Vall caught it. It was a bandana with a hair tie wrapped around it. “Thanks.”
The lieutenant left, and Vall waited until he was out of sight to turn to his partner. “What’s up?”
Kilpatrick reached down, pulled up a pant leg, and revealed a calf-holster. He pulled a black semi out and handed it to Vall. “Here, take it. My backup piece. It’s a modified Glock 27 with a laser sight. It only holds nine rounds, but they’re all Claws. It’s not as good as having one of those Tac assault rifles, but . . .” He shrugged.
Kilpatrick was breaking the rules for him and apologizing that he wasn’t doing more. Vall was touched in a way he hadn’t been in a long time. “If they find out you’ve done this, it’ll mean a rap, and probably a big one. They could suspend you without pay for weeks. Are you sure you want to risk that with a baby on the way?”
Kilpatrick hesitated, but the concentration in his face was more like he was choosing his words carefully, not considering changing his mind. “I’m sure. If we don’t stop this war, there is no future with Candy and the baby. So take it.”
Vall nodded and slipped the gun into the Velcroed pocket on his right thigh, then tied his long hair back and wrapped the black bandana around his forehead for good measure. He smiled, purposely showing Kilpatrick his fangs. “How do I look?”
Kilpatrick gave him one of his crooked Elvis-grins and laughed. “Like a cop straight from hell, brother. Like a cop straight from hell.”
They proceeded upstairs to watch the TV in the detective assembly. Lt. Zane had apparently gone to his own office to watch, but once Kilpatrick turned on the monitor, Mavra, the rest of the clerks, and the few detectives who’d come in during the past hour to dictate reports or do follow-up work at their desks drifted over.
A news reporter, looking as solemn as if someone had just died, spoke into his microphone in hushed tones. “Once again, we are awaiting former U.S. Senator Lawrence Main. We’re expecting him any moment here at the Police Administration Building to release a statement that, we are told, relates to the recent homicides in Chicago North.”
An empty podium displaying the arrow-shaped emblem of the Chi-No Police Department was visible behind the reporter, as well as the United States flag and the Wisconsin state flag. The police press room was just down the hall from the detective assembly, but Duvall had never been in there. On Duvall’s Worthless Mortal Scale of one to ten, the media hovered around a seven—just below the windbag politicians and the owners of the number ten spot, the hatemonger Brothers of the Sun.
Jean Crevant wandered over, but he was paying more attention to Duvall’s getup than the TV. “What’s all this? You get transferred to the Tac Squad?” Crevant’s black eyes rolled down and up in their unmoving sockets, reminding Duvall of a lizard.
“Naw, it’s for a little training exercise.” Close enough to the truth, considering he didn’t particularly like Crevant. Duvall did indeed plan on teaching a few Brothers of the Sun a lesson they wouldn’t soon forget, but Crevant merely cocked a brow in the annoying way that Cade used to do, seeming to indicate that he didn’t much care what Duvall did. But there was a difference in the way Crevant and Cade carried off the look of hauteur. Maybe it was because Crevant was French. Duvall hadn’t liked the French since the French and Indian War. Maybe it was because Crevant was just butt-ugly. But on Cade the look gave him an air of superiority. On Crevant it made him look bored.
“The former U.S. Senator from Wisconsin is entering the room now . . . Lawrence Main.”
Main took his place behind the podium, equaling the reporter in solemnity. His looks didn’t particularly impress Duvall. He had the good looks and even better hair that seemed to be prerequisites to public office. There was a slight resemblance to Veronica, but Lawrence Main’s lips were thinner than his daughter’s, and his dark hair was salted with gray. But it was his words that would be important. Duvall wondered if his speech would raise him or lower him on the Worthless Mortal Scale.
