Sleight of Hands

by Icy Mike Molson

When the Gangrel mercenary K.T. Corben is called to New York City to investigate the deadly, elusive Black Hand, everything that can go wrong, does go wrong. Now all he wants is to escape the heart of the Sabbat's power in the New World with his life...

1. Sleight of Hands, Part One

I

The smell of refineries and gas lingered on the chill wind of October as it blew in off of the Raritan Bay, whipping in harsh gusts through the seemingly abandoned New Jersey shipping center of Perth Amboy. Pools of light shone at irregular intervals through the skeletal trees that lined the streets of the lower middle class neighborhood, shielding the houses from the harsh sodium illumination. The houses seemed to drink in the yellow lights where the paint peeled away from the old wooden structures, casting deep shadows across the porches and tiny front yards of the properties.

Stalking through the pools of light was a single figure, shrouded in a long, brown knee length duster. Long blond hair, tied back in a ponytail, hung down over the collar, drawn up from a narrow face marred by stubble. Cold gray eyes watched the houses around him as he made his way through the streets, alert for any signs of danger. Though the temperature was close to freezing, not a single cloud of steam escaped the man's mouth or nose; it seemed as though he did not breathe at all. He was a vampire, the ultimate predator of humankind, but on this night humankind was the last thing on the predator's mind. On this night, and in this decaying suburb that stood on the fringes of New Jersey's shipping power, he was to meet with others of his kind, members of the dreaded sect of bloody vampires known as the Sabbat.

During his younger days, when he had belonged to the structured, law abiding society of vampires known as the Camarilla, he had heard of the Sabbat. The elders of the Camarilla depicted the Sabbat as their greatest enemies, bloodthirsty killers bent on murdering their fellow vampires for their blood and the strength their blood possessed. The Camarilla stood for law, order, stability, and secrecy, while the brutal, tactless Sabbat spread chaos, anarchy, and suffering in their wake. So many princes and elders had assured him of the Sabbat's brutality and deceit. Turn your back for only a moment, his elders had told him, and you'll be assured of a stake through your heart.

Fifty years ago, he had bought into what the elders had told him. He was young then, impressionable, new to the whole ideal of the so called Kindred, the undead descendents of the biblical Caine. He had blindly taken the Camarilla at face value and accepted them as the good guys, and the Sabbat had become his most hated enemies. Now, however, he had seen too much. He had seen the Sabbat's brutality and callous treatment of mortals, their violent assaults on the Camarilla, but he had also seen his elders stab each other in the back, striving for dominance with devious plans that sank them to the same level as their bloodthirsty enemies. Finally, disgusted with the Camarilla's posing and posturing while they strove to undermine and subdue each other, he had left everything behind. Now, he worked both sides of the war, without a care as to who would win their ages old conflict. If he was going to be used, he would be well paid for the trouble.

And that had brought him to this cold New Jersey street late in October.

He looked down at the letter again, and read the contents over one last time. The note had arrived only a few days ago, finding him in southern Georgia just hours after he received payment from the Camarilla prince of Savannah. Written in painfully neat handwriting, it had come from a bishop, a middle ranking member of the Sabbat hierarchy. That seemed odd enough; although he had worked for the Sabbat on a few occasions, his jobs had typically been limited to front line assaults during the Sabbat's sieges against Camarilla held cities or work on the fringes of Sabbat control. Few bishops would be willing to call in an outside force, at any rate; the Sabbat tended to rely on no one but themselves, making only a rare few exceptions when the need became great. Here, on the outskirts of New York City, he had no idea what to expect from a bishop that operated within one of the most powerful Sabbat strongholds in the New World. On most of the occasions that he had been hired by the Sabbat, he was left wondering if the Sabbat that had hired him had ever mentioned the presence of an outside mercenary to their superiors. In the end, it had never mattered, as long as he was paid in favors and money at the end of the job.

He looked up from the letter in time to see someone step out of the shadows of a nearby house, followed quickly by a second man. They both were dressed in long black overcoats covering what looked like expensive suits underneath. The smaller of the two men appeared to be unarmed, but his companion, remaining a step behind him, was obviously carrying some kind of weapon underneath his black wool coat. His hand dropped down under his own duster, freeing his Ruger Redhawk from the holster belted on his left side. Before he could draw his weapon, the first of the two newcomers held up a hand.

"K.T. Corben," the man stated. He was a murderously thin man, with short, spiky black hair and sharp blue eyes. He smiled as he looked K.T. over, showing a measure of approval. "I thought you'd be taller. I can assure you, you have no need of your gun right now."

"You're the one that sent for me?" K.T. asked, glancing past the speaker to his companion. The larger man stood back from the conversation slightly, his dark eyes darting around the streets as he smoothed out his ponytail of brown hair. The smaller, black haired man nodded in reply to the question. "Who are you?"

"My name is Cameron Stokes," the man replied. "I am bishop of the Flatiron and Garment Districts in New York. Now, I know you must be wondering what I could possibly want with a mercenary like you."

"The question has crossed my mind," K.T. confirmed, glancing around him for signs of an ambush. While he had worked for the Sabbat on occasion, anyone that even knew the mercenary probably knew him from his exploits in fighting against the Sabbat, and several of those would have no problem luring him into an ambush.

"Still on edge," Cameron noted, a smile on his face. "Good. You'll need to be alert for what I want you to do."

"And what would that be?" K.T. asked evenly. The mercenary held up Cameron's letter. "I don't normally respond to vague letters like these, but your messenger said you were willing to pay almost any price."

"Let's take a walk," Cameron said, already turning and starting in through a row of derelict but still inhabited houses. K.T. hesitated for a moment, glancing back to Stokes' bodyguard, but the man was watching the streets once more instead of the mercenary. Finally, K.T. turned and followed the bishop, catching up quickly to the Sabbat. K.T. glanced over at Cameron, and noticed the slightest hint of unease in the bishop's eyes and posture. Finally, Cameron returned his attention to the mercenary. "About a week ago, some of the Loyalists in the Flatiron District came upon a most startling communiqué between two members of the Black Hand. They sent this missive, along with their suspicions of what was going on, to a man they trusted, a Nosferatu antitribu bishop named Halsey. Three days later, Halsey's remains were found on the banks of the Hudson River. Two days after that, two of the five Loyalists involved also turned up, both murdered. The other three are either in hiding right now, or they've also been extinguished. I cannot be certain which."

"And you want me to find these last three Loyalists," K.T. assumed.

"No," Cameron countered. "I want you to infiltrate the Black Hand."

"You're joking," K.T. stated, stopping dead in his tracks. What little he knew about the secretive and murderous Black Hand was that they were an elite militia of fanatical assassins and soldiers that even their Sabbat superiors were hesitant to call upon. The Black Hand, as far as K.T. knew, was comprised of some of the most deadly vampires on the face of the earth. Cameron stopped, waiting for the mercenary to resume his pace. "The Black Hand doesn't just take people in. The few that they do take are put through ridiculous tests of loyalty, ones that I'm guaranteed not to pass. Besides, you know I'm not even Sabbat."

"But you're not Camarilla, either," Cameron countered. "Hell, you don't even live in New York. You're an independent Gangrel mercenary that few have heard of and fewer still care about. Even if you didn't use an alias, there is most likely no one that would recognize your name, much less your face. It will be simple to set you up as a member of a nomadic pack member who was the last survivor of a Lupine attack upstate. And, trust me, the Lupine attack is good cover. It really did happen, and one blond haired Gangrel antitribu did happen to make it out alive."

"Use him then," K.T. said. The mercenary had only been involved in a handful of encounters with the Lupines, or, as most people would call them, werewolves. Those few encounters had been harrowing, lethal experiences; the werewolves in their nine foot tall half man, half wolf forms were devastatingly lethal, and only the most powerful and deadly vampires could hope to stand up against a Lupine in close combat. "Anyone who can survive a Lupine attack like that must be good."

"Alas, that poor Gangrel is no longer with us," Cameron explained. "While this Gangrel was, as you say, fairly good, he despised the Loyalist cause. Distasteful as it sounds, I need someone sympathetic to the Loyalists, considering that this investigation is based upon their findings. Of course, since I could find no one both competent and sympathetic to those rabble, I had to settle for someone who would be indifferent. Which brings us to you, Mister Corben, and your willingness to work for the right price."

"Before we go any further, why don't you explain to me just what the hell a Loyalist is, and why it would appear to be open season on them," K.T. requested. Cameron smiled.

"The Loyalists are the ones who think our leadership is becoming stale, stagnant, and just like the rigid hierarchy of the Camarilla," the bishop said. "They are prone to open acts of rebellion against set rules and orders. Of course, the Ventrue antitribu dreamt up this idea. They thought that the current leadership is corrupting the freedoms that the Sabbat was founded upon. I simply see it as another ludicrous ploy by the Ventrue antitribu, but right now I have no other options than to deal with them."

"Oh, this is getting even better," K.T. grumbled. He had worked with one or two of the Ventrue antitribu before, and had been thoroughly unimpressed by them on the whole. While the Ventrue of the Camarilla were the leaders, lawmakers, and fairly strict disciplinarians and businessmen, their anti-clan was a group of reckless, rebellious thrill seekers that reminded him more of rich, spoiled teenagers than vampires. Cameron saw his disgusted expression, and chuckled a little.

"Do not concern yourself with them," the bishop stated. "In all likelihood, you will not have to even contact the Ventrue antitribu of this city. Your primary concerns should be the Assamite and Gangrel antitribu that compose the majority of the Black Hand."

"A comforting thought," K.T. remarked sarcastically. The Assamites, antitribu or otherwise, were the most vicious and cold blooded assassins of the vampiric world, and the Gangrel of the Sabbat could often match their Assamite comrades in brutality if not effectiveness. "How many people know about this little plan of yours?"

"The Black Hand must at least have an idea about the communiqué," Cameron replied. "But they don't know about me. Which means they won't know about you, either. I can get you into the Hand within the next few days. I have some, how shall we say, friends who have been more than charitable in helping me with this endeavor. They will be able to provide you with information and assistance once you're on the inside. And I'd like to keep it just between you, me, and my other associates."

"What other associates?" K.T. inquired. Cameron smiled.

"You'll meet them tomorrow," the bishop replied.

"This does not sound favorable for me," K.T. stated. "If these Loyalists never came to you about this communiqué, how do you know all of this?"

"When one bishop receives word of a plot within the Black Hand, the first thing he wants to do is find someone to back him up," Cameron replied. "Halsey came to me only a night before his death. And, before you ask, it was a secure meeting. No one even knew about it, much less overheard our conversation."

"Somehow, that doesn't comfort me," K.T. said.

"Comforted or not, will you take the job?" Cameron asked. A sudden gust of wind arose, shaking the bare branches of the tree above them. K.T. noticed Cameron's hand drop slightly to his belt, where an automatic pistol was tucked into his waistline. He was doing a good job of hiding it, but K.T. could tell that his potential employer was afraid. That was not the best omen of a job to come.

"What are you offering me for this service?" K.T. inquired, although he was fairly certain that he would not take the offer no matter what reward the Lasombra offered.

"What would you like for this service?" Cameron asked in reply, a slight smile rising to his face. K.T. hesitated for a moment; never in forty plus years as a mercenary had anyone started off by asking what he thought the price should be.

"Fifteen million dollars, plus expenses," K.T. started, deciding to push the limits of his employer. "A mortal retainer for blood purposes, preferably young and in extremely good health. I also want a new Triumph motorcycle, and a boon from you."

"How much of a boon?" Cameron inquired, not even batting an eyelash at the already steep price.

"I'll decide exactly how much of a favor you owe me once I infiltrate the Hand," K.T. answered. "And I want free passage through your territories once this job is done."

"Is that all?" Cameron inquired. K.T. could hardly keep the surprise from his face. "I assure you, Mister Corben, you will get whatever you ask. You may think that I am giving in easily, but I know that this will not be a simple job. And, should you prove that something is going on within the Hand, my reward will be far greater than any material gains you may take from me."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I still don't think I'll be taking the job," K.T. stated.

"I told you, anything you ask for, you will receive," Cameron said, keeping all but the faintest elements of desperation from his voice. "I need you, Corben. Whatever you want is yours for the taking."

"Which means that this is suicide," K.T. pointed out.

"It is not suicide," Cameron countered. "This sect means a lot to me. If something is going on to destroy it from within, I would give up all I have to see it stopped. At least meet me tomorrow night. You'll be able to meet the rest of this little conspiracy, and you can decide if you want the job. And, as added incentive, you will receive two thousand dollars for simply showing up and offering any input you may have on the situation."

"Two thousand dollars," K.T. repeated. "Just to show up."

"Two thousand dollars, just for showing up," Cameron agreed. He handed the mercenary a slip of paper. "I'll meet you tomorrow night at this address. Be there. It will be worth your while."

"I'm already counting the minutes," K.T. grumbled, finally relenting. He had no intentions of taking the job, but what could really happen in one night? Cameron smiled, then started to walk back to his bodyguard. K.T. unfolded the paper and looked over the address. Cameron's apartment was located on Van Brunt Street. Which, to the mercenary's recollection, was only in one of the worst sections of Brooklyn.

"Well," K.T. said to the night air as he started back into Perth Amboy, "at least it's not in the Bronx."

II

The Red Hook of Brooklyn, so far as K.T. could tell, was divided into two distinct sections; bad and worse. Van Brunt Street, only a quarter of a mile from New York Harbor, was most likely situated in the latter part. The few street lights that still worked illuminated a dismal landscape of cratered streets running between rows of dilapidated mounds of decaying brick that were passed off as low rent housing by the City of New York. Only the lowest members of Brooklyn society were found in these filthy, crumbling buildings. He could feel the eyes of those people watching him as he scanned the blackened buildings and barred windows for any signs of their presence. A harsh wind blew in off of the waterfront, catching the mercenary's duster as he walked forward, allowing vague glimpses of the long hunting knife and huge revolver that he wore beneath his coat. Finally, after making his way through neighborhoods that not even the police would enter after dark, K.T. made it to the ruined tenement that Stokes had designated as the meeting place for "the rest of the little conspiracy". The mercenary pushed his way in through the front door, walking into a dimly lit, once white hallway that led to the rear of the building. A pair of junkies, too high on their drugs of choice to notice or care about the newcomer to their building, sprawled across the hallway, but a cursory glance revealed nothing more than the two derelicts. Slowly, the Gangrel started up the creaking stairs to the third floor, then padded silently down the filthy hallway to Stokes' apartment.

As he reached apartment 314, K.T. stopped and looked around carefully. From the looks of it, someone had forced the door open; the pristine dead bolt on the door had ripped through the rotting wooden frame, and now the door stood slightly ajar. K.T. hesitated a moment, but then drew his Ruger and slowly pushed the door open.

The Gangrel's eyes adjusted to the dim light of the living room quickly, and K.T. made a rapid scan of the apartment. It hardly appeared to be the kind of place that a Sabbat bishop would call home; the paint was peeling off of the walls in several places, and what paint remained had been stained a brownish gray by years of dust and dirt. A ratty couch, a battered card table, and an oddly out of place, brand new television were the only furnishings in the room. Slowly the Gangrel made his way through the living room, looking for any sign of Stokes or his bodyguard from the night before.

He found Stokes, or at least what was left of the bishop, in the entrance to a greasy, dirt blackened kitchen. Two bodies lay on the floor in the entrance of the tiny kitchen, and a small amount of blood stained the already dirty linoleum tile. The heads of the two men were nowhere to be found, but the mercenary did not have to think too long on the identities of the newly deceased. Ignoring the bodies for a moment, K.T. stood up and looked back into the living room, but there was no sign of the assassin in the apartment. Carefully, expecting an ambush at any moment, he made his way into the kitchen, and gently kicked the smaller of the two corpses onto its stomach with the toe of his boot. He leaned down and pulled a thick wallet out of the body's back pocket.

"So where's the rest of your little conspiracy, Stokes?" K.T. inquired quietly of the body as he started to open the wallet. The sound of the door slamming shut suddenly stopped him in mid motion.

"K.T. Corben, mercenary Gangrel," someone said in an even, threatening voice. K.T. turned quickly, his left hand putting the wallet into a pocket and his right hand bringing his Ruger up to face the new threat. The newcomer was a young, brown haired man who looked to be no older than twenty, his brown eyes glinting with a maniacal gleam in the dim light of the apartment. As the newcomer advanced into the room, K.T. got a good look at the sawed off, double barreled shotgun in his right hand and the bloodstained machete in his left. "The Old Man of the Mountain has ordered your death! Your crimes will not go unpunished, I promise you that much!"

"Sorry, I don't think you have the right guy," K.T. said, glancing around quickly and trying to find a way out. If what the man said about the Old Man of the Mountain was true, he was an Assamite, the most feared assassins in vampire society. A fairly psychotic assassin, K.T. thought to himself, but a good one nonetheless. With his employer already dead, K.T. had no desire or reason to face off against such a deadly opponent. "You got Stokes, you don't need me. See you around."

"You dare to doubt my judgment?!" the assassin roared. He lifted the shotgun and fired, but there was no report as the assassin called upon his knowledge of the discipline of quietus to blanket the battle in a pall of unnatural silence.

K.T. ducked under the first blast of the shotgun and rolled out of the way of the second, firing off balance as he ended up six feet closer to the window that offered his best exit from the apartment. The assassin threw his shotgun aside and drew a Skorpion submachinegun from his heavy leather jacket, spraying the living room and forcing the mercenary back into the center of the apartment. K.T. fired again as he rolled back behind the old couch, barely avoiding a new burst of fire as the assassin's bullets tore through the furniture only an inch or two over his head. K.T. pushed himself back against the wall and let his third round go straight through the couch, all the shooting held eerily silent by the assassin's discipline of quietus. Without any audible assurance that he had hit his target, K.T. jumped up and rushed again for the window, channeling his blood fuel his own vampiric powers. Using his skill at the discipline of celerity to augment his speed to supernatural levels, the Gangrel streaked across the living room at three times the speed of a normal human, aiming for the window that offered his escape. Despite his phenomenal speed, the assassin still managed to hit him twice in the leg as he dove through the glass pane. He landed against the fire escape railing with a thud, and rolled out of the way only a second before the assassin reached the window and fired out. Half jumping and half falling down to the second floor landing, K.T. leapt to the street below even as his attacker climbed out onto the fire escape and poured a torrent of bullets down on the fleeing Gangrel. Dodging the rain of lead and chancing one last shot over his shoulder, the Gangrel turned a corner, pushed into a derelict bodega, and hurried through the narrow aisle to the rear of the store. The storekeeper, sweeping up the rear of his shop, looked up in shock at his newest customer. K.T. grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and put his huge revolver to the shopkeeper's head.

"You got a back way out?" he asked quickly, glancing to the front of the store.

"T-through that d-door," the storekeeper answered, gesturing with one shaking hand to the store room. K.T. hurried through the store room and out the back door, into a narrow alley littered with garbage and bums. Without another second to lose the Gangrel found his way out to the main street and raced up a flight of steps to a train platform. Glancing behind him, he could see no sign of the assassin.

