each wrapped in plastic and waiting to be put to use.
Each one had a biohazard sticker on the side. Like the kind they put on organ-transplant coolers.
I heard voices up ahead. We kept moving, getting closer. At the end of a short hallway, an archway opened onto the heart of the old meatpacking plant—an open floor zigzagged by a dead conveyor belt, rusty meat hooks still dangling from the overhead track.
The doctors’ hired guns lounged at a plastic picnic table in the middle of the room, keeping a watchful eye on the rolling gurneys where two of the Gresham brothers slumbered on a chemical drip. Sound asleep, they wore their human faces. The third brother, I presumed, had ended up in the black vinyl body bag on the concrete floor. Construction lights on tripods, encased in bright-yellow plastic, provided illumination; cables ran to a small portable generator in the corner.
“This is absurd,” Victoria said, throwing up her hands as she paced. Her voice echoed through the drafty factory. “We’re throwing money away. Do you know the aftermarket value of cambion organs?”
“She just said the magic word,” Jessie breathed.
Emmanuel Hirsch followed Victoria like a puppy dog on a leash, his hands fluttering.
“And do you know how long it would take to find buyers?” he said. “We can’t do that kind of volume without the Flowers sniffing our way.”
“So we make a deal.”
“You don’t—you don’t get it. You can buy off the police, you can buy off the feds, you can’t buy off the hound . These men were working for the Flowers. They protect their own, and when hell comes calling, the Detroit Partnership isn’t going to save us.”
“Heard enough?” Jessie whispered. I nodded. Time to shut this operation down.
We slipped through the doorway and split up, her going left, me going right, crouching and using the shadows for cover. On the far side of the picnic table, she looked my way and gave me a nod.
“Freeze!” I shouted, springing up and holding my pistol in a two-hand grip. “Federal agents, nobody move!”
“Hands!” Jessie roared at the same time, dropping a bead on the guards at the table. “Let me see your hands!”
Emmanuel shot his hands straight up, his jaw dropping. Victoria froze. Their hired guns both sprang to their feet, startled, one of them going for his piece. He got it clear of the holster, a squat machine pistol in black matte, just in time for Jessie to give her trigger two quick squeezes. The Glock barked twice and the thug dropped, his shirt billowing red. His partner wised up and reached for the sky.
“On your knees!” I said, moving in with slow, careful side steps. “All of you, right now. Lace your fingers behind your heads.”
“This is a mistake,” Emmanuel stammered as he sank to one knee. “This is all a terrible mistake.”
Victoria didn’t kneel. She just stared at me. And whispered.
I couldn’t hear it at first, but the sibilant lisping verse slowly grew in strength and speed, twisting like a knot in the air around my head. No. In my head.
I swung the muzzle of my pistol, aiming for center mass. My arm felt heavy, like the gun had put on ten pounds of weight in the last five seconds.
“You want to stop doing that,” I told her. “Right now.”
Over by the table, Jessie moved in, reaching under the gunman’s leather jacket to take his weapon. Whatever Victoria was pulling, it hit Jessie harder than it hit me. Just enough to slow her reactions by a second or two. Just enough for the gunman to grab her wrist, spin, and draw his revolver. He held her like a human shield and pressed the barrel to her head.
“Drop your gun,” he snapped. Instead, I turned and took careful aim. Right between the eyes.
“No,” I told him.
He blinked. “Are you deaf? Drop your fucking gun!”
I kept one eye closed, sighting down the barrel. It felt good, closing one eye. Why not close both? The chant swirling in my brain said. It’s bedtime. So nice, so
Each one had a biohazard sticker on the side. Like the kind they put on organ-transplant coolers.
I heard voices up ahead. We kept moving, getting closer. At the end of a short hallway, an archway opened onto the heart of the old meatpacking plant—an open floor zigzagged by a dead conveyor belt, rusty meat hooks still dangling from the overhead track.
The doctors’ hired guns lounged at a plastic picnic table in the middle of the room, keeping a watchful eye on the rolling gurneys where two of the Gresham brothers slumbered on a chemical drip. Sound asleep, they wore their human faces. The third brother, I presumed, had ended up in the black vinyl body bag on the concrete floor. Construction lights on tripods, encased in bright-yellow plastic, provided illumination; cables ran to a small portable generator in the corner.
“This is absurd,” Victoria said, throwing up her hands as she paced. Her voice echoed through the drafty factory. “We’re throwing money away. Do you know the aftermarket value of cambion organs?”
“She just said the magic word,” Jessie breathed.
Emmanuel Hirsch followed Victoria like a puppy dog on a leash, his hands fluttering.
“And do you know how long it would take to find buyers?” he said. “We can’t do that kind of volume without the Flowers sniffing our way.”
“So we make a deal.”
“You don’t—you don’t get it. You can buy off the police, you can buy off the feds, you can’t buy off the hound . These men were working for the Flowers. They protect their own, and when hell comes calling, the Detroit Partnership isn’t going to save us.”
“Heard enough?” Jessie whispered. I nodded. Time to shut this operation down.
We slipped through the doorway and split up, her going left, me going right, crouching and using the shadows for cover. On the far side of the picnic table, she looked my way and gave me a nod.
“Freeze!” I shouted, springing up and holding my pistol in a two-hand grip. “Federal agents, nobody move!”
“Hands!” Jessie roared at the same time, dropping a bead on the guards at the table. “Let me see your hands!”
Emmanuel shot his hands straight up, his jaw dropping. Victoria froze. Their hired guns both sprang to their feet, startled, one of them going for his piece. He got it clear of the holster, a squat machine pistol in black matte, just in time for Jessie to give her trigger two quick squeezes. The Glock barked twice and the thug dropped, his shirt billowing red. His partner wised up and reached for the sky.
“On your knees!” I said, moving in with slow, careful side steps. “All of you, right now. Lace your fingers behind your heads.”
“This is a mistake,” Emmanuel stammered as he sank to one knee. “This is all a terrible mistake.”
Victoria didn’t kneel. She just stared at me. And whispered.
I couldn’t hear it at first, but the sibilant lisping verse slowly grew in strength and speed, twisting like a knot in the air around my head. No. In my head.
I swung the muzzle of my pistol, aiming for center mass. My arm felt heavy, like the gun had put on ten pounds of weight in the last five seconds.
“You want to stop doing that,” I told her. “Right now.”
Over by the table, Jessie moved in, reaching under the gunman’s leather jacket to take his weapon. Whatever Victoria was pulling, it hit Jessie harder than it hit me. Just enough to slow her reactions by a second or two. Just enough for the gunman to grab her wrist, spin, and draw his revolver. He held her like a human shield and pressed the barrel to her head.
“Drop your gun,” he snapped. Instead, I turned and took careful aim. Right between the eyes.
“No,” I told him.
He blinked. “Are you deaf? Drop your fucking gun!”
I kept one eye closed, sighting down the barrel. It felt good, closing one eye. Why not close both? The chant swirling in my brain said. It’s bedtime. So nice, so
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