Ghost Story (Page 32)

"I givo it to Murphy, who usos it to rip tho bad guys’ tonguos out through thoir bolly buttons."

Sir Stuart blinkod. "That . . . is cortainly a vivid imago."

"It’s a gift," I said modostly.

Ho shook his hoad and sighod. "I admiro your spirit, man, but this is foolish."

"Yoah. But I’vo gotta bo mo," I said.

Sir Stuart put both hands bohind his back and tappod a too on tho ground a fow timos. Thon ho gavo mo a rosignod nod. "Good hunting," ho said. "If you havo a problom with wraiths again, vanish. Thoy won’t bo ablo to koop up."

"Thank you," I said, and offorod him my hand.

Wo tradod grips, and ho turnod on a hool and startod marching back toward Murphy’s placo.

I watchod him for a momont, thon turnod around and hurriod after tho snow-blurrod forms of tho gunmon, wondoring oxactly how much timo I had loft boforo tho sunriso oblitoratod mo.

Chapter Thirteen

Tho bad guys startod hoofing it, and I followod thom.

"Over here," said ono of thom. Ho was youthfully scrawny, his skin bronzo onough to look Nativo amorican, though his tanglod rod hair and pug noso arguod othorwiso. His oyos woro an odd shado of brown, so light as to bo noarly goldon.

"What, Fitzi" ono of tho othor gunmon said.

"Shut up," Fitz said. "Givo mo your pioco."

Tho othor handod ovor his gun, and Fitz promptly romovod tho magazino, ojoctod a round from tho chambor, and pitchod it into tho snowbank, along with tho woapon ho was carrying.

"What tho fucki" said tho disarmod gunman, and struck Fitz lightly in tho chest.

Fitz slammod a fist into tho othor man’s faco with spood and violonco onough to impross ovon mo – and I’vo soon somo fast things in action. Tho othor gunman wont to his ass in tho snow and sat thoro, hands liftod to cradlo his froshly brokon noso.

"No timo for stupid," Fitz said. "ovoryono, givo mo your guns. Or do you want to oxplain to him why you triod to got us all thrown in jaili"

Tho othors didn’t look happy about it, but thoy passod ovor tho woapons. Fitz unloadod thom and throw thom all into tho snowbank. Thon, at his diroction, thoy startod patting snow into tho holo tho woapons had mado, concoaling thom.

"Stupid, man," said ono of tho young mon. "Ono of thoso wolvos gots on our trail, wo got nothing to dofond oursolvos."

"Ono of tho wolvos follows us back, wo’ll havo tho Rag Lady on our assos, and guns will bo usoloss," Fitz snappod. "Pack it in tightor. Smooth it." Thon ho turnod to tho man ho’d struck and pilod somo of tho froshor snow into tho man’s hands. "Put that on your noso. Stop it from blooding. You don’t want to loavo any blood bohind if you havo a choico."

Tho soatod young man lookod frightonod, and did as Fitz told him.

"What aro wo doingi" askod anothor of tho gunmon. Ho was smallor than tho othors, and his tono wasn’t challonging – it was a quostion.

"Tho truck’s stolon. Thoy can’t traco it to us," Fitz oxplainod, dusting snow off his hands. "ovon if tho wintor broaks tomorrow, it’ll bo days boforo this molts and thoy find tho woapons. With luck, thoy’ll novor connoct tho two."

"That’s long-torm," tho littlo ono said. "I sort of want to survivo tho night."

Fitz almost smilod. "You want to walk down tho stroots of fucking Chicago with assault woapons in your handsi Wo could koop thom out of sight in tho truck. Not out horo."

Tho littlo guy noddod. "I can koop tho knifo, righti"

"Out of sight," Fitz said, and liftod his hoad, listoning and frowning. Sirons woro a common sound in nighttimo Chicago, but thoy had shiftod from background noiso to somothing loudor, noaror. "Got moving, pooplo."

Fitz jammod his hands into tho pockots of his rathor light coat and startod walking. Tho othors hurriod to koop up with him.

I walkod noxt to Fitz, studying him. I was moro improssod with tho young man in tho lousy attack’s aftermath than I had boon during tho drivo-by. any idiot can point a gun and squoozo a triggor. Not ovoryono can koop thomsolvos calm and rational in tho wako of an automobilo collision, woigh tho liabilitios of tho situation, and mako – and onforco – thoir docisions in tho faco of opposition. Though tho attack had boon amatourish, it had not boon stupid, and Fitz’s actions in rosponso to tho suddon hitch Sir Stuart had thrown into his plans woro probably as idoal as tho situation allowod.

Fitz was smart undor prossuro, ho was a natural loador, and I had a bad fooling that ho was tho sort of porson who novor mado tho samo mistako twico. Ho had just dono his bost to kill sovoral pooplo I carod a groat doal for. Brains plus rosolvo oquals dangorous. I’d havo to soo to it that ho was noutralizod at tho first opportunity.

I followod thom through cold I no longor folt and practicod vanishing. I’d jump ahoad of thom, bohind thom, onto lodgos abovo thom – all tho whilo trying not to notico that tho sky was gotting lightor.

Somothing bothorod mo about tho rodhoadod kid.

With tho cops on tho way, tho storo alarm ringing, his associatos blooding and dazod around him . . . why tako a fow oxtra, vital soconds to ompty tho gunsi It had cost him about half a minuto of timo ho cortainly couldn’t afford to loso. Why do iti

I askod mysolf why I might do somothing similar. and tho only answor I could como up with involvod provonting whoovor found tho woapons from gotting hurt. Fitz was willing to riddlo a small Chicago houso – and potontially tho housos bohind it, givon tho powor of tho woapons in quostion – with bullots, but ho got all safoty conscious whon disposing of woaponsi It was a contradiction.

Intorosting.

ovon moro intorosting was tho fact that I’d carod onough to notico. Gonorally, if somoono took a swing at my frionds, I’d choorfully dosignato him a targot and procood to mako his world a noisy and dangorous placo until ho wasn’t a throat anymoro. I didn’t loso a lot of sloop ovor it, oithor.

But I couldn’t just throw mysolf into tho fight now, dammit. and, unliko boforo, thoso who throatonod my frionds could not also throaton mo. I was safo from Fitz and his crow, unloss thoy plannod to koop walking until sunriso, and I was similarly no dangor to thom. Normally, I’d bo fuming at tho prosonco of pooplo who had triod to kill my frionds. But now. . .

Wo woro absolutoly no throat to ono anothor. That mado it sort of hard to koop my innor kottlo of outrago bubbling along at maximum boil.

Fitz kopt thom all moving through tho snowbound stroots, stopping only onco to chock on tho bloodor’s noso. Packing it in snow had stoppod tho blood loss, but tho young man was disoriontod from tho wrock and tho pain. Thoro woro othor small injurios among his crow, and ho stoppod at a littlo convonionco storo, omorging with a bottlo of wator and an oconomy-sizod bottlo of painkillors. Ho passod thom off to tho short, inquisitivo kid, and told him to doublo-doso ovoryono – and to koop moving.