"Mother fucker," K.T. said, taking a second to look at the mostly healed bullet holes in his leg. He put a finger through one of the holes in his jeans, then looked back to the ground. Still no sign of the assassin. He pulled the wallet out of his pocket, and flipped it open. Inside were several large bills, five different driver's licenses with Cameron's picture on them, several credit cards for a number of different people, and a small slip of paper. He looked up as he heard the train coming, and started down the platform towards it. "What a night. Never again do I ever come to New York."

He caught slight movement out of the corner of his eye. The mercenary dove to the ground only a second before the assassin sprayed everything at waist height on the platform from his vantage point at the steps. K.T. rolled onto his back and fired his last two rounds, one catching the killer square in the chest and knocking him back two steps. K.T. whipped open the cylinder and knocked the shells out of his gun with a single lightning move, and drew a speed loader from a pocket high on his duster. The train would be here in a second; the assassin was regaining his balance and bringing his gun to bear again. He hoped he would have time to reload completely; he jammed the speed loader into the cylinders, snapped the barrel shut, and fired just as he was hit in the side with several rounds, bowling him over. He saw the assassin drop to one knee as well, but K.T.'s shot was high and to the left of the heart, and the Assamite was quickly recovering. The train stopped at the platform, and the doors opened up. K.T. dove in just before more machinegun fire raked across the platform. He glanced out and saw his opponent jumping in. Then he dove back out, the doors almost closing on his coat as it flew out behind him, and vaulted over the side of the platform, more than willing to take the fifteen foot drop over more slugs in his back. Quickly he bolted around another corner, and jumped out in front of a cab just turning onto the street from the opposite side of the intersection. The driver slammed on his brakes, but was too close to the mercenary to avoid a collision. K.T. rolled up and across the hood, dropping back to the ground on the driver's side of the taxi.

"Jesus Christ, you dumbfuck!" the cabby shouted, leaning out of the window. K.T. rounded the car to his window quickly.

"Good," he said, some pain evident in his voice. "You're open."

"Yeah, I'm open," the cabby said, still a bit angry. "You always hail cabs by jumping on the fucking hood?"

"I'm in a hurry," K.T. replied simply. Quickly he got into the cab and sank as low into the seat as he could without appearing suspicious. The taxi sat in the middle of the street for a long moment.

"Well, where to, if you're in such a hurry?" the cabby finally asked, growing impatient with his customer.

"I'll tell you once we're moving," K.T. answered curtly. He threw one last glance over his shoulder, through the rear window of the cab, but there was no sign of the assassin. The mercenary could only hope that the killer had been trapped on the train. "Just drive."

"Okay," the cabby said, simply shrugging his shoulders and turning on the meter. Silently, K.T. thanked God that he had gotten an English-speaking driver. After settling back for a moment and using his blood to heal the last of his injuries, the Gangrel took out Cameron's wallet, and took out the slip of paper. All he could make out for the moment on the slip of paper was Eighteenth Street. The Gangrel was about to hold the paper up, trying to get a better source of light in the back of the dark cab, when the driver spoke up again.

"So, you decided where you want to go yet?" the cabby asked, watching the rear view mirror as he tried to size up the mercenary.

"Eighteenth Street, Manhattan," the Gangrel replied, still looking over his shoulder for any sign of the assassin. Maybe he could find the "rest of the little conspiracy" there. If nothing else, it would get him out of Brooklyn before his would-be assassin could catch up with him.

"That's quite a distance, bud," the driver said. "It's gonna cost ya."

"Trust me, you'll get your money," K.T. said. "Now drive."

"Yeah, yeah," the driver said, starting up Van Brunt Street towards Hamilton Avenue. K.T. finally started to relax as the cab turned onto Hamilton and eventually entered the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. By the time they reached Manhattan, the mercenary was no longer throwing constant glances over his shoulder to search for any possible followers.

"So what's on Eighteenth Street?" the cabby asked as he started through Manhattan traffic.

"None of your business," K.T. replied curtly, taking one last look behind him.

"Hey, I'm just trying to make some small talk," the cabby said. "What? You just get into a fight with your woman or something?"

"If I wanted to talk to someone, I'd have gone to a psychiatrist," K.T. said shortly. "Just get me to Eighteenth Street."

"Alright, alright," the cabby said. They drove the next twelve blocks or so in silence. Finally, the cabby pulled over to a curb.

"Eighteenth Street," he informed the Gangrel brusquely. "That'll be forty-five bucks."

"Keep the change," K.T. said, handing a fifty and a twenty to the driver. "And you never dropped me off here."

"Don't even know who you are," the cabby said, quickly pocketing the money and setting the meter to zero again. K.T. started along the street, looking up at the tall buildings and apartments around him, and took out Cameron's wallet.

K.T. opened up the slip of paper one final time, and looked over the addresses on it in the illumination of a nearby streetlight. There were five addresses on the paper now, he could tell; three were crossed out. The two remaining were an E. Blackwell, located somewhere on Eighteenth Street, and a J. Bonifay, located a bit farther north on Twenty-fourth Street. After a long moment of deliberation, the Gangrel started along the street, checking street numbers to make certain that he was heading in the right direction, looking for the home of E. Blackwell.

Under normal circumstances, K.T. would never be following up on these addresses. Given his choice of options, the mercenary would have already been back in New Jersey, taking his old Indian motorcycle out of the storage bin where it waited, and heading away from the city with all due speed. However, he was faced with a very distinct problem; he was being pursued either by an Assamite, or by someone who wanted nothing more in the world than to be an Assamite. The Assamites were known the world over as feared assassins, and were known never to give up on their mark until one of the two was dead. Even the Assamite antitribu, those that had broken away from the majority of their Middle Eastern clan, were vicious killers with a reputation to uphold. K.T.'s assassin already knew his name and his profession, had known where and when to wait for him, and had declared that the Old Man of the Mountain, the Assamite clan's fabled leader, had sanctioned the mercenary's death. That meant that, at the very least, K.T. had to find and kill this assassin, or, at worst, was going to have to consider fading out of existence for a few decades. While he had no idea what to expect from the apparently psychotic killer, maybe this E. Blackwell did. If things worked out, Blackwell was another member of Cameron's little conspiracy, and would be able to fill the Gangrel in on what was happening in New York.

K.T. was so wrapped up in his thoughts and in looking for an assassin in every shadow that he almost passed E. Blackwell's address without noticing. The Gangrel came to a stop along the sidewalk, and looked up at the gray concrete building in front of him. It was a well maintained, upper middle class building for Manhattan, certainly a step above the preferred havens of the front line Sabbat thugs of the city. His mood lifting the slightest bit, K.T. pushed his way through the revolving glass doors of the building and strode through the lobby, ignoring the slightly stunned and disapproving looks of a pair of yuppies talking near the elevator. The mercenary flashed them a cold smile as he noticed their stares, and the pair quickly started out of the building. Finally, the elevator returned to the ground floor, and K.T. stepped into the cab.

The ninth floor of the apartment building was fairly quiet as K.T. walked out of the elevator and made his way along the charcoal colored carpet to apartment 921. As he reached the door, the Gangrel hesitated for a moment, and listened for any sounds from the interior. All that he could make out was a television playing the news inside. K.T. pushed his duster away from the holster on the left side of his belt, and knocked lightly on the door.

Before the door could open more than a crack, K.T. pushed into the apartment, snagging the front of the occupant's black dress before she could back away from her intruder. The mercenary kicked the door shut even as he slammed his captive into the nearest wall, bringing his Ruger to bear with his free right hand. The young woman that he had captured tried to break free of his iron grasp until the mercenary planted the monstrous weapon in the center of her forehead. Her light brown eyes turned first to the barrel of the huge revolver resting just below the bangs of her shoulder length blond hair, then to the wielder of the weapon. She looked to be no older than twenty, a little under five and a half feet tall, and had a thin, slightly athletic build. As he appraised the young woman, whatever lift K.T.'s mood had taken on the ground floor dropped back to its original low levels. He had expected to find an established member of the Sabbat in this apartment, not the well dressed young socialite he had captured.

"Leave," the young woman ordered, glaring into K.T.'s eyes. The attempt at using the vampiric discipline of domination failed miserably; K.T.'s blood was more potent than the girl's, negating any chance she might have ever had of breaking the mercenary's will.

"No," K.T. answered. The girl's eyes showed the first signs of panic. While her attempt to use a vampiric power revealed her as a vampire, her complete inability to dominate the mercenary meant that she was most likely young and inexperienced, and certainly not a leader of the Sabbat. "Are you Blackwell?" the mercenary asked, praying that the girl was only a member of Blackwell's progeny.

"Who the fuck are you?" the girl demanded, a mixture of hatred and fear in her voice.

"You answer my question, and maybe I'll consider answering yours," K.T. stated evenly.

"Yeah, I am," the girl replied. "So what's it to you?"

"You speak pretty boldly for one so close to Final Death," K.T. snarled. Already part of him was cursing the horrible luck that was plaguing him so far through the night. "You know Cameron Stokes?"

"What? I don't know who you're talking about," Blackwell retorted. K.T. cocked the hammer of the Ruger.

"Oh, I think you do," he said. "Think hard, Sabbat. Think real hard, before I blow your brains out onto the wall behind you."

"I'm telling you, I don't know who he is!" Blackwell exclaimed, fear starting to edge her voice. Considering how frightened she seemed to be of Final Death, she could not have been a Sabbat for long, maybe a year or so. He grabbed a handful of her hair and slammed her face into the doorframe, then tossed her to the ground. Blackwell tried to stumble to her feet, but K.T. swept her feet out from under her, dropping her flat on her back. By the time she could recover, K.T. was on her again, discarding the Ruger in favor of the long hunting knife that he now held to her throat.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" she exclaimed. "I don't know any Stokes, alright?"

"He's a Sabbat bishop," K.T. said, leaning in over her. The blade of his knife brushed across the skin of her throat, just barely drawing blood. "Am I jogging your memory yet?"

"I'm telling you, I don't know him!" Blackwell exclaimed, trying to back away from her attacker. K.T. stood slightly, giving him enough leverage to launch a vicious kick that threw the girl back into the wall. He was on her again as she tried to recover, the knife once more at her throat. "I don't know every goddamn bishop in town, no matter how many weapons you wave in my face!"

"Fuck," K.T. growled, standing up from her and looking around. Not only was she young and inexperienced, but she was also being extraordinarily uncooperative. Blackwell tried to stand, but the Gangrel turned back to her quickly. "Don't move or I gut you where you are."

"I told you I don't know this Stokes guy," Blackwell retorted. "What do you want from me now?"

"You a Sabbat Loyalist?" K.T. asked. He now realized why Stokes had the names and addresses of the five people on the slip of paper; he was most likely trying to find the remaining Loyalists, hoping to get more information from the five of them.

"If I was, so what's it to you?" she said. "Are you Black Hand? Or an Inquisitor?"

"Inquisitor?" K.T. repeated, stopping. Most vampires first thought of Inquisitors as being the fanatically religious mortals who hunted vampires, but the mercenary had heard enough from Sabbat that he had worked with to know that the Sabbat had an Inquisition of its own, cleaning house after the sect's civil war in the first half of the century. Conflicting reports said that the Sabbat's Inquisition was looking for demon worshipers, dissidents, both, or neither, depending upon who asked the questions and who answered them. "The Inquisition is involved with this?"

"Involved in what?" Blackwell asked. "Who the hell are you? What's going on?"

"I'm trying to find out why you're on a list Stokes had before he died," K.T. said. He hesitated a moment, then decided to see how she would react to his next comment. "Oh, it might interest you to know that three of the five people on the list are dead. I get the feeling you're number four."

"Dead?" Blackwell asked, looking more stunned by the news than any punch, kick, or threat K.T. had leveled at her yet. So this girl did know more than she was letting on. "Are you sure?"

"Maybe," K.T. said. "Maybe you'd better rethink what you know about Cameron Stokes."

"He's Lasombra," Blackwell finally admitted after a long pause. "But I don't know much more than that, I swear!"

"Then you are a Loyalist," K.T. concluded. "And someone is killing you off."

"Killing us off?" Blackwell repeated, looking a bit frightened. "But who-? I knew it! I knew we never should have messed with Cordoba, and I said so, but would Jerry listen? No, he had to fuck with the guy and now we're all gonna die!"

"Who's Cordoba?" K.T. asked. Blackwell was pacing around the room, fear, anger and grief all trying to fight their way to the forefront on her face. She turned to him as he asked the question.

"Who are you?" she asked. "Are you an Inquisitor? How do I know you're not with Cordoba?"

"If I was, you'd most likely be dead already," K.T. said. "Besides, he uses Assamites. Stokes and his bodyguard were killed by one."

"Assamites?" Blackwell echoed, looking around her apartment again. "He has Assamites working for him?"

"You'd make a wonderful parrot," K.T. said flatly. While he was not certain if his would-be murderer from Brooklyn actually was an Assamite, the mere mention of the clan had put some of the Fear of God into Blackwell at the very least. "Now who is Cordoba?"

"Who are you, first?" Blackwell asked. "How do I know I can even trust you?"

"You're not dead," K.T. pointed out again. "That's why you can trust me. Now answer the question."

"You answer mine first," Blackwell said, folding her arms across her chest. "After all, I can't just call you 'you' all the time."

"K.T.," the Gangrel finally said, hoping to speed the interrogation process along. "Now answer my question."

"What clan?" Blackwell asked, still not moving.

"You try my patience," K.T. growled.

"Don't I, though?" Blackwell said. K.T. considered shooting her, but the sound of the gun would be far too noticeable in the apartment building. "Now come on. Which is it?"

"Yours first," K.T. said. He prayed that the conclusion he was coming to about her bloodline was not the truth.

"Ventrue, antitribu, and proud of it," Blackwell said. "And you?"

K.T. groaned inwardly, realizing yet another shot of bad luck for the night. A Ventrue antitribu was the last thing he needed now. And so far, she was fitting the stereotype perfectly.

"You'd better thank God you're dead, Stokes," the Gangrel muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" the Ventrue asked.

"Gangrel," K.T. said, cursing his most recent stroke of bad luck for the night silently. A slight expression of distaste came to the Ventrue's face as he said that. "Now who is Cordoba? Is he Black Hand?"

"Black Hand?" Blackwell repeated. "No, he's not Black Hand. What the hell is going on?"

"Stokes said your pack intercepted a communiqué of some sort between Black Hand members," K.T. said, narrowing his eyes. "Who the hell's Cordoba?"

"What if he is Black Hand?" Blackwell asked, more to herself than to K.T. "What if that's why no one wants to mess with him?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" K.T. demanded. The Ventrue looked at him, panic starting to spread across her face, but then it subsided.

"No, it couldn't be," she said, finally coming to some conclusion on her own.

"Why don't you try telling me who Cordoba is," K.T. said with an exasperated expression, hoping that this time the inquiry would filter through her thick skull.

"Tomorrow," Blackwell said. "Look, I'm having some friends over, and I don't know how they'll react to you. You don't actually plan on staying here for the day, do you?"

"Neither of us are," K.T. said. Blackwell looked at him, an expression of indignance on her face. "We're leaving. Now."

"Oh, so now you're my father, too," she said. "Well, can I go out and play, daddy? Or do I have to stay inside?"

K.T. took one step up to her, and in a quick move backhanded her across the face.

"In one heartbeat, you're terrified of this Cordoba, and in the next, you're mouthing off to the only person that's survived his Assamite so far," K.T. pointed out angrily. This latest display of defiance was the last thing he needed. "Listen here, childe, we move now. Before that psychotic assassin shows up again."

"But they don't know who I am," Blackwell said. "And you have the list."

"I have Stokes' list, you stupid bitch!" K.T. snapped, finally losing whatever patience he had left. "Whoever this Cordoba is, he's after you, your one remaining friend, and now me! So get your little ass in gear before I kick it across the room!"

The outburst must have caught her totally off guard, because the young Ventrue was silent for a long moment, openmouthed and staring at K.T. Finally, the Gangrel turned and started for the door, cursing under his breath. If she wanted to get herself killed, that was fine by K.T. He could continue looking for the answers that he needed somewhere else. Hopefully, J. Bonifay would be more intelligent, more cooperative, and hopefully not a Ventrue antitribu.

"Wait!" Blackwell exclaimed, rushing to catch up with him. "Look, I… just let me get a few things first."

"Just things you can carry," K.T. said, turning back to her. "We don't have transportation."

"Oh yes we do," Blackwell countered with a smile. "My car is in the garage downstairs."

"Alright," K.T. conceded. "But one suitcase. We don't have the time to drag the mall around with us."

"Not all girls need to pack the mall to keep themselves well dressed," K.T. heard Blackwell call from the other room.

"I've yet to meet that one," K.T. grumbled, talking to the doorway. "Hurry up, Blackwell. We don't have all night."

"My name's Erica," the Ventrue antitribu stated, peeking around the door. She was now bare to the waist, and K.T. simply shook his head. After a few more minutes than the Gangrel would have liked to have waited, Erica finally came out of the bedroom, dressed in a more serviceable pair of jeans and a sweat shirt. She had a light, white trench coat and an overnight bag in her hands, and she stopped as she considered K.T.'s duster for a long moment.

"Well, come on, John Wayne," she said. "You're the one in a hurry to get out of here."

K.T. simply glared at the young Ventrue coldly, already wishing that he had left while he had the chance. He turned to the door and started out, not waiting for his new companion until he reached the elevator doors. Erica slipped into the cab next to him, and hit the button for the garage level. The mercenary scowled at her, but Erica simply smiled back.

"You're just so humorless," the Ventrue complained as the elevator descended to the basement. "Maybe if you were nicer to people, they wouldn't all be trying to kill you."

"Shut up, Erica," K.T. said as they reached the bottom floor and headed into the parking garage. Part of his mind was debating whether he should drive his knife through the girl's heart, shutting her up until he might need her again, or plunging it into his own heart, ending the night's misery. Erica pulled her keys out of her purse, and turned to a dark green Beretta sitting in one corner of the garage.

"Really," she said, pointing her car alarm at the car and pressing the button. The car chirped once. "You need to-"

Then the car exploded.

K.T. and Erica were both thrown backwards by the deafening blast. He almost thought he was catching fire as the searing, brilliant ball of flame that was Erica's car lifted him and tossed him backwards in a shower of glass and metal shards, not only from the Beretta but from the other cars and even the lights overhead as all the glass in the parking lot was shattered. Stumbling to his feet, almost completely unable to hear from the blast, the Gangrel drew both his gun and knife and whirled around, trying to see through the brilliant flashes of color clouding his vision. Erica made it as far as one knee before she stopped and looked at the smoking, twisted remains of her car.

"Jesus Christ," Erica breathed out, badly shaken by the sudden explosion. She was barely audible over the sounds of car alarms going off through the garage. K.T. dragged her back to her feet as her eyes darted around the garage. "How… how could they know already?"

"We know everything, Erica Blackwell," someone said in an ominous tone behind the two of them. K.T. whirled around, already knowing who it was but astounded by how he had been found so quickly. As he had suspected, the assassin was standing there, the shotgun in his hand. "Wherever you go, I will know. Anywhere you hide, I will be waiting for you. Whoever you think will protect you, I will buy or kill."

Then his voice got extremely pleasant.

"So you may as well just give up now and let me kill you."

