“Two.”
“Three.”
Soledad: “Four.”
Bo started to move, started for the warehouse. Soledad was ready to move with him. Something on her arm. Fear made every sensation feel like fire, like maybe she’d caught a little of what slagged those vehicles. A quick look: Reese giving a squeeze; reassuring. Saying stay close without saying a word.
Soledad eyed Reese’s shoulder, her tattoo; the words etched there. Tough words. Downright BAMF words that told it like it was, like it should be. Soledad kept close to Reese as the four went for the warehouse.
As they did, behind them, Yost managed to get his act together enough to put spotlights on the building. Third floor.
Bo had point. He carried a Colt .45 government model: more stopping power than the 9mms beat cops carried. A precision kill weapon. Reese and Yarborough toted HK MP5s, excellent for chopping freaks. Light, fast, and at full auto it could spray, baby, spray. Soledad had the Benelli, a semiauto shotgun loaded with one-ounce slugs. She was the fail-safe. If nothing else could stop what they were going after, the Benelli could put a hole in anything. Usually. All the weapons were Synthtech series, manufactured—like everything else they carried and wore—from synthetics and composite materials.
Inside.
The first thing they got hit with was the smell, the odor of perpetually burning flesh. And something else. The hint of another aroma that Soledad could just barely distinguish. The stink of smoked crack.
Oh, that’s good, she thought. Not just a flamethrower. A hopped-up flamethrower. And this was her first call.
Stairway. Narrow. Not a good place to get caught. All four MTacs could go up like kindling. But it was the only approach.
Up the stairs.
First landing . . . nothing.
Second landing . . . more nothing, except the smells were strong and there was a voice. Strange, distorted like it was trying to make itself heard through the roar of a blast furnace.
All four MTacs had their weapons gripped hard and ready to do work. All four did a crab walk, step by step, inching upward for the third floor.
Bo’s voice whispered into their earpieces: “Hold.”
The air was hotter, thinner, some of its O2 gone. The thing was burning it off. Her uniform was suffocating her. All that, anxiety; they didn’t help Soledad’s breathing any. Her chest rose and fell in a rapid pace. Her hand pushed sweat off her forehead. It was rolling from her now. Rolling in sheets. Chestplate crushing her. Felt like it was. Should’ve listened to Yar; ditched the body armor. Should’ve . . .
Jesus Christ.
In her mind her own voice repeating: This is it this is it this is it. Stay cool. This is it this is it . . .
More of the blast furnace rant. Clearer now.
“Muthafuckas! Ya want sum? Huh? C’mon, bitches! Come taste summa dis!”
All Soledad could think was that he . . . it sounded like a crazy waving a Saturday night special around a liquor store. Everything they can do, all their abilities, but get down to it, end of the day, they’re just street punks. Nothing more. Nothing better.
Bo peeked up to the third floor. A lot of space broken up by vertical supports.
In Soledad’s earpiece, Bo clipped and to the point: “Sixty feet. Back to us. Me, Yarborough left. Reese, Soledad right.”
That was all the more instruction they got. All they needed. Bo moved out low and quick with Yarborough right behind him. Reese and Soledad moved opposite, Soledad’s heart slamming away inside her chest. They eased across the floor using the vertical supports, thankfully many of them, for cover.
The smells were thicker: the never-ending stench of roasting carcass swallowed with every breath to form a nauseating mixture in the stomach.
From hiding, Soledad peeked around a vertical. She could see the freak engulfed in its own flames. She had never seen one this close—a pyrokinetic or any other kind of M-norm. Its body shimmered with heat and fire but refused to burn itself. The flames just crackled and danced continually, feeding on the flesh of its host: an endless human wick.
This is it this is it this . . .
Soledad couldn’t take deep breaths, couldn’t get her breathing to slow down.
“Muthafuckas!” it screamed at the cops down on the street. “Think you got sumthin’? Bitches, come up here an’ show me sumthin’!” It thrust its arm out a window. It shot a tendril of flame, the fire howling as it scorched the air it rode on.
Outside, three stories down, Soledad heard the wail of men. Maybe burning. Maybe dying.
