For some reason, the revelation panicked him and he tried to rouse himself. In his motionless skin, he thrashed.
But he had sunk too low to get free of the pull.
Ricardo Benloise's art gallery was downtown, over near the St. Francis Hospital complex. The sleek, six-story building stood out amid its sister 1920s-era "skyscrapers" thanks to a face-lift that left it with a brushed- steel exterior and windows the size of barn doors.
Rather like a starlet seated next to a bunch of dowagers.
As John and the boys appeared on the sidewalk across from the facade, the place was hopping. Through those huge panels of glass, he could see men and women dressed in black carrying around champagne glasses as they inspected the art on the walls. Which at least from the street seemed to be a fusion between five-year-old finger painting and the work of a sadist with a rusty nail fetish.
John was not impressed with the cultivated avant-garde routine--and as always, he had no idea why he had an opinion about art. Like any of it mattered?
Trez had told them to head around back, so he and his boys walked down the block and cut into the alley that ran behind the gallery. Whereas the front of the place was all eye-catching and welcoming, the opposite was true for the business's ass. No windows. Everything painted matte black. Two flush doors and a loading dock that was locked up tighter than a chastity belt.
Based on the intel from Trez, piss-poor excuses for "art" like the ones being discussed by those self-important Warhol-wannabes weren't the only products going in and out of the place. Which was clearly why there was a fuckload of security cameras mounted over the rear exit.
Fortunately, there were plenty of shadows to take cover behind, and instead of walking by all those lenses, they dematerialized over to a stack of wooden pallets in a dark corner.
The city was still full of life at this hour, the muted honks of cars and the distant sirens of the police and the lumbering groans of the CTA buses marking the cool air with an urban symphony--
At the far end of the alley, a car turned in and shut off its lights as it came forward toward the gallery.
"Right on time," Qhuinn whispered. "And it's that Lexus. "
John took a deep breath and prayed for a break before he lost his ever- loving mind.
The sedan rolled to a stop parallel to the loading dock and the door opened. As the interior light came on. . .
The little lesser from the park, the one who'd smelled like Old Spice, got out of an otherwise empty car. No Lash.
John's first instinct was to jump on the slayer. . . but according to Trez, Lash was supposed to be at the meeting. If they disturbed a prearranged flow of bodies, there was a chance he'd be tipped off.
And given his bag of tricks, surprise was mission critical.
For a moment, John wondered whether he should text the Brothers. Let them know. Get some serious backup. . . except the instant it occurred to him his vengeance sat up and roared.
Which was precisely what had him reaching into his pocket and taking out his phone. As the slayer headed inside, the text he sent to Rhage was short and factual: 189 St. Francis. Lash on way. 3 of us in the rear alley.
When he put the phone back into his pocket, he could feel Blay and Qhuinn staring over his shoulder. One of them gave him a squeeze of approval.
The thing was, Qhuinn was right. If the goal truly was to take down Lash, there were better odds of nailing the guy if he got help. And he needed to be smart about this--because stupid clearly wasn't getting him where he needed to be.
A moment later, Rhage materialized at the head of the alley with Vishous and the pair strode down. Hollywood was the go-to guy when it came to Lash because the Brother was packing the one weapon that could go head-to-head with the bastard: That dragon of his went wherever he did.
The two of them flashed down right beside John and before either of them could ask, he started signing.
I need to be the one who kills Lash. Do you understand? It has to be me.
Vishous immediately nodded and signed, I know your history with that piece of shit. But if it comes to a point where it's e
ither you or the motherfucker, your honor's going to get benched and we're going to intercede. Clear?
John took a deep breath, thinking that the extrapolation worked well enough for a why. I'm gonna make it so you don't have to worry about that.
Fair enough.
They all froze as the lesser who'd driven the Lexus came back out, got behind the wheel. . . and took off as if the meeting had been canceled.
"Roof it," Rhage said, disappearing.