XXXV. Still Beating in Your Hand
Spike jumped when a man in a concierge's uniform put a hand on his shoulder; it took a moment to realize he was looking into the impassive face of one of the Vanguard. "Your party is on the top floor," he said formally, with a half-bow. "Please proceed there directly." He turned away, smiling at a woman who walked by and stared at Spike. "May I help you, Ma'am?" he asked.
Spike took advantage of the distraction and found the elevators; only one of them showed that it traveled all the way to the fifteenth floor. It took longer than he liked to arrive, but was empty, and no other passengers joined him before the doors closed. He punched the top button on the display, labeled "Private", and leaned back against the waist-high rail as gravity increased.
It opened again onto an opulent hallway, hung with blue and white silk swag and punctuated by vases of white roses. He looked down at the bouquet of red ones in his hand and smiled. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a head darting around a corner, and then a hand waving briefly. He followed it and found himself in a small foyer before double hardwood doors. Lin, Lao, Mato and Vicious were there already. Spike looked back out into the hall.
"Where's Julia?" he asked in a low voice, pointedly ignoring Vicious' gaze.
"Not here yet," Lin replied. "She didn't come with Vicious, since the Van said to arrive separately."
Spike nodded. "And the Vanguard?"
"One should have met you downstairs," Lao whispered. "The other three are in the kitchen, acting as 'event supervisors'. They cleaned out the Tiger detail about five minutes ago. Didn't Li tell you?"
For a moment, Spike drew a blank, and then remembered that one of the Vanguard – presumably, the one dressed as a hotel employee – was named Li. "He didn't tell me anything, except to come upstairs."
Vicious pulled a silver pocketwatch from his vest, his mouth a thin line of irritation. "Enough talking. Time to go." He looked out into the hallway once more; Spike took some comfort in knowing he wondered where Julia was as well. Or at least, if he didn't wonder, he was going to far more trouble than usual to make it appear that way.
"I'll lead," Spike said. Vicious looked up at him sharply, but he held up the roses. "I brought a diversion." He pulled a cartridge from his coat and loaded the Tommy, adjusting the strap so the barrel hung flush against the side of his chest. Before Vicious or anyone else could protest, he put a hand on the double doors. The other Dragons moved back, hugging the wall out of sight, and he did not look at them as he pushed his way into the room.
Something in his mind seemed to find a detent stop; he was in his element here, trained to the point of instinct rather than conscious thought. The room was arranged in a loose semicircle of smaller, rectangular and round tables all facing a large banquet table at the opposite end of the room. A buffet along the left side was not yet fully stocked. The kitchen staff were late with the meal – not good. Instead of catching them in mid- mouthful, they all sat idle, waiting for their food to be served. Heads turned almost in unison to stare at him in the doorway. He made the split- second calculations; he saw no faces he recognized. Fortunately, this gathering of leaders did not include street forces that would recognize him on sight.
"Yo," he said, smiling and clutching the bouquet with both hands. "Is this the rehearsal dinner?" He looked around, gauging the reactions on faces, noting which hands moved to jackets and which of the men appeared ready to stand. "Uh. I guess not. I don't know any of you. Sorry!" He backed toward the door, still smiling and hoping he managed a blush at the same time. A few of the Tigers turned back toward the head table; most of them relaxed and let their hands fall.
"Hey," Spike said, shifting the flowers from hand to hand. "Do any of you know if there's another dining room up here? I think I'm late."
Now more of them turned away, ignoring him. He smiled. "Thanks anyway." He felt for the stock of the Tommy, slid one hand down to the support, brought it up behind the bouquet. "Guess I'll just be on my way." And he opened fire, spraying the two tables nearest himself with split-second rounds, watching bodies jerk and fall. His right eye registered the figures rising nearer the head table, the subtle flashes of reflected candlelight off steel barrels, and he dove to the side beneath a table occupied by corpses, making way for the rest of the team to enter.
He heard rather than saw the kitchen doors burst open and the machine-gun reveille of the Vanguard from that direction. More weapon fire exploded behind him, and in front of him now as well, the sound of pistols and submachines, the sound of a room full of exceptionally well-armed and well- trained gang members. The Dragon had the advantage, since most of their foe had long been off the street, but then rifle reports cut through the din and Spike realized there were trained snipers in the crowd as well.
He snake-crawled his way out from beneath the table, firing until someone spotted him and then ducking under another, making his way toward the front of the room. He saw the flash of white and silver, Vicious darting in a crouch toward the head table with the katana drawn, already tired of impersonal murder by gunfire. The Vanguard covered his path, and he drew up to full height, gorgeous and unearthly, swinging the blade in a violent arc that seemed effortless, but left hewn bodies in its wake. He dispatched three of the four men at the table with a single slash and let the momentum carry him in a dancer's twirl, catching the remaining man across the throat as he stood with his napkin clutched in his hand.