“Muthafuckas! Better recognize!”
Bo, in the earpieces: “Ready?”
Down the line:
“Ready.”
“Ready.”
This is . . . “Ready.”
Bo twisted from behind the vertical.
Soledad’s heart clutched, then double-pumped.
Bo spoke, yelled with pure authority. “This is the police! You are in violation of an Executive Ord—”
That was all Bo got out, all the thing would let him get out before it turned from the window and sent a finger of flame burning in Bo’s direction.
Bo sprang back, tumbled. Moved on instinct. Thought would’ve taken too long. Thought would’ve left him standing where fire now cooked the floor. He would have been dead.
“Bitches come ta play?” the pyro shrieked over the crackle of the burning wood. The thing shot fire again. From its skin, from its flesh, from itself it generated fire.
Instinct wasn’t fast enough. Not this time. This time Bo got sent sailing, ridden into the dark of the warehouse along a river of flame. “Show me sumthin’, bitch! Whatcha got ta show me?”
Yarborough, Reese and Soledad up and out and shooting. A continual chant of 9mm fire interrupted by the low boom of Soledad’s shells.
Why didn’t, she wondered as her finger jerked the trigger, they just do this first off? You got a thing that can spit fire from its body, fuck warnings and police procedure. Kill ’em! They all deserved to die anywa—
Bullets no good. Lead turned to slag from the aura of heat around the freak before the shells could even touch it.
“What da fuck?” the thing snapped. “Was you ’bout ta shoot my ass?” A hand arched before it. Just like . . . that, . . . empty space burned hot. A wave of flame ran for Yarborough, Reese and Soledad in a violent ripple.
Soledad moved, tried to dodge the flames. Too slow. They picked her up, kicked her back. They slammed her down hard on the wood floor. She had sense enough to roll with the landing. Kept her from getting hurt. Badly hurt. The bits of pain that came with lightly singed flesh let her know she’d survived the assault.
She came up looking around: Yarborough down. Leg engulfed. He rolled, snuffed it out. He didn’t scream. Bad as the burn was, bad as it looked even at a distance, he didn’t scream.
Reese was clear. At least, Soledad didn’t see her. So she was clear. Maybe. Maybe Reese’d just been turned to ash and there was nothing of her left to see.
The thing, the monster, stepped up, stretched a hand for Yarborough.
Soledad: “Yar!” She took aim. Fired. The shells, useless as ever, turning to molten lead as they sped for the burning man.
The thing’s arm twisted away from Yar, gave its full attention to Soledad. Through the heat-distorted air, on the creature’s face, Soledad could make out a jacked smile. It was there for just a second before being washed away by the flames the thing sent for her.
“How’s dis, bitch? I’ma ’bout ta break me off my burnin’ foot in yo ass!”
Soledad turned and curled and took the flames like a fist to the back. They batted her against a vertical, forcing the air from her body. Good thing. A breath in, and she would have sucked fire; she would have fried herself from the inside out. Bad as the hit hurt, it saved her life.
Vision blurred, head throbbing. Soledad sank to the floor, couldn’t help herself from going down. She tried to lift herself, then sank again. Pain wa
s the motivator to stay where she was. Brilliant pain. Arm burning. The Nomex uniforms were fire-retardant, not fireproof, and not fire-anything against muties. She slapped the flames dead, then stared at charred fabric. Except it wasn’t charred fabric. It was burned flesh beginning to boil and blister.
Soledad felt like she was swimming: light, buoyant, moving through a viscid fluid. She felt all that, and her burnt arm felt cool.
Shock. Coming on fast.
Soledad’s empty hand groped for the Benelli but stayed empty.
Yarborough, still down. Still immobile.
Where was Bo? Where was Reese?
Soledad managed to get her head up. Coming toward her through dutch-angled vision was the thing. The floor sizzled where it stepped.
Soledad’s long-standing fear, her cop nightmare: to be incapacitated by a perp, unable to run, unable to hide . . . a weapon touching-close but too far away to be of any use, she’d be unable to do anything but lie and watch Death take a stroll for her. It was a weak and helpless and frightening scenario, and she was staring right at it.