"I think I'll pass on that option," K.T. stated, taking stock of the situation quickly. His hand dropped to his gun, ready to draw when the inevitable gunfight began. The assassin shook his head sadly.

"Okay," he said. He fired once, forcing K.T. left and Erica to the right. His second blast caught the Ventrue in the knee, and she fell to the ground, screaming in pain. Once more the assassin threw the shotgun to one side and pulled out the Skorpion as K.T. drew his Ruger and fired. The killer rolled under the shot and jumped to his feet as K.T. fired again, diving to his left and disappearing behind a beat up Escort. The assassin popped up again a second later, but K.T. was already on the move, diving behind a car and firing over the hood wildly. The sprinkler system kicked on then, soaking him instantly as he ducked back behind the cover of a Cavalier.

"Come on out!" the assassin called out in an insanely cheerful voice over the din of the car alarms. "I love hide and seek, but I don't have the time!"

K.T. knocked the empty shells from his Ruger and reloaded quickly, considering his options. He could easily escape the parking garage, but that would leave his enemy alive and searching him out. It also left Erica to the killer's tender mercies, although the mercenary considered his newfound ally only a passing concern at best. His main reason for staying would be to finish the assassin off, freeing him from any more problems until he could leave the city.

There was another gunshot from his right. K.T. glanced over to see Erica on one knee, firing a Glock at the assassin. The Gangrel jumped to his feet then and fired as well, clipping the insane killer along the shoulder as he took aim for the antitribu. The assassin glanced between the two of them, then turned and sprinted up the driveway of the parking garage with supernatural speed. K.T. took only a few steps after him when Erica grabbed his arm.

"We don't have time for that!" she shouted, pushing her dripping wet hair out of her face. "The cops and the fire department are both going to be here any minute now!"

"Shit!" K.T. snapped. He knew Erica was right, though; sirens were now just barely audible over the burning car, the car alarms, and the sprinkler system. He grabbed the Ventrue by the arm and took off for the stairs, heading out onto Nineteenth Street and disappearing into an adjoining alley only a second before the police converged on the apartment building.

III

"Jesus Christ, who in Caine's name was that maniac?"

"That was the assassin that wasted Stokes and his bodyguard earlier," K.T. replied, not paying much attention to Erica as he reloaded his Ruger. He had spent the last two hours dragging the Ventrue through the streets of Manhattan, backtracking, doubling up on his tracks, and using every other trick he could think of to throw off any shadowers that might have followed the pair from Erica's apartment building. His assassin had disappeared without trace after their most recent gunfight, leaving the mercenary with a bad feeling that his movements were somehow being tracked. Now the pair had taken shelter in a narrow, nearly pitch black alley, both of them waiting tensely to see if the assassin would be able to find them here. While Manhattan's alleys provided a large number of hiding places from the assassin, K.T. was beginning to wish that he had remained in Brooklyn. He could have used the flat, wide open roof tops to spot his enemy coming and force a fight that could only end in one's death or incapacitation. K.T. tucked the Ruger back into its holster as he tried to figure out an advantage to be derived from the cramped alleys and towering skyscrapers of his present location.

"That must have been a Malkavian or something," Erica continued, mostly oblivious to K.T.'s statement. "He sure as hell was no Assamite. Why in Caine's name am I being chased around by a Malkavian?"

"Who's J. Bonifay?" K.T. asked, ignoring the young Ventrue's concerns and attempting to make some headway on his escape from New York. Erica looked up quickly, her eyes wide in surprise.

"Bonifay? That's my pack's leader!" she exclaimed. "How do you know about him?"

"If the assassin is going off the same sheet of paper I have, Bonifay's the last one, other than you, to kill off," K.T. said. Erica started for the street at the end of the alley, but the Gangrel grabbed her by the arm. "Where the hell are you going?"

"I have to get to Jerry before that psycho does!" Erica replied quickly. "Let go of me!"

"Wait a minute!" K.T. said, pulling her back again as she tried once more to get away. "This has something to do with that communiqué, right?"

"What are you talking about?" Erica asked, genuinely confused.

"Stokes said your pack intercepted some kind of message between two Hand members, and since then everyone's been dying off," K.T. said. If he had to remind the girl about this supposedly important document, he began to wonder what good she would even be to him in the future.

"That was hardly even important!" Erica said. "Now let me go!"

"Does Jerry have it?" K.T. asked.

"He might," Erica replied, her hand dropping quickly to the Glock tucked into her waistline. "Now let me go before I do something you'll regret."

"Reach for your gun and I blow you in half," K.T. said, pulling his own revolver and sticking it into her chest. Erica looked down at the weapon, then back up to the mercenary's cold gaze. "Now we're both going to Jerry's. Don't do anything stupid."

"Me? Act stupid?" Erica asked, incredulous. "You're the one that's been charging into apartments and threatening or shooting everyone you meet! Maybe you should think about controlling yourself before you worry about what I'm going to do, you muscleheaded freak!"

K.T. started to turn, then brought his gun up and pistol whipped the Ventrue, hearing a satisfying crack as he connected with her jaw.

"Don't make me do that again," K.T. ordered as he roughly picked Erica up. "The only reason you're still alive is because I decided you might be useful somewhere down the line. Don't make me rethink that decision."

"Asshole," Erica grumbled, holding the side of her face. K.T. smiled coldly at her.

"I could have shot you," the Gangrel said. He turned and started for the entrance of the alley. "Now come on."

Twenty-fourth Street was only a ten minute walk from the alley where they had taken shelter, but to K.T. the trip was nine and a half minutes too long. As he made his way up Eighth Avenue, he became painfully aware of the shadows, dark alleys, and even the people around him, trying to find some hint of an assassin's presence. Using the vampiric discipline of obfuscate, the assassin could hide himself in even the smallest shadows, or he could be disguised as one of the dozens of mortals on the street. If the assassin had studied the discipline long enough, he could even turn invisible, and could be walking right next to K.T. without the mercenary even being able to tell. The Gangrel glanced over at Erica, and noticed that she was nervous as well; the young Ventrue tried to keep her distance from every person and every blind corner on the street, nearly bumping into K.T. on more than one occasion. As they finally neared their destination, the Gangrel decided that, for quite possibly the first time in his life, he would be happy to be inside a closed room where he could see everything around him than out in the open air.

Jerry Bonifay's apartment was another well maintained apartment building looking over the streets of the Flatiron District, another haven from the young and upwardly mobile of Manhattan. Rows of windows and long, continuous ledges cut across each floor of the building, ascending thirty-five stories into the dark skies above. K.T. stopped to check the address of the apartment building one last time, but Erica quickly breezed past him, making her way through the darkly tinted glass doors of the building's lobby. K.T. hesitated outside the apartment for a moment, feeling a deep, dull ache in the pit of his stomach. He had been forced to use up most of his blood on healing and fueling his vampiric powers, and was now beginning to feel the unreasoning Hunger descending upon him. The lobby of Bonifay's apartment building currently contained over a dozen mortals, all easy marks for a hungry vampire if he was unconcerned about hiding his undead nature. Steeling his will, the Gangrel marched in through the doors, pointedly keeping his eyes from lingering on any of the mortals that were gathered near the elevators. Erica was nowhere to be found in the lobby, and so K.T. quickly started up the fire stairs, heading for the fifteenth floor of the building.

K.T. scanned the hallway of the fifteenth floor for a moment as he pushed through the fire door, then stepped out into the brightly lit, gray carpeted hallway. Erica was still nowhere to be found, but the mercenary suspected that his current companion was already at Bonifay's apartment. Finally, as he reached apartment 1541, the mercenary found the door pushed halfway open, a key still stuck in the dead bolt. K.T. removed the key, then pulled the door shut as he walked into Jerry Bonifay's apartment.

Jerry Bonifay's apartment was a study in contemporary tastes. A pair of black leather couches ran along the living room walls to his left and in front of him, bounded by tall, black lamps trimmed in polished brass. A large, clear glass coffee table sat in front of the sofas on the plush white carpeting of the living room floor. Heavy black drapes framed a large picture window just to the right of the far couch, affording a decent, but not spectacular, view of the Flatiron's skyline. To the mercenary's left, a short, wide hallway led to a spacious bathroom with a marble tub, and a doorway to the right of the bath that offered a view of a wide bedroom. A large kitchen was built to his right, separated from the living room by a wide, lacquered wood bar, complete with a row of black stools on the living room side of the counter. A large, black metal entertainment center came into view along the right wall of the living room as the Gangrel walked farther into the apartment, holding a large television, a state of the art stereo, and two VCRs. Large hardwood speakers finished the living room furnishings, set on either side of the entertainment center. To afford such an apartment in middle Manhattan, Jerry Bonifay had to have a high bankroll, and K.T. once again pondered the possibility that he had found a competent member of the Sabbat. Erica came out of the bedroom as the mercenary moved into the apartment, her face a mask of concern for her packmate's safety.

"He's not here," the Ventrue said, still looking around the apartment as though she expected Bonifay to appear at any moment.

"Nothing's touched," K.T. observed, scanning the apartment once more. Everything seemed to be perfectly in order, showing no signs of a struggle. "He went out for the night. Vampires are known to do that. Now let's get out of here before that assassin shows up. Do you know where he might have gone?"

"No," Erica replied. "Yeah, we're packmates, but that doesn't mean I know where he is all the time."

"Wonderful," K.T. grumbled, looking around. He was once more without a single lead. "I need blood and we need a place to stay for the night. You know this city better than I do. Where do we go?"

"We can stay here," Erica said. K.T. looked at her for a moment in disbelief.

"You really have no idea how stupid you are, do you?" he asked. Erica folded her arms across her chest and looked at him angrily.

"Yeah, I'm dumb," Erica said sarcastically. "I'm so dumb that I know the assassin won't show up here. If he was going to, he would have shown up an hour ago, before we could get here. After all, we didn't see him at all for the last hour and a half. No one could be that good."

"If he's an Assamite he could be," K.T. pointed out. Erica shrugged.

"Then he would either attack us here, or he would follow us to where we're going and then attack us there," Erica said in a rather condescending tone. "Face it. We lost him, and he wouldn't think we're dumb enough to come here. Sometimes, thinking stupidly can work."

K.T. prayed he would find a fault with the plan for no other reason than to show Erica that she was not as smart as she thought she was. Unfortunately, she had a very valid point. It was getting closer to dawn; the assassin, if he was following them, would have to make his move soon. K.T. would have done something by now, if he were the assassin.

"What about feeding?" the Gangrel finally asked, conceding the first point to the Ventrue. Erica said nothing, but walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She took two wine bottles filled with blood from the top shelf, and turned back to lean on the counter that separated her from the Gangrel.

"This should keep both of us for the night," Erica decided, handing one of the bottles of blood over to K.T. The Gangrel looked at the bottle for a moment, then turned to the Ventrue. "Oh, come on. Do you think we always go out and drain people to death? That can be so much trouble at times. Besides, you should have seen the looks on the faces of the technicians when we walked into the blood bank and asked for a withdrawal. It was to die for."

K.T. looked at her for another moment, then pulled the cork out of the bottle and drank its contents in a single chug. Erica was still smiling as she drank down her own bottle, still amused with the image she had conjured up. His hunger sated for the moment, K.T. put the empty bottle down on the counter and turned back to the bedroom. He still needed answers, and he was getting nowhere with his newfound partner.

"Where are you going?" Erica asked, seeing him walk into the hallway and start through the bedroom door. "Hey, K.T., what do you think you're doing?"

"I'm looking," the mercenary answered, largely ignoring the Ventrue as he entered the bedroom. A king sized bed with black blankets dominated the center of the otherwise bare room, flanked on either side by dressers of black varnished wood standing against the wall to his left. A large window, painted solid black and covered by thick black curtains, took up much of the far wall. K.T. looked around for a moment, and slowly noticed that there were no mirrors in the apartment.

"Looking for what?" Erica demanded, following K.T. into the bedroom.

"That communiqué that you think has nothing to do with the situation," the mercenary answered. "Where would he keep private documents?"

"I'm not going to tell you that!" Erica exclaimed. "You can't just bust into someone's apartment and rip through their stuff!"

"Then tell me where the hell it is!" K.T. snapped, turning back on the girl. "Look, it's been a really long night! I've been shot at a whole lot, and I'm not even getting paid for this shit! Now until I find out if this psychotic bastard that thinks he's an Assamite is going to hunt me to the ends of the earth, I can't leave this God forsaken city, so I'd really like to find out who he is and get on with my fucking life! Now where the fuck are his private documents?"

"I'm not going to tell you," Erica stated evenly. Her voice slowly started to rise as she continued to speak. "Jerry will be back tonight, and if he isn't he'll be back tomorrow night. Considering that the sun will be up in an hour or two, you can't go anyplace today. So just settle in, relax for the rest of the night, get a good day's sleep, and then you can find out from Jerry where he keeps his fucking top secret Black Hand communiqués!"

K.T. glared at Erica for a long moment, but this time the girl refused to back down.

"Fine," the mercenary relented. "But if he isn't here tomorrow night, I'm ripping through everything he owns in search of this letter."

"Fine," Erica huffed, dropping down on the bed. She started to burrow under the blankets, then looked back at K.T. "Turn off the lights while you're still standing."

K.T. glared at the young Ventrue for a moment, then walked over to the light switch.

"I should have shot her while I had the chance," the mercenary grumbled, just loud enough for Erica to hear. Then he picked out as comfortable a spot as he could find on the floor, and drifted off into fitful sleep.

The sound of a phone being slammed down woke K.T. with a start. The mercenary jumped up, his hand already halfway to his Ruger, before he could completely identify the sound. K.T. looked around for a moment until he saw Erica sitting crosslegged on the edge of the bed, a phone in her lap. As K.T. turned to her, he noticed a concerned expression on her face.

"Something wrong?" the Gangrel inquired, stretching slightly.

"Is something wrong?" Erica repeated, incredulous. "I can't reach him anywhere! I beeped him, I called our communal haven, I even tried most of his friends!"

"I take it we're talking about Bonifay," K.T. assumed. Erica gave him an angry glare. "You're going to have to face the fact that the assassin probably got to him already."

"He's not dead," Erica countered. "He must just be someplace else."

"Sure," K.T. said, keeping all but the faintest hints of sarcasm from his voice. Erica turned back to him, an angry expression on her face as she opened her mouth to reprimand the mercenary.

The sound of the apartment door opening silenced the young Ventrue before she could speak. Erica started to turn to the bedroom door, but K.T. quickly motioned for her to remain silent where she was. Erica reluctantly complied, listening to the sounds of someone moving through the living room. Slowly K.T. drew his Ruger, waiting for the unseen newcomer to appear at the door.

"Erica?" a man suddenly called out from the living room, his voice somewhat hesitant. K.T. glanced over to the Ventrue, but she was already rushing through the door.

"Jerry!" Erica exclaimed, disappearing into the living room. K.T. dropped his face into his left hand in disgust, wishing that his one excuse for an ally in the entire city would show a little restraint. Finally, after waiting for a few seconds and not hearing a roar of gunfire, the mercenary cautiously walked out of the bedroom.

K.T. walked back into the living room to see Erica in the arms of a slightly taller man that appeared to be even younger than Erica, his long black hair pulled into a ponytail that rested on the collar of his black suit. The Ventrue's friend turned his dark eyes to K.T. as the mercenary appeared in the room, glancing down to the Ruger that the Gangrel still loosely held in his right hand. Standing just beyond the pair was a haggard looking man of about thirty, nervously watching K.T. for any signs of danger. Erica noticed the sudden unease that had come over both Jerry and the other man, and took a step back.

"Oh," Erica said, gesturing to the mercenary. "Jerry, this is K.T. He helped me get away from this psychotic assassin that showed up at my place last night."

"Nice to meet you, K.T.," Jerry said, his voice still betraying a bit of his distrust of the mercenary.

"Feelings are mutual," K.T. stated, finally holstering his Ruger. Jerry and K.T. sized each other up for a moment. "So, you're a Lasombra, I take it?"

Jerry seemed surprised at the tactless remark, but then smiled slightly.

"Yes, I am," the young man replied. "I guess the lack of mirrors gave it away. To be so blunt, you could only be Gangrel."

K.T. said nothing, but simply nodded in agreement as he considered his newest associate. The Lasombra was the clan that fielded the traditional leaders of the Sabbat, a clan of manipulators and deceivers with a unique vampiric discipline to control shadows and darkness as well as the classical vampiric weakness of being incapable of casting a reflection in mirrors. K.T. disliked dealing with the clan on the whole, and he was already certain that this time would be no different.

"Where the hell have you been, Jerry?" Erica asked, cutting into the conversation as she tried to find out more from her packmate. "I called everywhere looking for you! I almost thought you were dead!"

"I was riding around town," Jerry replied. "When I got word about Calvin and Jake getting murdered, I took to the streets. Collins here was an exceptional aide to keeping me moving and safe, even during the daylight hours. I was kind of glad I was asleep, too. Collins took us out to Staten Island."

Collins shrugged his shoulders as Erica looked over at him.

"Why didn't you let me know what was going on?" Erica asked, turning back to the Lasombra.

"I tried," Jerry answered. "Five times I called your place, but no one was home. I got your answering machine, and I was a little nervous about leaving a message."

"Yeah, well, we were moving around town a bit last night, too," Erica admitted. "K.T. got to me just before this nut job of an assassin that thought he was an Assamite did." She glanced over to K.T., and for a moment the Gangrel thought he saw something that might have been construed as a thankful expression on her face. "I guess it's because of him that I'm still alive."

"Well, K.T., I guess I owe you a debt of thanks," Jerry said, giving K.T. an amiable smile. "You saved the last living member of my pack last night."

"Yeah, well, I didn't have anything else to do," the mercenary grumbled out. "Do you have the communiqué your pack intercepted from the Black Hand?"

"The communiqué? Why?" Jerry asked, looking confused. K.T.'s eyes narrowed the slightest bit as he examined Jerry a second time.

"You intercepted a communiqué from the Black Hand and sent it off to a bishop," the Gangrel started. "Since then, everyone who has seen that communiqué, and another bishop and his bodyguard besides, has either been killed or at least come very close to dying. Didn't you ever think that the communiqué might have something to do with it?"

"I think this all has to do with our differences with Cordoba," Erica said to Jerry. The Lasombra looked from her to K.T.

"So do I ever get to find out who this Cordoba is?" the Gangrel asked, rapidly becoming disgusted with the runaround he received every time the name was mentioned. "Is he Black Hand?"

"You're not from around here, that's for sure," Jerry remarked, his eyes showing a bit of suspicion. "Who are you?"

"My name is K.T.," the Gangrel replied. "Bishop Stokes called me in to look into something with the Black Hand. Now can someone please tell me who Cordoba is?"

"Called you in?" Jerry repeated. "You are Sabbat, aren't you?"

Erica turned to K.T., a surprised look on her face as he hesitated in answering. From her reaction, the mercenary could easily tell that the young Ventrue had never even considered the possibility that K.T. was not a member of the Sabbat.

"No," K.T. finally answered. He could have lied and told them that he was, even backing up his claim with a little bit of knowledge he had picked up about the sect along the way, but decided that Jerry's trust meant too little to him to attempt the deception. "I'm a mercenary. I was hired by Stokes, but now he's as dead and some lunatic who thinks he's the greatest assassin in Assamite history is after the three of us. I can't leave town until I know how much of a threat this idiot is going to be to me, so, one more time, who is Cordoba?"

