Dead Drop: A Lawson Vampire Bonus Story

Dead Drop: A Lawson Vampire Bonus Story

3.6 162
by Jon F. Merz
     
 

Dead Drop: A Lawson Vampire Bonus Story (Includes a sneak peek of The Kensei!)

Meet Lawson. A cynical, wise-cracking vampire charged with protecting the Balance between vampires and humans, he is part cop, part spy, and part commando--a James Bond with fangs. Lawson mixes shrewd cunning with unmatched lethality to get his job done. He tries his best to

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Overview

Dead Drop: A Lawson Vampire Bonus Story (Includes a sneak peek of The Kensei!)

Meet Lawson. A cynical, wise-cracking vampire charged with protecting the Balance between vampires and humans, he is part cop, part spy, and part commando--a James Bond with fangs. Lawson mixes shrewd cunning with unmatched lethality to get his job done. He tries his best to dismantle conspiracies, dispatch bad guys, and live long enough to get home.

This time, Lawson has been given an easy assignment, a "dead drop." That is until an old enemy returns…

AVAILABLE NOW… THE KENSEI!

In Jon F. Merz's novel The Kensei, a battle-weary Lawson heads to Japan for a little rest and some advanced ninja training. But he no sooner steps off the plane than lands in the midst of a Yakuza turf war orchestrated by a shadowy figure known as the Kensei. With the help of Talya, a former KGB-assassin, Lawson must put a stop to the Kensei's organ trafficking networks, prevent the creation of an army of vampire-human hybrids, and save his own skin in the process.

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Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781429991926
Publisher:
St. Martin's Press
Publication date:
02/15/2011
Sold by:
Macmillan
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
50
Sales rank:
66,495
File size:
0 MB

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Dead Drop

A Lawson Vampire Bonus Story


By Jon F. Merz

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2010 Jon Merz
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-9192-6



CHAPTER 1

I was parked up in a shitty Peugeot 406 that looked every bit the 15 years old it was, with rusted side panels and even a back bumper held on with bits of wire coat hanger. I was surprised the damned thing still ran, but I'd been assured by the local Control it hummed like a dream when it took to cornering around the high hedgerows that lined the country lanes in this part of Ireland.

I'd been loaned out — my Control, Niles, called it a personal favor to an old pal of his. "McDaniels is on leave — his mom died so he can't do it. And my buddy doesn't trust the replacement the Council wanted to send him." My usual area of operations is New England back in the States. But now I was sitting under thick cloud cover listening to the steady drizzle drum out a hypnotic beat on the roof of the Peugeot.

Belfast in November. Yuck.

The job was easy enough: unload a dead drop. I had no specifics of the assignment other than the fact that the dead drop was located inside an apartment building. I had a key to the flat. And once I spotted the load signal — in this case, a light would be turned on visible to me as I sat idling — I'd wait five minutes, retrieve the material, and then be on my way home to Boston.

Easy.

Except dead drops never are.

They're supposed to be; that's what they drummed into us back at the Fixer Academy in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. Dead drops preserve an established cut-out system that never compromises the entire intelligence network if done properly. If one person gets pinched, they can't reveal the identity of anyone else in the network. And in our case — as Fixers — we were especially interested in making sure no one ever discovered the existence of a race of living vampires that had evolved alongside humanity for millennia.

Of course, these days dead drops are a lot different than when I graduated Fixer training back in the mid-1960s. Back then, pay phones were everywhere and all you needed for a drop was a piece of chalk and a magnetic key case. Step into the booth, make a fake phone call, pluck the case off the underside of the phone bank, pocket it, then step out and stomp on a piece of chalk by the entrance to show you'd retrieved it.

Easy.

After graduation, new Fixers are apprenticed to seasoned active-duty Fixers for a period of a few years. I got lucky. My mentor was a guy named Zero, a living legend within the ranks of the service. He had more kills on rogue vampires than anyone still working. He'd been working black bag ops longer than they'd had black bags.