“Good evening. The past two weeks have been trying ones for the people of Wisconsin and Chicago North. A number of night people have died what for them is the true death, and there has been speculation from many on the cause. Some of this speculation has focused on the integrity of the synthetic blood industry, an industry of which I have always been proud. I am announcing the immediate suspension of operations at Nouvelle Aube Industries, a bottling plant in Johnson Creek, Wisconsin, which is part of Pilot Light Enterprises. As a member owner of Pilot Light, I made decisions that have resulted in tainted product being bottled and shipped from this plant. In addition to the suspension of operations, I am announcing an immediate recall of all bottles of synthetic blood sold under the trade name Magma with these production codes.” Main gestured to someone off camera, who handed him a large poster board with a series of numbers on it. Main set the board on a stand to one side of the podium so that the cameras had unblocked shots of the numbers.
“I apologize not only to all those who were directly impacted by the tainted product, but to all the citizens of Wisconsin who have put their trust in me. Some of the stands I have taken over my many years in public office have been controversial, but I always strove for what I thought would be best for our great people and our great state. Unfortunately, the decisions I made regarding Nouvelle Aube displayed poor judgment. I take full responsibility for the consequences of my actions, and I willingly submit to any and all civil and criminal proceedings that may be initiated against me. Thank you for your attention. There will be no questions taken at this time.”
Main walked away from the podium, chased by shouted queries from reporters for whom the words “no questions taken at this time” obviously didn’t exist.
“Mr. Main, what prompted you to make this statement tonight?”
“Mr. Main, are you saying that your plant purposely poisoned the synthetic blood on your orders?”
“Mr. Main, are you under arrest by the Chi-No Police Department?”
The questions filled the air like dust in a windstorm, clouding the air so much that after a few seconds nothing distinguishable could be heard.
The reporter’s voice broke through the din. “Well, there you have it, an unexpected and shocking statement from former U.S. Senator Lawrence Main of Wisconsin, who just now admitted personal responsibility for synthetic blood he referred to as ‘tainted’ being shipped from his Johnson Creek bottling plant. It has not been officially confirmed by Chi-No Police that this tainted blood actually caused the deaths of several of the city’s night people, but . . .”
“Nouvelle Aube. French for ‘new dawn,’” said Crevant. “That should’ve been a clue right there. I don’t trust anything that celebrates the dawn.”
Duvall ignored him, watching instead as Lt. Butler strode up to him and Kilpatrick.
“You two go downstairs to the District One assembly. There’s a briefing in ten minutes. Take the back stairs. I don’t want either of you running into the press on your way down.”
That was more than fine with Duvall. He and Kilpatrick trotted down the little-used stairway.
“Main didn’t say anything about his daughter being held hostage,” said Kilpatrick.
“No, he didn’t. He didn’t say one more word than what was demanded of him. Didn’t even make a direct connection between the poisoned Magma and the deaths, though I’m sure everyone watching made the connection.”
“Smart man. And it’s sure a whole lot better for us that he didn’t mention Veronica. Nothing like trying to do your job with a news helicopter buzzing overhead and people trying to shove a microphone up your nose every time you turn around.”
Duvall nodded. Main had definitely done them a big favor. The man had just improved a notch on the Duvall Slug-O-Meter. He just hoped that no ignorant meatball cop privy to the truth decided to scratch the media’s back. The last thing they needed was a parad
e of news trucks following them to the hostage site, but Duvall was afraid it would happen anyway. A huge news story had just exploded, and the media wouldn’t be happy until they sniffed out all the whos and whys. And he and Kilpatrick were at the heart of it.
ALL THE TAC SQUAD coppers had been called up and were waiting in the District One assembly along with the Canine Unit, the Street Crimes Unit, and a handful of bike men. All that was missing was the Harbor Patrol Unit and the Mounted Horse Patrol. The Deputy Inspector was there along with members of the Hostage Negotiation team, but the Chief and Main himself were thankfully absent. Main had already done his part, and the Chief wouldn’t know his ass from the proverbial hole in the ground.
He and Kilpatrick listened while Lt. Butler described the initial phone call and the hostage takers’ demands.
Lt. Zane took over. “This is Detective Duvall’s show. The hostage takers specifically asked for him by name, and he’s volunteered to do this. His first priority is to extract Miss Main safely. His second priority is to render the suspects incapable of delivering a threat.”
Duvall hated all the politically correct bullshit. His job was to kill the bastards before they killed him, simple as that.