Jerry stalled for a long moment, looking to Erica. The Ventrue seemed too surprised by K.T.'s revelation of his mercenary status to even give her packmate some kind of sign that they could trust the mercenary. K.T. folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall, rapidly growing tired of the Lasombra's hesitation.

"Okay," Jerry finally said, resigning himself to taking on the mercenary as an ally in his difficult situation. "Cordoba is a Panders with a serious attitude problem."

"You're afraid of a Panders," K.T. stated, rolling his eyes in disgust. K.T. knew of the Panders "clan"; they were Caitiff, the clanless, thin blooded vampires of the Sabbat, and they were still often treated as second class citizens by the elders of the sect. No Panders that K.T. knew of could even come close to affording a real Assamite, or even an insane vampire that thought he was an Assamite.

"I know, I know," Jerry said. "Since you've obviously heard of the Panders, you're asking yourself how one lousy Panders could be such a threat, am I right?"

"You're on the right track," K.T. stated.

"Well, ordinarily, the most you'd have to worry about from a Panders is a smartass remark or maybe a fistfight," Jerry admitted. "But Cordoba, well, he's different. He's the baddest of the bad in Lower Manhattan, a cold blooded killer and the undisputed leader of one of the largest packs in the area, fourteen strong. He also has enormous influence over two other packs in the area, giving him another fifteen soldiers whenever he wants them. He has such complete control over Lower Manhattan that he even makes the local bishops nervous, and I've heard that Polonia himself was taking notice of Cordoba. The man is a bishop in everything but name. And he wants that title, too. He'll kill anyone that gets in his way. Look what happened to Stokes. You said he's dead, right? Cordoba and Stokes never liked each other. We're talking about a guy who threatens bishops, demands absolute respect from anyone passing through his turf, and managed to steal a third of the heroin trade in Lower Manhattan from the Setites."

"So you're telling me that this Panders is running around whacking bishops and entire packs in the Sabbat," K.T. stated. The mercenary was far from convinced, but he had to give Cordoba at least a little respect. If what Jerry was saying was true, the Panders had gone up against the Setites and won, no mean feat for even a seasoned pack of Sabbat. The Followers of Set were composed of some of the most corrupt, evil, and duplicitous vampires in existence. Most of the vampires that went up against the Followers in established Setite territories lost if they were lucky, or became unwitting pawns of the Setites' malignant schemes.

"You don't know the guy like we do, K.T.," Erica said, speaking up before Jerry could argue his point. For the first time since he had met her, K.T. could not find a trace of the condescending edge in the Ventrue's voice, but a faint tint of fear. "You never heard about the Limelight."

"The Limelight?" K.T. repeated. Jerry nodded.

"About a year ago, eight nomadic Sabbat rolled into town," Erica started, carefully recalling the tale. "They stopped in at the Limelight, which is a club down on Twentieth Street. They had no way of knowing that the Limelight is one of Cordoba's favorite haunts. Well, Cordoba and his pack met up with the nomads there, and things got out of hand. Cordoba simply ordered five of his packmates to tear into the nomads, and his pack killed six of them right then and there. Cordoba let two of them escape on purpose, then let his hunters loose after them, so that they could hunt the two nomads across the city and slaughter them one at a time. Like we're being hunted now."

"But then what about the communiqué?" K.T. asked. "Is Cordoba Black Hand?"

"He could be," Jerry said. The thought that Cordoba could be part of the Hand seemed to make the Lasombra a bit nervous. "He's certainly brutal enough, and I've seen Assamites get a little nervous at the thought of the possibility of fighting him. And it might explain part of the reason why the bishops in the city won't use the Hand against him. After all, if he's one of them the Hand might kill the bishops instead. Maybe Stokes and Halsey were both killed because they knew too much, and Cordoba didn't want his alliance with the Hand confirmed. Maybe he's planning on taking the city over with the Hand's assistance."

"Halsey's the bishop you turned to, right?" K.T. asked, looking for a loophole in this seemingly unbelievable story.

"Yeah," Jerry replied. "We thought he'd be on the level. No one really likes a Loyalist, but he tolerated us better than most. He said he would look into the matter personally for us. Three days later, well, nothing was left of him but ash."

"He killed two bishops to keep a secret," K.T. said skeptically.

"He would," Erica interjected. "The guy's a brutal murderer. You heard what Jerry said. The Assamites are scared of him!"

"Where's the communiqué?" K.T. asked, turning to Jerry.

"Our pack's haven," the Lasombra replied. "I had planned on keeping it hidden until I could find another bishop I knew I could trust. I don't know what's going on in this town, but right now you and Erica are the only ones I would trust to be on my side right now."

"Then let's go get it and turn it over to someone before we all end up dead," K.T. said.

"But who do we turn it over to?" Erica asked.

"Who do we have left?" Jerry asked. "It's hard to find someone we can trust. Our last option is the archbishop, but I'm in no hurry to go in front of Polonia with a story like this."

"There's no other choice," Erica pointed out. Jerry nodded in reluctant agreement.

"Then let's go get this communiqué," K.T. said. Jerry nodded.

"Just let me get a jacket out of my closet, and we'll be on our way," the Lasombra said, walking into his bedroom. K.T. watched him disappear for a long moment, distrust in his eyes. Most likely it was nothing more than a simple suspicion of any Lasombra, but something about Jerry's smooth answers to his disappearance and his inability to contact Erica the previous night did not sit well with the mercenary. Erica moved into his line of sight after a moment, watching him for a long moment.

"What?" the young Ventrue finally inquired, her face taking on the first hints of anger. K.T. looked at her, and shrugged.

"Nothing," he said simply.

"It'd better be nothing," Erica stated. With the way he looked, the Ventrue could tell that K.T. was unwilling to buy something in Jerry's story. K.T. simply shrugged again, then looked past her as Jerry returned to the living room. The Lasombra gestured to Collins, and the mortal retainer led the three vampires out of the apartment.

IV

"I can't wait until this is all over," Erica said, watching the street from her window as Collins drove south through Manhattan on Seventh Avenue. "I can't stand any more of this."

"I hope this plan does work," Jerry said from the front seat. "We're taking a risk here, but I think that we have a good shot at getting the archbishop to come around to our side. After all, with the way Cordoba has been putting on airs lately, all of the bishops are probably hoping for three people like us to come around with some incriminating evidence."

"And it was just my luck to be one of those three," K.T. grumbled.

"Odd how fate works, isn't it?" Jerry inquired, turning back to the mercenary. "K.T., look, I know you're not Sabbat, but you helped us out more than you know. We really owe you a debt of thanks. Because of that, I'd like to offer you membership in our pack."

"Membership in your pack?" K.T. repeated, looking up to the Lasombra in surprise.

"Yeah," Jerry replied. "We've really taken a beating lately, and our pack will be disbanded if we don't replace the losses. You'd be a great addition to the pack, K.T."

"I think I'm fine on my own," K.T. said, looking out the window. Erica turned to him, and for a moment K.T. thought he saw something odd in her eyes that he could not quite place.

"Come on," she said. "At least for a little bit. Maybe you'll like life with the Sabbat."

"I'm much better off without having to look after people and have people look after me," K.T. said. "I don't work well in groups."

"Alright," Erica said, turning back to her window. K.T. could have sworn that there was a note of disappointment in the Ventrue's words, but for the time being put that out of his mind. He continued to watch the traffic and buildings of Seventh Avenue roll by, ignoring Jerry and Erica as they discussed things that had nothing to do with their current situation. K.T.'s biggest problem came in accepting the fact that a Panders could be responsible for what was going on within the city. The mercenary had met one or two of the clanless Sabbat that had mastered the skills and disciplines needed to become a terror in personal combat, but only the rarest and most cunning of the Panders could rise in influence beyond the level of his own pack. Still, if what Jerry and Erica had told him was true, the mercenary was going to need kryptonite to deal with Cordoba.

"We're here," Erica suddenly said brightly, patting K.T. on the shoulder. The Gangrel snapped out of his thoughts quickly, seeing Jerry and Erica already stepping out of the Lexus. K.T. followed suit, and took a moment to scan his surroundings for any sign of trouble. The corner of Seventh Avenue and Tenth Street was not a fantastic neighborhood, but it was by no means the worst, either. Six story brownstones, all kept free of graffiti and well maintained, lined the streets, making K.T. think more of Brooklyn than Manhattan. The streets too ran in an odd pattern; just to the south, Fourth Street crossed over Tenth Street, while Charles Street intercepted Seventh Avenue just to the north. Cars lined the sides of the thoroughfares, but somehow Collins had managed to find a space right in front of Jerry's communal haven. The Lasombra walked up the sidewalk to the building, drawing a set of keys from his pocket to unlock the door. As he did so, K.T. turned to look back up the street, in time to see a large, orange Cadillac low rider turn the corner of Charles Street. Jerry pushed the door open even as the Cadillac began to speed up, and the Gangrel could see the barrel of a shotgun protruding from the window as it rapidly drew closer.

"Cover!" K.T. shouted. He tackled Erica to the ground as the gunmen started to fire, narrowly missing getting the top of his head taken off by a shotgun blast. The car sped past, then slammed on the brakes, spinning around to make a second pass.

"Get in here!" Jerry shouted from the door. K.T. drew his Ruger and started to stand, but at the same moment Collins was thrown back by a single, well placed shot through his heart. The mercenary dropped back behind the Lexus, searching quickly for the new shooter, dragging Erica back down by her arm before the sniper could zero in on the young Ventrue. K.T. heard the Cadillac screeching through a turn as he located the sniper on the roof of the brownstone across the street, but before he could say anything the shooter let off another round. Jerry screamed in pain, and the mercenary glanced back over his shoulder to see the Lasombra tumbling back into his haven. K.T. started to raise himself up over the roof of the Lexus, but the Cadillac was on them then, raking the Lexus with machinegun fire and forcing K.T. and Erica back to the ground. Glass shattered and rained down on the mercenary as he tried to figure out a way from the car to the relative safety of the haven without being cut to ribbons by the sniper and the gang bangers in the car. Erica put her back to the Lexus as she drew her Glock, flinching away as another bullet from the sniper punched through the hood of the car and missed her head by only a few inches. The Cadillac was turning around already, ready to come back for another pass.

"They're fucking with us!" the Ventrue screamed over the rapid fire of gunmen in the Cadillac. "We've got to get to the house!"

"Who the fuck are they?" K.T. demanded. He leaned over the hood of the car and fired one shot at the sniper, then jumped back before the assassin could pick him off.

"I think they're Setites!" Erica shouted back. She started to say something else, but suddenly her chest exploded from the impact of another bullet; the sniper had gotten her cleanly even while firing straight through the Lexus. She stared down at her chest in shock, her brown eyes wide, then she slumped over.

"Fuck!" K.T. growled. He could hear the Cadillac coming back for another pass, and K.T. shifted his position lower and closer to Erica just a second before more bullets riddled the car only inches over his head. Pretty soon the Setites were going to get tired of this game and stop to finish them off, but the assassin was going to make it nearly impossible to get to the house. As if to punctuate the point, another bullet ripped through the front of the Lexus where he had been only a moment ago. Erica stirred then, still holding her chest in pain but healed enough to do something again. The only plus in the whole deal was that the Setites were too busy having fun; they were aiming high and not stopping to finish them off yet.

"We're fucked, aren't we?" she asked weakly. K.T. was about to confirm her fears, but then opened the car door. "What are you doing?"

"Just get in the fucking car!" K.T. shouted. He didn't have much time, but a buddy of his had once taught him how to hotwire cars for just such an emergency as this. He just hoped the Lexus would still run for at least a couple of blocks before it died. "Shoot at the fucking sniper! Buy me a minute!"

Erica pulled herself up enough to see the barrel of the rifle that had shot her a minute ago, then looked back to where Collins was lying face down on the pavement. She glanced back up at the sniper; he seemed to be taking aim at the car again, trying to hit the Gangrel through the Lexus.

"You shoot at him!" the Ventrue shouted back. K.T. turned back to her in shock. "Buy me a second!"

"What the fuck are you doing?" K.T. screamed over the roar of gunfire again. If Erica had heard him, however, she completely ignored him. K.T. looked up in time to see the barrel of the sniper's gun swing away from the car and to the Ventrue, who was now running for the body of the ghoul. The Setites were already turning around; she had maybe ten seconds before the Cadillac would make another pass. He fired twice at the roof, and the barrel slid back as the sniper tried to take cover. Erica reached the body and fumbled through the pockets; the Setites had turned and were already returning, shooting at Erica as she came up with the keys and sprinted back for the Lexus. At the last moment she jumped into the car, taking one bullet through her calf. She handed the keys off to K.T., and he quickly turned the ignition.

For the amount of bullets the Setites and the sniper combined had put through it, K.T. was surprised his half baked plan had even worked. The engine came to life with a whine of protest, and K.T. slammed the car into reverse as the Setites flew past them. Bullets started to tear into the car again as the Cadillac flew past. Erica hastily pulled her door closed, then grabbed K.T.'s arm.

"What about Jerry?" she exclaimed. "He's still in the house!"

"He's on his own!" K.T. replied, his head snapping back and forth to see both behind and in front of the car. The Setites were spinning around short of their usual mark, and starting to close even before they had picked up much speed. "We'll come back and try to get him later!"

"We have to get him now or he'll be killed!" Erica shouted, on the verge of panic.

"We'll all be killed if we go back!" K.T. shot back. He continued the car's reverse motion, switching his Ruger to his left hand and sticking the gun out the window for a wild shot. He caught sight of the Ventrue starting to open the door to get out, and quickly switched his gun back to his right hand. Before she could completely open the door, the Gangrel smashed the butt of the oversized revolver into the side of her head, knocking her unconscious. Then he turned the corner of Eleventh Street, dropped the car into first gear with a terrible whine from the transmission, and shot forward only a second before the Setites could ram broadside into the car. The Cadillac tried to take the turn after them too quickly and ended up smacking into the side of one of the brownstones, slowing them down enough for him to turn up Sixth Avenue. He quickly stopped the car, grabbed the unconscious Ventrue, and pushed out of the car through the partially open passenger door, using his celerity to triple his speed as he raced for the cover of a narrow alley. The Cadillac screeched to a halt at the end of the alley as he threw Erica's limp body over a ten foot fence, then scrambled over the top of it as the Setites lit up the narrow confines with machinegun fire. Two bullets clipped the Gangrel as he jumped over the fence, then he dove to the ground as the fence itself started to disintegrate above him. Erica moaned softly, but she still was not up for any decathlons through the streets of Manhattan. K.T. crawled up to her, then in a quick move hefted her over his shoulder and took off. One bullet ripped through his forearm and another grazed hi ear, but K.T. turned the corner of the alley onto Seventh Avenue remarkably unscathed.

"Yeah, you run, filt'y Sabbat!" someone shouted from behind the fence. K.T. glanced back to see someone standing at what was left of the fence, an AK-47 held skyward. He expected another shot, but instead the figure flicked a cigarette in his direction. "Run, Sabbat, run!"

K.T. decided to take the Setite's advice, and sprinted away down the street.

Lying on the floor of the brownstone's front hall, Jerry was able to hear the gunfight continuing on the street outside. Slowly the Lasombra pulled himself into a sitting position, making sure that he still had his Glock as he tried to heal the extensive damage that the sniper's bullet had done to his chest. Finally, as Jerry made his way back to the slightly opened door, he could hear the Lexus start up with a cry of protest, and the gunfight quickly followed the sounds of the tortured motor towards Eleventh Street. Pulling the door open an inch further, Jerry glanced out onto the street.

The Lexus was gone, he noticed quickly, as he thought it would be. Gasoline, oil, coolant, and transmission fluid pooled on the ground where the car had been parked, and one or two faint bloodstains adorned the curb. Collins was still lying on the ground where he had fallen, but someone had pushed him over onto his back and rifled his pockets. The sniper that had taken up a position across the street was long gone. After allowing himself to finish healing his injury and scanning the streets for any signs of danger, Jerry carefully shut the door of the brownstone and headed back into the building.

The narrow hallway led back to a darkened kitchen, light shining in through the window set over the sink standing directly opposite the doorway. An oval table and four wooden chairs sat in the center of the room, while an old, slightly worn range and refrigerator rested against the wall on his right. Jerry walked into the kitchen silently, making his way to a small counter next to the sink, taking a lighter from the top of the counter and igniting it to shed a little bit of light on the room. After one last glance over his shoulder, Jerry opened the top drawer of the counter and rummaged through the assortment of papers inside. Finally, he found the document he was looking for, and held it up in the feeble illumination of the lighter. This was what K.T. had been looking for. The communiqué that seemed to be getting everyone killed.

"Ooh, now dis one is good," someone said behind him. Jerry turned around to see a large man standing in the doorway, a shotgun resting casually on his shoulder. He was at least six foot five and about half as wide, a truly intimidating man with long black dred locks and mirror shades despite the darkness. His pearly white smile stood out despite the darkness, contrasted even further by his midnight colored face. "One o' de filt'y Sabbat left behind by 'is friends."

"Well well, Clairvius," Jerry said, looking for a way out of the brownstone quickly. The window over the sink was close enough to be a real chance. Clairvius was quite possibly the most physically deadly member of the Followers of Set in New York City, and almost always loaded his shotgun with the deadly Dragon's Breath rounds, phosphorous slugs that could burn a vampire to death in short order. While Jerry stood a slim chance of outmaneuvering Clairvius in the small kitchen, one hit from that shotgun would likely kill the Lasombra instantly. "What do the Setites want with me now?"

"Oh, we be wantin' our drug trade back, Jerry," Clairvius replied. "Now we be takin' back de streets in our own way, an' you better get out of our way. Or maybe you be wantin' to join us?"

"I don't think so," Jerry said, taking an almost imperceptible step towards the window. Clairvius chuckled a little.

"Where do you t'ink you're goin'?" he asked. Jerry cursed silently. He looked down at the paper in his hand, and then put the lighter to it. Clairvius whipped the shotgun off of his shoulder, but Jerry leapt through the window with a supernatural burst of speed only a second before the Setite could fire.

Clairvius stopped himself from squeezing down on the trigger at the last instant, knowing that his wild blast would never reach the speedy Lasombra. Clairvius cursed at losing his prey, but then quickly moved across the kitchen and stamped out the smoldering paper that Jerry had dropped on the floor. The Setite removed his mirror shades as he bent down and retrieved the document, slowly reading over the contents. As he finished reading the message, the ghost of a grin passed over his face, and Clairvius neatly folded the paper and placed it in his trench coat pocket. Finally, the Setite turned and started out of the brownstone, softly whistling as he left.

"It ain't much, but it's the best I can do with time and resources."

K.T. watched as Erica walked into the dingy room, on the third floor of a run down welfare motel situated on Canal Street only a few blocks from the Holland Tunnel. The only light in the room came from a single bulb suspended from the ceiling, dangling over a narrow single bed with rust stained, vaguely white sheets. A badly beaten night table stood next to the bed, bare of anything but an ancient rotary telephone and heavy scarring from the room's previous tenants. The off white walls were peeling in many places, revealing the bare sheet rock beneath the rough, filthy paint job. The bathroom, standing off to the right, was no better than the bedroom. Rust and dirt stains ringed the toilet bowl and the bathtub, and the bath mat was now a grayish black from its original white. Erica dropped down on the bed, ignoring the faint cloud of dust that rose up around her, holding her head where K.T. had pistol whipped her into unconsciousness. "You feeling alright?"