One of our first assignments together was a dead drop, too. In Ubon, Thailand, of all places, right near where it snuggles up to Laos. During the monsoon season, Zero and I had huddled in a cafe down the street from the pickup. Rain made the streets look like swollen brown rivers of sludge and filth. A short distance away, the Mun River merged with the Mekong and ran south through Laos into Vietnam where the US was engaged in a crummy war.

The humidity, combined with the ceaseless rain, had turned my mood sour. "Why are we here again?"

Zero had eyed me with his customary thousand-yard stare. "Dead drop. What else is there to explain?"

I shrugged. "Details?"

"You don't need to know details. You just go get the pickup and then come back. That's your job. Just do it."

"Why here, though?"

Zero said something into his cup of coffee and then looked back up at me. "The problem with you, Lawson, is that you always want to know everything. I don't fault you for that. But the thing is: you have to be careful what you wish for. Need-to-know isn't just about people with control issues."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning sometimes it's better if you don't know everything. Ignorance is bliss."

"It's got to be about Vietnam."

Zero sighed. "Yeah, I knew that wouldn't put you off." He shook his head. "So here's the thing: Vietnam is an American problem. Only it's not. Rumor is there's someone high up in the NVA that's leading a genocide campaign against villages in the south."

"And?"

"He's one of ours."

I frowned. It was the first time I'd heard that a vampire — one of my kind — was mixing with humans. "Do the Vietnamese know about him? What he is, I mean."

Zero shook his head. "My guess is no. But that doesn't matter. Once we get his identity, we pass it on up the chain. The Council can decide if it warrants a sanction — which it will — and who gets to punch his ticket."

I felt a shiver go up my spine. As an apprentice Fixer, I had yet to get my first official termination order. The thought that the Council might give it to me pumped a spike of adrenaline into my blood.

Zero didn't miss the slight shift I made. He caught everything. "Afraid not, my young friend. There's no way the Council will task you with that. Not yet, anyway."

I frowned. "They'll have to, eventually."

"They'll have to when I tell them you're ready." Zero finished his coffee. "And that time isn't here yet."

"You think I wouldn't pull the trigger?"

Zero sniffed. "You think that's all it is? Just shoot and forget about it?" He stared at me some more. "Once you start down that path, there's no turning back. Not ever. The faces ... they're with you forever."

But I was young. New. And I didn't feel like listening to the wisdom of my elders. So I just dutifully nodded at the appropriate times until Zero finally told me to go and get the dead drop.

"You can see the load signal from here?"

Zero shook his head. "In this rain? No way. But it's time. You shouldn't have any problems."

I downed my cold tea and checked to make sure the loose shirt I wore covered the Colt 1911 I had strapped on to my back right hip. I glanced up at the sky and frowned. "Gonna get soaked."

"No doubt," said Zero. "It's three blocks down. Apartments. Look for a potted plant on the second-floor balcony. Take the stairs up to the second floor. Number five. Key will be under the floor mat."

"What am I looking for exactly?"

"A small kaleidoscope. It'll have a microfilm in it that we bring back to the Council."

I nodded. "Wish me luck."

"Make your own luck, Lawson."

Outside, the light cotton shirt I wore was drenched within seconds until I got myself underneath the balconies of the buildings that ran up the side of the street. Everywhere you looked, French colonial architecture had made its impression — even in this backwater town. Art deco lettering emblazoned the signs of stores. I passed few other people; most everyone was waiting out the worst of today's storm.

I stepped off the sidewalk into about a foot of sloppy, soggy mud and cursed quietly. A veritable river ran through the streets and I was lucky I hadn't been swept away. My shoes — slippers, really — were going to fall apart now.

Two blocks away, I saw the potted plant taking the brunt of a leaky gutter on the second-floor balcony. Good. Get in, get out, and get my shoes changed back at the hotel. Then Zero and I could get back to the real world.

I pushed through the door into the lobby and glanced around. I saw no one sitting in the lobby, and aside from a pay phone in the corner that looked as functional as my shoes were going to be in a few hours, the place was a mess. A few chairs littered the scene, but the wicker on their backs had torn open in places. A ceiling fan overhead sent a tepid breeze down atop my soaked head. I ran a hand over my short hair and it came away drenched.

