The Night Sweeper: Assassin: A Zombie Conspiracy Novel (The Sweeper Chronicles Book 2) (7 page)

Chester didn't disappoint. He has a sale tonight in an
old warehouse – a large buy going down worth sixty thousand in cash. It didn't
take too much for me to convince him not to show up. I just told him if he did,
he would never make it inside the building alive. I also told him if his
clients didn't show and I suspected he tipped them off, or if he ever mentioned
me to anyone, I would hunt him down and kill him slowly.

Despite what I had just put him through, he looked a
little doubtful at first, as if perhaps he wasn't fully convinced of my hunting
abilities. So I reminded him of our meeting in the Chrysler building and helped
him remember that I am the Sweeper who “tried to kill” Cedric Archer.

He seemed pretty convinced after that. In fact, I think
he wet his pants, but it was hard to tell because of the rain. Of course, I
wouldn't really kill him, but there was no need for him to know I'm such a
softy.

I was true to my word once he divulged all of the
particulars about this deal. I pulled him up a little higher out of reach of
the Festers and left him dangling in safety. I’m sure someone’s found him
by now. Maybe.

Now I crouch like a stone gargoyle in the rafters of an
old warehouse. The concrete floor twenty feet below is nearly
indistinguishable from the surrounding darkness, but my eyes have adjusted
enough that it shouldn’t be a problem.

At exactly ten o'clock, I hear a rhythmic thumping on
the east wall of the building, the prearranged code Chester gave to his buyers
to identify themselves and let him know the coast is clear from their vantage
point. A moment later, the side door opens, and five men slink into the room
wearing thick clothes, surely concealing weapons. The man in the rear is
carrying a large gym bag, presumably the money.

One of the mean wears a balaclava. He whispers
something indistinct, even for my hearing, and the front three thugs fan out,
pulling out guns and flashlights and sweeping the interior of the building.
After a minute they return, no longer bothering to be quiet.

“All clear,” one of them says.

The man in the balaclava speaks again. “Chester ain't
here yet. That little twerp best not have skipped out on us.”

“No way man. He's good. He's always come through
before. He's good to his word.

Balaclava harrumphs. “Fine, but I still don't like it.”

They meander farther into the building, and I wait. It
takes a while, but finally they're right under me, and I calculate my moves in
a fraction of a second.

In my right hand, I squeeze the carbon grip of a
Wynchel Two-One. It's more a less a glorified taser, but unlike the ones that
fire darts with wires connected to them, the Wynchel fires thimble sized
metallic projectiles that give off a powerful charge upon impact. They don't
fly fast enough to penetrate skin, but you'd have to be faster than a cobra to
dodge one. I took it from the armory at the Soho just in case I needed a
non-lethal weapon along with the real firepower I took.

I used to mock the small gun because all I was
concerned about at the time was killing Festers, and the Wynchel would barely
even stun them. But now I’m glad I brought it along.

In my other hand, I hold three of the most important
items in a Sweeper's arsenal. Ball bearings. Since Festers are attracted by
sound, ball bearings are a great tool for distraction, and I think they're
going to work just as well on the morons below me.

I launch them towards the back of the warehouse, and
they clang loudly against the metal walls. The five men spin in that direction,
cursing wildly, flashlights and guns coming up.

I leap from the rafter, my brain going into overdrive,
and everything in my perception slows to a snail’s pace.

I swing the Wynchel in a sweeping arc, three men hit
with the electrified slugs by the time I'm halfway to the ground. In the next
fraction of a second, my knee slams between the shoulder blades of the man
carrying the gym bag, his body crashing hard to the ground beneath my weight
and providing me a relatively comfortable landing.

Four down and one to go.

The last man spins my way, a Glock 36 fanning in my
direction, but my actions are still ramped, and he doesn't even make it all the
way through his turn before my left hand blocks his gun arm and I put a shot
into his gut. He shakes madly as the voltage courses through him, his eyes
frozen in a terrified stare, and then he's down.

I put the Wynchel back in the holster strapped to my
thigh, quickly look into the gym bag to verify the money is there, and walk out
without looking back.