"We left him there," Erica stated, looking up with hatred at the Gangrel. "You bastard, we left Jerry there to die."

"All three of us would have died if we had tried to get Jerry," K.T. pointed out. "As it was, we're lucky to be alive right now. I still don't know why those Setites gave up on us like they did."

"We still left him there to die," Erica said. "Of all my pack, he was the closest friend I had."

"Then he would have wanted you to get away," K.T. said. He walked over to the windows of the bedroom, and looked out at the slowly brightening sky over the cramped, run down buildings of Canal Street. "We'll go back and see if he's there tomorrow. Beep him now, and if he calls back we'll arrange a meeting tomorrow night. Okay?"

"Okay," Erica said. She walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver. Then she slammed it down. "The fucking phone doesn't work!"

"I figure you don't have a cell phone," K.T. concluded.

"No," Erica replied. "Do you?"

"Never needed one," K.T. answered, looking out of the motel room again. It was too late to try and find a pay phone at this hour of the morning; K.T. had used up far too much time backtracking through Manhattan top throw off any possible pursuers. "If Jerry's safe, then he'll be alright for the day. Get some sleep, and you can call him first thing tomorrow night. Okay?"

Erica said nothing, but picked up the receiver one more time. She listened for a moment, then slowly put the phone back on the old night stand.

"Alright," Erica finally said. "But promise me that we'll find Jerry tomorrow night. Please."

"We'll see," K.T. said, a bit hesitant. He turned to the window, and felt the thin fabric of the drapes. "I don't think these curtains'll keep the sun off us for the day. You take the bathroom, and I'll fight the roaches for the closet."

"Okay," Erica said quietly. She looked at K.T. for a moment, then walked into the bathroom and shut the door. The mercenary stood out in the bedroom for a moment longer, then shook his head and walked into the closet.

When K.T. awoke in the evening, he could already hear someone moving around in the bedroom. Slowly the mercenary drew his Ruger and cracked open the closet door, but then relaxed as he saw Erica sitting on the bed and putting the phone back on the nightstand. Relaxing slightly, the mercenary holstered his gun and left his daytime hiding place. Erica looked up as he appeared, and smiled slightly.

"They restored service today," the Ventrue said. "I just beeped Jerry, so he should be calling back soon."

"You don't know how happy that makes me," K.T. stated, walking over to the window and pushing the curtain aside slightly. It was not yet completely dark, but Erica had already been up long enough to make the first attempts at getting in touch with her packmate. While K.T. had never considered himself a late riser, the young Ventrue must have been up as soon as the sun had hit the horizon. Slowly the mercenary scanned the street, then he turned back to his companion.

"We need new clothes," Erica pointed out, picking at the remains of her shirt. K.T. was vaguely aware of the steadily increasing number of bullet holes in his own clothing, but for now his wardrobe was a secondary concern at best. "After Jerry calls, we should head over to the Garment District. They have these great stores that are open all night and carry all the best fashions. A friend of mine runs one of them. And we can dress you in something a little less Wild West."

"I think I liked you better unconscious," K.T. grumbled, drawing his Ruger and opening the cylinders. "What we need are weapons, information, and that communiqué. Your fashion statement can wait for another night."

"I liked you better when you actually seemed concerned about me," Erica retorted. For a second K.T. thought he noticed something more in the Ventrue's tone than simple anger, but simply ignored it and emptied the chambers of his revolver into his hand. "For a minute this morning I almost thought you cared about something other than yourself. You really are a mercenary."

"Yes, I really am," K.T. stated evenly, examining the cylinders of his gun for dirt or debris. Erica glared at him for a moment, then turned to the window angrily and stared out of the dirty panes of glass.

K.T. looked u pas the phone rang, but had not even moved by the time Erica shot around the bed and grabbed the receiver.

"Jerry?" the Ventrue asked, almost before she had the receiver to her ear. K.T. assumed it was the Lasombra, as a big smile replaced the girl's angry pout. "Thank God! We thought you might have been killed! No, we're fine. K.T. managed to get the car started, and we barely got away from those Setites! Look, Jerry, I… I'm sorry we didn't try a little harder to get you. I didn't want to leave you behind, but…"

"But the voice of reason won out," K.T. finished as Erica stalled. The Ventrue glared over at him, but then returned her attention to the phone.

"Where are we?" Erica asked. "Canal Street. By the Holland Tunnel. No, don't worry, we'll come up and meet you. I want to hit the Garment District anyway. My clothes look like Swiss cheese right now! At Crystal's. Yeah, I'll meet you there. Bye!"

"All that worrying for nothing," K.T. stated as Erica hung up the phone. He put his bullets back into the Ruger, and stood up from the bed. "He's still alive."

"That doesn't mean leaving him behind was right," the Ventrue retorted. K.T. looked as if he was about to say something, but thought better of it and simply holstered the Ruger on his side.

"Are we ready to go?" the mercenary inquired curtly. Why he had bothered so much with Erica's welfare the night before was starting to bewilder him. Erica picked up her jacket from the bed and walked past him, seemingly not interested in being around him any more. Grumbling most of the curses he had learned through more than seventy years, K.T. followed her down to the street and caught up to her as she flagged down a taxi. Erica quickly climbed in, and K.T. followed suit. For the moment, Erica made a point of sliding as far across the black vinyl rear seat of the cab. K.T. sat down and leaned against the door of his side, noticing a large, orange turban sticking up over the front seat where the cab driver's head should be. Visible on the dash board past the front seat was a crown, an air freshener that was not doing much to cover the smell of vomit and cigarettes in the back seat.

"Twenty-eighth Street and Third Avenue," the Ventrue said. The cab driver said something that neither one of them understood, and turned back to them questioningly. K.T. shook his head in disgust. Erica tried again, this time speaking much slower. "Twenty-eighth Street. The Garment District?"

K.T. had no idea what the cab driver said, but Erica seemed to be satisfied with the incoherent mess of syllables. The cab pulled away from the curb and cut into traffic, heading back into Manhattan. K.T. fished through his pockets for a moment, and finally came up with a quarter. They sat in silence for a few minutes, Erica staring out of her window and K.T. examining the coin in his hand.

"So where are we going?" K.T. finally tried, rolling the quarter across his fingers out of boredom.

"A friend's place," Erica replied, her anger with the mercenary having long since faded. "She's a Toreador friend of mine from another pack. You'll like her."

"I'm certain," K.T. grumbled with a lack of enthusiasm, returning his attention to the coin in his hand. First Ventrue antitribu, now Toreador. One clan that the Gangrel all seemed to hate on a matter of principle were the elitist, art infatuated Toreador. Erica shrugged, and turned back to her window. Silence dominated the cab for a second time as the vehicle fought traffic up to Twenty-eighth Street. The driver finally pulled to the curb, and Erica and K.T. both got out of the cab. The mercenary glanced over at the Ventrue, and Erica shrugged.

"I, uh, don't have any money," she said with a slightly embarrassed smile. K.T. rolled his eyes in disgust and dug out the final money that he had taken from Stokes' body two nights ago. As soon as the driver had taken the fare and his tip, he pulled back into traffic, leaving the pair behind rapidly. K.T. turned back to Erica, waiting for her to lead them to her friend's store.

"Great," the Ventrue grumbled, looking up and down the street.. "That idiot dropped us off on the wrong block."

"Where's your friend's place?" K.T. asked, looking around.

"Just a block down and over," Erica replied, starting down Lexington Avenue. K.T. took one step after her when a large man seemingly stepped out of thin air from behind a lamp post, throwing one arm around Erica and turning her back to the Gangrel. Underneath the long, black leather overcoat that the man wore, a fairly large bulge betrayed the presence of a gun pointed at Erica's chest.

"Ah, Mister Corben," the man said, a perfect, pure white smile on his ebon face. Thick black dreadlocks obscured anything more than his smile and his highly polished mirror shades. He advanced a step on the mercenary, bringing Erica along with him. "It 'as been so long since I 'ave seen you."

"Do I know you?" K.T. inquired, one hand already on his gun. From the man's thick Jamaican accent and his appearance, the mercenary could only guess that he was dealing with a member of the Followers of Set. Over the years, the Setites had infiltrated Haiti and the other Voodoo strongholds, taking newer recruits from the Voodoo priests and drug traffickers of those lands. The mercenary heard a shotgun being pumped behind him, and glanced back to see two more men to his back, their weapons only marginally concealed under their own long coats. The Jamaican smiled as he noticed K.T. taking stock of his rapidly worsening situation.

"We wish you no 'arm," the man holding Erica stated. A long black limousine pulled to the curb next to the mercenary, its window too darkly tinted for K.T. to see inside. "We 'ave somet'ing dat we would like to discuss wit' you. Maybe you would like to get in de car?"

"You a Setite?" K.T. inquired, already certain of the answer that he would receive. The man's smile broadened in reply, but he said nothing. "Then you can forget it. I don't deal with snakes."

"I'm afraid dat you don't 'ave any choice, dis time," the Jamaican pointed out. There was a slight pop and the man's coat rippled, and Erica screamed in pain as a bullet tore through her midsection. The Ventrue nearly collapsed in pain, but the Setite quickly supported her weight. "We mean you no 'arm, but dat does not mean dat we won't. Now please, in de car. We don't 'ave all night."

"What about her?" K.T. asked, nodding to Erica. His hand still remained on the grip of his Ruger, but he doubted that he would be able to cleanly outgun at least three Setites attacking him from different angles and then escape into the night with a wounded Ventrue.

"We will relieve you of dis rabble," the man replied, his smile becoming slightly wider. Still reeling from the wound she had just taken, Erica was in no condition to fight her way free.

"No deal," K.T. said after a short pause. "She comes with me or we can just gun each other down here."

There was an uneasy silence as the man's smile became a bit more malignant.

"We figured as much," he finally said. He released Erica, gently pushing her towards K.T. The Ventrue rushed to K.T.'s side, and glanced quickly between the three gunmen. "Now would you please bot' get in de car? I truly do not wish to kill you bot' right 'ere."

K.T. measured his options for a moment, and spotted a third and fourth member of the group lurking in the shadows of the alley to his left. Three with shotguns, and Erica still holding her side in pain. His situation was getting worse by the second. Finally without any other realistic choice, the Gangrel took a step to the car.

"What are you doing?" the Ventrue whispered harshly. "You're not actually going to do what they say, are you?"

"If I don't, we're both dead, and you know it," K.T. said. "I'll deal with the Setites up until the point where I can get away from them. Now get in the fucking car and don't do anything stupid."

Erica glared at the mercenary for a second, then glanced to the Setite. The Jamaican smiled and nodded, gesturing to the car. K.T. took one last look at the Setite, then finally ducked into the limousine. Without any other option, Erica reluctantly followed suit. As the door was shut behind her, the limousine pulled away from the curb.

As she sat down inside the limo, Erica glanced around her quickly, trying to discern her surroundings. The inside of the vehicle was almost pitch black, and the windows were so heavily tinted that it was practically impossible to see through them. The Ventrue could feel K.T. next to her, and slid a little bit closer, taking some comfort in the fact that the mercenary had proven himself as a more than capable fighter. While Erica could feel the presence of someone else in the back of the limousine, she had no idea where that person was, or what their intentions were.

A match flared to life across from the pair, lighting the face of another Jamaican. Unlike the man that had met them on the sidewalk, this man was far older, bald except for a bit of gray fuzz around the sides of his head. The man lit a large cigar held firmly in his mouth, the flame casting the deep crow's feet around his eyes into shadows that made his vague smile seem even more sinister. As K.T. watched, the old Jamaican took a long puff of his freshly lit cigar, and blew a smoke ring into the air. Finally, he appraised K.T. through his dark, oddly amiable eyes.

"Ah, so you're K.T. Corben," he said, looking the Gangrel over. "Please, take your 'and out of your coat, I 'ave no wish to be shot in de middle of a pleasant conversation."

"Who are you?" K.T. asked, reluctantly doing as he was told and watching his host carefully. While there were no visible guards in the limousine, the mercenary was certain that the Setite would not leave himself open to attack.

"Patrice Beladeau," Erica said next to him, her voice low. She knew him well enough; as the leader of the Setites in New York City and a main player in the heroin trade through the five boroughs, he was infamous throughout the Sabbat as one of their main enemies.

"Dat I am," Patrice said. "I should 'ave known you'd recognize me, after your filt'y kind took my business interests from me." He turned back to K.T. "And now, I 'ave a business proposition for you."

"I don't deal with snakes," K.T. said evenly.

"Yes, you 'ad mentioned somet'ing about dat outside," Patrice said. "But I t'ink I 'ave somet'ing dat may change your mind."

"We're not dealing with you, and that's final" Erica stated, folding her arms across her chest in a display of defiance. Patrice turned to her, a look of utter contempt on his face.

"Was I speaking to you, childe?" Patrice asked sternly, the shadows playing across his face making him seem truly demonic. Despite his outwardly calm demeanor, the Setite's use of the discipline of presence made him seem overtly terrifying and threatening. Erica shrank away from the Setite, trying to choke down her fear. Patrice turned back to K.T., a faint smile on his face. "Now, as I was saying, we wish similar ends. Bot' of us know somet'ing is going on wit'in de Black 'and."

"Oh really," K.T. said. Patrice nodded, a slight smile on his face as he puffed away on his cigar.

"Oh yes," the Setite confirmed. He held up a partially burnt piece of paper. "It might be why you were looking for dis last night at 'er pack's communal 'aven."

"Is that what I think it is?" K.T. asked, looking from the paper to the Setite. Patrice nodded.

"You stole that from us!" Erica exclaimed, reaching for it. Patrice pulled it back with a grin.

"I stole not'ing," the Setite countered. "We merely felt it should be read, rader dan burned." "I think it will do as compensation for trying to put a lot of bullets through me last night," K.T. said, looking at the Setite. Patrice chuckled a little.

"Oh, come now, Mister Corben, you are running wit' a pack of Sabbat," the Setite pointed out. "If you 'ad come to us, we could 'ave avoided de 'ole situation. But what concerns me may concern you, as well. After all, are you not de target of someone who t'inks 'e is an Assamite?"

"The situation sounds familiar," K.T. replied.

"We may know 'o 'e is," Patrice said. "But you get no 'elp from us unless you 'elp us wit' dis very same group."

"Like he said, we don't work with snakes," Erica stated, finally regaining her courage in the face of the old Setite. Patrice turned to her, a look of disgust in his eyes.

"You will speak only when spoken to, like a good childe," the Jamaican stated sternly. Erica tried to remain defiant, but once again the Setite's powerful aura of fear pushed her back in her seat. "De only reason you are still alive is because Mister Corben decided not to 'ave you killed. I t'ink it was a most regrettable decision on 'is part. Now shut your mout' and leave de business to de men."

"You just want help," K.T. stated, diverting the Jamaican's attention from terrorizing the young Ventrue. "What kind of help do you want?"

"You can't be serious!" Erica exclaimed, turning on the mercenary. Shock overrode her fear of Patrice as she gaped at her partner.

"Please, Erica, keep out of this for now," K.T. said. Erica simply continued staring at the Gangrel, too stunned by his consideration of the Setites' offer to argue.

"We do not ask for much," Patrice stated, a slight smile coming to his face. "We just ask for information. When you come upon it, you will tell us. In return, we can 'elp you wit' your little friend and any oders 'o may come to try and kill you."

"So I do all the dirty work, and you make some vague promise of protection," K.T. summed up. "I think I'd get a better offer from the Sabbat right now."

"Come now, Mister Corben," Patrice stated. "We can keep you safe. We 'ave safe 'ouses all t'rough de five boroughs. We 'ave weapons, supplies, and blood. Our retainers will guard you during de day, and at night we can provide everyt'ing you need."

"Let me see the paper," K.T. said.

"I t'ink you can 'ave dat after you agree to my terms," Patrice said. "After all, we may need it if you decide not to 'elp us."

"But I still don't know if you actually have what I think you have," K.T. said. "Now let me see it, or you can just stop the car."

"Very well," Patrice said. He held out the paper, and allowed K.T. to see it, but snatched it back before the Gangrel could make out more than a few words. "Does dat set your mind at ease?"

"No, it doesn't," K.T. replied.

"Dat will 'ave to do for now," Patrice said.

"Then you can let us out here," K.T. stated. Patrice shrugged.

"A disappointment," Patrice said. "Very well. Driver, pull over."

The limo came to a stop, and Patrice gestured to the door. Erica pushed her way out of the vehicle without so much as a second glance at the old Setite. K.T. moved to the door, but then stopped and glanced back at Patrice. He was far too willing to let the pair simply walk away, but K.T. could not figure the angle he was playing. Finally, the mercenary got out of the limousine and shut the door. Erica collided with him as he turned around, trying frantically to get back into the car. The limousine pulled away from the pair rapidly, leaving them on a wooded lane.

"Come back here!" Erica screamed, racing a few steps after the receding car. "You can't leave us here! Come back!"

K.T. looked around him quickly, searching for some kind of threat in the trees around him. They were in Central Park, judging by the heavily wooded surroundings, but the Gangrel could see no immediate cause for panic. The biggest threat that K.T. thought he would come across in the park were a few mortal gang members, or maybe even the odd Sabbat Brujah, but the mercenary was certain that he could outgun any problem that would arise in the park. Erica, however, was clearly panicked as she turned back to her partner.

"We have to get out of here," she said quickly, grabbing K.T.'s arm. "Come on!"

"What's the matter?" K.T. asked. "I think I can handle a few muggers or gang bangers."

"I'm not worried about that!" Erica said. She opened her mouth to continue, but a bloodcurdling howl cut her off. K.T.'s blood froze as he heard it. He had only heard it a handful of times before, but that was enough to strike fear into his heart.

"Shit," K.T. breathed, drawing his gun and quickly glancing around. He started to make his way up the road, away from the sound of the first howl, his pace unconsciously increasing as he kept his eyes on the darkness around him. A second howl went up from his left, somewhere in the trees and far closer than the Gangrel would have liked it. Erica had drawn her Glock, but the Gangrel knew that, if it came down to a fight, they were as good as dead. The last thing K.T., a member of the only clan that had ever been able to call the werewolves allies in even the loosest sense of the word, was to be stuck in forestland, even Central Park, against the true masters of the wild. More howls went up, to the left and the right, in front and behind, making K.T. fight to keep his nerves and not break and run directly into a Lupine trap. He glanced back to Erica as she lost her cool and sprinted into the darkness, trying to escape the inevitable attack from their unseen pursuers.

"Erica, wait!" K.T. shouted, rushing after the terrified Ventrue. He could just make out the wall between the park and Fifth Avenue on his right, but Erica was bearing to the left. The mercenary barely caught up to Erica and pulled her to a stop by her arm. "You're going the wrong way!"

"We have to get out of here!" she exclaimed, panic stricken. "We have to get out before they find us!"

"Too late," an inhuman growl stated behind them.

