Blood Bound (10 page)

Like the typical syndicate employee, Nick had likely signed on for a five-year term of service with the potential for renewal and advancement if he proved useful. But even if he opted not to re-up at the end of his service commitment, he would never be able to work for another syndicate or work against Tower, thanks to the lifelong loyalty and noncompetition clauses he would have been required to sign and seal with his own blood.

“Aren’t you on the wrong side of town?” Nick demanded, staring down at me as if I was worth less than the crud stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

Nick’s single mark said he was in his first term of service; the cocky grin said he’d been in just long enough to think he was badass. I was itching to prove him wrong—to take out some of my unspent anger at Cavazos on this little prick’s face—but I knew better than to start shit with one of Tower’s men in his own neighborhood. I’d be outnumbered before I could throw my second punch.

“She’s an independent,” Cam said, meaning that I wasn’t bound to any syndicate. Which was mostly true—I worked for Cavazos alone and owed no loyalty or obedience to any of his syndicate members. “She’s working freelance and I’m helping her out.”

“She got a badge?”

“I’m not a cop.” Why wasn’t he browbeating Cam? And how did Cam happen to know one of Tower’s grunts?

“Then I gotta check her for marks.”

I drew my gun and flicked the safety off with my thumb. “You’re welcome to try.”

“No, he isn’t.” Cam met my gaze with a heavone of his own. “You’re going to put the gun away.” Then he turned back to Nick. “And you’re going to back the hell off. I already told you she’s an independent.”

Independents were a dying breed in the city, even before I’d defected from their ranks.

“She broke into an apartment, she’s armed and I have it on good authority that she’s bound to Ruben Cavazos. I gotta check her for marks, Caballero. You don’t like it, you take that up with Adler. It’s over my head.”

Cam’s jaw clenched. “My word’s not good enough?”

Nick shook his head. “Not this time.” He turned to me. “Take off your jacket.”

My temper flared. “Go to hell.”

“Liv, just show him your arm,” Cam said. “You’re not marked. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that I don’t owe him anything.” And I was tired of being forced to strip.

“Fine. Then do it for me.” Cam frowned, but the lines around his mouth were fear for me, not anger. Something was wrong—beyond the obvious. “You owe me, Liv.”

He was wrong about that. I’d already made up for what I’d done to him, several times over, but I couldn’t tell him that.

The real question was why he wanted me to cooperate with this arrogant little grunt in the first place.

And that’s when I finally understood. “Push your sleeve up.”

Cam exhaled slowly, but didn’t even try to deny what I’d just figured out. He uncrossed his arms and pushed his left sleeve up with his right hand. And there it was. Not one, but
three
thick, iron-colored links of chain circling a quarter of his upper arm.

“You son of a bitch….” I whispered through clenched teeth. Cam was well entrenched in Jake Tower’s infrastructure. Halfway up the ranks. No wonder he’d been worried about my rumored affiliation with Cavazos. We couldn’t work together. We couldn’t even safely be
seen
together by anyone who knew about our respective bindings.

And that little bit of understanding brought Cam’s current predicament into clear focus. He’d brought me—a potential enemy—into his neighborhood and if I refused to prove I had no opposing affiliation, he would be held responsible.

My heart pounding, I holstered my gun and slid my jacket off my shoulders, then let Cam pull my shirt sleeve up to show off the unmarked flesh of my upper left arm.

“See?” he said, as I shrugged the jacket back into place. “No binding.”

“That’s not the only place she could be marked.” Nick’s gaze wandered down from my arm before finding my eyes again, his own gleaming in anticipation. “Where does Cavazos mark his whores?”

I stiffened, but Cam didn’t hesitate. His fist flew, and a second later, Nick was on the floor, bleeding from either his nose or his mouth—I couldn’t tell which, with all the blood.

Out of habit, I pulled the bottle of ammonia from my pocket, but Cam shook his head. “Save it.” He plucked a tissue from a box on the coffee table, then knelt next to Nick and wiped the blood from his fist while the grunt pinched his nose, trying to staunch the flow. “You checked. She’s unmarked. Your job here is done.” He folded the tissue into quarters and held it up for Nick to see. “You ever disrespect her again, and I’ll consider it a personal insult.” Cam tucked the tissue into his front pocket. “And I’ll send this to Ruben Cavazos myself, along with your name and a suggestion of how best to use them both to make your life a living hell. Got it?”

