Page 4 of Heart and Soul
“What about it?”
“I need you there ten minutes ago.”
“But I’m past Corktown. I’m almost to the office.”
“The office! Did I tell you to come to the damn office?” Nick’s using his big-boy voice. This is definitely major.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“A runaway vamp with major blood fever. You’re up.”
“No, but I mean at the office. It sounds like a zoo.”
“Forget the office, Shayne! Listen to me. I got a rampaging vamp with a human hostage in Corktown. I’ve told police the FBI negotiator is en route. They’re expecting you.”
“Negotiator? You expect a vamp with blood lust totalk?”
Nick’s voice goes away from the phone, shouting angry commands at some other poor soul. Then back to me: “Run that bloodsucker down and drag his corpse back here, dead or alive. We’re all-hands-on-deck over here, or you better believe I’d send somebody else.”
“Gee, I’m overwhelmed by your confidence.”
“Make me eat my words when you haul his staked ass in.”
“With no backup? Don’t you usually send a small army after rogue vamps?”
“Not rogue. He’s clan, but his sire bond was just severed. He’ll be weak.”
A severed bond? That could only mean a dead master. “Which clan?” I blurt, trying to sound natural. I already know it must be Henry Stadther. This is a nightmare. We’re talking top-five biggest bombshells of all time in the Detroit underworld.All-hands-on-deckis a major understatement. “Don’t tell me it’s Henry Stadther.”
“I can’t give shit for answers until you get here, but we’re on total lockdown, Shayne, and I’ve already told the guards that the only way your bony ass gets through the door is with that fanger in a headlock. Without him, you might as well crawl on back to bed.” He hangs up.
“Crawl, are you kidding?” I snap at the phone. “I’d run across broken glass to get back to my bed right now and curl up next to that warm, beautiful man who surely must love himself some bony ass, ’causedamn.”
I flip a hard U-turn, the back end of the truck whipping sideways across the icy road. Corktown isn’t far from here. Bagley’s a long street, though. How am I supposed to know where to find—oh. I guess I can follow that glow of police lights in the distance.
Every patrol car in Detroit must be here. They’re parked two deep in the street and on sidewalks and front lawns, and down alleys between apartment buildings. A SWAT truck deploys men built like tanks, covered in tactical gear and assault rifles. Bleary-eyed residents in pajamas gather on front porches and apartment balconies to watch the show.
I only have to flash my badge a dozen times before Detroit PD finally accepts that this redhead in a Tigers jacket is the FBI negotiator and sends me up to the front line. Across the street from us, shielding his eyes from a harsh spotlight, is the star of the show: a tall, lanky man in a crisp suit. He hugs a terrified woman to his chest as a shield against the sea of police rifles aimed at him.
A high-ranking gray moustache shouts into a bullhorn. “We’ve complied with all your demands. We’re staying back. We’ve cleared the alley behind you.”
“What? Why?” I ask.
After a double take at me, the gray moustache lowers the bullhorn. “Who the hell are you?”
“I asked you first. Why’d you clear the alley?”
“He’ll feel safer in there, out of the open.”
“Safer? Should we get him some milk and cookies?”
“It’s a bargaining chip. He’s using the woman as cover. He lets her go, we let him take cover in the alley to continue negotiations.”
“And bynegotiations, do you mean a sniper blasts him in the kneecap?”
“We have a sniper in place, but only as a last resort.”
“Perfect. I live at that resort.” I gesture to the bullhorn. Reluctantly, he hands it over. My voice blares through the neighborhood. “Now look, everybody’s tired and stressed out, I get it. It’s been a long night. Averylong night. In fact”—for emphasis, I move the megaphone closer to my mouth—“it’s almost the next day. Soon—very soon—the big, bright sun will rise, and won’t we all be feeling better then?”