V

K.T. turned slowly, trying his best to put on a brave face despite his mounting fear. Erica backed into him in terror, losing any last shred of self control that she may have had left. K.T. was frozen by the monster looming on the trail, locking eyes with the cold, predatory gaze of the killing machine in front of him.

It stood over nine feet tall, with fur as black as night covering its powerful muscles and long, sharp teeth in its canine maw. Long talons tipped its huge hands, but those natural weapons were a secondary concern as the Gangrel kept one eye on the monstrous, glittering dagger it held in its hand. The werewolf took a step towards the pair, growling as it glared at its targets. K.T. drew his Ruger, but he doubted that the weapon would do much good against the Lupine. All the Gangrel could hope for was to get one good shot in before the black furred monstrosity tore him to pieces.

But the werewolf did not attack. As K.T. watched, the creature began to shrink, become less wolflike and more humanlike, but the transformation did not carry the Lupine back to his completely human form. Instead, the werewolf now stood only seven feet tall, bot as broad but still heavily muscled and huge by any human standard, and looked something like the Neanderthal man. K.T. had heard that werewolves could assume the forms of both prehistoric men and primitive, huge wolves, but the mercenary had never wanted to be around the Lupines long enough to test that theory.

"I am Roar of Thunder, Adren, Homid Shadow Lord Ahroun," the werewolf said in a guttural voice that was barely human. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

"W-we were j-just leaving," Erica stammered, terrified. She would have bolted if K.T. had not been in her path, but it would have done her little good. The mercenary was certain that there were other werewolves watching them, and that they would be torn to pieces at the first sign of outright panic. As it was, K.T. was wondering why he was still alive and speaking with the werewolf, rather than making his last stand on the road.

"They smell you, you know," he growled. "They smell your Wyrm tainted presence. What are you doing here?"

"We know too much," K.T. started, deciding that a little honesty and a few misleading statements held the best chance, slim as it was, of getting out of the park alive. From what K.T. knew about the different tribes of werewolves, the Shadow Lords were the most likely of all Lupines to strike deals with creatures that they considered to be tainted by the Wyrm, some kind of spiritual destroyer of the earth, for their own gain. Maybe, if the mercenary could convince this werewolf that his survival would be more detrimental to the vampires of New York City than his death, Roar of Thunder would let them live. "The vampires of the city want our deaths, and so they dropped us off here for you to do their dirty work."

The werewolf paused for a moment, considering the information that K.T. had provided, searching for some kind of trick in the words. Another howl sounded from someplace close by.

"What kind of information?" the Shadow Lord inquired, watching the mercenary for any signs of a lie. K.T. thought quickly, coming up with something that would at least sound true.

"We know something about the Black Hand, something that they don't want us to know," the mercenary replied. It was true enough; he must know something that was sensitive to the Sabbat's assassins. The only problem was, he did not know what that information was. Quickly he raced to find something more to add to his vague statement. "We think they might be plotting to overthrow the Sabbat in the city, and so they're trying to kill us."

"Really," the Shadow Lord said, skeptically.

"It's true!" Erica exclaimed, terror edging her voice. "In Caine's name, please believe us, it's true!"

The werewolf chuckled, but K.T. did not find any humor in his tone.

"You can go," he said. He nodded to the path beyond them. "The closest exit to the park is that way. I suggest you hurry, though, or Strikes With Rage may find you."

"Strikes With Rage?" Erica repeated, looking around fearfully. A low, guttural growl erupted extremely close, causing her to jump. The Shadow Lord stepped aside, and bowed deeply. K.T. and Erica quickly took off for the exit from the park.

K.T. had not even covered a yard when he heard the howls almost immediately behind him. The mercenary hazarded a glance over his shoulder and saw a huge, grayish brown wolf charging along the path after him, its body easily the size of a small pony. Erica sprinted for all she was worth, and without thinking K.T. called upon the powers of his blood to fuel his discipline of celerity, passing the Ventrue by at three times the speed of even the fastest human. The mercenary was nearly at the gate when he threw one last glance over his shoulder. Erica had fallen far behind him, losing ground quickly to the monstrous wolf that was bearing down on her. More wolves appeared behind the first one, and even at her current, terror driven pace Erica would never reach the safety of Fifth Avenue in time. Fighting against his own natural instinct and his fear of the Lupines, K.T. skidded to a stop and whirled around, drawing his Ruger and hoping that the bullets would slow the Lupines long enough for the two vampires to escape with their lives.

Erica sprinted for all she was worth, but she already knew that she would never reach the gate before the werewolf behind her dragged her down. K.T. had flown past her only seconds before, already practically outside of the park, leaving her to fend for herself against the monsters behind her. She could practically feel the werewolf's breath on her back when she finally spun around, backpedaling as she fired her Glock wildly into the Lupine's snarling face and gaping maw. Her bullets had little effect on the monster as it charged in, opening its jaws in preparation to tear the Ventrue apart. Erica tried to spin back to the gate but failed, tripping her self up and falling to the ground even as the huge werewolf pounced.

The boom of a cannon tore through the werewolf's howl of bloodlust, and the monster's leap was cut short by almost a foot as K.T. opened up with his Ruger. Erica's shoulder hit the ground for only the briefest instant before the Gangrel was yanking her back to her feet, hauling her up and over one shoulder. The Gangrel turned and sprinted for the gate one more time, his celerity carrying the two of them just ahead of the werewolf and two of its packmates. Erica fired wildly behind her at the monsters, but even her cover fire and the mercenary's supernatural speed combined seemed to be losing out to the rage driven charge of the werewolves. The gate was only a few yards ahead, but the werewolves were nearly a foot behind, gaining ground with each step.

K.T. poured every last ounce of strength into one final burst of speed, practically feeling the werewolves ready to pounce. The Gangrel shot through the gate only an inch ahead of his pursuers, feeling the jaws of the lead werewolf close on the fringe of his duster and nearly yanking him back into the park. Cloth tore and the mercenary was practically spun around, but K.T. pulled himself free and raced across Fifth Avenue. Horns sounded and cars screeched to a halt as the Gangrel blew across the street, but a car accident or the enmity of one or two drivers was far preferable to being torn apart by the Lupines. The mercenary finally came to a halt as he crashed into the brick wall of a building on the opposite side of the road, and slowly let Erica down off of his shoulder. Leaning back against the building, K.T. looked back to the park, past the drivers who were cursing his recklessness. Three men stood just inside the park gate, watching him with hatred in their eyes. Erica refused to look back, simply resting her head against the wall and breathing a quick thanks to Caine for saving her. Finally, as the mercenary watched, the three Lupines melted back into the shadows of the park, unwilling to chase their prey any further.

"Fucking Christ," K.T. stated, finally calming down. "Never, ever, do I take a job in New York again."

"Are they gone?" Erica asked, still unwilling to look back to the park.

"For now, I think so," K.T. answered, his own voice still slightly shaky. "But I'd rather not wait around to find out. Let's get down to your friend in the Garment District."

"I don't think that's an option," an all too familiar voice suddenly stated. K.T. turned quickly, trying to keep his Ruger both available and hidden under his duster. The assassin was once again standing in front of him, his shotgun in hand as he strode forward. "You have not yet paid for your crimes."

"I'd love to know how you keep finding me," K.T. stated, tensing for the attack that he knew was coming. At such close range, neither he nor the assassin would miss, but the shotgun shells were going to hurt a whole lot more than the .44 magnum rounds that his Ruger fired. The mercenary could only hope that Erica would be able to finish off the assassin before he could recover, or his miraculous escape from the werewolves would mean nothing.

"Well, you know, I'm just good like that," the assassin said proudly. He gave a deep, theatrical bow to the pair, throwing his shotgun out wide and catching the attention of the other people on the street for the first time. Sirens could already be heard in the distance, and the mercenary knew that they were responding to the shots he and Erica had fired only minutes ago inside the park. He had very little time to try to both defeat the assassin and escape the police. Without any more time to lose, the mercenary brought his gun up quickly and blasted away at the assassin.

The assassin reacted as soon as the mercenary's gun came up, dodging quickly to the left and loosing both barrels of his shotgun. K.T. barely dodged out of the way, feeling buckshot tear through the sleeve of his duster and skim off the skin of his arm as he backed up and rolled along the wall of the building behind him. Erica drew and fired as well, but the assassin remained the faster, somersaulting under her first three shots and coming up with his Skorpion to loose a burst of fire at the young Ventrue. Erica dove back into a narrow alleyway even as K.T. fired again at the assassin, but his opponent seemed to sense the attack coming and twirled to the right of the next round. K.T. used the second that his shot had given him and rushed into the alley where Erica had taken cover, grabbing the Ventrue by the arm as she tried to return to the fight.

"Forget that!" K.T. ordered, hearing the sirens of the police practically on top of the gunfight. "Let's get out of here now!"

Erica almost seemed relieved by the idea, and the two sprinted through the alley for Fourth Avenue. Once on that street, they turned south, running for the Garment District and hoping that they had lost the assassin in the confusion. They stopped running ten blocks later, and K.T. watched the street for a long moment.

"Well," he finally said, "it seems like he either gave up or got arrested. "How far to your friend's place?"

"Not too far," Erica replied, looking up at the street signs. They were down to Forty-eighth Street, which could be considered the northern fringes of the Garment District. "Just a few more minutes, and over to Third Avenue, and we're right there."

"Too bad you'll never get there," someone said behind the pair. K.T. and Erica both whirled, guns drawn, on a trio of horribly disfigured men dressed in pinstriped suits. Each one held a Tommy gun at the ready, completing their look of gangsters from the twenties. "We don't like trespassers, especially not ones that fraternize with the Followers of Set."

"Wow, this night is just getting better and better," K.T. grumbled. Their hideous looks identified the three men easily as vampires of Clan Nosferatu. While K.T. might have been surprised to find out that the three vampires knew of his discussion with Beladeau if they were members of a different clan, the Nosferatu were the information brokers of the vampire world, and seemed to know everything that was happening in their home cities. The mercenary glanced over to the nearest alley that could afford cover, judging the distance quickly. If the three Nosferatu got trigger happy, it was going to be a slim chance at best to reach cover before he was hit by gunfire.

"Shit, they're one of Cordoba's packs," Erica said quietly. "Any bright ideas?"

"Get ready to run," K.T. answered simply, tensing to fire.

"Great plan," Erica commented sarcastically.

"So, do you want to beg for your lives before we finish you off?" another of the Nosferatu asked around the cigar clenched in his teeth. He tipped his fedora back slightly on his head as he prepared to fire.

"Guys, come on!" Erica exclaimed, trying her best to be friendly as she took a step in front of K.T. The mercenary edged slightly towards the alley as the Ventrue bought them a little time. "Look, we didn't want to have anything to do with the Setites! I mean, they even dumped us in the middle of Central Park while the werewolves were out! Come on, guys, just put the guns down and we can sort this out."

"It's a little late for that," the third Nosferatu said. "We know you're cooperating with the Setites. I always thought Bonifay was a little too slick for his own good."

"That didn't work quite the way I planned it," Erica said, backing up a step to K.T.'s side. The Nosferatu raised their Tommy guns to fire. "Should I start running yet?"

"You're still here?" K.T. asked in reply.

The Nosferatu opened up as K.T. shoved Erica to the alley, hitting the mercenary in the chest and the shoulder before he could return fire on his opponents. The mercenary spun with the shots and dropped to the ground, blasting away wildly with his Ruger before he even hit the sidewalk. One of the Nosferatu dropped face first to the ground as K.T. blew the man's knee apart, but the mercenary was raked with automatic fire before he could roll to the side. The Nosferatu with the fedora dropped back next, one of K.T.'s rounds punching through the vampire's stomach at his belt line. The mercenary staggered to one knee and tried to fire again, but the final Nosferatu knocked him back with a final burst of gunfire, finally overcoming the supernatural endurance that K.T.'s vampiric discipline of fortitude provided him. Falling flat on his back, K.T. reached for his monstrous revolver and closed his hand around the grip, but a wing tip shoe came down on top of his wrist before the mercenary could raise the weapon and fire. K.T. looked up into the face of the last Nosferatu and the Tommy gun aimed at his face.

"You're a tough bastard," the Nosferatu stated, looking over the mauled Gangrel. Then he grinned. "Say goodnight, Gracie."

The grin disappeared with the crack of a Glock and the explosion of the back of the Nosferatu's head. As the deformed vampire fell backwards, K.T. dragged himself to his feet to see Erica opening up wildly from the alley, driving the other two Nosferatu back to the cover of the cars parked along the street. The mercenary started to crawl towards the alley, trying his best to heal the grievous wounds he had taken, but Erica was suddenly by his side, throwing him over her shoulder and rushing back for the cover of the buildings. The Ventrue raced through the alley and continued for almost five minutes, finally stopping beside a mailbox set on Second Avenue. K.T. dropped unceremoniously off of the Ventrue's shoulder, rolling onto his back and groaning in pain. Erica leaned against the mailbox, still watching the streets around them to be certain that Cordoba's Nosferatu pack had given up on the chase. Finally, the Ventrue turned back to K.T., and helped him to sit up against the mailbox.

"Jesus Christ," Erica stated, looking over the sheer number of bullet holes in K.T.'s clothing. The Gangrel had taken a true beating at the hands of the Nosferatu, one that she doubted most vampires would have survived through. As it was, K.T. had lost so much blood through the fight that he could no longer heal his grievous wounds. "Are you alright?"

"What time is it?" the Gangrel asked, pain obvious in his voice.

"Midnight," Erica replied, a bit puzzled. "Why?"

"I just want this night to end before someone else shoots me," K.T. groaned. Despite herself, Erica started to laugh. "I'm glad you find this funny."

"I can't help it," Erica giggled. K.T. leaned back against the mailbox, and then started to laugh a little himself.

"Okay, so who haven't we gotten angry at us yet?" K.T. asked. "We'll go have them shoot at us tomorrow."

Erica simply laughed even more, and K.T. slumped to the ground, laughing quietly to himself.

"Come on," the Ventrue finally said through her mirth, pulling him to his feet.

"Ow!" K.T. gasped.

"We have to get to my friend's place before Jerry thinks we died," Erica stated. Do you think you can make it?"

"I should," K.T. said. "Just as long as no one else puts a hole in me."

"Don't worry," Erica said. "I don't think the downtown area is angry with us yet. Do you need help?"

"No, I'll be alright," K.T. replied, finally standing on his own. "Okay, lead the way. And let's get there before someone realizes that I should be dead."

The corner of Twenty-eighth Street and Third Avenue marked the southern fringes of the Garment District, still famous for its many clothing factories and stores. As Erica rounded a final corner and led K.T. along the sidewalk of East Twenty-eighth, the mercenary could already see the bright, blue neon sign blinking above a set of wide glass doors, proclaiming the store as the Modern Woman. The six foot windows running along the gray stone walls of the squat, square building showed off a variety of dresses and accessories, and even at the late hour people still walked in and out of the clothing outlet. While a Toreador owned fashion store was the last place the Gangrel ever wanted to be found, he was reasonably certain that no one would be waiting inside for him with a gun.

"Finally," Erica stated, turning back to the mercenary as she reached the glass doors of the building. "We should be safe here for a while."

"Wonderful," K.T. grumbled as Erica pushed through the glass doors and walked inside. K.T. sighed in resignation, then followed the Ventrue into the store.

The inside of the Modern Woman was a huge, two tiered display room painted in a dozen neon colors, full of dresses that barely left anything to the imagination when worn on a woman. Erica seemed to forget about the mercenary as she made her way quickly to the rear, disappearing behind racks of clothing. K.T. stopped in the wide center aisle, remaining only a few feet in from the doors as his eyes quickly scanned the room. Two young women looked down at him for a moment from the second level, but quick, cold glance from the Gangrel turned their suspicious glances back to the garments set along the walls.

"Crystal!" he heard Erica say after a moment or two. "How've you been? Is Jerry here?"

"Jerry's in the back," he heard a fairly high voice say in reply. "What happened to you? And why are you dressed so blah? Didn't I teach you anything about fashion?"

"Well, we've been having some problems, in case the bullet holes didn't give it away," Erica said. "Me and K.T. here have been having some problems."

Even as K.T. heard her last statement, Erica came back into view, appearing on his left with a stunningly beautiful young woman that could only be Crystal. Dressed in a skin tight, neon blue dress with a neckline that dipped down to the middle of her perfect breasts, Crystal was everything a mortal could want; full chest, toned body, great legs, with sparkling blue eyes and beautiful shoulder length auburn hair to go with it. K.T. would have assumed that the girl had been a model but for her height; even in two inch heels she stood only as tall as Erica. The mercenary suddenly realized he was staring, and quickly put on a dour expression.

"I guess you're K.T.," Crystal said, eyeing him up with a coy smile. The mercenary nodded. "Nice to meet you. I'm Crystal."

"Nice to meet you," K.T. echoed.

"I bet it is," Crystal stated with a smirk, letting the mercenary know that she had caught him staring a moment before. The Toreador's eyes lingered on K.T. for a long moment, leveling an almost seductive gaze on him, but then she turned back to Erica. "Now," she started, appraising the Ventrue's torn and holed jeans and sweatshirt, "what can we get you to wear that actually complements your figure?"

"Oh, I don't know," Erica replied thoughtfully, looking around at the displays. "I need something dark, subdued, but still sexy."

"If you don't mind, I think I'll go talk with Jerry," K.T. said, wondering if he would ever leave the store again. Erica and Crystal would probably spend hours looking for just the perfect dress.

"You don't want to help me pick out a dress?" Erica asked, taking an obvious pleasure in the mercenary's distaste with his surroundings.

"No," K.T. replied emphatically. He quickly made his way past the pair, casting a sidelong withering glance at Erica's playful smirk. Quickly the mercenary made his way to a large glass checkout counter in the rear, where Jerry was leaning on the cash register and spinning a coin on the countertop. As the Gangrel made his way to the Lasombra, Jerry smiled slightly.

"You look like hell, mercenary," Jerry informed his ally. "I thought I was really in trouble when I started to hear reports about gunfire in a straight line from here to Central Park."

"It was not a fun night," K.T. stated simply. "I'm about to go mad with hunger, and your little Ventrue playmate wants to go shopping."

"Sometimes I think she's Toreador," Jerry said with a bit of a chuckle. Jerry took a closer look at the mercenary, and noticed that several of K.T.'s wounds still had not healed. "Damn, you are in bad shape," the Lasombra said, growing serious.

"It was not a fun night," K.T. repeated. "I need to feed or Erica becomes dinner."

"Crystal might have someone lying around," Jerry said. "She's Toreador. Antitribu, at any rate. I'll go check."

"Thanks," K.T. said, leaning on the counter. Jerry disappeared into the store, leaving the mercenary to deal with both his ravenous hunger and the pain from his unhealed bullet wounds. K.T. looked back into the store for a moment, hoping that Jerry would return soon with word of where the mercenary could find a meal, then stuffed his hands into his duster pockets and settled back against the wall. "I have no idea what I could possibly have done to deserve this," the mercenary muttered, staring at the ceiling. He glanced back as he heard Crystal walking back to him with a smile on her face.

