by Gwynn White
Hank repeated the call for backup two more times. By the time he finished they had eight, maybe seven minutes left. Hardly enough time to fortify the apartment even if they did have the numbers for a last stand. He was still considering what few options they had when Luca spoke up.
“I’m sorry,” the girl said. “I shouldn’t have called you. I was just so scared here by myself.”
Cato wasn’t having any of it. “No, sweetheart, it’s all right. You did the right thing. Here, come and sit with me.”
The final few minutes passed quickly. When at last they had all ticked away, the radio squawked as promised.
“Are you and your people ready to surrender, Sergeant?”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to go with ‘no’ on that one. Sorry, Alsace.”
A sigh could be heard through the receiver. “I suspected as much. Alas. But very well. We shall do this the hard way. Prepare to—”
Whatever Alsace was warning them to prepare for—as if they didn’t already know—his voice was drowned out by a sudden screeching of tires. Wincing at the sound of it coming through the tinny speaker, Hank peered out the window just in time to see a small convoy barreling toward their position. The lead vehicle, some sort of cargo van modified with a cow catcher in place of its front bumper, closed the distance in a matter of seconds. Its course fixed, the speeding van homed in on the Slayers in the street like a guided missile. A few had the wherewithal to dive for cover, but Alsace and one of his men were standing at ground zero when the van made impact. Even from three stories up, the crunch of bone and cartilage as the strigs were mangled by the cow catcher was sickening.
Two other vehicles—an unmarked PWD cruiser and a second van—followed the first. They came to a stop the more conventional way, tires throwing up plumes of white smoke behind them. Still at the window, Hank watched as, of all people, a heavily armed group of civilians emerged from the second van. The Slayers who dove for cover attempted to engage but were cut down in short order, the narrow avenue echoing with the sound of automated fire and the soft tinkle of brass afterward. Hank could hardly believe his eyes… or their luck.
“What the hell is going on out there?” Cato wondered from the door, where he had been keeping a tense vigil.
“I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”
“Try me. At this point I’m willing to believe pretty much anything that doesn’t involve vampire death squads.”
With the battle won, the civilians went into cleanup mode. They made short work of the bodies, piling them all into the first van before sealing it up, then set about collecting their shells. Meanwhile, a woman had emerged from the unmarked cruiser. For a moment, Hank was certain his eyes were playing tricks on him. But no, there was no mistaking her bearing, to say nothing of the limp she had earned only hours earlier.
“Damn,” Hank said. His voice was split between equal parts admiration and resignation. “There is no way in hell she is ever going to let us live this one down.”
Cato furrowed his brows. “What? Who?”
As if in answer to his question, a familiar voice addressed them through Hank’s radio.
“Well, well, well,” said the voice of Ann Banner, Chief of Detectives, Police and Welfare Division. “How’s it going up there, boys? Either of you call for the cavalry?”
Hank and Cato emerged from the building with little Luca in tow to find Ann overseeing the cleanup of the street-turned-battlefield. Her people had already removed the bodies of both friend and foe, no doubt placing them among the vans. The bodies of Alsace and his Slayers would be incinerated forthwith; the PWD officers would receive municipal funerals with full honors. All that remained to clean up were the many shell cases still scattered about the pavement.
“Make sure you get every last shell casing,” Ann called out. “And hurry up! The less evidence Erastes Ensanguine has to tie us to this, the better.”
While Hank was bundling Luca into the backseat of the roadster, Cato made a beeline for Ann just a few feet away. “I gotta admit, Chief, you really saved our asses.”
“I’m sorry, did I take a shot to the head this morning, too? Because, for a minute there, I could swear I just heard you say I saved your ass. You, the great and infallible Ryen Cato.”
“All right, all right,” Cato said. “Where’d you find all these trigger-pullers on such short notice, anyway?”
“Oh, come on, Cato. Don’t tell me you don’t recognize the old guard when you see ’em?”
Hank looked over his shoulder toward the source of the unfamiliar voice. He didn’t recognize the mountain of a man making his way over, shotgun resting against his shoulder, but Cato obviously did. His partner lit up in a way that Hank had rarely seen. “Rohner, you son of a bitch, I should have known.”
The two embraced with much brotherly laughter and backslapping before Cato stepped aside. “Hank, this is John Rohner. He was my training officer back in the day.”
“Way back in the day,” Rohner emphasized as he and Hank shook hands. The man’s hands were huge, as big as saucepans.
“Well, whatever day it was, we owe you, big time. Hank Smiley.”
“So, where did Ann find your dusty old ass, anyway?” Cato asked as Hank and Rohner finished up their introductions.
Rohner just laughed, his massive shoulders jogging with the effort. “The Blue Cricket, of course. She came busting in and said she needed everyone who could still see straight to posse up.”
“Is that right?” Cato asked, aiming a smirk Ann’s way.
Ann shrugged, lifting her eyebrows. To Hank, it looked as if she were stifling a smirk of her own. “Where else was I going to find a group of ex-cops with their own firepower and vehicles on short notice?”