“Street Crimes and the cycles will provide outside perimeter containment. The Tac Squad will provide inside perimeter containment and contingency support.”
Yeah, in other words, if he went down with a Claw in his head, they’d take over.
“You’ll get your specific assignments when we get our target address. Channel 5 will be restricted. Keep radio chatter to a minimum. You’ll be instructed when we go to radio silence. Detective Duvall and his partner are Squad 131. The Incident Commander will be Captain Hollingsworth, Squad 398. All transmissions go through him. That’s it for now. Be in the garage in ten minutes. Tactical personnel can go ahead and suit up. Street Crimes, make sure you have your helmets and gas masks.”
They went downstairs and waited. For Duvall, who was already outfitted, there was nothing to do but wait. He was good at waiting. Most vampires were. Those who weren’t didn’t last long on the earth, for long life and impatience were incompatible.
“Hey, how’re you doing?” Kilpatrick asked.
“Fine. No one’s shooting Claws at me yet,” he answered, but under the sarcasm he was grateful for the question. The garage was full of cops, but no one else had bothered to say anything to him.
The trucks pulled up, two inconspicuous beige jump-out trucks for the Tac Squad cops and “Santa Ana,” the huge black SUV with tinted windows that served as the weapons truck and carried shields, tear gas, and assault rifles. Even at the scene, with all the manpower and weaponry the Department could muster, he’d be all alone.
Vall studied Kilpatrick’s face. He looked like Elvis on speed, all nervous and antsy and excited. His blue eyes bugged and vibrated, a tic in his cheek twitched, and the gum in his mouth got a persistent workout. No, he wasn’t alone. He had his partner.
“Listen up, people!” Zane shouted. “We have an address. 1975 W. Canal Street. It’s an abandoned factory. Safe entry is from the east. The command post will be at 16th and Emmber Lane. Let’s go.”
With the purposeful activity of a swarm of ants, the vehicles loaded up, and the caravan moved out. Kil and Vall rode with Butler. It was a short drive, and when everyone arrived at the command post, Zane started giving out assignments. The Street Crimes cops, who had come in their individual squads, left for their assigned corners to block traffic. The target location was in a good spot. It was an industrial area, with the Menomonee River just to the north, railroad tracks to the south, and only a few streets to block traffic on.
Vall saw Lawrence Main, who had arrived in an unmarked car with an entourage of brass. The man glared at Duvall, a certain prelude to the words he’d been promised Main wouldn’t make.
Shit. Sure enough, Main marched over to where Vall waited.
“Listen, I don’t know what connection you have to my daughter. Right now I don’t want to know. But I hold you responsible. I don’t see Veronica in this mess but for you, so you get her out in one piece, or I’ll . . .”
“You’ll do what? What can you do to me or my people that you haven’t already done?” Vall turned his back on the man and joined Kilpatrick. Sanctimonious son of a bitch. The man just went back up a couple notches on the Slug-O-Meter.
“What did Main want?” asked Kilpatrick.
“He threatened me.”
Zane came over to them. “All our units are in place. You’re up.” He handed Vall a bullhorn. “Unit 1 will escort you to as close to the front entrance as they can. From then on, it’s all up to you. Get the girl out alive, get yourself out, and get us a suspect to question.”
Sure. Piece of cake.
“Good luck. Kilpatrick, you stay with me.”
Vall advanced on foot with the Tac Squad cops designated as Unit 1. It seemed to him he’d been trying to save people his entire life. He thought about the mortals in Fort Dearborn and the sucklings in Chicago when Hell had broken loose. And he thought about Dorothea and le père. He’d always wondered if Doro would have made it past the curtain of flame if his calling to her hadn’t caused her to stop and turn. It had eaten at him for a hundred and fifty years.
He wondered if tonight would be his salvation at last, or just one more in an endless string of failures.
Twenty-eight
VALL WAITED UNTIL the Unit 1 officers took up positions so that they could cover the windows of the old brick factory. It wouldn’t do to have his head blown off before he even got in the door.