"Jerry says you're hungry," the Toreador said, leaning down on the counter and offering the mercenary a view of her chest. K.T. nodded, refusing to get suckered in by Crystal's little games of seduction. Regardless of how long the Toreador had been a vampire, her moves were smooth and just overt enough to get attention while not being blatant. "Well, I think I have just the thing for you. Come on. Let's head downstairs."

K.T. stood up and followed Crystal back through a small door behind the counter and down a narrow, dimly lit flight of stairs. Crystal stopped at the bottom and unlocked a second, plain metal door that led into a wide, sparsely illuminated basement. The floor was made of loose gravel, while the walls still appeared to be rough hewn stone. The room was bare except for an odd looking alter of black stone to his left, holding a chalice and a small copper bowl.

"Your storage facilities could use a little work," K.T. noted flatly.

"This is a subbasement," Crystal explained as she started along a thin plywood bridge. At the other end was yet another door, this one a sturdy wooden door bound with blackened iron. "The storage basement is actually above us. I use this for impromptu get togethers with my pack, when we need a place to hide out. It's not much, but the others like it."

K.T. nodded, and Crystal led him across the plywood planks to the door on the opposite side of the room. The Toreador produced her keys again, and unlocked two locks on the door. She pushed the heavy door open, and led the way into the new chamber. K.T. followed, wondering how many more doors and damp, cold basements he would have to negotiate just to find dinner.

Inside the bound door was a workshop of clean, dry walls and a linoleum floor fit for nearly any artist. Several dresses, finished and unfinished, clothed mannequin bodies standing on the left side of the room. Against the far wall was an easel and paints, and a half finished painting of blacks and blues on a gray canvas. A single, ornate stained glass lamp hung directly over the center of the room, illuminating a large, heavy table and a body on top of it. From the way the skin and bone of the face had been mangled and disfigured beyond recognition, the Gangrel could barely tell from his head whether the body was laying on its stomach or back, and refused to believe it could be alive until the body moaned in pain. K.T. simply stared with disgust at the sight, then turned to Crystal. The Toreador wore an expression of disappointment on her face as she regarded her mortal victim.

"He's a failure," she said, shrugging. "I had hoped for something good to come out of this sculpture, but, alas, even the greatest of artists are sometimes not perfect. You may as well put him out of his misery."

K.T. had met a couple of Toreador antitribu before, but this was the first time he had really gotten the chance to see what they considered "art". While they were as artistic as their Camarilla brethren, they tended to be artistic in a far darker way, including torture, mutilation, and all things macabre in their repertoire. K.T. looked at her for a long moment, then walked up to the barely conscious man and tilted his neck to one side. He sank his fangs into the man's neck and drained every last drop of blood from him, then stood up. Crystal was leaning back against the now closed door, her smile replaced with an almost hungry look.

"Thank you," the Gangrel stated, straightening up and directing his blood to the last of his injuries. "I feel a lot better now."

"That's good," Crystal said, standing up straight. Slowly she crossed the floor to the mercenary, locking eyes with him as she approached. The Toreador began to wrap her arms around his waist as she reached him, but K.T. backed off quickly, suspicion rising to his face.

"What are you doing?" the mercenary asked. Crystal smiled.

"You know, I make it a policy to get to know most of my clientele before they leave," Crystal replied, keeping pace with K.T. as he took another step backward. "I've never been with a Gangrel before. What do you say, big guy?"

"I say tonight isn't going to be your first night with one," K.T. replied, finally standing his ground. Crystal nearly laughed.

"You mean to tell me, that after you spent all that time upstairs drooling at me, that you have no interest in me?" the Toreador asked. "Look, Erica won't know what's going on down here, if that's what you're worried about. She just thinks you're getting blood." Crystal closed the last foot of distance between the two, slowly drawing one finger along the mercenary's chest. "Come on, K.T. Have a little fun."

"This has nothing to do with Erica," K.T. pointed out, catching Crystal's wrist and pushing her hand away. "There is no way in hell that I'm sharing blood with you."

"Share blood?" Crystal echoed, confused. Then she smiled in realization. "Silly Gangrel, I don't want your blood. I want something more… carnal."

"You're sick," K.T. stated, backing off again. He had originally thought that Crystal wanted to share blood, the vampiric equivalent of sex. But to actually want to have sex was something else. Several young vampires, unable to come to grips with the fact that sex was inevitably frustrating and fruitless, still tried anyway, hoping to find some way to make the act as pleasurable as it had been in their mortal days. Toreador invariably led the way among nymphomaniacs.

"You don't think it'll work?" Crystal asked, once again acting surprised. Then she smiled, and once more put her arms around the Gangrel. "It does work, K.T. As long as you know how to do it right, that is. Come on, K.T. Give it a try. You'll have fun, I promise."

"No," K.T. said, shaking off both Crystal's natural beauty and the supernatural presence she was subtly applying. "Now let's get back upstairs."

"Had to think about that one, didn't you?" Crystal asked, leaning up against him. She was becoming more and more insistent, almost desperate. Slowly she began to work the Gangrel's duster off of his shoulders. "Come on. I bet it's been more than a decade since you've been with someone. Come on. Just a quickie."

Crystal stopped and looked down as she felt the barrel of a gun press into her stomach and heard a familiar click.

"Are you getting the message?" K.T. asked. Crystal nodded, looking far more disappointed and annoyed than frightened. K.T. dropped the hammer of the Ruger slowly, and tucked the gun away.

"Man with an iron will," Jerry said from the doorway. K.T. turned quickly to see both the Lasombra and Erica standing in the doorway. "I thought something interesting had to be going on down here."

"Well, there isn't," Crystal stated, her voice full of disappointment and sullen anger with the mercenary. She walked quickly past the two vampires at the doorway and headed back upstairs without another word. Jerry chuckled, but Erica appeared to be dumbstruck by the situation.

"I mean it, you definitely are dead," Jerry said to K.T., smiling. The Gangrel glared at him for a long moment as he turned to head up the stairs. Erica remained in the doorway, looking at him intently.

"So, you, well, are you full?" she finally managed to ask. K.T. looked at her for a long moment.

"I'm fine," he said. "How about you?"

"Me? I'll hold out," Erica said. "I was kind of hoping to get over to the Tunnel tonight. I know a few people there, and I'm sure I can find someone nice enough to donate some blood to me."

"Alright," K.T. said, tucking the Ruger back into his holster.

"Fine," Erica said with a forced laugh. She smoothed out the black leather skirt she was wearing, and modeled off it and the white blouse she had on, knotted just above her navel. "You like it?"

"Why don't you find something more useful to wear?" K.T. asked. "In case you didn't notice, we've been chased all over lower Manhattan tonight. Jeans and sneakers would be better for now."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Erica said, sounding a bit annoyed with him now. She turned quickly and started back along the walkway before the Gangrel could say another word. K.T. watched her go for a moment, but then shook his head before he read any more into the situation.

"This night keeps getting better and better," he muttered, starting for the stairs himself.

VI

Located on Twenty-seventh Street and Seventh Avenue, the Tunnel was far more identifiable by sound than by sight. The blaring, deafening music of the club preceded it by almost three blocks, leading K.T. and his two Sabbat allies along the fringes of the Flatiron District to an unremarkable building of brown brick set in one of the Flatiron's commercial strips. The thundering bass beat of the club music inside threatened to shake the building apart by sheer volume, but that seemed only to draw more partygoers to the long, two and three person wide line outside the double doors leading into the establishment. As K.T. saw the line, he was certain that he was going to lose most of the night just waiting to get into the club. The mercenary turned to Jerry, ready to talk the Lasombra into finding a less crowded place to feed, but Jerry was already heading for the front of the line with Erica in tow. As the two vampires tried to walk into the club, a large, barrel chested bouncer appeared in their way

"Where do you two think you're going?" the bouncer asked evenly, acting as tough as possible. Jerry simply flashed an amiable smile at the far larger man, but the bouncer took a visible step back.

"Well, inside, actually," the Lasombra answered, pointing past the bouncer to the darkened interior of the Tunnel. The bouncer seemed uncertain how to react as Jerry used the vampiric discipline known as presence to supernaturally increase his charisma and charm. Jerry took out his wallet and peeled off a pair of twenties as the bouncer tried to figure out what to do. "Here you go. This should cover me and my two friends. Could you step aside, please?"

"Uh, yessir," the bouncer replied meekly, moving out of Jerry's way. Jerry and Erica quickly entered the club, and K.T. reluctantly followed.

The inside of the Tunnel was built for dancing. Taking a moment to brace himself against the overpowering speaker system of the club, K.T. glanced around the darkened interior, scanning his surroundings. The main dance floor of the Tunnel dominated the huge, cavernous main room of the club, lined on either side by long bars. Strobe lights flashed through the crowds from over a dozen different ceiling locations, cutting bright, multicolored swaths through the darkness at irregular intervals. On the opposite side of the dance floor, set back against the walls, a dozen or so metal tables and square, uncomfortable chairs, many already occupied by drunken couples and groups of underage kids taking a break from the wild dancing on the main floor. K.T. kept one eye on the crowd as he made his way to Erica and Jerry, standing near the dance floor and gazing out over the crowds in search of possible victims for the night. Jerry tapped him on the shoulder, and K.T.'s gaze dropped to the shorter Lasombra.

"Well, I have one or two people to find," he shouted over the music, though his attention was fixed on a redhead by the bar who was smiling back at him. K.T. followed his line of sight, and nodded. "I'll meet you back here in about forty minutes!"

Jerry started after the redhead before K.T. or Erica could say a word.

"See you then!" Erica shouted to him, and started off on a search for her own victim. Left alone for the moment and still relatively full of blood, he started to make his way through the Tunnel to the tables and chairs in the back. After fighting his way through the throngs of people making their way to and from the dance floor, the mercenary managed to find an unoccupied table and dropped into a chair a few feet from a group of heavily tattooed punks downing shots of some kind of bright green alcohol.

"You got a smoke?" K.T. asked, shouting to be heard over the music as he tapped the nearest punk on the shoulder. The kid reluctantly knocked a Newport out of his pack and lit the cigarette as K.T. put it to his lips. The punks turned back to their drinking games without a word to the mercenary, and K.T. began to watch the crowd for any signs of danger. He had already spent far too much time in one night getting chased by a bewildering array of enemies that included the Followers of Set, the werewolves of Central Park, Sabbat Nosferatu, and, once again, the insane assassin he had met on his first night in the city. K.T. took a long drag off of his cigarette and stared out into the crowds, his eyes finally coming to rest on a young, attractive blonde half walking and half stumbling over to him from the dance floor.

"Hi!" she said, shouting over the music. "Wanna dance?"

"No," K.T. replied.

"What?" the blonde asked, not hearing him through the noise.

"I said no!" K.T. shouted back, much louder. The girl took on a pleading look as she continued to press her case.

"Come on!" she exclaimed. "It'll be fun! Besides, you're cute! I like you!"

"Go away!" K.T. shouted. The girl smiled, and suddenly K.T. felt the barrel of a gun press into his back.

"Then maybe you'd be interested in some fresh air," a much deeper and definitely male voice suggested from behind him. The voice was familiar, but the mercenary could not yet discern the gunman's identity. "Don't turn around, don't reach for the big revolver under your coat, just follow the pretty girl out that door over there."

"Might I ask who wants to kill me now?" K.T. asked, forgetting any bit of fear or apprehension he might have had with this situation and going straight to annoyed. Silently he berated himself for having missed this threat when he had even been looking for potential dangers.

"You have one hell of a group of admirers," the gunman said with a chuckle. "Just go outside, and you get to meet your newest fan."

"I can't wait," K.T. said in a thoroughly sarcastic tone of voice. The blonde grinned at the comment, then turned and started for a fire exit set near the corner of the building. K.T. fell into step behind her, feeling the gunman's weapon still at his back. The girl opened the door as she reached it, then turned and gestured with a smile to the mercenary. Without any other alternatives for the moment, K.T. stepped through the door and into an alley that ran along the side of the Tunnel.

A hand grabbed the mercenary by his throat as soon as he stepped through the door, and slammed into the opposite wall of the alley. K.T. rebounded off and into a bone jarring punch just as he turned around, falling back into the wall as he tried to regain his balance. K.T. drew his Ruger in a heartbeat and turned it on his attackers, but he found himself staring down the barrels of three Tommy guns, a pair of Glocks, and four grinning Sabbat. Three of them were the Nosferatu he had run into earlier in the night, fully healed and ready to take on the mercenary one more time.

"Don't," one of the Nosferatu stated simply. K.T. reluctantly put his hands up, removing his thumb from the hammer of his Ruger. The Nosferatu took his Ruger and looked the weapon over. "Nice hand cannon."

"Thanks," K.T. stated, his eyes on the weapons that remained trained on him. The Nosferatu sighted down the Ruger to the end of the alley, then turned without warning and pistol whipped the Gangrel. Unprepared for the attack, K.T. took the shot squarely along his temple, barely keeping on his feet as his sight blurred momentarily and he staggered back. The Nosferatu were masters of the discipline of potence, which augmented their strength to supernatural levels, and even K.T.'s fortitude was barely enough to shake off the gunman's strike.

"I really don't like being shot," the Nosferatu growled, grabbing K.T. and forcing him back against the wall before the Gangrel could fall. "I really don't like it when people shoot me in the head. Once I'm finished with you, I'm gonna go waste that Ventrue bitch real nice and slow."

"Well I hope you have fun," K.T. commented, rubbing the side of his face where his adversary had hit him. "Is this all you wanted to drag me out here for?"

"No," the blonde said with a wicked smile. "Someone wants to meet you before you die."

"Well I can't say I'm overjoyed," K.T. said. "So who do I get to meet?"

"Me," another man said in a low, rumbling voice. K.T. looked down the dark alley to a huge Hispanic man with a beard of curly black hair and an equally black scalp lock hanging down his back. He was big by any means, broad shouldered and heavily muscled, and a mean grin creased his face as he examined the mercenary. His presence exuded a princely air, and K.T. silently cursed the discipline everyone seemed to possess except for him. "Let me welcome you personally to my section of Manhattan. I'm Cordoba."

"So you're the guy I keep hearing about," K.T. said, looking over his newest opponent. "Yeah, you rank right up there with Superman, from what I've heard."

"Oh, I'm flattered," Cordoba said with a bit of a grin, ignoring the mercenary's sarcastic tone. The big man actually seemed to relax a little, taking the statement as a compliment. "So, I guess you know how dangerous I am?"

"More or less," K.T. replied. "So, why do you want to kill me so badly?"

What good humor Cordoba had gained from K.T.'s statement vanished instantly as the Panders took on a dark expression of rage.

"I don't like Setites," Cordoba pointed out, keeping his voice even and menacing. "And I don't like the bastards that sell their souls to those sick fucks. I've been fighting them for a long time, and it's been all I can do to keep them out of my turf. If they think I'm gonna step aside and let their idiot pawns inside the Sabbat steal my turf and my drug trades, they're dead wrong. You want to know why you're about to die? Because you and the two Loyalist assholes inside picked the wrong fucking side of this war."

"I've got a news flash for you," K.T. said, rapidly becoming less and less impressed with the group of Sabbat that faced him. "I'm not working for the Setites. In case you didn't notice, they dumped us in the middle of Central Park, right in werewolf central."

"I had noticed that," Cordoba said, taking no action against K.T.'s irreverent tone for the moment. "And I also noticed that you're being chased by a psycho killer that thinks he's an Assamite. Maybe you would care to explain to me why almost everyone in this city is after you."

"What can I say?" K.T. replied. "I'm a really popular guy."

"Funny," Cordoba stated. The Nosferatu with the fedora and the cigar slammed the butt of his Tommy gun into K.T.'s side, doubling the mercenary over in pain. Before K.T. could recover from the strike, Cordoba closed one massive hand around his throat and slammed him back into the wall.

"I don't like you as it is," Cordoba snarled, leaning in close to K.T.'s face. "But right now, something is going on inside my territory. Now you're going to help me figure out what the fuck is going on, or I'm gonna torture you, real slow. And believe me, whatever you've seen won't compare to what Peter and I can do."

Cordoba gestured to the Nosferatu that had taken K.T.'s gun. The mercenary looked over to him, and Peter smiled menacingly. K.T. put up his hands, and Cordoba lowered him to the ground.

"Look, I barely even know what the fuck is going on, okay?" K.T. started. "Four days ago I'm called in by some bishop, and since then he's died, another bishop has died, most of a pack has died, and almost everyone I've met in this God forsaken city has tried to shoot me, stab me, or kill me in some other fashion. Now if you're Black Hand and you've got a hard on to be the next bishop or archbishop or whatever the fuck it is you want to be, go right the fuck ahead and I'll go back where I came from. Just call off your assassins or whatever and leave me the fuck alone."

Cordoba stared at K.T. for a long moment, a look of utter confusion on his face.

"I want some of what he's smoking," the Nosferatu with the fedora and the cigar said with a grin. Cordoba finally reacted, but it was hardly what the mercenary expected. The Panders started to chuckle, then fell into a bout of nearly uncontrollable laughter.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Cordoba finally managed, his mirth changing rapidly to anger. "You trying to tell me that I've been killing off bishops and packs of Sabbat? Listen here, cabrón, Sabbat don't kill Sabbat. I have never killed an honest Sabbat in my life."

"Well then you might want to talk that over with Jerry," K.T. said. "And with the eight nomads you had killed."

"They were Camarilla spies!" Cordoba retorted furiously. He slammed one fist into K.T.'s face, nearly knocking the mercenary unconscious between the impact of the Panders' phenomenally powerful strike and the second collision of his head with the brick wall behind him. As K.T. tried to regain his senses completely, the pack leader grabbed him by the throat and once again pinned him to the wall. "Who the fuck told you they were Sabbat nomads? Jerry?"

K.T. nodded, still not seeing more than swirls of light in front of him.

"Jaime, Peter, go get that little antitribu freak out here!" Cordoba ordered as K.T. regained focus. The blonde and her Nosferatu companion disappeared back into the Tunnel, but more vampires began to creep out of the shadows, well armed and openly menacing. As K.T. sized up his new opposition, he considered Cordoba's reaction to the murder accusations; the Panders was evidently taking a lot of flack for the eight deceased nomads. Cordoba saw him sizing up his opponents, and moved into his line of sight. "Yeah, that's right," the Panders growled. "There ain't no way out for you right now, unless you consider death a way out."

"I'll just wait," K.T. said, turning his attention to Cordoba. The two vampires watched each other for the next two minutes, until Erica was thrown into the alley next to K.T.

"What the hell are you doing?" the Ventrue demanded, turning angrily to Cordoba. "The archbishop is-"

Erica's protest was lost in a gasp of pain as Peter slammed the butt of his Tommy gun into her face. The Ventrue was thrown back into the wall, dazed and nearly unconscious. She started to slump to the ground, but the Nosferatu dragged her back to her feet and jammed the barrel of his weapon into her midsection.

"Come on," Peter growled, a cold smile on his hideous face. "Give me a reason."

"Peter," Cordoba said, pushing the Tommy gun away from Erica. The Nosferatu backed off a step, disappointed.

"Next time, bitch," the Nosferatu threatened.

"You ready to be more cooperative now?" Cordoba asked the Ventrue. "If you're not, I'm sure Peter will help you… see things our way."

