Rise of the Fallen Read Online Free PDF

Budweiser. A group of roughnecks
playing pool unconsciously shrank back from him as he passed to take a vacant
table in the corner.
    Lately, he seemed to have this effect everywhere he went.
Must have been his sparkling good mood.
    His thick, black brows furrowed and his dark gaze raked the
room, searching for the one he needed.
    A waitress approached, fidgeting nervously. It was obvious
she would rather be alone in the alley with Jack the Ripper than waiting on him.
    "Th-Those are some ugly c-cuts there." She nodded
toward his arms, trying to warm him up, pen poised over a tablet resting on a
tray propped against her hip. When he didn't say anything, she smiled tightly
and sighed. "What'll you have? Kitchen's about to close if you're hungry,
but we've got plenty of booze."
    "Fuck. Off." Micah said. He was in no mood for
her, food, or a drink.
    He didn't have to tell her twice. Scurrying away, her relief
that she wouldn't have to go near him again washed over his raw senses like
saltwater on an open sore, except that Micah was too numb to give a shit.
    As he scanned the room, his gaze dug into the shadows. Where
was he? The one who could end it all tonight.
    A figure stirred in the shadows, a hood pulled over his
head. The movement was subtle, but Micah zeroed in on it like a hawk to a field
mouse.
    Bursting from his chair, he barreled toward the man whose
bulky sweatshirt belied his brawny form and the weapons he no doubt carried. No
guns, but surely a knife or two, or maybe even a cop's nightstick. Most drecks
carried nightsticks being they usually posed as cops. A nightstick would be
perfect. Something to be beaten with that would cause him the pain he needed.
    "You mother fucker. You've been dodging me all night.
You and me, outside. Now!"
    "Fuck you." Malevolent hatred shot back at Micah.
    Unrest rippled through the bar, silencing most of the
patrons as George Thorogood's "Bad to the Bone" rocked out from the
jukebox. All eyes were on Micah and the man in the shadows, and everyone was
poised to beat feet if guns came out – or draw their own guns, as the case may
be, because it was a good bet a quarter of the customers were carrying, not to
mention the bartender.
    Micah grabbed the dreck by the collar, cotton fleece
bunching in his fist as he pulled the guy up. "I need you to do me a
favor, fucker. Consider this a freebie."
    The dreck snarled, but nodded a wary acquiescence. Micah
slowly released his sweatshirt and turned for the door, expecting the dreck to
follow him.
    There was no love lost between the drecks and vampires, who
lived a tremulous, mistrusting co-existence with each other. Vampires and
drecks were closely related, like second cousins to one another, really, with
the vampires coming out higher up in the gene pool. And didn't that just make
the drecks resent vampires even more? It was also why vampires got the job of
policing them and maintaining the peace. Technically, vampires were stronger
and more powerful.
    Drecks looked like humans, just as much as the vampires did,
but the vampires knew better. When the façade came off, most drecks made nasty
shape-shifters.
    Moreover, most drecks – including the group this guy
belonged to if the scent was right – loved killing vampires, even if there was
some fucked up truce between them that prevented it. Which meant that this
lucky fucker was about to get an early gift from Santa Claus.
    "You been keeping out of trouble, Apostle?" Micah knew
the names of every dreck in the city, and he knew this one was particularly
fond of giving pain. "Or should I call you Officer John Apostle?"
    "Okay, you know me, so who the fuck are you?"
Apostle replied.
    "Just think of me as the guy who needs a favor."
    "Fuck that. Give me a name or I'll bleed you right
here, blood sucker."
    Micah scoffed. Apostle had balls. If he didn't need the
dreck's services so badly, he would enjoy showing him how wrong he was about
that bleeding business. "Okay, asshole. Call me