The job. I started up the stairs and heard my shoes squish as I did so. Not the best way to stay quiet, so I slipped them off. They were the same cotton slippers the locals wore.

At the top of the steps, I turned right and crept down the hall. Number five should be on my right side, facing out on the street. I passed four and stopped. Five was dead ahead.

My heart beat a thunderous rhythm in my chest, and I frowned. I'd been on plenty of training assignments before — all with potential real-world consequences if we'd been discovered. But I was with Zero now, and his reputation spoke for itself. I didn't want to screw up.

The first problem was immediately obvious. No floor mat. And consequently, no key.

I glanced up and down the hallway, but there was no one else around. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the two picks I always carried with me. The lock looked simple enough and we'd been taught to crack locks back at the Academy. Improvise, adapt, and overcome.

I slid the picks into the lock and worked it until I heard the tumblers click into place. And the door opened.

I stepped inside quickly and shut the door behind me. No sense advertising the fact that I'd just broken in. Grab the kaleidoscope and go. But first I had to find the damned thing.

I stepped further in and heard the steady drumming of rain slashing down on the balcony outside. The windows were open. A breeze blew over me and I sniffed something that reminded me of fragrant jasmine.

"Nice to see the Academy still trains its Fixers to pick locks, although I'm guessing it wasn't your greatest attribute given the length of time it took you."

The voice, so suddenly breaking the silence, made me gasp. I turned and saw a figure seated in the middle of the living room. Short-cropped hair combined with a soft feminine face made it difficult to determine if it was a man or a woman. Dressed in the soft black silk pajamas that looked reminiscent of those I'd seen the Viet Cong wearing on news broadcasts, the figure sat in quiet repose, regarding me with strangely luminescent eyes that looked full of mirth.

But the shinai — a wooden sword made from split bamboo — resting in front of the figure looked anything but joyful.

To me and others of my kind, it was deadly. Get any wood into our bloodstream, and we were toast.

A slight scent on the air tickled my nostrils. The jasmine had masked it to some extent, but a breeze blew in a fresh gust of air and I knew what I smelled.

Death.

Perhaps an hour old.

My heart hammered against my chest. I tried to stay calm. "Who are you?"

The figure smiled and kept its hands folded in its lap. It certainly didn't seem to consider me a threat. "They call me su im lang mot. Do you know what that means?"

Languages weren't something that I found particularly bothersome and like others of my kind, I spoke a lot of them. "The Silent One."

The figure nodded once. "One possible translation, yes. You are here to recover something." It reached into the folds of its pajamas in a movement so fluid I scarcely caught the action. But when it flipped the kaleidoscope end-over-end to me, I caught it easily enough.

I looked down and then popped it open. A slim roll of film slid out. On it would no doubt be pictures of the vampire currently working for the North Vietnamese. I glanced at the figure. It still hadn't moved.

"You killed the contact," I said.

It nodded again. "She was a traitor to the cause. It's not nice to let slip my identity unless I happen to think it's all right."

I held up the film. "This is about you?"

"Of course."

"And you came here to kill my contact." I paused. "Are you also here to kill me?"

"I haven't yet decided. You're young. And I'm guessing you haven't seen much action yet. Where would the fun be in killing you now?" The figure rose slowly to its feet. The shinai stayed on the floor.

I felt the pressure of the Colt tucked behind my hip and wondered if I could draw down on the figure in front of me before it could close the distance. My ego said I could. But listening to my ego would get me killed, and the objective part of me said no way. So I stayed still.

Waiting.

"Hmmm, very good, a Fixer that shows restraint. I'm almost impressed." A smile flashed across its face and then vanished.

"Forgive me for asking," I said then. "But are you a man or woman?"

"You can't tell?"

"You look almost like a monk — "

But then the figure moved so fast that it was next to me and breathing into my ear in the next second. I'd detected no shift, no sound, no intention that would have given me a clue that it planned to move. It simply was at a distance from me and then it was next to me.