Erica nodded nervously, her eyes darting between the Panders and the Nosferatu.

"Good," Cordoba said. "Now, I want you to tell me who's chasing you and why. And if I even think your Gangrel friend here is giving you any hints about what he told us, I'll kill you both without any further questions."

Erica glanced to K.T., but the mercenary was busy making sure that none of Cordoba's pack was becoming trigger happy.

"Well, my pack found this communiqué between Black Hand guys, and as soon as we told Bishop Halsey about it, everyone started dying," the Ventrue finally started. "The Setites tried to recruit us to work for them, but we refused, so they dumped us out in Central Park."

"And you think I'm behind Halsey's death?" Cordoba asked. "Jerry said I was killing people off?"

Erica said nothing despite the fear etched onto her features.

"Want me to beat the truth out of her?" Peter asked, expectant.

"Her silence is all the answer I need," Cordoba said evenly. "Get Bonifay."

Peter and Jaime disappeared into the club one more time, leaving an uneasy silence in the alley. Erica glanced constantly from the Nosferatu to Cordoba to K.T., waiting tensely for something to happen. K.T. kept his eyes on Cordoba, who in turn watched the mercenary with an arrogant glare. Cordoba's pack continued to keep up their threatening postures, pointing guns at their two prisoners. Finally, after a long five minutes, Cordoba's two subordinates returned, pushing Jerry out into the alley. The Lasombra turned to Cordoba, ready to spit out an angry complaint about his rough treatment, but the Panders grabbed the far smaller Lasombra before he could react.

"What the fuck rumors are you spreading about me, you little fuck?" Cordoba demanded, shaking Jerry roughly by the throat. "You trying to make it look like I go around murdering Sabbat?" The Panders leaned in close, baring his fangs as he practically butted heads with the Lasombra. He growled out his next statement in a bestial, menacing tone. "I don't like people trying to give me a bad name, puto. Last person that got on my bad side is still recovering from the beating I gave him."

"What are you talking about?" Jerry asked, astounded by the accusations. "I never said you were murdering Sabbat!"

"Well maybe you'd better refresh your two friends about that," Cordoba said. He slammed the Lasombra into the wall behind him. "They seem to think you gave them all sorts of information about my working with the Black Hand to take over the Sabbat!"

"They took the information I gave about you wrong," Jerry said, composing himself in the face of Cordoba's fury. "I said you could make a play if you wanted, and your extermination of a nomadic pack is well enough known to give them reason to believe you might wipe out fellow Sabbat to take over."

"They weren't Sabbat," Cordoba growled. "I had it on good faith that they were Camarilla spies."

"I think you may be right, but the evidence for that was circumstantial at best," Jerry said. "Way I hear, you killed them over some kind of insult to this wench over here."

"Shut the fuck up!" Jaime snapped, drawing a knife from her purse and advancing on Jerry. Cordoba grabbed the smaller vampire's wrist as she drew her arm back to strike.

"I'll decide when he gets punished," the Panders growled. "Remember your place, childe."

Jaime glared at the Lasombra, but her fear of what Cordoba would do if she went against his word stayed her hand.

"So, do you work with the Black Hand?" Jerry asked boldly. Cordoba turned back to him, a look of surprise on his face. Then he laughed.

"Please!" the Panders exclaimed. "Do you remember who runs the Hand? Assamites! You know how they feel about my clan! You're one dense mother fucker, Bonifay."

"They have enough respect for you to let you in," Jerry said. "Way I hear it, you can inspire fear in them."

"Where the fuck do you hang out, Bonifay?" Cordoba asked, a disbelieving expression set in place now. "You know those A-rabs don't fear anything. They'd rush into battle with an Antediluvian if they had the chance."

Cordoba shook his head in disbelief, then tossed Jerry back into K.T. and Erica. The Ventrue helped Jerry to his feet quickly. Cordoba's pack quickly closed in around them, raising their weapons.

"Well, this is going pretty smoothly," Erica commented, trying to think of a way out of the ring of gunmen. Cordoba gave the Ventrue a mean smile as he stepped back from them.

"Might as well end their misery now and drop their bodies off for the snakes to pick 'em up," the Panders directed, already turning back to the Tunnel. Peter smiled as he stepped forward and poked Erica in the gut with his Tommy gun.

"Lights out, sweets," he said with a cold grin. "Payback's a bitch, ain't it?"

Erica glared back at the Nosferatu, refusing to show any fear to Peter or his companions. Peter started to squeeze the trigger, but was stopped an instant before he fired by screeching tires at the end of the alley. Two Cadillacs raced to a stop at the mouth of the narrow street, spilling out over a half dozen black men sporting long, thick green or black dred locks and AK-47's. The Sabbat quickly turned to the new threat, forgetting about their three prisoners as the Jamaican posse turned their rifles on the vampires. A tense standoff followed as the leader of the posse moved forward, his long black overcoat billowing out behind him as he rested a combat shotgun on his shoulder. His thick black dred locks hid most of his face in shadow, but the light of the street lamps glinted off of his mirror shades and illuminated the perfect smile on his face.

"Well, well, Mister Cordoba," the Setite said, evaluating the situation. He looked to K.T., and smiled. "Just like you said, you got dem out of de club. T'ank you, Mister Corben."

K.T. stared back at the Setite posse leader, utterly confused. Cordoba turned and grabbed the Gangrel in fury, tearing a long, serrated knife from the sheath on the back of his belt.

"You fucking bastard!" Cordoba bellowed, drawing his knife back to impale the mercenary. K.T. slammed a fist home in the Panders' face even as the posse opened up on the Sabbat, throwing the alley into a firestorm of chaos. Cordoba dropped away from K.T. as the Setite's first blast tore through the Panders' side, releasing his grip on the mercenary. K.T. acted quickly, rolling around the larger man and grabbing for his Ruger tucked into Peter's belt. One bullet grazed K.T.'s scalp and another ricocheted off the pavement into his thigh, but the Gangrel tore his revolver free of the Nosferatu's grasp, firing even as he wrenched the weapon free of the Nosferatu's waistline. Peter fell to the ground, screaming in pain, as K.T. kept moving, looking for an escape route from the battle.

Erica was the first ally K.T. could find in the mess of gunfire and vampires, practically spinning in a circle as she blazed away with a pair of Glocks at both the Sabbat and Setites. A few feet behind her and farther down the alley, a plain steel door led into the building next to the Tunnel. Bouncing off of the club's wall and propelling himself back through the firefight, K.T. grabbed the Ventrue by the arm and threw her at the door. He glanced back and saw Jerry next, stumbling from a gunshot wound in his shoulder, only a yard or so up the alley toward the posse. K.T. grabbed the Lasombra by his collar even as he staggered back, spinning around and hurling Jerry back into Erica.

"Go! Go! Through the door!" K.T. ordered, turning and shooting a Nosferatu only a foot or so away from him. Erica turned quickly and barreled through the door, chased by a burst of automatic fire. Jerry ducked in next, pausing long enough to provide what cover he could for K.T. as the mercenary backpedaled to the exit.

Erica raced through the hallway behind the steel door in a flash of motion, ignoring the few apartment residents on the ground floor that dared to look out of their doors at the scene unfolding. The Ventrue threw a quick glance over her shoulder to see Jerry backing along the hall as K.T. ducked inside the building and slammed the fire door shut in time to stop a hail of bullets.

"Go go go!" Jerry shouted, turning and sprinting up the hall as he waved frantically for the Ventrue to keep moving. Erica tore through the front door, bursting out onto Twenty-sixth Street as the Sabbat made their way into the apartment building. Erica leapt down the pair of steps from the building to the sidewalk as a Honda pulled up along the curb.

"Mister! Help!" Erica exclaimed dramatically, racing for the car. The driver got out of the vehicle, stunned, as the Ventrue slid across the hood and rammed her Glock into his midsection.

"Keys, please," Erica said with a polite smile, holding her free hand out expectantly. The driver handed the keys over in fear, and the Ventrue smashed the butt of her pistol into his forehead. "Thank you!" she said happily, stuffing the motorist into the back of the Honda. Then she jumped into the driver's seat and started the car. Quickly she threw the passenger side door open, just as Jerry raced out of the apartment building. "Come on! Get in!"

Jerry rushed for the car and dove into the Honda, turning quickly and pushing the back door open for K.T. The mercenary sprinted out of the front door in a rain of lead, diving into the back of the Honda an instant after the door swung open. Glass shattered above him and the door closed on his leg as K.T. hit the back seat, turning over on his back and firing through the blown out window at the Sabbat on the step. Erica slammed the Honda into gear and tore back out into traffic on Twenty-sixth Street, driving for Sixth Avenue and leaving the gunfight behind. K.T. felt a lump against his back and looked over to see the unconscious motorist.

"What the hell is this schmuck doing back here?" the mercenary demanded, pulling himself into a sitting position.

"Dinner!" Erica exclaimed, blowing through the red light on Sixth and Twenty-sixth. The Honda screeched as the Ventrue cut left across traffic, nearly crashing into the front end of a police cruiser converging on the battle raging a block away. Even as Erica started the wrong way through Sixth Avenue's traffic, the police cruiser and a companion car spun around in the intersection, chasing the three vampires down.

"Great, more problems," K.T. grumbled, dumping his spent rounds onto the car floor and jamming a new speed loader home. "Erica you idiot, we're on a one way street!"

"I'm only going one way!" Erica shouted back over her shoulder, dodging around traffic and sideswiping oncoming cars. She came frighteningly close to ramming a beer truck head on, barely avoiding a lethal crash as she grazed the front bumper. K.T. glanced back, ready to ward off the police with one or two shots, but the truck that had nearly killed the three fugitives turned sideways across the street and was instantly broadsided by one of the cruisers. The other cruiser slowed down with the loss of its partner, giving Erica time to spin wildly east along Twenty-fourth Avenue, heading for the FDR Drive.

Erica finally stopped the car three hours after their flight had begun, finding herself in front of a run down welfare hotel on Baltic Street. Only half a block away to the east, the Metro North terminals lay silent and still, while the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway still thundered with traffic above the streets just to the west. K.T. opened his door and scanned the street quickly, but no one was present on the narrow, car lined thoroughfare. Jerry stepped out of the car next to him, and looked over the crumbling brick façade of the hotel in front of him.

"Classy accommodations," the Lasombra quipped, turning back to Erica as she closed the driver's side door of the Honda. He started into the hotel without another word. K.T. took a step to the door, then turned back to the Ventrue.

"Couldn't find anywhere better?" the mercenary inquired, only half serious. Erica simply shrugged.

"I'm not exactly a big fan of welfare dives, but we don't exactly have any other options," the Ventrue pointed out. "Besides, no one ever sees anyone else down here. This way we can dump the car, disappear as soon as the sun goes down tomorrow, and it'll be weeks before anyone knows we were even here. Not only that, but anyone around these parts is easy prey."

"That's because they're all drugged up beyond worth," K.T. reminded his companion as she started to the hotel.

"That's why we'll feed just before sunrise," Erica pointed out, her condescending tone returning. "That way, you can sleep off the drugs and alcohol. You really have to learn to think, K.T."

Erica walked through the hotel door after Jerry. K.T. hesitated for a moment, seriously contemplating putting a bullet into the Ventrue's back to teach her a little respect. Then he started into the hotel himself, deciding that Erica was not worth the bullet.

"You really have to learn to think, K.T.," the mercenary repeated in a whiny voice, finally walking into the dimly lit, sparsely furnished lobby. Erica and Jerry were both standing at the foot of a rickety flight of stairs, waiting for the mercenary to catch up with them. As the mercenary reached them, Jerry started up the stairs and led the trio through a dark, narrow hall to their room, and unlocked the door. Erica followed Jerry in quickly, dropping down on the somewhat clean bed set against the wall of the cramped room.

"I don't know how many more nights of this I can take," the Ventrue commented, looking up at K.T. as he entered the room. The mercenary shut the door quietly behind him, and turned to Jerry. The Lasombra turned back to him after a moment, noticing K.T.'s appraising stare.

"What?" Jerry finally asked.

"Cordoba said that nomadic pack was a bunch of Camarilla spies," K.T. stated without any emotion.

"I know," Jerry agreed. "That's what he keeps on saying. Most people don't believe him."

"He's also not the one trying to kill us," K.T. added, his voice still flat.

"He seemed pretty up for it tonight," Jerry reminded him in an icy tone. Erica stood up, glaring at the mercenary.

"What are you driving at, K.T.?" the Ventrue asked, clearly upset with him.

"I want to know what the fuck is going on," K.T. said. "Two bishops and most of a pack have died. Cordoba wasn't behind it. The only reason he's trying to kill us right now is because we were seen with Setites tonight. Now what the hell is going on? What was that communiqué about?"

"What, do you think I memorized it?" Jerry retorted, openly angry now. "If I did, do you think we would have gone looking for it?"

"Why'd you try to burn it?" K.T. continued, keeping his voice even.

"Who told you that?" Jerry demanded.

"The Setites," K.T. answered. "They even showed me the paper. You didn't get very much of it."

"Jesus Christ, Cordoba was right!" Jerry exclaimed. He turned on Erica, shock and disappointment on his face. "I don't believe it! This hir4ed thug I can understand, but you, Erica? Please say you're not in on this!"

"No, I'm not!" Erica countered quickly. "The Setites tried to force us to work for them!" The Ventrue hesitated for a moment, then turned to the mercenary. "Right, K.T.?"

"Why'd you try to burn it?" K.T. asked again, ignoring the accusation Jerry had leveled.

"K.T.?" Erica asked, expectant. The mercenary turned to her with a withering glare.

"I'm not working for anyone," the mercenary said. He returned his attention to Jerry. "Now maybe you'd like to answer my question."

"Are you trying to imply that I had something to do with this conspiracy theory of yours?" Jerry asked in disbelief.

"Got a guilty conscience?" K.T. inquired.

"No, I don't!" Jerry retorted angrily. "Who the fuck are you, anyway? You come waltzing into town telling us that some ridiculous plot is going on within the Black Hand without any proof at all! The bishop that supposedly sent for you is dead and I don't know who you are, where you came from, or what you're doing here! You might be a Camarilla spy for all I know, or you might be working with the Setites!"

"Both of you, stop!" Erica exclaimed, stepping between the two. "Are you both out of your minds? There's some lunatic out there trying to whack us that none of us know, whether he wanted us dead before or not we definitely now have Cordoba as an enemy, and the Setites are alternating between trying to kill us and trying to recruit us! Now unless the three of us work together we're all dead! So shut the fuck up and let it go! We are all on the same side!"

Jerry and K.T. both looked at each other for a long moment, seemingly ignoring her.

"Do you both understand!" the Ventrue screamed.

"Yeah," Jerry said, not taking his eyes from K.T.

"Sure," the Gangrel agreed with about as much conviction.

"Forget it," Erica fumed, stepping out from between the two of them. She threw her keys at Jerry, and stormed towards the door. "Just forget it! Go ahead and kill each other!"

"Where are you going?" K.T. asked, finally turning to her.

"I'm leaving," Erica said simply, controlling the rage that was thinly veiled under her voice. "I figure I can do a better job of staying alive alone, since you two are going to be too busy watching each other to look for anything else."

"Alright!" Jerry exclaimed. Then he calmed down. "Alright. We're both wrong, and I admit it. Neither of us are behind any of this. It's just been a really long night, and I'm jumping at anything."

"Me too," K.T. finally said, looking down at the dirty gray rug. "I just want to try and figure out what's going on, and considering everything else that happened tonight, I'm a bit on edge."

"Alright," Erica said, returning to the room. "Alright. Now that we're all in agreement, we may as well just call it a night. I've been doing enough running around for one night, myself. Now you can both behave?"

"That's right," Jerry said. K.T. nodded his agreement. "Tomorrow we'll try to get to the archbishop, but with everything that's happened so far I think going into Manhattan would be a bad thing."

"Okay," Erica said. "I'm going to drive the car over a few blocks and dump it. Then we can get a taxi or something tomorrow. Everything fine with that? If I'm gone for ten minutes, neither of you are going to start accusing me of working with Setites or whoever's trying to kill us, are you?"

"Very funny," K.T. said flatly. Erica smiled at him coldly.

"Well, someone already seemed all too willing to jump to conclusions tonight," she stated harshly. Then she turned and disappeared into the hallway. K.T. watched the door for a moment, then turned back to Jerry. The Lasombra was still watching him, waiting for the mercenary to make another accusation. The two stood in silence for a minute before K.T. broke the silence.

"You and I both know that Cordoba isn't behind this," he stated evenly, keeping any hint of accusation out of his voice.

"You're probably right," Jerry admitted. He looked at the door for a moment, then gazed down at the floor. "But let's leave it like that, okay? We both know that some psychotic assassin is after us, and we both know that Cordoba wants us dead now, if for no other reason than the fact that Clairvius acted like you helped him set Cordoba up."

"Clairvius?" K.T. repeated.

"You know that big guy with the dreds and the mirror shades?" Jerry inquired. K.T. nodded. "That's him. Patrice Beladeau's right hand man, chief enforcer, and the visible leader of the Jamaican posses in Manhattan. He's a sick bastard, one of the scariest enemies we have in this city."

"But why just leave it at that?" K.T. asked. "What are you trying to hide?"

"I'm not trying to hide anything, not really," Jerry said. He hesitated for a moment, uncomfortable with the topic. "But… well, I don't want to frighten Erica too much."

"You don't want to frighten Erica?" K.T. repeated, incredulous. "I don't want to burst your bubble, Jerry, but it's a little late for that."

"Come on, K.T.," Jerry countered. "You don't scare a Sabbat, even one as young and inexperienced as Erica, by giving them some big bad son of a bitch and saying that he's the guy trying to kill you. At least she'd know where the attack was coming from. But this, we don't even know who's doing what right now. I mean, I don't want her jumping at every shadow and bump in the night even after this is over. Look, we've both been playing this game for decades, and I don't expect you to think Cordoba's behind all this. But someone wants us to think that. So let's try to shake Cordoba and this maniac murderer. Without his pawns, whoever's behind all of this may go to ground, not wanting to reveal his hand. Then you can go back wherever you came from, and Erica and I can rebuild our pack."

K.T. turned away from Jerry for a moment, thinking over the proposal. Jerry had a valid point; most elder vampires hated to take a hand personally in their machinations. Maybe, if the unseen player ran out of pawns, he would stop the game and let the three vampires go.

"How do we deal with Cordoba and that killer?" the mercenary finally conceded. Although he was far less than enthused with the plan Jerry had come up with, it was better than running around the five boroughs waiting to get shot at.

"I have some contacts I'd like to check with about the assassin," Jerry replied. "They might be able to find out who he is and where he's hiding. As for Cordoba, well, I think we're going to have to try to kill him."

"Oh, that's it," K.T. stated sarcastically.

"Well, it's a start," Jerry said. "Not the best start, I'll admit, but a start nonetheless. Do you have any contacts in the city"

"One or two," K.T. admitted. "I can check with them tomorrow."

"Alright," Jerry said. He hesitated a moment, looking out through the only window in the room, then turned back to the mercenary. "Hopefully, in a couple of nights this will all be over."

"Hopefully," K.T. agreed. Jerry smiled thinly.

"Well, either that, or we all may be dead."