by Mark Henwick
I wanted to lie down and sleep. Or scream. I wasn’t sure which.
I sighed.
Suck it up, Sergeant.
I switched the radio on as I dressed. It was kind of soothing. It stopped me from thinking about what was going to happen when the colonel turned up and found I was out of a job and had no lead on the vampires who were killing people in Denver.
I went through the mail. The only entertainment I got from it was scoring trash can baskets. As I crumpled and tossed, I listened with half an ear to the radio. Calls went out—domestic dispute, peeping Tom, kid with his head stuck through the bars of a fire escape. Glad I hadn’t caught that one. I heard one of the rookies from my draft, Hunter, responding to a call for a second car on a traffic stop. Speer Boulevard, southbound lane near 13th. An SUV. That caught my attention—same neighborhood as the murders. And a request for a second patrol car either meant suspicious activity in the vehicle, or suspicion that the occupants might be armed. Or both.
I stopped crumpling junk mail and listened to Hunter’s updates. Hunter and his partner arrived at the scene; the original patrol officers and Hunter’s partner approached the vehicle.
Then all hell broke loose.
“Jesus, they’re shooting out the back! Officer down! Officer down! Oh my God! They got Baker—I think he’s dead—” The transmission broke off. I listened, heart in my throat.
Dispatch was saying, “All units, 13th and Speer. Shots fired. Officer down.” Responses began to come in, cars giving their locations.
I grabbed my uniform and then stopped.
This didn’t include me anymore. Without the badge, I was holding an ordinary dark blue shirt, not a uniform.
Still nothing from Hunter. Dispatch called out Hunter’s car number. “Please respond.”
I waited with everyone else, holding my breath.
Finally, Hunter came on, barely keeping it together. “Suspect vehicle heading south on Speer. Three males, one tall Caucasian, two Latino, all armed—” He took a ragged breath. “Not in pursuit. Three officers down, requesting ambulances.” His voice was shaking. “It’s bad.”
“Ambulances en route,” the dispatcher said, and then, breaking protocol, “Hang in there, Hunter.”
There was another long, shaky pause. Then, “Request additional ambulance. I’ve got a girl, twelve years old, broke out of the back of the SUV during the firefight. Possible abduction…” There was a faint, high-pitched voice in the background, and then Hunter said, “Oh my God. They’ve got another one still in there.” He took a deep breath, trying his damnedest to be professional. “Proceed with caution. SUV may contain a kidnap victim. Female, Caucasian, twelve years old, dark hair, Goth makeup.”
Emily. Had to be. Oh, God, Emily.
I reached for my gun. It was my personal firearm and I was licensed, so it hadn’t been taken with the badge. It was a Walther 9mm, a good little gun, but not what I wanted now. From under my bed, I pulled out the heavy safe and opened it. Inside was my handgun from my days in Ops 4-10. It was a Heckler & Koch Mark 23 SOCOM. If I wanted targets to stay hit, the .45 rounds from this were the ones to do the job.
I took the radio too and left at a run, past my startled landlady. I leaped into my car and thanked my lucky stars that I’d fixed the engine.
As I drove past Gerritsen, I saw the cruisers outside the Schumachers’ and heard more details coming in on the radio. The SUV had disappeared. That wouldn’t last. In a city like Denver, you can’t disappear for long. The press had been listening too, and there were vans all over. They might get in the way, but at least they were extra eyes on the streets.
To everyone else, it was ‘just’ an abduction. Negotiators would be sitting down in situation rooms. Buchanan’s team might be linking it to the murders and puzzling over the significance.
I was the only person in the city who knew the three men were vampires, and that something had sent them over the edge. I was the only one who knew Emily wouldn’t last long enough for the negotiators to save her.
I left the car at the south end of Bannock and started trotting a search pattern. I was gambling with Emily’s life, relying on my instinct that somewhere in the triangular grid of streets between Speer, 13th and Bannock, there was a place where an SUV had parked off the road and out of sight.