“What’s da matter, ya bitchass skeez?” Slow burn to its voice. All of it burned slow. “Ain’t got nothin’ more ta show me?”
A hard struggle got Soledad nowhere near up to her feet.
“I’ll show ya, sumthin’. Ya wanna see sum shit?”
The thing stopped moving. It stood over Yarborough. Its hand glowed, gathering heat and flame, ready to send it pouring over the cop. Ready to kill him.
“Too easy!” Soledad screaming, swooning with disorientation. “Kill a guy who can’t fight?” Felt like she wanted to fall. Still on the floor, and she felt like . . . “You’re the goddamn bitch, you two-dollar whore!” Burned, weaponless, weak; big talk, that’s all she had.
Nothing. For a second, nothing.
Then the glow from the thing’s hand spread over his body. He went hot with excitement as much as fire.
“Skeez got sumthin’ after all. I’m gonna light you up. I’m gonna light up yo pussy!”
The man of fire stalked for Soledad, but took its time about it, each step prolonged for its max pleasure: the anticipation of the kill. Foreplay, then death.
Soledad felt the thing approaching, felt the heat of it pressing toward her more than she could see it. One eye was swelling shut, the other collecting the blood that ran from her head. A weak arm feebled for her back, for the pack she had attached there. Didn’t have the strength to pull it free.
“How you want it, girl? Which hole you want it in?”
The heat, oppressive, burning oxygen and passing Soledad out. At least, she thought, she wouldn’t be conscious for her own end. Through a curtain of blood she saw the thing’s fiery hand reaching for her. It was an unnatural wonder. It was the last thing she’d ever see.
Blue, moving fast. Reese, throwing herself at the mutie, knocking it from Soledad’s path.
Soledad rolled, scrambled for the cover of one of the verticals. The stay of execution injecting her with enough fight to keep alive.
Reese, on the floor; wounded animal sounds. The side of her body she’d slammed against the thing was black with burns.
Reese down. Yar down. Bo gone.
Time. It was only a matter of how much—a minute, a few seconds—before that thing killed them all.
Hand alive with desperation, Soledad pulled the pack from her back, worked the zipper. Inside: a gun.
The freak, only dazed by the open-field tackle, got its bearings, moved for Reese. “Bitch, I wasn’t tryin’ ta fuck wit you. Ain’t nobody told you ta come in here an’ git wit my shit. You better axe sumbody!”
No hesitation this time. The thing’s hand to the chestplate of Reese’s body armor. A second later: a horrible sizzle, the smell of burnt meat.
From Reese, screams. Spastic jerking and twitching against the pain, and screams.
Shaky hands, Soledad fumbled for the clips in the pack. Which color, her mind unable to lock thoughts. Which color? Which— Red, the red clip. Grabbed it, she slid it into the back of the gun.
One deep breath.
Soledad stood, came into the open.
The thing rose to meet her.
Reese’s body kept flopping around over the wood.
“Oh, now bitch wants sumthin’. You gonna play me like dat wit yo little bitchass gat. Let’s get it on, girl. Bring it da fuck on!”
Yeah. Let’s bring it on.
Soledad took aim with her piece. The DTT raced up, then locked.
The thing burned bright, ready to spatter fire. Ready to kill.
How do you shoot something like that? How do you use a bullet against a thing that can melt lead?
Soledad squeezed the trigger. No hammer fell. Just the same, her weapon spat. The slugs—four fired in instantaneous succession—touched air, then went white hot. They stayed white-hot as they cut through the freak’s flames, hit it in the chest, tore it open. They were white-hot as they ripped and shredded flesh and muscle, broke bone and turned it into shrapnel, wounding from the inside outward. The slugs were just as hot when they opened four jagged defects in the freak’s back and kept on going.
Phosphorous bullets. Soledad had answered a question with a question: How do you melt what’s already on fire?
The thing stood unbelieving. Blood, like streams of lava, leaking from the tunnels Soledad had laced through its chest. It stood for a moment . . . stood . . . its light and fire dimmed. Then the thing went down felled-timber hard.
Quiet.
