attention to herself—a bullet-ridden Mercedes was enough—so she drove as normally as her adrenaline-filled body allowed.
Twenty blocks later, she turned down a one-way street. The venue wasn’t a main artery for the city, with only the occasional vehicle passing by. Karen pulled over, waiting next to a fire hydrant. She kept watch on the rearview mirror, making sure she wasn’t followed. After a few minutes she began to calm down; her heart only beating twice as fast as normal, she thought with a humorless chuckle. She needed to think. Where to go? What to do? Melanie, her best friend. She needed to call Melanie, but didn’t want to use her cell phone. The agents might trace it.
Karen removed the phone from her purse. She held it for a moment, staring at it and thinking of all the numbers and job contacts within. She opened the back, removed the battery, and was about to throw it out of the window, but couldn’t. As long as the battery was out the phone couldn’t be traced. For now, she’d have to use payphones until she could buy a burner.
A man walking by stopped. Karen looked up. He stared at the car then at Karen, and asked if she was okay.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Looks like you been in a war, honey,” the man said, eyeing the car.
“I’m fine, really. Just wanting a little privacy.”
The man huffed, clearly offended, and walked away mumbling.
Karen flipped the visor down, stared into the mirror. She had scratches on her face and fragments of glass in her hair. Her eyes began tearing up, but she fought against the emotions as she plucked pieces of glass from her scalp. Reaching in the glove box, she grabbed tissues and wiped her face. The pain in her knee was sobering and something she could use to focus on to keep from completely losing it.
People walked past and gawked at the wreck. She needed to get out of the area before the police arrived.
As she climbed from the Mercedes, the pain in her knee worsened. With her pant leg already ripped, she was able to spread the fabric and examine the wound. The knee looked singed and burned, as if she’d laid a curling iron on it, but the bullet must have only grazed her. Karen had been lucky.
Glancing at the car, she couldn’t believe she wasn’t dead. The vehicle looked like a Swiss cheese special or something from a gangster movie after a hit. Bullet holes were everywhere, the windows blown out. The car had multiple dents and long scratches. Parts of it looked like crinkled aluminum foil; only broken shards of red and clear plastic remained of the rear lights. It was now a cop magnet and she had to leave it.
Karen got back into the car and removed the first aid kit from the glove box. She disinfected the wound with antiseptic pads, each swipe agonizing, before bandaging it up with gauze.
She pulled a fresh pair of jeans from her luggage. Ignoring the onlookers, she changed her pants, wincing from the wound to her knee. She didn’t want to block the hydrant, a stupid thing to worry about in a crisis, but she had to get away before the police or, worse, the agents arrived. She grabbed her purse and luggage and fled the scene.
Chapter 8
Morgan headed to Thomas’s home, a rundown apartment complex located in one of the worst neighborhoods in Poughkeepsie. After pounding on the door and receiving no reply, he broke in. Thomas wasn’t home.
Thomas Agorik was a lowlife, even for a vampire; a scavenger that preyed on the weak and troubled. He enjoyed any and all narcotics and had a nasty habit of picking up teenagers—runaways and whatnot—and draining them dry in secluded places while they pleaded for their families. Morgan had wanted to kill the bastard upon meeting him, and almost had, but the junkie proved resourceful, becoming Morgan’s confidential informant in the vampire world. Thomas kept Morgan informed of the affairs of the underground community, a part of the vampire world Morgan didn’t spend a lot of
Twenty blocks later, she turned down a one-way street. The venue wasn’t a main artery for the city, with only the occasional vehicle passing by. Karen pulled over, waiting next to a fire hydrant. She kept watch on the rearview mirror, making sure she wasn’t followed. After a few minutes she began to calm down; her heart only beating twice as fast as normal, she thought with a humorless chuckle. She needed to think. Where to go? What to do? Melanie, her best friend. She needed to call Melanie, but didn’t want to use her cell phone. The agents might trace it.
Karen removed the phone from her purse. She held it for a moment, staring at it and thinking of all the numbers and job contacts within. She opened the back, removed the battery, and was about to throw it out of the window, but couldn’t. As long as the battery was out the phone couldn’t be traced. For now, she’d have to use payphones until she could buy a burner.
A man walking by stopped. Karen looked up. He stared at the car then at Karen, and asked if she was okay.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Looks like you been in a war, honey,” the man said, eyeing the car.
“I’m fine, really. Just wanting a little privacy.”
The man huffed, clearly offended, and walked away mumbling.
Karen flipped the visor down, stared into the mirror. She had scratches on her face and fragments of glass in her hair. Her eyes began tearing up, but she fought against the emotions as she plucked pieces of glass from her scalp. Reaching in the glove box, she grabbed tissues and wiped her face. The pain in her knee was sobering and something she could use to focus on to keep from completely losing it.
People walked past and gawked at the wreck. She needed to get out of the area before the police arrived.
As she climbed from the Mercedes, the pain in her knee worsened. With her pant leg already ripped, she was able to spread the fabric and examine the wound. The knee looked singed and burned, as if she’d laid a curling iron on it, but the bullet must have only grazed her. Karen had been lucky.
Glancing at the car, she couldn’t believe she wasn’t dead. The vehicle looked like a Swiss cheese special or something from a gangster movie after a hit. Bullet holes were everywhere, the windows blown out. The car had multiple dents and long scratches. Parts of it looked like crinkled aluminum foil; only broken shards of red and clear plastic remained of the rear lights. It was now a cop magnet and she had to leave it.
Karen got back into the car and removed the first aid kit from the glove box. She disinfected the wound with antiseptic pads, each swipe agonizing, before bandaging it up with gauze.
She pulled a fresh pair of jeans from her luggage. Ignoring the onlookers, she changed her pants, wincing from the wound to her knee. She didn’t want to block the hydrant, a stupid thing to worry about in a crisis, but she had to get away before the police or, worse, the agents arrived. She grabbed her purse and luggage and fled the scene.
Chapter 8
Morgan headed to Thomas’s home, a rundown apartment complex located in one of the worst neighborhoods in Poughkeepsie. After pounding on the door and receiving no reply, he broke in. Thomas wasn’t home.
Thomas Agorik was a lowlife, even for a vampire; a scavenger that preyed on the weak and troubled. He enjoyed any and all narcotics and had a nasty habit of picking up teenagers—runaways and whatnot—and draining them dry in secluded places while they pleaded for their families. Morgan had wanted to kill the bastard upon meeting him, and almost had, but the junkie proved resourceful, becoming Morgan’s confidential informant in the vampire world. Thomas kept Morgan informed of the affairs of the underground community, a part of the vampire world Morgan didn’t spend a lot of
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