Rohner grinned, his bald head gleaming even in the darkened street. “We may be old, but we ain’t out to pasture yet. We’ve still got some juice left in us when the shit goes down.”
“Well, we’re about neck-deep in it these days,” Cato said. “So, thanks again.”
“Anywhere, anytime.”
Hank was about to suggest that they should finish up and get out of Old Town when a young woman poked her head out of Ann’s cruiser. Normally, he wouldn’t have given Ann’s driver a second glance. In this case, he could hardly believe his eyes.
“Chief Banner?” Jeanine asked. “There are reports coming in of protestors marching on checkpoints. Oh, and something about a riot at the prison? I really think you should hear these.”
“I’ll be there in a moment, Officer Gatz,” Ann called back. To Cato, she said, “Before you say anything—”
“What the hell is she doing here? I specifically said she was not to be out in the field.”
“Cato…”
“Stay out of this, Hank,” Cato said before looking back to Ann. “And, Officer Gatz? You deputized her? Are you out of your damn mind?”
“Are you finished?”
Cato spread his arms, inviting her rebuttal.
“Good. Because now is not the time for this. Did you really think I was just going to lie around in some hospital bed while my city burned? I needed a driver, and she was available. And don’t forget, we’re the only ones who responded to your partner’s distress call. Do the math for a minute and you’ll realize that my deputizing her and making her my driver basically saved your lives, dumbass.”
“Ann, I swear to—”
“Jeanine is a grown woman, Ryen,” Ann said. “She can do what she wants, and what she wants is to be PWD. So, yes, I’m going to do what I can to help her realize her dream, and, no, I don’t give a damn whether you approve or not.”
Ann turned her back on Cato before he could respond. Instead, she called out to her ad hoc posse. “All right, everyone, let’s roll out! We’re done here.”
Hank had rarely seen Cato so furious before. His partner was beside himself, words lost to him as he gnashed his teeth and fisted his hands at his sides. Whatever thoughts were going through Cato’s h
ead, he was clearly doing his damnedest to reign them in.
“Come on, buddy,” Hank said. He grasped Cato by the shoulders, steering him toward the roadster. “We gotta get moving. We can talk about it on the road. Want me to drive? I should probably drive.”
16
Crius Frenn allowed himself a small, satisfied smile as he stepped into the jail cell and heard the door close on its rattling track. So far all was going according to plan. His present situation might have suggested otherwise, but Crius was not overly concerned.
Arrangements had been made. It was only a matter of time.
Crius explored his cell (what little of it there was, anyway), comparing the accommodations to those of the PWD holding facility. The differences were numerous. The holding facility had been designed for temporary detention, the prison for long-term confinement. Detainees were grouped together by species in the holding facility, often in one large cell. Prisoners received their own cells with steel doors the wights claimed had been designed to resist even the strongest impact. Detainees did little more than mill about and wait for bail or to be transported. Prisoners, by contrast, were put to work virtually the moment they arrived, their schedules and out-of-cell assignments planned out in minute detail, often for months at a time.
Not surprisingly, the security was vastly different, as well. The holding facility was staffed entirely by PWD officers, while the men and women who guarded the prison were professional jailers. They were empowered to use far greater means of force to ensure compliance (up to and including lethal measures), and the differences in the way they carried themselves apart from their PWD counterparts were obvious to all, from first-time offender to career criminal alike.
Other security measures were far more sinister. True, the holding facility had been surrounded by a few hastily erected spotlights, though Crius was given to understand they were in response to the chaos of the day, not permanent fixtures. Not so the prison. Dozens of high-powered spotlights surrounded its grounds, their bright white beams lit day in and day out to deter even the thought of escape. Why waste the time considering such a thing when any gargoyle or vampire who successfully breached those walls would be turned to stone or ash the moment they stepped foot outside? The spotlights could even be controlled by the guards inside, allowing for pinpoint precision. The use of such lights was among the few exceptions allowed by the Founders’ Pact, though only when installed as part of a defensive array. For the condemned, it was simply a fact of life: Step outside without permission and you will get burned.
And that was only the beginning. Taken as a whole, the prison was a truly formidable monument to the contempt wights held for gargoyles and vampires alike, as well as the cruelty they were willing to inflict.
And yet, it was a universal truth that even the most heavily fortified structure was not without its weaknesses. Crius took comfort in that thought as he lay himself out on the cot and closed his eyes.
Much later that evening, at the appointed hour, Crius awoke to the sound of his cell’s door unlatching. Another universal truth? That wights could easily be convinced to act against their own best interests for pathetically small amounts of money. No doubt some guard was heading off duty a bit sooner than usual this night, a wad of ill-gotten cash burning a hole in the pocket of his uniform.
Crius stood from the cot and stretched, suppressing a grin as he stepped toward the unlocked cell door. Stage Two was officially underway.
17
Their retreat from Tanglereave went unchallenged, thanks in no small part to the lockdown, of all things. Even without sirens or lights, the roadster and the convoy spared not one second more than necessary as they raced out of the ‘Reave at speed.
Cato was still stewing as Hank led the progression, setting the pace through the vampires’ tangled web of narrow, twisting streets.