And Valerie gave it to me.
“…pretty as a picture, he’d hang me on his wall. The next one said I should be in a gallery…”
I could hear her voice telling me that Rodrigo had stopped the other two. But not because he didn’t want them teasing her. Because he didn’t want them talking about the gallery. Not a gallery, the gallery.
Galería del Sur was closed down for refurbishment.
It lay at the south end of Cheyenne: a narrow, tall building, set back from the road between two offices. And it had a basement parking garage with a steel door on it.
There was nothing to see through the lobby doors; they had been boarded over, but lights gleamed inside the building through the cracks between boards.
I tried the garage door. It was solid. But not solid enough to stop a faint, brassy smell of vampire from drifting out.
Chapter 20
I ran through the office next door, ignoring the frantic calls from the receptionist. I found a way out into their parking space that backed onto the gallery. It was too much to hope for a door to the gallery that had been left open, but at least there were windows I could see through.
One of them was open on a latch, letting air circulate. I crouched down out of sight and gave it a quiet shake, but it was too strong to force open. Peering over the sill, I couldn’t see any movement inside. But I could hear men arguing, and a child crying.
The receptionist appeared at the office’s back door and was about to step out into the parking lot. I got the HK out of the shoulder holster. The thing is huge—there is no way she couldn’t see what it was. Her hand flew to her mouth and she disappeared back into the building, slamming the door shut behind her.
She’d be calling 911. Good. I pulled the police radio out and tried beating her to it.
“This is Officer Farrell. I’m in a parking lot behind Galería del Sur, on Cheyenne. I have reason—”
The radio squalled in the way it does when someone tries to override you.
“Farrell, you’re suspended, you stupid bitch. Get the fuck off the radio.” Buchanan’s voice was distorted by his screaming into the microphone.
I closed my eyes and paused, then went on. “I have reason to believe the kidnappers of Emily Schumacher are in the gallery. I’m requesting immediate situation team on site.”
“Farrell—”
There was a choked-off noise followed by silence, then the dispatcher came back. “Got that, situation team alerted.” He’d passed the buck to whoever was running the team.
A minute passed and I found out who that was. Morales’ voice came on. “Farrell, are you sure?” At least he wasn’t debating my current employment status with the police.
“Yes, Lieutenant. I can hear them arguing, and I can hear her crying.”
“The team is on its way. You keep back and you do not do anything.”
The vampires had gotten it together enough to get out of sight. If they were rational enough for that, their argument might be about how the hell they were going to get away now. They wouldn’t be aware that I was here, or a SWAT team was on the way. As far as they were concerned, their best bet would be to split up and walk away.
They wouldn’t leave any witnesses if they did that.
Only a few minutes, but it might be too late when the SWAT team arrived.
I was trained in hostage rescue. Certainly well trained enough to know that going in with a single handgun, no other weapons or distraction, no Kevlar vest, and no other protection was ‘outside parameters,’ as my instructors had put it. Meaning it would likely get me killed and almost certainly get Emily killed too.
It was hot, crouched down next to the window. M
y senses seemed sharpened. I could hear the dull roar of the ventilation fans from the office across the parking lot, the cars passing in the street, music blaring from one. I had the feeling of time slipping through my fingers, like dreams on waking.
What would Top do?
Master Sergeant Gabriel Luther Wells had been my touchstone in Ops 4-10. Any combat situation where I had time to think, I figured out what he would do, then did it.
I could almost hear him now, his deep, steady voice calming me.
I’d once asked him what he was afraid of. His reply had been succinct—failure. If I went into the gallery and failed today, I was unlikely to be in a position to regret it. And one thing he couldn’t advise me on was vampires.
The smell of them was oozing from the building, as if all their emotions made their scent thick as fog. It was a sickly, brassy smell. The word vampire pounded in my head in time with my heartbeat. The sort of creature that had bitten me in the jungle. The sort that had killed my squad. The ones who’d killed Valerie. And Marcel. My breath came quicker.