Spike shimmied backward in a crouch until he was up against the wall, taking stock. There had been perhaps thirty men in the room; he'd taken down eight or nine of them before they'd had time to react. The intervals between gunfire stretched longer now. Looking to his right, he missed Mato's sprint down the center of the room for a split second, and as he turned to see who passed in front of him, a rifle shot rang out. Mato's face seemed to stretch, his mouth widening in an O of shock and pain. Blood and flesh trailed out behind him. Spike started to rise, the Jericho out and aimed toward the front of the room, looking for the sniper, as Lao ran to Mato and another rifle report cut through the rushing sound of adrenaline. Lao's hands went to his midriff, though his expression was far more stoic than Mato's.
In a blinding moment of horror, Spike realized the impact of Mato and Lao both falling in this fight. He looked around, his concentration broken, and saw a Vanguard carrying Shin by a limp arm over his shoulder, heading for the exit. One of Lin's legs dragged behind him, leaving a trail of blood. Spike whirled, and in the second he spotted the scope of a sniper rifle beneath the head table, the butt of a handgun crunched against his temple. He turned instinctively and fired the Jericho, rolling to avoid the body of the unfortunate Tiger who'd run out of ammunition. Before the blackness closed in completely, he took aim from his prone position and fired in the direction of the rifle barrel until his cartridge was empty.
Swimming in the pain of his head injury and the strange hollow ringing that followed his own gunfire, Spike struggled to remain conscious, breathing shallow, listening for movement. An agonizing five minutes of silence dragged by, and Spike began to wonder if he alone survived the massacre. From his vantage point, he could see Mato's body sprawled in the center of the room, and Lao twitching, his breath a hopeless rattle, next to his partner's corpse. Finally he, too, fell still.
He was about to break cover when he heard Vicious speak, seemingly from near the kitchen door. Of course Vicious was still alive. His death would have been a stroke of karmic beneficence Spike had not earned.
"Was it worth it, Spike? To follow in your mother's footsteps? Were the press of flesh and betraying me worth dying for? I meant to ask her the same question about you, but she is not here to answer me."
"Who's the betrayer? We're nothing more than even, Vicious," Spike shot back from behind the massive column.
"You and I are not even yet," came his brittle reply.
"Where is she?"
"She made another foolish decision she will briefly live to regret." Vicious' voice was closer, easier to make out. "Too bad. I would have enjoyed watching her kill you. Now I have no choice but to do it myself."
Spike's laughter, unearthly cold, rang in the stillness. "You could rip out my heart right here, Vicious. Carve it out with your favorite toy. And it would sit there, still beating in your hand, because as long as she lives, I will. I know what you take for granted. I'll live until all hope of having it again is gone. You are not the one to take that hope away from me."
Vicious grinned, audible around his words. "I am the only one who can kill you, Spike. And I'm the only one who can keep you alive. It has been that way ever since I found you on that operating table and carried your bloody, helpless breathing corpse out into the sunlight. She is as good as dead. On my testimony, the Van will crucify her for failing to be here, to fill out the expected ranks. She will take the blame for Mato and Lao's deaths. They will fill her so full of lead she'll sink into the bay without ballast."
The mental image made pain flare in every one of Spike's wounds. But the promise he had made to her kept him from crumbling. She had not come here of her own volition; clearly, it surprised Vicious as much as the rest of them. He would make it to the graveyard, make it there alive. And Vicious would be none the wiser. He pulled one of the Semtex kits from his pocket and reached around to attach it to the opposite side of the column, separating the remote and arming the receiver.
He flipped the safety on the remote, a grin of his own spreading across his face, disturbing the flow of blood that snaked down from his temple to his jaw. He heard the light step of Vicious taking cover. "If she is as good as dead, then I will not give you the satisfaction of killing us both," Spike said, low and clear. And he pressed the switch, felt himself letting go of the control and arching backward in the same moment the C4 blew, the skin of his palms and face scorched, letting the concussion drive him backward and then following it with a graceful roll, concealed behind the crumbling of the column and the avalanche of leather and wood ceiling panels. He made it to the head table and heard the thud of debris pummeling it. The sniper groaned, reaching for his rifle, and Spike wrapped an arm around the man's bleeding neck, squeezing tightly, feeling his breath hitch and finally fade as he went limp. He shivered; unlike Vicious, he had never been able to overcome the horror of dealing a deathblow with his own hands. One leg of the table cracked and it collapsed above him. He curled up tight, forearms shielding his head, and held his breath to keep from coughing and revealing his still-beating heart.
