Redemption Song (Daniel Faust #2)(65)

I shoved the Judge back into my bullet-riddled duffel bag and clung to Harmony’s waist with both hands. The bike lurched up the ramp, hit the curve, and pivoted so hard we nearly dumped it, but we righted our weight and Harmony hit the gas. The slowdown bought Sullivan an extra few seconds. Looking back, I saw him crouch and push his massive shoulders back, and then he launched himself into the air.

“Gun it!” I shouted. The Harley roared, almost tipping forward onto its front wheel, and Sullivan came crashing down. Claws like iron spears drove into the pavement, falling just inches short, and pierced the crackling stone. He yowled and yanked, struggling to pull himself free, as we rocketed toward the next ramp.

I heard sirens. Lots of them. We wheeled up onto the first-level gallery and Harmony hit the brakes, stopping the bike so fast we skidded sideways.

A platoon’s worth of gun barrels aimed our way. A pair of Metro squad cars blocked the exit to the garage, and their strobes washed over us in colors as garish as the pop art on the walls. While most of the cops covered us from behind the safety of their cars, a trio ran over and shouted us off the bike.

Usually, when I was working, the last thing I wanted to see was a cop. Today, I couldn’t complain. Harmony pulled back her blazer with two fingers, nice and slow, letting them see the badge clipped to her belt.

“Special Agent Black,” she said. Her voice was a silk glove lined with iron authority, the tone of a woman who expected to be listened to. “We have a 434-G down on the fourth level. Multiple assailants, all armed and dangerous.”

A cop wearing a sergeant’s bars nodded and jogged us back, safe behind the cordon. “We have another unit covering the emergency stairs. They radioed in, said Detective Kemper just turned up there. He’s not hurt.”

Of course he did, I thought. Good old Gary. Probably broke and ran the second he had the chance.

“What about Lars Jakobsen?” Harmony demanded. “He’s DEA, on my detail. He was down there too.”

The sergeant shook his head, then gave me a hard look. “What about this one?”

“He’s my CI,” Harmony said. “We were helping Detective Kemper set up a drug sting. Somebody tipped off the perps, and they came in guns blazing.”

Confidential informant. In other words, a rat. Still, there were only so many ways I could walk out of this mess, and being called a rat was a lot better than being called a prisoner.

“Look, this is our show,” the sergeant said. “But if you’ve got a guy in trouble down there, you should be riding shotgun. How would you want us to proceed?”

Harmony shook her head. “Total lockdown. Nobody in, nobody out. Call for a hostage negotiator.”

“Agent?” I said. “A word? In private?”

She looked like she wanted more than a word with me. We walked to the edge of the garage and around a pillar, out of sight.

“What the hell happened—” she started to say.

“You cannot pen them in down there. You saw Sullivan, what he really is. If he and his followers feel cornered, they’ll fight their way out, and you’ll have a shit-ton of dead cops on your hands.”

Now I was the one cornered, backed against a wall. Harmony stood nose-to-nose with me. Her voice was a harsh whisper.

“What the f*ck,” she said, “happened to Lars?”

“The bottle broke. It went for the easiest target.”

“You’re saying he’s possessed,” she said. “Because of your f*ckup, one of my men is possessed by a six-hundred-year-old serial killer. Someone I’m responsible for. Someone whose family sends me a f*cking Christmas card every year.”

I held up my empty hands. “Look, it’s fixable. Right now, though, we need to stop this from turning into a bloodbath—”

Harmony grabbed me by the throat and shoved me against the wall. My head slammed against the polished tiles with a jolt of pain I could feel down in my jaw.

“It is already a f*cking bloodbath,” she hissed, her hand squeezing as I pushed back against her, trying to pull her grip free. “And it is your fault! You did this, Faust! You!”

I got her hand off and shoved her away. She didn’t make another try. She stood there, seething, barely able to speak. I rubbed my throat.

“We can fix it,” I said, knowing how lame the words sounded. “I can fix it. Trust me.”

Harmony barked out a short, sharp laugh. There wasn’t any humor in it. “Trust you? You’re a goddamn scorpion. You sting everything that comes near you. I don’t think you can even help it. It’s in your nature.”

The radio up her sleeve crackled softly. We both looked, distracted, as she lifted her arm.

“Helloooo,” said a singsong voice on the other end.

“Identify,” Harmony snapped.

“I appear to be Lars Jakobsen,” came the response. His voice was strange, lilting and off-cadence. Like a Norwegian accent had a one-night stand with the French language and wound up with a mutant baby.

“You aren’t Lars,” she growled.

“I said ‘appear to be,’ mon chaton. Appearances are rarely reality, but you know this, yes? You may call me Gilles, if it pleases.”

I leaned closer to the teardrop of plastic taped to Harmony’s wrist.

“Don’t get too comfortable in that body,” I said. “I’ve exorcised major-league demons before. You? You’re nothing but a dead man with a rap sheet. The second you come upstairs, I’m putting you back in a bottle.”