Death Blows: The Bloodhound Files-2 by DD Barant

inside to assure Dr. Pete and Alexandra that the lurker is gone. Galahad isn’t smiling anymore; he keeps staring at the door with a frown on his face. He knows something isn’t right.

    Smart dog.

    When I get home I do some research. The kanji isn’t a Yak symbol. It isn’t a reference to unrequited love or doomed romance or ninja revenge. Its meaning is, literally, “great difference.”

    Great difference. Between what? My world and this one? The human and canine forms of the were dogs? Life and death? It could mean almost anything.

    I call Gretchen at the NSA office. “Gretch? Need a favor.”

    “Go ahead.” She sounds fine, as sharp and focused as she always is. I hope it’s not just an act.

    “I need to know if my old friend Tanaka is still in Japan. Definitive proof. And if he is, I guess I need to know what Isamu’s up to.”

    “Ah. Eat some bad sushi and looking for someone to blame?”

    I smile. Attagirl. “Just letting my paranoia out for a quick run. Call me back, okay?”

    “I’ll ring you within the hour.”

    I fish out the cassette Dr. Pete gave me. It’s a dead medium, but I’ve salvaged devices of varying vintages from yard sales and junk shops in the last few months. I dig out an old tape deck and slide the tape in.

    I’m nodding my head to “Love Missile F1-11” when Gretchen calls back. “Jace? Your former paramour is currently drinking single-malt in a whiskey bar in Tokyo. The report on Isamu is more extensive, but essentially he’s very busy defending his territory from two different rivals at the moment. Do you need the details now, or would you like to view them at the office?”

    “I’ll look at them when I come in, Gretch. Thanks.”

    After I hang up, I try to figure out if Isamu would waste resources on an enemy an ocean away during a turf war. I doubt it; he’s more the trapdoor spider type, willing to wait until just the right moment to strike. One of the advantages of being immortal. But if it isn’t him and it isn’t Tanaka, then who?

    I sit and listen to the musical advice of a couple of guys with three-foot rainbow Mohawks; they want me to “shoot it up,” but they’re not too clear on who I should be aiming at.

    I do some more research before heading in to the office. It’s about 11:00 PM, but these days I don’t get to bed until three or four in the morning; too much going on at night in a world where half the population is allergic to sunlight. Gretchen’s forwarded some files on the case to me, and there’s a fair bit about the Bravo Brigade online. After an hour or so, it becomes clear where the next step in the investigation lies.

    I’m going to prison.

    FOUR

    The place is called the Stanhope Federal Penitentiary. It’s in central Washington, just outside of Spokane, and houses some of the worst offenders in the state: rapists, murderers, gangbangers, and racketeers. It’s the place they held Al Capone after his tax evasion conviction, and I’m told the prison guards hold a raffle to see which con gets the honor of staying in his cell. Nice to know Al is still contributing to society long after someone beat him to death with a sack full of silver nickels.

    That’s on this world. I can’t recall exactly how Capone bought it back home, but I’m pretty sure it had nothing to do with spare change and a vampire mobster. No silver coins in circulation now, of course. Even in Al’s day they were a rarity—he was actually killed with his own collection. Apparently he used to make thropes he wasn’t happy with swallow them.

    From the outside the prison looks like any other correctional facility: high walls of gray concrete, watchtowers at the four corners flooding the surrounding area with light. The front gate is a massive, iron-barred portcullis that looks like it could withstand a bulldozer. Silver razor wire glints on the tops of the walls like predatory tinsel.

    The guards, like the inmates, are a mix of thrope and pire. The two