Spike jumped when a man in a concierge's uniform put a hand on his shoulder; it took a moment to realize he was looking into the impassive face of one of the Vanguard. "Your party is on the top floor," he said formally, with a half-bow. "Please proceed there directly." He turned away, smiling at a woman who walked by and stared at Spike. "May I help you, Ma'am?" he asked.
Spike took advantage of the distraction and found the elevators; only one of them showed that it traveled all the way to the fifteenth floor. It took longer than he liked to arrive, but was empty, and no other passengers joined him before the doors closed. He punched the top button on the display, labeled "Private", and leaned back against the waist-high rail as gravity increased.
It opened again onto an opulent hallway, hung with blue and white silk swag and punctuated by vases of white roses. He looked down at the bouquet of red ones in his hand and smiled. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a head darting around a corner, and then a hand waving briefly. He followed it and found himself in a small foyer before double hardwood doors. Lin, Lao, Mato and Vicious were there already. Spike looked back out into the hall.
"Where's Julia?" he asked in a low voice, pointedly ignoring Vicious' gaze.
"Not here yet," Lin replied. "She didn't come with Vicious, since the Van said to arrive separately."
Spike nodded. "And the Vanguard?"
"One should have met you downstairs," Lao whispered. "The other three are in the kitchen, acting as 'event supervisors'. They cleaned out the Tiger detail about five minutes ago. Didn't Li tell you?"
For a moment, Spike drew a blank, and then remembered that one of the Vanguard – presumably, the one dressed as a hotel employee – was named Li. "He didn't tell me anything, except to come upstairs."
Vicious pulled a silver pocketwatch from his vest, his mouth a thin line of irritation. "Enough talking. Time to go." He looked out into the hallway once more; Spike took some comfort in knowing he wondered where Julia was as well. Or at least, if he didn't wonder, he was going to far more trouble than usual to make it appear that way.
"I'll lead," Spike said. Vicious looked up at him sharply, but he held up the roses. "I brought a diversion." He pulled a cartridge from his coat and loaded the Tommy, adjusting the strap so the barrel hung flush against the side of his chest. Before Vicious or anyone else could protest, he put a hand on the double doors. The other Dragons moved back, hugging the wall out of sight, and he did not look at them as he pushed his way into the room.
Something in his mind seemed to find a detent stop; he was in his element here, trained to the point of instinct rather than conscious thought. The room was arranged in a loose semicircle of smaller, rectangular and round tables all facing a large banquet table at the opposite end of the room. A buffet along the left side was not yet fully stocked. The kitchen staff were late with the meal – not good. Instead of catching them in mid- mouthful, they all sat idle, waiting for their food to be served. Heads turned almost in unison to stare at him in the doorway. He made the split- second calculations; he saw no faces he recognized. Fortunately, this gathering of leaders did not include street forces that would recognize him on sight.
"Yo," he said, smiling and clutching the bouquet with both hands. "Is this the rehearsal dinner?" He looked around, gauging the reactions on faces, noting which hands moved to jackets and which of the men appeared ready to stand. "Uh. I guess not. I don't know any of you. Sorry!" He backed toward the door, still smiling and hoping he managed a blush at the same time. A few of the Tigers turned back toward the head table; most of them relaxed and let their hands fall.
"Hey," Spike said, shifting the flowers from hand to hand. "Do any of you know if there's another dining room up here? I think I'm late."
Now more of them turned away, ignoring him. He smiled. "Thanks anyway." He felt for the stock of the Tommy, slid one hand down to the support, brought it up behind the bouquet. "Guess I'll just be on my way." And he opened fire, spraying the two tables nearest himself with split-second rounds, watching bodies jerk and fall. His right eye registered the figures rising nearer the head table, the subtle flashes of reflected candlelight off steel barrels, and he dove to the side beneath a table occupied by corpses, making way for the rest of the team to enter.
He heard rather than saw the kitchen doors burst open and the machine-gun reveille of the Vanguard from that direction. More weapon fire exploded behind him, and in front of him now as well, the sound of pistols and submachines, the sound of a room full of exceptionally well-armed and well- trained gang members. The Dragon had the advantage, since most of their foe had long been off the street, but then rifle reports cut through the din and Spike realized there were trained snipers in the crowd as well.
He snake-crawled his way out from beneath the table, firing until someone spotted him and then ducking under another, making his way toward the front of the room. He saw the flash of white and silver, Vicious darting in a crouch toward the head table with the katana drawn, already tired of impersonal murder by gunfire. The Vanguard covered his path, and he drew up to full height, gorgeous and unearthly, swinging the blade in a violent arc that seemed effortless, but left hewn bodies in its wake. He dispatched three of the four men at the table with a single slash and let the momentum carry him in a dancer's twirl, catching the remaining man across the throat as he stood with his napkin clutched in his hand.