Nick swiped blood from his face with the tail of his shirt—an idiotic move, unless he was planning to burn it later. “Sorry, Cam. I just… That’s what I heard….”

“What did you hear?” I demanded, snapping the cap back onto my spray bottle.

Nick hesitated, glancing at me for a second before refocusing on Cam. “I’m not saying it’s true, but word on the street is that she’s doing Cavazos. And reporting to him. Tower put her on the watch list.”

“Based on a stupid rumor?” Cam demanded.

The grunt shrugged. “He don’t answer to me. All I know is we got orders to check for a mark if she comes west of the river.”

“Since when?”

Another shrug. “Couple hours ago? Maybe less. You didn’t get the message?”

Son of a bitch.
I’d left Cavazos a couple of hours ago. It
had
to be one of his men.

Cam’s frown deepened. “I haven’t checked my phone.” He stood and shrugged to me. “Doesn’t matter, though. You’re not marked.”

But it wasn’t that simple. Eventually someone who outranked Cam would demand a more thorough search, and then I’d be screwed. We both would.

“We’re done here, right?” I asked, already headed back to the bathroom.

“Yeah.” Cam pulled the grunt to his feet while I squatted in front of the bathroom sink to check for cleaning supplies. Nothing but an extra roll of toilet paper and a half-empty quart of bleach. But that was good enough.

“What should I report?” Nick asked, still sniffling blood while I stuffed one of Hunter’s soiled rags into an extra quart bag from my pocket, then dropped the rest of them in the wastebasket.

“The truth,” Cam said. “She’s here on a freelance job, for a private party, and I’m assisting. You checked her, she’s unmarked, and I’m personally vouching for her. If they want to know any more than that, they’ve got my number.”

He was vouching for me. Shit. I couldn’t let him do that—it could get him killed, if something went wrong—but I couldn’t make him take the words back without telling him I was bound to Cavazos. And if I admitted that now, Nick would try to haul me in front of Tower, and Cam would try to stop him, and that would lead to more violence and spilled blood, and then we’d both be on the run fro the entire Tower syndicate. Which would make it really hard to search for a murderer who lived west of the river.

That slope was slippery, but unavoidable.

Trying to swallow the bitter lump in my throat, I opened the bottle of bleach and poured it into the trash can at arm’s length, to keep from splashing my clothes. Then I used the bottle itself to press the whole bloody mess down into the liquid that had pooled at the bottom.

Bleach doesn’t erase all evidence of blood, as any crime-scene technician will tell you. But it does destroy the energy signature that pulls a Tracker to it.

I wasn’t worried about anyone else looking for Shen’s killer—the human police couldn’t track like a bloodhound, and Anne wouldn’t hire anyone else, with me and Cam already on the case. But if Cam’s superiors found out about my mark from Cavazos, it wouldn’t be hard for them to deduce that we were tracking Eric Hunter, and they could use his blood to follow our trail.

Thanks to the bleach, though, all they’d have to go on was his name, which cut their chances of tracking him in half. At least.

When I left the bathroom, Nick was gone, and Cam was in the kitchen, labeling the thug’s blood sample with a black Sharpie. When he was done, he handed it to me, and I dated Hunter’s bloody bandage, then labeled it with his first name and last initial only, for security. It’s much harder to find someone—through either traditional or Skilled searching methods—without a last name.

“We need to talk,” I said, while he blew on the print to dry it.

“Agreed. We also need to get something to eat and find Eric Hunter. Let’s wrap things up here.” He shoved the sealed tissue back into his pocket, then brushed past me on his way to the bedroom. “You look for a filing cabinet, I’ll check his computer.”

“What are we looking for?” I already had a more recent—if weaker—blood sample.

“His full name. Or as much of it as we can find.” Because the Skilled rarely used either of their middle names on official documents. But then again, they also rarely left a pile of bloody rags lying around for someone to find. “Look for documentation. A traffic ticket, an insurance card, an old college ID or even a magazine subscription. It’s a long shot, but I’ve gotten lucky like that before.”