“Listen, Farrell, the SWAT team will be there in five minutes. Just hold on. Do not precipitate anything. Do not go in that building. These people are trained for this sort of situation.”
So am I.
“I can’t hear you, Farrell.”
“I heard what you said.” I was never going to get away with that evasion with Morales; he was too smart.
“Farrell, you stay where you are. You have no backup. Those men are armed. They have killed two policemen already—”
“Hold it. They’re shouting now.” I strained to make it out. “I don’t like this.”
It started with one of them shouting, and now all three were going at it. Some argument about getting away.
“Farrell, you will stay outside.” Morales was shouting too, the radio distorting his voice.
Emily screamed.
My sight locked down. Everything seemed crystal clear and somehow distant. I dropped the radio. It bounced on the sidewalk, buzzing with noises that meant nothing. The main door was too far away, too obvious, too secure. Emily had run out of time. The sick bastards had picked her for a snack and were getting ready to run away. They wouldn’t be taking Emily with them.
I rocked back and looked at the window I’d been crouching beneath. I wasn’t really planning. I had no idea what the building looked like inside, or where they were. I had nothing. It didn’t matter. I hurled myself at the window and exploded through it.
Glass was still falling as I rolled and came up with the HK in front of me. The first vampire was there, standing over Emily. He was turning, his face a mask of surprise. I fired. Tap, tap, tap. The way I had been taught in Ops 4-10. Chest, chest, head, and I didn’t miss at that distance.
Target Antonio down said a calm, slow voice in my mind. Two targets and nine rounds remaining.
Ten yards further in, Rodrigo leaped up an open frame set of stairs to snatch a shotgun from a pile of gear. Mistake. The only thing that would stop me was a threat to Emily, and she was lying on the floor behind Antonio’s corpse, screaming, but well out of the way. I sprinted at Rodrigo, fired one shot as he ducked. My bullet went wide. I vaulted the railing rather than climb the stairs.
He backpedalled and fired. I felt the breath of the shotgun blast and fired back. I wasn’t stationary, and even close up it’s very difficult to sprint and shoot a handgun. I was lucky that the bullet tore at his thigh.
“Shit!” He was distracted enough. The shotgun wasn’t on me. I stopped and steadied. The first of my intended three round burst hit him in the shoulder and I held the second as he spun backwards. The shotgun went off again but his aim was wild. Even hit, he moved unnervingly quickly.
He dived behind a partition.
I ran forward and jumped, tucking myself in a ball and rolling as I hit the ground. I came up into a crouch, both hands on the HK. Tap, tap, tap. Shit, he was so quick. I missed with the head shot. I had a flashback from the jungle, my team firing and missing, firing and missing. Figures like shadows in the trees.
Never make yourself a stationary target. Avoid moving where you’re expected. I leaped to one side.
Raul was on the next flight of stairs up. He had a shotgun as well and he fired into the area between me and Rodrigo. I snapped a shot off at Raul to keep him occupied as I jinked again.
Rodrigo was still fighting, trying to get a clear shot even while his life blood was spurting from chest wounds. His hands shook, trying to steady. The shotgun roared again, missed, and now I was close enough. I slammed him against the wall, breaking ribs. His hand convulsed and the shotgun fired into the ceiling. His blood was all over me, spurting from wounds and spraying from his mouth as we struggled. Then I rammed the HK under his jaw and blew the back of his head off.
I twisted around, holding his body as a shield, but Raul was running. Up.
I pulled the Remington pump action from Rodrigo’s dead hands. It was empty. I threw it aside.
One target and two rounds remaining.
I ran for the stairs.
The shotgun blasted a huge dent in the metal step I’d just passed.
And again. He couldn’t hit me, but I couldn’t get a clear shot at him.
He was on the top floor. Was there a fire escape? He turned to look for the exit and I got my first solid shot off at him, up through the railings. I hit his calf. Straight through the muscle; I missed the bone or it would have blown him over.