Spike shimmied backward in a crouch until he was up against the wall, taking stock. There had been perhaps thirty men in the room; he'd taken down eight or nine of them before they'd had time to react. The intervals between gunfire stretched longer now. Looking to his right, he missed Mato's sprint down the center of the room for a split second, and as he turned to see who passed in front of him, a rifle shot rang out. Mato's face seemed to stretch, his mouth widening in an O of shock and pain. Blood and flesh trailed out behind him. Spike started to rise, the Jericho out and aimed toward the front of the room, looking for the sniper, as Lao ran to Mato and another rifle report cut through the rushing sound of adrenaline. Lao's hands went to his midriff, though his expression was far more stoic than Mato's.
In a blinding moment of horror, Spike realized the impact of Mato and Lao both falling in this fight. He looked around, his concentration broken, and saw a Vanguard carrying Shin by a limp arm over his shoulder, heading for the exit. One of Lin's legs dragged behind him, leaving a trail of blood. Spike whirled, and in the second he spotted the scope of a sniper rifle beneath the head table, the butt of a handgun crunched against his temple. He turned instinctively and fired the Jericho, rolling to avoid the body of the unfortunate Tiger who'd run out of ammunition. Before the blackness closed in completely, he took aim from his prone position and fired in the direction of the rifle barrel until his cartridge was empty.
Swimming in the pain of his head injury and the strange hollow ringing that followed his own gunfire, Spike struggled to remain conscious, breathing shallow, listening for movement. An agonizing five minutes of silence dragged by, and Spike began to wonder if he alone survived the massacre. From his vantage point, he could see Mato's body sprawled in the center of the room, and Lao twitching, his breath a hopeless rattle, next to his partner's corpse. Finally he, too, fell still.
He was about to break cover when he heard Vicious speak, seemingly from near the kitchen door. Of course Vicious was still alive. His death would have been a stroke of karmic beneficence Spike had not earned.
"Was it worth it, Spike? To follow in your mother's footsteps? Were the press of flesh and betraying me worth dying for? I meant to ask her the same question about you, but she is not here to answer me."
"Who's the betrayer? We're nothing more than even, Vicious," Spike shot back from behind the massive column.
"You and I are not even yet," came his brittle reply.
"Where is she?"
"She made another foolish decision she will briefly live to regret." Vicious' voice was closer, easier to make out. "Too bad. I would have enjoyed watching her kill you. Now I have no choice but to do it myself."
Spike's laughter, unearthly cold, rang in the stillness. "You could rip out my heart right here, Vicious. Carve it out with your favorite toy. And it would sit there, still beating in your hand, because as long as she lives, I will. I know what you take for granted. I'll live until all hope of having it again is gone. You are not the one to take that hope away from me."
Vicious grinned, audible around his words. "I am the only one who can kill you, Spike. And I'm the only one who can keep you alive. It has been that way ever since I found you on that operating table and carried your bloody, helpless breathing corpse out into the sunlight. She is as good as dead. On my testimony, the Van will crucify her for failing to be here, to fill out the expected ranks. She will take the blame for Mato and Lao's deaths. They will fill her so full of lead she'll sink into the bay without ballast."
The mental image made pain flare in every one of Spike's wounds. But the promise he had made to her kept him from crumbling. She had not come here of her own volition; clearly, it surprised Vicious as much as the rest of them. He would make it to the graveyard, make it there alive. And Vicious would be none the wiser. He pulled one of the Semtex kits from his pocket and reached around to attach it to the opposite side of the column, separating the remote and arming the receiver.
He flipped the safety on the remote, a grin of his own spreading across his face, disturbing the flow of blood that snaked down from his temple to his jaw. He heard the light step of Vicious taking cover. "If she is as good as dead, then I will not give you the satisfaction of killing us both," Spike said, low and clear. And he pressed the switch, felt himself letting go of the control and arching backward in the same moment the C4 blew, the skin of his palms and face scorched, letting the concussion drive him backward and then following it with a graceful roll, concealed behind the crumbling of the column and the avalanche of leather and wood ceiling panels. He made it to the head table and heard the thud of debris pummeling it. The sniper groaned, reaching for his rifle, and Spike wrapped an arm around the man's bleeding neck, squeezing tightly, feeling his breath hitch and finally fade as he went limp. He shivered; unlike Vicious, he had never been able to overcome the horror of dealing a deathblow with his own hands. One leg of the table cracked and it collapsed above him. He curled up tight, forearms shielding his head, and held his breath to keep from coughing and revealing his still-beating heart.