline spread out its arms, the view rendered distinctly San Diegean by the neon green lights circling the tops of eight skyscrapers: "Emerald Plaza," as it was officially known.

Nyko lurked in the shadows of a parking lot on the south side of the condominium complex on West Harbor Drive. Dev, Thomal, and Gábor were stationed at the other three points of the compass around the building, their team maintaining full surveillance. Videon's next victim, Samuel Preston, had an apartment on the sixth floor, but Alex hadn't known which side of the sixth floor. It would've been nice if Alex had also been able to tell them why he'd had this vision; his future ones only came when the episode somehow involved the Varcolac. But Alex had drawn a nada on that, so it was anybody's guess what they were going to face.

"Jay-sus," Gábor's voice crackled through Nyko's earpiece. "Who is this rich prick Preston, anyway? An astronaut or something? Knows the secret ingredient for converting dog crap into gold?"

"Plastic surgeon, I think," Dev crackled back.

"Ho, hear that, Costache?" Gábor returned. "After we save this Preston guy from Videon, maybe he'll offer you a freebie for that face of yours, transplant a few whiskers onto that girlie chin and rid you of some of your Barbie."

Nyko heard Dev laugh. Blond, Mixed-blood Varcolac couldn't grow facial hair, and it was a constant source of ribbing from the black-haired Pure-breds who could.

Oddly, Thomal didn't shoot a comeback. He didn't laugh, either, but that part wasn't odd. Thomal didn't laugh so much these days.

"Heads up," Gábor suddenly clipped out. "I've got six nut-fuckers doing the human fly up my side of the building."

"Damn, right on time," Dev said. "Another gold star for our Soothsayer. Okay, everyone meet at Pavenic. Double-time."

Nyko took off, running in a low crouch and staying close to the shadows. His sheathed knife lightly banged his thigh and his handgun pressed against his lower back as he crossed West Harbor and headed east up Kettner to Gábor's position. He arrived first, a moment later, Thomal, and finally Dev, who'd been clear on the other side of the building.

Dev narrowed his focus on the six black-clad forms swinging lithely from one balcony to the next up the side of Park Place.

The bad guys were already at the third floor.

Dev cursed. "They're moving fast. We need to haul balls. Pavenic, you're with me, Spider-Manning after them. Costache and Brun, main entrance. Meet us on the east side of the sixth floor. Whichever door the bad guys go for is our rendezvous point.

Dev and Gábor disappeared.

Nyko sprinted across the street with Thomal at his side. Adrenaline pounded in his ears as he slipped up to the main entrance and pressed his back against the outside wall, peering through the glass doors into the interior. More ritzy-looking stuff, with a floor done in shiny white tile, the middle decorated with a black geometric design, and a latticed partition wall that partially concealed a line of three elevators. To the left was a black grand piano, and the right, a…oh, no.

A doorman.

Spotting the man behind the desk at the same instant, Thomal glanced at Nyko and made a face.

Might've been smarter if Dev had sent Big Bad Nyko up the wall instead of into possible public confrontations. Even not dressed in his current black-and-gray camo pants and black turtleneck sweater, he couldn't go anywhere without being noticed and remarked upon.

"That Costache charm everyone's always talking about?" Nyko whispered to Thomal. "Now might be a good time to put it to use."

Thomal exhaled an unhappy-sounding breath, but pushed inside the building, buttoning up his overcoat to hide the weaponry strapped to his body.

The doorman came to his feet. "Good evening, sir. May I help you?" The man was clearly curious about the newcomer's all-black attire, but Thomal did his job and plastered a magnetic smile on his face, keeping the guy's curiosity from becoming anything more than mild.

"Yes, thank you." Thomal walked forward and slammed a fist into the doorman's jaw.

The man's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he sank limply to the floor.

Nyko hurried inside. "What the heck was that, Thomal?"

"You have a better way for me to get you in here?" Thomal shot back.

Good point. "All right, let's—"

The elevator dinged.

"Shoot," Nyko hissed. More people.

Thomal chopped his hand at a spot behind Nyko, indicating the other side of the piano.

The lobby stairs!

Nyko flew up them, Thomal on his heels. At the top, they ducked through an employee doorway, finding themselves in an emergency stairwell. Racks and racks of metal stairs going up, up, up—six flights for them.

Thomal growled. "This is taking too long."

No sooner had he spoken those words than the muted sounds of gunfire spilled down from high above. Dev and Gábor were already engaging with the enemy!

"Dammit!" Thomal blasted up the stairs, his Dragon speed immediately putting him two flights ahead of Nyko.

Nyko followed at top velocity, running harder than he ever had. Careening onto the fourth level, he caught a glimpse of Thomal.

The warrior had unbuttoned his coat and unholstered his pistol.

Panting, Nyko pulled out his own gun.

Overhead another employee door opened and shut. Pounding feet rattled the stairs, heading down. Incoming bad guys. Another surge of adrenaline poured into Nyko's system, speeding his heart and rushing his blood. He caught sight of Thomal, rounding the last turn with his gun held straight out in front of him. Then he froze. Didn't shoot.

What is he—?

The deafening report of a gun being fired roared through the stairwell.

Blood spackled the wall by Thomal's side and he was jolted back on his heels.

Nyko stopped, watching Thomal struggle to regain his balance.

Thomal's boots slipped.

Nyko shouted as Thomal tumbled butt over brainbox down the flight of stairs, the flaps of his overcoat slapping over the top of his head. His comm headset flew off and clattered down the stairwell, cartwheeling along steps, bouncing off handrails, plummeting into nowhere. At the bottom of the flight directly above Nyko, Thomal hit the wall, his skull doing most of the hitting with a sickening crack.

Nyko yelled again, his chest on fire with rage. He thundered up the last stairs and leapt over Thomal's still form, the scent of blood assaulting his senses. Whoever had shot his partner was about to get—

He stopped so suddenly the soles on his biker boots made a rubbery fart sound. Gripping his gun in a hard fist, he blindly reached out his other hand for the support of the handrail. Now he knew why Thomal had hesitated, why he'd been too stupefied to shoot.

A pair of black eyes glared at Nyko over the snout of a smoking pistol.

Nyko knew those eyes. Thomal did, too.

Shon.