The police scanner squawked a message when I was halfway to the station. An armed robbery was in progress, and I had just passed the location. I radioed in my intent to handle the call and spun the car around.
The convenience store within view, I killed the headlamps and parked the 2020 Dodge Charger in a deserted parking lot next door. The store was situated just off the interstate and I considered the robbers were most likely pros; location was everything, but no more so than when committing a crime that required a speedy getaway. I scanned the area for the lookout. Not seeing a car, I assumed it was stowed behind the building.
I switched off the car interior light and eased the car door open. I didn’t intend to make my entrance in the usual manner. But was I capable of teleporting through the building without Leonardo or one of the others to guide me? The Hidden Cloak would have been my first choice, but I didn’t have the slightest idea how to harness that particular power, and, from what I’d been told, attaining invisibility required even more skill and endless patience. I closed my eyes and filled my lungs with fetid night air. Then I focused my thoughts on penetrating the brick exterior. Soon after, I chipped my front teeth on a row of bricks and blackened both eyes.
Behind me, I heard Nick’s infectious laugh. “What the hell are you doing?”
I whirled around, intermittently massaging my aching mouth. “I might ask you the same thing,” I said through clenched teeth. “And keep your voice down. There’s an armed robbery in progress.”
“Yeah? We’d better get in there then, don’t you think?”
I grabbed his shirtsleeve. “There’s no we, Nick. If the suspect sees anyone come in, he might start shooting and kill everyone inside.”
“So, what’s your plan? Auger through the side of the building using your teeth?”
I blew frustration out of my nose. “It’s called teleportation. I just haven’t quite perfected the technique yet.”
“No shit. Well, you know what I say. Who needs all the bells and whistles when the basic model gets the job done,” he said past a grin. He whipped the door open before I could stop him and zipped inside, so quickly that even my vampiric eyes caught only a fleeting glimpse of the movement. Panicked, I zoomed after him without realizing I’d breached the glass door without opening it.
“What the fuck was that?” the suspect asked, and I assumed he wasn’t talking to himself. A second assailant popped into view from behind the counter, jabbing an unimpressive .22-caliber barrel in various directions, eyes widening despite the skintight ski mask. The first guy must have sensed our presence and opened fire. A 12-gauge shell shattered a glass liquor case behind me, and I plucked a few shiny shards from one shoulder blade and dropped to the floor. Hugging the shelves housing assorted snacks and sundry items, I duck-walked in his direction. Where the hell is Nick?
A gusty breeze swirled my hair about my shoulders and quickened the ceiling fan overhead. A blink later, the gunman flew backward through the glass beer cooler. Nick hovered over the bleeding and motionless body, his fangs on full display, then confiscated the sawed-off shotgun.
“Get. Out. Of. Here!” I mouthed to Nick, then sailed behind the rack of magazines near the checkout counter. “This is Detective Crenshaw of the Kansas City Police Department. Drop your weapon on the counter and come out, hands where I can see them!” I told the second assailant.
“Fuck you, Pig. I got a hostage. Come any closer and he’s dead.”
Shit! Would I be able to zip over the counter and subdue the shooter before he could fire his weapon? Or should I call for backup and a hostage negotiator once I was certain Nick had done as I asked?
“Blessed Mother of God,” Socrates said, materializing a section at a time. “Just when I had a malevolent horde of Harvesters within my grasp, I was alerted to your pathetic peril. Dear girl, you needn’t physically contact the fiend to render him incapable. Think of his wrists,” he said, grabbing mine. “Then, in your mind’s eye, simply snap the bones in two.”
I shivered when he implanted the instruction and wondered if I would ever get used to the unsettling sensation, an itch inside my head I couldn’t scratch.
The perp behind the counter produced a bloodcurdling howl. Socrates grinned and folded his arms across a linen shirt soaked with black goo. From previous experience, I knew that goo represented Harvester blood. “Now that the situation is under control, I shall bid you au revoir until the next calamity arises.”
“Wait. How do I explain . . .” I said, my question trailing off when I realized Socrates was gone. My eyes flew to the storeroom. For a brief moment, I wished I hadn’t insisted Nick leave.
From behind the counter, the hostage ratcheted to a standing position, hands held high above his head, and he looked around the store, as if he expected to see someone besides me. No matter what he thought he may have heard, I knew neither Nick nor Socrates could be captured on any security footage. And neither could I. Which presented a problem. “He’s unconscious,” he said, jerking his head over a shoulder. “I didn’t touch him. I didn’t do anything . . .”
I managed a weak smile and signaled for him to come around the counter. “It’s safe. You can come out now. Where do you keep the security cameras?”