When the lead officer signaled they were ready, Vall began his walk to the building’s entrance, watching the windows himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the cops, but his night vision, matched against a mortal’s, was like that of an eagle compared to a mouse. He approached slowly, stretching out all his senses, but the windows were as dark as the night. He stopped outside the entrance, stood to one side of the door, and raised the bullhorn to his mouth.
“This is Detective Duvall. I’m alone. I’m coming in.”
There was no response, not that he really expected one. He spoke softly to Kilpatrick, but loud enough for the mic on his chest to pick up his voice. “There’s no response, no movement. I can’t tell yet how many are inside. I’m going in.”
“10-4.” Kilpatrick’s voice sounded in his ear, and strangely it made him feel good. He felt the weight of the Glock in his trouser pocket, and it, too, felt good. He reached over, turned the doorknob, and pulled the door open while still standing to one side. He hadn’t gone through full tactical training, but he’d attended enough in-service sessions on entry tactics and room-clearing to know the basics. An open doorway was called “the fatal funnel” for good reason. Standing in a doorway was like pinning a bull’s-eye on your chest. He listened, then took a peek inside. It was dark, but he could see that a small vestibule led to an empty office.
The building was old, probably built at least a century ago, and a musty smell of urine, animal droppings and crumbling plaster assaulted his nostrils. The fact that the building was long abandoned was a big point in his favor. Any human smells would be not only fresh, but easily discernible.
He quickly ducked inside, slipped into the office, and hugged one wall, sweeping his gaze around the room to verify it was indeed empty. A corridor to his right led to what looked like smaller offices, and a closed door to his left led to what he presumed was either the factory floor or warehouse space. He could smell human flesh now, but the closed door prevented him from determining just how many were in the building.
“I’m inside an empty office just off the vestibule. There’s a door to my left. I’m going to try it. There’s a human presence here, but I can’t give you a count yet.”
“10-4, Duvall.”
Running the walls. Metering. Pee
ks. The room-clearing tactics he’d learned came easily to the forefront of his mind. But first things first. He set the bullhorn down. He wouldn’t need it from here on in. He then pulled apart the Velcro on his trouser pocket, slipped his hand around the short grip of the gun, and eased it out. He pulled back the slide far enough to verify there was a round in the chamber, then eased the slide forward. The sight of a Claw destined to rip apart some mortal bastard’s innards instead of his own warmed his cold heart. Though vamp cops weren’t allowed to carry guns, he and weapons were no strangers, and the gun felt as comfortable in his hand as a woman’s breast, though not quite as pleasurable. He held it in both hands at the low ready position and made his way to the door to his left.
He opened it, standing to one side, and held the door ajar with his foot while he listened. Nothing. He peeked inside. A stairway led to upper floors, and another closed door on this level faced him. He entered the stairwell and opened the next door. It was the factory, and with the cavernous room came the sounds and scents he’d been waiting for.
Veronica. He’d know her scent even in a crowd of fang-banging fashionistas like that at Noctule. In a stale old factory with gun-totin’ fanatics oozing testosterone and Lubalox she stood out like a rose amongst stinkweed. Her perfume, her shampoo, the scent of her skin and hair and blood—even her sweat—were all familiar to him. Granted, it had been only one night of passion, but it had been intense. He could smell her fear and the odor of her sweat now, but it meant she was alive.
“I’m at the door to the factory floor. Veronica’s here, and she’s alive. Right now I’m guessing three or four are with her.”
“10-4. Be careful.”
He slipped through the door and leaned against the wall. There wasn’t much to see. Tattered papers collected along the baseboards like dust balls, and flattened cardboard boxes littered the floor. The room wasn’t rectangular, but L-shaped, so that there was a portion around a corner to his right that he couldn’t see into. He concentrated on the sounds. Four heartbeats. Veronica’s and those of three others. It was a trick not many vampires could do—the counting of heartbeats in a room full of people—but Duvall had been around a long time, and he’d learned from the best. Cade. He wondered what Cade would think of him now. The answer came easily and filled his mind’s eye. Cade, with his inky hair, narrow eyes, and cheekbones so haughtily perfect that women would kill to have them, would only cock a black brow and purr, “Jumping into another burning building, Wulf?”
Half Past Hell Page 22