Eric Hunter had no filing cabinet, and I couldn’t decide whether that meant he was smart enough to store all his dangerous personal information under lock and key elsewhere, or stupid enough not to keep track of it at all. But based on the shoebox full of unfiled receipts under his bed—an organizational method I was well acquainted with, personally—I was betting on the latter.

His kitchen trash—
so
glad I brought a pair of gloves—held an unopened bank statement, a two-week-old copy of
Car and Driver
addressed to Eric R. Hunter, several pieces of junk mail addressed to Resident and…a hospital bill, wadded into a tight, angry ball of crumpled paper.

Hmm…
Yet another piece of Eric Hunter’s life that didn’t fit the profile.

Still wearing my gloves, I took the bank statment into the bedroom, where Cam sat at Hunter’s desk, clicking away at his laptop. “What’cha got?” he asked, without looking up.

“Couple of interesting things…” Unwilling to sit on the bed, I leaned against the door facing and unfolded the statement. “One of Eric Hunter’s middle initials is evidently R. And until last week, his personal financial crisis made the national debt look like small potatoes.” Four bounced checks all with twenty-five-dollar fees attached.

Cam finally looked up. “What happened last week?”

“He received a fifty-thousand-dollar wire transfer. I’m assuming that’s the up-front portion of the hit on Shen.”

“That must have turned his frown upside down. Where’d it come from?” Cam was already typing again, but the frustrated lines in his forehead said he wasn’t having much luck.

I shrugged. “There’s just an account number. Can you trace that?”

“Not without a crash course in criminal hacking and a few decades to practice. I might know someone, though….”

“One of your friendly neighborhood gangsters?” I asked, not quite surprised by the accusatory tone of my own voice, and Cam looked up at me again, his expression cautious, and difficult to read.

“I never said I wasn’t bound.”

“You never said you were, either.” I folded Hunter’s bank statement and stuffed it back into the envelope. “You made me show you my arm, but you never bothered to mention that you’re three chain links up Jake Tower’s ass.”

“We don’t have time for this right now.” He turned back to the screen, shoulders tense, forehead drawn low. “Did you find anything else?”

I had to clench my teeth to keep from yelling at him, and I only bothered because he was right—the longer we spent in Hunter’s apartment, the better the chance that Nick’s report would send one of his superiors our way.

“Just this.” I held up the bill, still wrinkled in spite of my best attempt to flatten it. “Hunter went to the E.R. for a broken arm four months ago and still hasn’t paid his bill.”

Cam frowned. “Why would he go to the E.R.?”

“Exactly.” Skilled people almost
never
go to the hospital, because of the compulsive blood-drawing policies and the staff’s utter refusal to let you incinerate your own biological waste onsite. Evidently setting fire to a medical wastebucket is a strict no-no.

Instead, we had our own doctors—certain legitimate private practices with access to all the same equipment as a public hospital, but run by people in the know. People who routinely gather everything you might possibly have bled on into one plastic bag and won’t look at you strangely if you take that bag home to burn in the privacy of your own apartment.

For the convenience of certain criminal elements, there were even private practices that were willing to overlook the legal requirement that they report gunshot wounds and other brow-raising injuries—for the right price. Or to comply he binding that had provided the funding to open that specific practice in the first place. Syndicate-sponsored clinics were all the rage.

“Something isn’t right with this guy,” I said, and Cam nodded.

“You found more than I did. He pays most of his bills online, but if he keeps a list of passwords, it’s either encrypted or saved under a name no one else would recognize. His emails are banal—no smoking gun there, which means we still have no idea who hired him, or why.”

“But we do have his first and last name, and one middle initial,” I pointed out. “You can work with that, right?”

“Assuming the name’s real and he’s still anywhere near the city, yeah.”

“Good, let’s get out of here before we run into any more of your fellow hired thugs.” I hated the thought of Cam working for Tower. I wanted to go on thinking that the dirt of the city hadn’t touched him. That his hands were still clean. I’d come to the city to protect us from each other, and instead, here we stood, side by side in the muck.

Cam closed Hunter’s laptop and frowned at me. “They’re not all like Nick, you know. There are some decent men and women working for Tower. Sometimes good people get caught up in bad things, Olivia.”