Soledad limped for the body, not having known until that moment she’d done damage to her leg. The pain of a twisted knee subordinate to that of smoldering flesh.
Step, drag. Step, drag.
Soledad stood over the pyro. She venom-dripped words down at its empty eyes. “Who’s the bitch now? You bleed. Fucked-up-looking and hot, but you bleed.”
Eulogy over.
Soledad turned for Reese. Reese’s body. In the center of her chest, where her armor was melted away, was a burned-out crater. Cooked meat hanging off the bone.
“God . . .” Soledad lowered herself, repulsed by Reese’s wound but unable to look away from it. Her hand out toward it to . . . to what? To touch it? Tend to it? What was the point? Nothing she could do. Not one—
A gurgle. A spasm from the body.
Soledad sprang back.
Reese in a death prattle . . . and then something else. A breath. Short, shallow, but a breath.
“Ten-thirty-three!” Soledad yelled, not knowing she was yelling. Not even sure if there was anyone to hear her. “Officer down! I need a rush on a bus at this loca—”
Real quick her words got choked out. Her throat was on fire. A painful jerk of her head to the side, through the corner of her eye: It was alive; the thing, the human flame. Alive just enough to ignite its hand, take Soledad by the neck and sear her skin.
“. . . Youse sumthin’, girl.” Slurred words of the dying, but dying slow enough to drag Soledad with it. “Truth: youse the only bitch man enough ta be wit all da shit. Truth. It’s da truth dat sets ya free, an’ revelation is comin’. Come here, bitch, an’ kiss me good-bye.”
The thing worked up half a smile and got ready to end Soledad’s life—choke it from her, squeeze it, burn it from her. One way or the other, kill her.
Three loud pops. Three large holes bust open in the thing’s body just before it tipped and thudded against the floor.
Hand to her throat. Soledad could feel the dead flesh peel beneath her touch.
Across the warehouse: Bo, blood leaking from his skull, held his smoking .45.
Soledad saw that, then promptly passed out.
WORKING FOR THE DEVIL
Lilith Saintcrow
(0-446-61670-2)
Dante Valentine just got really busy. A licensed Necro-mancer with the emerald to prove it, she can raise the dead and wield a sword better than a samurai master. But one rainy Monday morning, she’s offered a deal from Hell.
The score: the De
vil hires her to hunt down Vardimal Santiago, a rogue demon. Her reward? Her life. With an offer like that, Dante can’t refuse.
Rave Reviews for
WORKING FOR THE DEVIL
“This book just blew me away. I ate it up! I loved, loved, LOVED the book. Couldn’t put it down. Darkly compelling, fascinatingly unique . . . I devoured this book.”
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“Lilith Saintcrow’s Working for the Devil is pure fantasy and fun. A take into a different world, a fantastic escape. I enjoyed it tremendously.”
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—Jacqueline Carey, author of Kushiel’s Avatar
AVAILABLE MARCH 2006 WHEREVER BOOKS ARE SOLD
Kitty and the Midnight Hour
CARRIE VAUGHN
(0-446-61641-9)
Kitty Norville is a midnight-shift DJ for a Denver radio station—and a werewolf in the closet. Her new late-night advice show for the supernaturally disadvantaged is a raging success, but it’s Kitty who can use some help. With one sexy werewolf-hunter and a few homicidal undead on her tail, Kitty may have bitten off more than she can chew . . .
Everyone Loves Kitty
“I relished this one. Carrie Vaughn’s KITTY AND THE MIDNIGHT HOUR has enough excitement, astonishment, pathos, and victory to satisfy any reader.”
—New York Times bestselling author Charlaine Harris, author of Dead as a Doornail
“Fresh, hip, fantastic—Don’t miss this one, you’re in for a real treat!”
—L.A. Banks, author of The Vampire Huntress Legends series
“You’ll love this! This is vintage Anita Blake meets The Howling. Worth reading twice!”
—Barb and J.C. Hendee, coauthors of Dhampir
AVAILABLE NOVEMBER 2005 WHEREVER BOOKS ARE SOLD.
John Ridley_Those Who Walk in Darkness 02 Page 30