It's time to meet the Raven.

I walk into the confessional booth, shut the door, and
the screen slides open from the other side. I can see a vague, hooded figure through
it, definitely not priestly garb. I can’t help myself and say, “Bless me
father, for I have sinned.” No response and apparently no sense of humor. I
suppose it’s up to me to talk first. “I’m guessing you’re not a priest?”

“Hardly,” the voice in the next booth says– a woman’s
voice.

“Raven?”

“Yes." She pauses. "I’m very careful in my
line of work. I don’t trust easily. You should know I have a gun pointing at
you right now in case you try anything stupid.” She speaks softly, not
quite a whisper, but she has an accent that sounds Asian in origin.

“Fair enough. I wouldn't expect anything less
from a professional.”

Raven just grunts. “You know my price,” she says. It’s
not a question.

“I do. And I’m willing to double it in assurance
for your silence once the job is done.”

“I don't betray my clients,” she says sounding miffed,
the reaction of a true professional.

“My apologies,” I say. “I don't know you. But
you're rep seems solid.”

She ignores my comment. “Thirty thousand? That’s very
generous of you. Just what is it that you want me to do?”

“I’ll tell you, but if you refuse the job, silence will
still be of the utmost importance. If things go south, I’ll blame you, and I
promise you won’t be able to hide. Am I making myself clear?"

The shadow of the Raven next to me sits a little
straighter and I can almost hear her teeth grinding in anger.

“Save your foolish threats,” she says annoyed. “I’m not
afraid of you, and I have friends in very high places.”

She’s speaking a little louder now, and I can hear her
natural tone a bit better. There’s something about the timbre of her voice, the
cadence of her speech. It’s familiar to me. I think hard for a moment to recall
where I’ve heard it before. Realization pours in, and I recognize it as the
voice of a ghost.

“Ming?”

That’s all it takes. In an instant she’s up with the
barrel of her gun pointing through the screen at my head.

“Who are you? How do you know my name? You have two
seconds before I give you another eye hole!”

I raise my hands where she can see them. “Easy,” I say.
“It’s me. It’s Cray.”

“Cray?” A long moment of stunned silence passes as she
processes the information. She leans closer to the screen to try to see me
better. “What on earth are you doing here?” Thankfully, she lowers the gun.

“I could ask you the same question. You’re supposed to
be dead.” More silence.

“Not here,” she says. “Just to be extra safe. There’s a
stairwell in the back left corner of the church. A short hall at the top leads
to a doorway to the roof. Meet me there in ten minutes.”

“You’re not going to bolt are you?”

“You’ll see in ten minutes,” she says and leaves
without waiting for me to reply.

I set my mind on autopilot to time ten minutes and sit
there thinking, swearing under my breath. Ming is Raven! I can’t believe it.
She's a Sweeper, or rather, she was.

Up until a couple of years ago, she swept for Atlanta.
Very talented young lady, excellent fighter, and as it so happens, an excellent
hacker. But that was all before she went missing. One night she went out on patrol
and never came back. The only thing they ever found was some of her clothing,
mangled and covered in blood, her tracking device still attached.

Archer took it hard. Ming was one of his favorites, a
second prodigy of sorts, after me. Or at least, that’s how he acted at the
time. He’s since proved he doesn’t care much about anybody as long as he gets
what he wants.

After seven minutes, I rise and exit the tiny
confessional booth. There is no one else in the church to be seen, not
surprising given the late hour, and I make my way to the stairwell she
described and find the door to the roof just as promised. I take the steps two
at a time and emerge into the night air. The shadows atop the old church
are deep. If she's up here, I can't see her.

I close my eyes and concentrate on listening. It only
takes a moment before I hear the footsteps, almost imperceptible. They would be
to anyone but me, but even so, she’s not trying to hide and walks right up
beside me and leans against the rail that runs the length of the rooftop on
this side.

“Well this is awkward,” she says and laughs lightly.
“I’m supposed to be dead, and you’re a wanted criminal.” If she’s nervous, she
doesn’t show it. I notice again the sing-song lilt of her voice. Her dad came
to the States not long before The Virus hit, and she managed to hang on to a
little of her accent.