“Can you believe her?” Cato asked. “I mean, can you really, truly believe the gall? To deputize my niece behind my back, and put her in that position? Who knows how that all could have gone down?”
Cato took no notice as Hank gave a little shake of his head, his eyes fixed forward. “I really should—”
“I know! It’s unbelievable, right? After that whole bit this morning about burying the hatchet and working together, she goes and pulls this on me. She and I are going to have words, oh, believe you, me—”
“Cato—”
“Because you don’t just do that sort of thing, you know? Not with someone’s family, whose safety they’ve been entrusted with. She has no idea what I’ve gone through to live up to my oath to my sister, no idea, but she will when I get through with her, you can believe—”
“Cato, would you shut the hell up for a minute,” Hank all but shouted. “Luca, I’m sorry, honey.”
“No, it’s okay,” the girl said. “He was talking too much, anyway. It was really loud.”
Hank shot Cato a pointed glance, at least as long as the convoy’s rapid retreat from Tanglereave allowed.
“Fine. Fine, you’re all against me. I get it,” Cato huffed.
“No one’s against you, you big baby,” Hank corrected him. “And, honestly, I’ve been meaning to have this conversation with you for a while, and now’s as good a time as any, I suppose.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“You can’t fix everything, partner. You can’t control everything. I like working with you, I admit it. I like this job, and there’s not a day that goes by where I don’t feel like we’re doing what you said, making Meridia a better place.”
“But?” Cato wondered cautiously.
“But sometimes you’re just so damn insufferable about it. You’re not a one-man army. You’re not in this alone. We’re all here pulling our share of the load, and—”
Narrowing his eyes now, Cato asked the same question with a slightly darker undertone. “And?”
“And you’re too protective of Jeanine,” Hank said. “Granted, she’s a good secretary, but she could be a great PWD officer, even a detective. She has all the instincts and intangibles, and that’s in no small part thanks to you. You should be honored by that, not threatened.”
Cato was strangely, almost deadly silent. “I’m not threatened by her being as good or better than me. I’m threatened by her getting hurt or worse.”
“Oh, grow up. You can’t put her in a bubble her whole life, and eventually you’re going to piss her off enough that she’ll realize there’s life outside of taking our calls and brewing up that coffee of hers.” At that Hank paused, suddenly realizing that there was a small hole in his argument. “Damn, she is good with the coffee, though.”
“I’d miss a lot more than just her coffee,” Cato said.
“I know. So would I. We’ll make do, is my point. She deserves better than us. She deserves a life of her own.”
Cato nodded solemnly. He might not like it, but the words seemed to have hit home. Finally, he said, “Thanks, Hank. Good talk.”
“I call ’em like I see ’em, partner. A spotter is only as good as the shots he tells you not to take.”
Cato tipped his head in agreement. “True enough.”
“Anyway, we’re here,” Hank said, pulling the roadster through the first ring of security surrounding PWD’s now heavily fortified headquarters. “Let’s see what help we can offer.”
On an average day—one unburdened of a series of cross-species terror attacks and the imposition of martial law—PWD headquarters was nothing short of a madhouse. With over a million creatures of varying provenance calling the city home, there was never any shortage of disputes and disturbances to keep Meridia’s finest occupied. After the events of the last twenty-four hours and the sudden crackdown, however, Cato felt like he was stepping into a hive of activity so frenetic it was practically a living, breathing creature. In all his time on the force, he had never seen the station so alive. Sure, they’d had their ‘all hands on deck’ moments in his day, but nothing that had left him feeling like a guest in his own
former house.
Ann brushed past him with all the confidence of a chief and a lifer, leading her small parade into the station to a brief round of applause. She acknowledged the ovation with an awkward smile and wave, as glad to be back as they were to have her back, and then it was over, everyone returning to whatever hurried task or barked order they had been tending to prior to Ann’s sudden and surprising appearance. Detaching herself from her civilian posse, she disappeared into the scrum of PWD officials with Jeanine (Officer Gatz, Cato corrected himself) in tow, no doubt to rally her detectives and receive their reports from the field.
The headquarters was so busy it didn’t even have a duty officer in place. Too shorthanded, was the obvious answer. That said, there had been so much turnover in the last few months that Cato recognized few faces among the swarm of officers scurrying to and fro. He had no idea who was assigned to what unit, or even who had been regularly scheduled to work that particular night. Not wanting to offend but having no other choice, he was about to intercept an incoming officer when he spied a much more familiar face. He was certain the owner of said face wanted nothing to do with him, but what choice did he have?
“Commander Frobisher!”
The commander stopped upon hearing his name over the chaos of the station, using his rangy, above-average height to scan the crowd. His gaze landing on Cato, he made an inscrutable face. The look was a step up from the caustic glower Cato’s presence had earned him in the past… or was it? Frobisher gave him precious little time to decide. Holding up a finger to his entourage, the commander detached himself to swim against the stream of his subordinates as he crossed the room.
“Cato,” he said, grasping the spector’s hand enthusiastically. “Good to know you came through everything in one piece! Some business with Faust’s Bargain, eh? Is the mayor safe?”