A tongue tickled my ear lobe. "I assure you I'm all woman." And then I felt a hand grab at my crotch. "Would you like to satisfy your curiosity?" She laughed then, and spun away from me even as I was certain she'd feel my heart pounding.

I was concerned the sweat in my palms would ruin the film I held. "Why are you doing this?"

"Teasing you? Because I like to, silly."

"Not that. You work for the North Vietnamese. Why?"

She glanced over her shoulder at me. "There are others in this world who are even better at dealing death than you Fixers. Why shouldn't we make the most of our skills? There are always those that need our services."

"You're a mercenary," I said. "Throwing your allegiance behind anyone with a few bucks."

"Don't ruin what has otherwise been an enjoyable conversation." She glanced down and looked at something in her hand, then back at me. "Lawson."

I frowned. How did she know my name? Then, without thinking, I reached for my wallet. I came out with a folded piece of cloth. She'd fleeced me so quickly I hadn't even realized it.

She laughed and threw it back to me. "If you could see the expression on your face ... but don't be mad. I like to know who I'm dealing with."

I tossed her the kaleidoscope and she caught it and pocketed it.

I needed to end this. But Zero hadn't told me what to do in this situation. Did I shoot her? Did I back out? I had the film, after all. That's what I'd been sent to recover.

I made a decision and hefted my wallet. "There still any money in it?"

"Of course. I'm not a thief."

My heart hammered as I tried to keep my movement normal. I reached back and replaced it in my back pocket and then slid my hand up toward the Colt. My clammy hands closed around the butt of the pistol and I yanked it out —

The tip of the shinai was already pressed against my throat.

Jesus, she was fast.

"Now, why would you go and do a thing like that? And to think I was going to let you go home in one piece." She sighed. "Oh well ..."

But then I heard the door burst open. "Down!"

I dropped to the floor as Zero rushed the room. But she was already driving forward, stabbing at Zero with the shinai. She cut left and batted his pistol away.

Zero wasn't me, however, and even as she knocked the gun out of his hands, Zero punched her in the stomach. She went with the shot and vaulted herself backwards toward the window, backflipping as she went.

Zero dropped to one knee, jerked his left pant leg up and drew his secondary weapon. I watched in awe as he leveled the gun and fired three quick shots.

But she was already gone, out of the window on to the balcony.

Zero grabbed at me. "You okay?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Come on, we've got to get her."

We ran for the windows, but when we got there the only thing that greeted us was the ceaseless rain and wind. The tepid breezes blew over us and the rain soaked our faces.

The Silent One was gone.

Zero ducked back into the room. "You were taking too long, pal. Hope you don't mind me interrupting like that."

I swallowed, aware of the sudden adrenaline crash I was experiencing. I felt like throwing up and moving my bowels at the same time. Zero noticed my discomfort and motioned for me to sit down in one of the wicker chairs in the room.

"Take a load off while I confirm the contact's dead."

I sat there, breathing deeply, willing my heart to slow down. Zero came back a moment later. "Too late for her." He shook his head. "Well, this has been a total bust."

"Maybe not." I held up the film. "She didn't seem to care that I had it."

Zero took the film from me and regarded it for a moment. "Come on."

We left the apartment and made our way back down to street level. I kept glancing around, wondering if we'd be ambushed. But Zero seemed unfazed.

"She's gone, Lawson. Not our time to deal with her. At least not yet."

"How can you be so sure?"

Zero shrugged. "Experience. Someone like that? They'll pick a time and place to take us on. And everything will be staged so that it benefits them. It will be subtle. They might take years putting the pieces into place so that you don't even realize you're being manipulated. But then they'll be there. Ready to drop you. Remember that."

I was going to ask him why she hadn't killed me, but I already knew the answer: I was too easy a kill. The Silent One lived for the challenge, the thrill of the hunt. I wasn't in that ballpark yet.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Dead Drop by Jon F. Merz. Copyright © 2010 Jon Merz. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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