He swore and lurched around to fire again.
Last bullet. I squeezed off a shot, but I was ducking as the shotgun came to bear on me again.
I dropped the HK at the same time as I heard the click of his pin on an empty chamber, and I was on him even as he tried to use the shotgun like a club.
With his leg useless, he couldn’t push back against me. I lifted him. We were staggering across the room, picking up speed. There was a panoramic window in front of us.
I stopped. He didn’t.
I saw him clearly, in shocking detail amidst the sparkling shards of glass. The exact point at which it registered with him that he was about to die, the widening of the eyes. The scream. An age later, the thud and the sudden silence.
I ran back down. It seemed much further. Five floors. The end of the adrenaline rush made me weak.
Emily screamed again when she saw me. I realized what I must look like, but I couldn’t help that.
“They’re gone, Emily,” I said, trying to soothe her. “All gone.”
“Amber?”
I pulled my bloody jacket off and hugged her to me.
There were bullhorns sounding outside.
She was sobbing as I sat us down.
“Shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay,” I said. I was trembling with the aftereffects of adrenaline. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you. The police are outside. They don’t know what’s happened. It’ll be noisy and frightening when they come in, but you’re safe now.”
“Don’t leave me.”
“I won’t. We’ll go out together. Let’s just lie down here on the floor, okay? Close your eyes and cover your ears.”
We lay down.
Even with our precautions, the thunder and lightning of the stun grenades was disorienting. Emily cried, the noise thin, and I hugged her back against me as the SWAT team came pouring in. They were in full gear: Kevlar armor, helmets and black masks. They came from three sides at once, yelling and shouting, streaming up the stairs like large, murderous ants.
A couple of them pulled at our arms, trying to separate us. Emily refused; she wasn’t letting go and they let us stay together as they hauled us to our feet. With a shield of four of them pressed close around us, we were hurried through the shattered front door, Emily’s face hidden in my shirt, wetting it with her tears.
We stumbled out into a strange, frozen silence. There were police cars scattered across the road, officers with guns crouched behind them. To one side an ambulance and the SWAT team transport waited, dwarfed b
y an armored army truck with its doors tightly closed.
Morales and Buchanan were standing in a group of uniformed police beside the truck. So was Colonel Laine. Our eyes met and the colonel gave me the smallest nod.
Medics pulled us into the ambulance. I shrugged off their attentions. As they closed the doors, I saw Knight’s face in the sea of blue shirts.
He raised his hand and said something. It might have been “well done, partner.”
Chapter 21
TUESDAY
I drove west, out to Red Rocks, and parked where I got a view back over Denver.
With the car door open I crossed my legs and rested my feet on the sill. Warm fall air blew across me, carrying with it the promise of coolness to come.
Morales and the colonel had held an emergency meeting, slamming down a news blackout around the case until Morales’ carefully worded press conference.
Today’s papers had run a great story. Gangs running successful underground clubs. Outsiders muscling in, killing staff, trying to take over. Police following clues, closing in. Hitmen cornered in a building, taking a child hostage. A textbook, surgical strike by the SWAT team. A neat, orderly operation all wrapped up. Move on folks, nothing to see here.
I’d mutually agreed with the police to resign, apparently, not that any newspapers bothered with that supposedly unrelated footnote.
Morales had praise showered on him from on high. Scuttlebutt said he’d been given the Captain slot in Major Crimes last night. He knew everything the army knew about me now, and had requested for me to be on call for him as a consultant. At least no one else in the police seemed to know, though he’d already said he would have to build a team in case of emergencies and they’d have to be briefed.
The colonel disappeared with the squad before anyone started asking questions about a tooled-up military team wandering around Denver. He was coming back for a meeting with me at the end of the week. Maybe that was how much time I had left free. Morales asking for me to be on call wasn’t the same as the army agreeing to it.