I jerked my chin up, arms crossed. “Someone’s a prize fighter, aren’t they?”
The raven quorked low in its throat, and then launched itself up again with powerful wings. It landed on the eaves of the building next door, fluffed its head feathers, and rattled a laugh that sounded so human it made my skin crawl.
My eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
The bird did not reply or even acknowledge my attention, preening under one wing. It stopped, fluffed itself, and launched off into the heat of the day.
Feeling somewhat foolish, I pulled my gloves up along my wrists and shivered. The perch the bird had occupied was vacant darkness, a yawning space of shadow that endured under the hot summer sun. Slowly, I went across and reached down to pick up my wallet from the ground. It had gone under the edge of my car, so I got down on my knees to reach for it. And there, on my knees and looking under the chassis, I glanced up and stopped. My ears started ringing.
A plain steel box, maybe five by ten inches, was bolted to the underside of my fuel tank.
Well, fancy that. Someone just tried to kill me.
Chapter 6
There’s two kinds of car bombs commonly used by professional wetworkers in this city. The first is an explosive device—putty, usually—attached to the engine. They rig a block of plastic explosive near the sump and run wires back into the dash. When you insert the key and turn the engine, the ignition triggers the explosion. The second kind has the explosive device mounted in a casing under the fuel tank. That type of bomb can be set off in a similar way—when you start the car—or from a remote control.
Then there’s the third kind used by spooks: a bomb set up with a triggering sigil, which is activated in any way the creator pleases. Body pressure on the seat, engine ignition, opening the car door. Generally speaking, a professional is going to style it so the car explodes while the intended victim is inside, not outside, and the sigil ward is triggered automatically. The mage triggering the device doesn’t have to hang around, if they’re smart enough to account for all the variables.
I was fairly sure, from the brief look I got before I backpedaled rapidly on foot out of the parking lot, that it was the cheaper and nastier gas tank setup, but I couldn’t rule out the sigil. Given the firepower I’d seen around Semyon and now Nacari, it was entirely possible that it was the latter.
The first thing I felt was anger, anger at having my property violated. Then came the confusion, then the fear. My heart continued to try to dig its way from behind my ribs as I feigned calm and kept myself at a quick walk. Not knowing what else to do, I found a payphone and called Lev’s office number. He didn’t pick up, so I phoned home in the hope that Vassily was still there.
“Mister Sokolsky’s House of Hedonism, how can I help you?”
“Someone rigged my car.” I ran my fingers back through my hair, massaging my scalp. “I’m stuck at Lev’s firm. Can you go get my tools and bring them here?”
There was a long pause. “Wait. Rigged? What do you mean ‘rigged’?”
“A bomb, Vassily. A bomb.” I rolled my eyes.
“Jesus Haploid Christ,” Vassily said. “No, Alexi. No, I’m not bringing you your fucking tools so you can tinker with the bomb in your fucking car.”
“It’s my car.” And it had been my car since I was eighteen. It had my things in it. “I’m not letting them destroy my car.”
“Fuck the car, Lexi. Leave it there and get a cab to Mari’s.” Vassily sounded manic, on edge. “I’ll call Nic or Vanya and get them to send in the pros, man. We have guys who are paid to deal with that shit.”
I had set up rigs in my time and was righteously convinced I could probably defuse this one, but he was right—Nic’s ex-military men had defused so many devices in Afghanistan that they had affectionate nicknames for the different colored wires. Either I did it or they did; there was no calling the cops. “Get a hold of Nic, if you can. It will cost me either way, but I’d rather owe Nicolai an extra couple grand.”
“I’ve got money coming in if you need it. Meet me at Mari’s, okay? Don’t you dare go near that fucking thing.”
I hung up and let myself lean against the side of the phone booth for a few minutes before I dialed the taxi. One did not need precognition to know it was going to be a very, very long day.
Mari’s was an old glass-fronted deli owned and operated by my elder adopted sister. The white-and-blue awning brooded a dense cluster of chipped metal lattice tables outside, set up beside a simple sign in cheap gold paint and chalk with three words on it—Torty ta Chay: ‘Cakes and Tea.’ The deli had no written menu. It had been the cover business for the Lovenko family for two generations, started by Vassily’s adventuring parents before they took their final flight over the Gulf of Mexico. Their will passed it on to Vassily’s grandmother, Lenina, and then when she died, to Mariya.
I pressed a hand to the glass door and let myself in, the cool sanctity of the place settling over me like a waterfall. The bell tinkled over my head, as it always had. Mari’s smelled of sugar, fried butter, old aftershave, and cigarettes. The Ukrainian community news was always playing under the soft music that looped on the overhead speakers, blasting out of an old radio on the menu and cutlery table. The customers, perched around tables with their cake and chessboards, simply picked up their voices to talk over them.
“Alexi!” Mariya’s rich voice punctuated the burbling chatter. She appeared out of the storeroom and came around the counter, her face alight. “Handsome as ever. How are you? You look exhausted!”
Handsome? Me? I smiled, briefly, as she touched my shoulders very lightly and kissed me hardly at all. I returned the gesture on her other cheek, taut with discomfort. “Maritka, I am well enough. Work has run late the last couple of nights.”
Mariya clicked her tongue, examining my shirt. She fussed with my tie, even though it was already straight. “Alexi, I know you gotta do what you gotta do, but you’ll work yourself to death someday.”
“Vassily said men like me kill themselves a lot.” I regarded Mariya levelly in return, looking for signs of ill health. She was in her early fifties, a good twenty years older than her youngest brother. The eldest living Lovenko had the same dark blue eyes and coarse wavy black hair as Vassily, her face strong and weathered from hard work. Mariya was almost six foot in flat shoes but less wiry than Vassily, with carefully curled and teased hair. She still did not speak much English. “You are well?”
“Me?” She smiled widely with a sly, thin mouth. Both siblings were vaguely serpentine in their build and expression, and Mariya’s eyes were only slightly less hard. “Of course I’m well. But you need tea and something to eat.”
“Is Semych here already?” Only in family company did I call Vassily by that name.
“Out back with his deck of cards. I’ll bring you the usual something. Go catch up. Gossip is heavy today.” She waved me off with a little shooing motion.
That reminded me. I moved only a step or two before looking at her over my shoulder. “Before you go, Mari… I was wondering. How do you think he is, now? Really?”
The woman’s expression shifted into something I found nearly unreadable. Sad? Resigned? “He’s thin. Changed, somehow. I don’t know if you were with him before, but he went out last night and got really drunk. Bad drunk.”