“Ascots?” I laughed. “No accounting for taste.”

Mo’Lock’s brow wrinkled as he squinted out the window. “Well, I’ll be.”

“What?”

“They’re outside the apartment again,” the ghoul said and looked my way. “One of them has a rifle.”

“What the fuck are they doing?!” I started toward the ghoul and the window. Enough was enough.

Mo’Lock went on, “He’s pointing it up here and—”

Blamm! Blamm! Blamm!

The window shattered and the ghoul’s upper back exploded in three places. He flopped in the air like a marionette cut loose, then collapsed hard to the floor. I threw myself against the wall. Mo’Lock was spread-eagle on the floor. No blood seeped from the three big holes in his shirt.

“You okay?” I reached out with my leg and gave him a little nudge with my foot.

“I’m fine,” the ghoul said from the floor. “Don’t kick me.”

Nobody shoots my friends, even if shooting them doesn’t hurt. I was pissed. I dove past the shattered window and grabbed my pistol off the desk. I was out the door before Mo’Lock could get to his feet. Taking the stairs by twos, I was outside in time to see the three fashion casualties getting into their Mustang. I wasted no time in raising the gun, and quickly squeezed off a few shots.

“Freeze, you sons-a-bitches!!”

My first shot shattered the back window of the car. The second and third went stray. The last three were anybody’s guess. A .38 caliber crap-shoot.

The Mustang’s rear tires spun. The smell of burned rubber wafted across my face as I ran up to the curb, but the car was already gone, speeding away down the street and very nearly hitting a commuter bus. That would have been perfect, but they steered clear. For the second time, they had gotten away with shooting at me. But this time there was a silver lining. There was blood on the sidewalk. At least I’d hit one of the bastards.

It was then that I realized I was standing in the street holding a smoking gun—wearing only my boxers.

12

The sixth precinct police evidence warehouse was little more than a bunker sitting in a corner of the parking lot. It was a flat, one-story building made of cinder blocks and those god-awful green glass cubes. The chain-link fence surrounding the warehouse had rusted barbed wire running along the top, but it and the fence were in such bad shape they would probably crumble at the slightest touch, and besides, the gate was open. The steel door of the warehouse was protected by a large but far from unbreakable padlock—nothing that couldn’t be snapped with a decent crowbar.

Point being, it would’ve been easier to bust into the joint than go through all the usual procedural bullshit, but I did it anyway. I knew they had my name and didn’t want to get Blout in trouble.

A uniformed flunky unlocked the door, removing the padlock with a lazy yank, then handed me a large ring with one key dangling pathetically from it like a tiny hanged man.