Ming was the daughter of a single dad. I don't know
anything about her mother, but he emigrated from China when she was still a
child. He was some kind of military contractor, and that's how she got hooked
up with Archer from what I understand. She's a couple of years older than me,
but we went through part of Sweeper training together before going our separate
ways, me to New York and her to Atlanta.

I look her over. Her hair is as black as her namesake,
darker even than Mira's. Unlike Mira, she stands almost as tall as me, her
frame more muscularly built than most girls. Ming was always an attractive
girl, but now her face sports several small scars, evidence of the job she used
to have. She wears a dark leather trench coat, buttoned once. Underneath, I see
multiple bulges in various places. Weapons. Combat boots peek out from under
the hem of the coat.

A hundred questions rattle around in my mind, but I
settle on the most relevant one first. "Now that you know it's me,
do you still want the job?"

"I couldn't turn it down now if I wanted to.
Call it morbid curiosity," she says. She shifts to the side, an
unconsciously defensive gesture. Or maybe not unconscious. If I was
in her shoes, I probably wouldn't trust me either. I take a step back to
give her more space.

"Don't be too sure. It hits close to home."

That gives her pause.

"And," I say, "If you walk away, I'll
still have to kill you if you mention it to anyone else."

She laughs. I don't, and her smile quickly disappears,
but then I smile and we laugh together. The tension in her body relaxes a
little.

"Cray, what have you got yourself into? I've got
no love for The Organization anymore, but you tried to kill Archer."

"And you really believe that?"

"I don't know what to believe," she says.

I'm not in the mood for small talk. Old reunion or not,
I have more important things looming.

"I'll tell you my story if you tell me
yours," I say.

She thinks it over for a minute, her gaze drifting from
me out over the city's skyline. Her eyes dart here and there, and I recognize
the precision of the Sweeper still lurking inside of her, the constant scanning
of the shadows for the things we used to hunt.

She finally seems to make up her mind and speaks
without turning.

"I couldn't take it anymore."

"Sweeping?"

She starts to say something, then stops. I see
the internal struggle in her eyes and I can tell whatever she's thinking isn't
something she likes to talk about. I wait. I don't want to push
her. I still need her help, but more than that, she was, is, a
friend. I mean, I know I hardly ever talked to her because I was scared
of all the girls, but we were comrades. We had something in common.

I sit down on the ledge and watch her while she pulls a
lighter and pack of cigarettes from her inside jacket pocket. She doesn't
look at me, but when the lighter clicks, the flames dance in her eyes further
accentuating the haunted expression. She takes a long draw and blows the
smoke slowly into the air.

"Archer," she says. "I couldn't
take Archer."

That's not what I expected her to say, but I'll roll
with it. "Okay. What do you mean?"

She fidgets with the cigarette. "When dad
died, I was at a loss. I was so overcome with grief that I was about
useless. He was all I had."

I know what she means all too well, memories of my mom
flooding back like it was yesterday.

"When Cedric Archer, the famous fearless leader of
The Organization came along and offered to train me as a Sweeper, I was
ecstatic. I felt like I had purpose again. Training for it, the
tactics, the martial arts, weapons – it was one of the best times of my
life. It helped me cope with losing my dad."

"I remember."

She turns with a look of surprise.
"How? I never told you about my dad."

I shrug. “I overhead you talking with Rebecca one
day at lunch. I was sitting behind you. People would forget I was
there. Anyway, I don't forget things."

She smirks. "Yeah, you don't do you?
When I left training, I started Sweeping in Dallas until Jason was killed and
Archer asked me to take his place in Atlanta. I know you know all of
this."

I nod.

“Archer was there a lot meeting with The Council.
Sometimes he'd be there for days at a time, and when he was, he'd stay at the
Westin."

The Westin was the Westin Peachtree Plaza Hotel, the
Sweeper headquarters for Atlanta. Archer had a thing for turning hotels
into his bases of operation.