Immortal at the Edge of the World Read Online Free Page A

them.
    “Pawnshop,” he repeated.
    “As I said, it’s to say hello to a friend, not because I need to pawn anything.”
    *   *   *
    The ride to Tchekhy’s shop was much more amiable than the trip from the hotel to the bank had been, mainly because Dugan was okay chatting up an ostensible non-vampire. He had a little soldier-of-fortune in his history, which wasn’t a huge surprise given his size, age, and the fact that I was pretty sure he was packing a gun. He kept hinting at various connections he had around the city, and it wasn’t until we were nearly to the shop that I realized he was implying he could get me drugs if I wanted them. He seemed to think I was visiting my dealer. It was a nice offer, and would have been even nicer if drugs had any effect on me whatsoever.
    Dugan was right in one regard: Tchekhy is much more than the owner of a small pawnshop. He probably isn’t a drug dealer, but he is the guy I talk to when I want to discuss breaking laws, and avoiding governments, and that sort of thing. He’s also the guy who usually handles my passports.
    I didn’t need any of those things. This was a social call. I don’t know very many people in New York City, and almost none of those people would be willing to drink with me in the middle of the day. But Tchekhy, a self-employed criminal expatriate Russian, breaks the law pretty much on his own schedule. He’s usually good for a day or two of drinking.
    When we got to the shop I thanked Dugan and reached for the door handle.
    “Let me get that!” he insisted, slipping out of the car and running around to the sidewalk to open the door for me. I’m really not used to being treated like someone with money, and here I was getting out of a very nice car in a very bad neighborhood with a driver holding the door. If I was an easy person to mug I’d be worried about this.
    I swung my feet out.  
    “I’ll be happy to wait for you,” Dugan said.
    “No, no, I can find my own way back,” I said, extending my hand with a tip I was pretty sure was generous pressed into the palm. “And you don’t want to park the car in this neighborhood for longer than . . .”
    And that’s when the bullets hit the door.  
    I didn’t even know it had happened, nor did almost anyone else since the shots were from a silenced gun from somewhere above the storefront. The only person who knew right away was Dugan, and only because his hand was on the door when the rounds struck.
    So, halfway out of the car, I was suddenly shoved back into it again.  
    “Stay down!” he shouted, slamming the door.
    A second later he threw himself back into the driver’s seat. “Are you hit?” he asked.
    “Only by you. What are you talking about?” My initial impression was this was a really bad time for my limo driver to be suffering a combat flashback.
    “Two shots hit the door,” he said. “Clustered, not strays. Bang-bang, double tap. The shooter has skills.”
    “You think they were aiming for me?” I asked, not entirely believing I was having this conversation.
    “Door’s jacketed or those bullets would’ve hit you in the chest,” he said.  
    “Assuming a high-powered rifle.”
    “I’m assuming.” He threw it into drive and started looking up the street with an effective balance of calm and urgency you don’t see in a lot of people. He was trying to get into traffic to get us the hell out of there. “Who knew you were coming here?” he asked.
    “Nobody,” I said. “It was a surprise.”
    I cracked the window on the street side to get a look at Tchekhy’s shop. It was, I realized, closed. In the middle of the day.
    Something didn’t feel right at all. Other than the gunshots, I mean.
    Dugan saw an opening in the traffic and started to pull out. “Hang on a minute,” I said.
    “Okay, but raise that window. The glass will deflect most anything, but it kinda has to be between you and the bullet.”
    “Fine, but your windows aren’t see-through and the