“There aren’t any,” he said, hanging his head. “Look, I know that’s really dumb, especially in this neighborhood. But I just never found the time or the extra money, you know?”
“Well, the important thing is we caught these guys,” I said as I collected the 12-gauge and checked the first assailant for a pulse. I felt my gums tingle when I saw all that blood, when I smelled that sweet, irresistible scent, so I tugged an N95 mask from my hip pocket and secured it over my nose and mouth. Feeling the perp’s weak pulse, I radioed dispatch. “This is Detective Crenshaw, Shield Number 1599, requesting an ambulance and backup at the 10-65 location.” I ended the transmission and told the storeowner, “I’m going to cuff these guys. Then I’m going to check behind the building, make sure they don’t have another accomplice waiting back there.”
The storeowner’s jaw dropped. “You’re going to just leave me here with them?”
“You know how to use one of these?” I asked, pressing the shotgun his way. His skin turned ashen, but he nodded. “Good. But don’t shoot anyone unless they give you no other choice.” I clinked my lone set of cuffs on the first suspect. The second guy was still unconscious, and I snagged a coil of baling wire from a display and hogtied him.
I pinched the delivery door open and squeezed through. The lookout waited inside a battered seventies Chevy. His head bobbed up and down, and I assumed he wouldn’t hear my commands over the music flowing through his earbuds, so I tapped on the window.
Complying with my gesture, he ripped out the earbuds. “Out of the car. Hands where I can see them,” I said robotically.
I wondered if the kid still had his baby teeth. His skin oozed naivety from every greasy pore. He opened the door a creak at a time and fainted as he spilled out.
With no way to restrain him long-term, I tugged him upright, wrapped an arm around his waist, and sailed toward my vehicle, where I deposited him in the trunk, then moved the car just outside the store entrance.
Back inside, the owner eagerly handed over the shotgun, and I told him to take a break while I waited for the ammo and backup. The suspect lying just outside the cooler floated in and out of consciousness, and I tried to organize my thoughts, come up with a plausible explanation for his injuries and those of his accomplice. An idea occurred to me, and I grabbed a plastic jug of motor oil from a shelf opposite the cooler and poured a generous amount on the floor directly beneath the automobile parts display, tugged the perp’s boots off, pressed the soles into the oil, pushed the shoes toward the cooler, then put them back on his feet. That part done, I returned the container to the shelf, flipped it on its side, and replaced the cap, making sure to leave it partially unscrewed. I was formulating a plan for the other guy’s injuries when backup rolled up and four cops stormed the building.
“The situation’s contained,” I said, tipping my head toward their guns, drawn and leveled. “You can put those away.”
“Nice work, Detective,” one officer said, the others standing over the perpetrators and snickering among themselves while they discussed my restraining technique.
I tipped my head toward the parking lot. “The getaway driver is in the trunk of the Dodge parked out front.”
He grinned. “You run out of wire, Detective?”
“Nope, just like to change things up.”
A chorus of muted laughter reset my nerves.
“Anyone else here?”
I nodded toward the storeroom. “Yeah, the store manager is catching his breath in there. Tall guy. Red hair.”
“If you’ll open the trunk, we’ll take it from here, Detective.” He bounced two fingers off his forehead and offered me a smile. “Well done.”
The ambulance whined to a stop outside, and an unmarked Crown Vic saddled up alongside. I reeled in a scowl when Detective Todd Franklin emerged, straightening his tie and hitching pristinely pressed trousers over narrow hips. Franklin was the squad’s lead detective, the kind of guy who would stop at nothing and step on anyone to further his career.
I met him at the door. “Slow night?” I asked, distracted when the EMTs swept past with suspect two on a gurney. Franklin ignored me. “We’ve got this, Detective. I’m sure you have more important things to do.”
“I didn’t realize I needed an invitation, Crenshaw,” he said, hands on his hips. “Did you fire your weapon?” he asked while studying the blood surrounding the cooler.
“No. Be careful,” I said when he strolled that direction.
He whirled to face me. “I’m very familiar with crime scene protocol, Detective.”
“I’m not worried you may contaminate the scene,” I said. “There’s oil on the floor over there.”
“So that’s what happened here?” he asked, a smirk corrupting his chiseled, clean-shaven face. “The suspect slipped and flew face-first into the glass?”
“He saw me come in and, my guess, he made a run for the storeroom where he intended to take cover.”
“Fucking karma,” Franklin said. “You gotta love it.”
“Excuse me, Detectives,” an EMT interrupted. “Anyone else injured? If not, we need to take off. We’ve got a guy with serious lacs over most of his body and another with several broken bones.”
“Broken bones?” Franklin said, whipping his head in my direction.