Lover Mine(41)

And chances were good they'd assume a quick pop just to get into the shed was not worth the paperwork.

"Only one shooter, according to the nine-one-one call. And he can't be in there."

There was a cough and a curse. "If he is, his nose is falling off from the stank."

"Call the groundskeeper," a deep voice said. "Someone's gotta get that dead animal out of there. Meantime, let's head into the neighborhood."

There was chatter and footsteps. A little later one of the cars drove off.

"We gotta off him," Qhuinn whispered over John's shoulder. "Take that knife and let's do him and get the fuck out of here."

John shook his head. There was no way he was losing this prize.

"John, we're not leaving with him. Kill him so we can bounce."

Even though Qhuinn couldn't see his lips, John mouthed, Fuck that. He's mine.

Letting this source of information slide was not going to happen. If anything, the human police could be dealt with mentally . . . or physically if it came down to it.

There was the smooth sound of a knife being unsheathed. "Sorry, John, we're outtie."

No! John yelled over his shoulder soundlessly.

Qhuinn's hand locked on the collar of John's jacket and dragged him off balance, so it was a case of either letting go of the slayer's neck or snapping the fucker's head off his spine. Since an incapacitated lesser couldn't talk, John released his hold--and caught himself by planting his palm on the cold cement.

No fucking way was he going to let his buddy cheat him out of this.

As he lunged at the male, all hell broke loose. He and Qhuinn wrestled for control over the dagger, knocking into a lot more than a gas can, and the lesser rolled free and sprang for the door. As the cops started hollering, the slayer pounded to get out--

The next sound that made any impression over the din was a gunshot. The chaser of which was a metallic ringing.

The police had blasted off the Master Lock.

From down on the floor, John whipped his arm around to the small of his back, and as he pivoted on his knees, he and Qhuinn threw their knives in sync, their blades traveling end over end across the shallow space.

The penetrations were of such force that even though they went into the slayer's torso between the shoulder blades, clearly one or both hit home: In a flash bright as lightning and with a sonic boom loud enough to make ears bleed, the lesser went back to his maker, leaving nothing but a smoky stink . . . and a hole the size of a refrigerator in the shed door.

With adrenaline running so high, neither he nor Qhuinn could dematerialize, so they leaped up and back-flatted it on either side of the gaper, staying put as first one gun muzzle then another eased inside.

Forearms were next.

Then profiles and shoulders. And flashlights.

Fortunately, the humans stepped fully inside.

"Psst. Your fly's down." As the cops turned on Qhuinn's smart ass, John unsheathed both his SIGs, and with a quick cross-strike on those heads, CPD's finest were seeing stars and sinking down onto the floor.

Which was precisely when Blay showed up with the Hummer.

John jumped over the policemen and hightailed it down to the SUV with Qhuinn right behind him, those New Rocks the fucker insisted on wearing positively pounding the earth. John gunned his way for the rear door, which Blay had popped, catching the handle and flipping himself inside as Qhuinn slid into the backseat.

As Blay took off, flooring the engine and blasting out of there, John was glad they'd had to tango with only one set of cops--although sure as shit the other two badges would be back ASAP.

They were heading north toward the highway as John clawed his way into the backseat . . . and relocked his hands around Qhuinn's throat.

As they went back at it, Blay shouted from up front, "What the fuck is wrong with you two?"

No time to answer that. John was busy squeezing and Qhuinn was trying to give him a black eye--and succeeding.

Sixty-something miles an hour. In and around downtown. With a possible ID on the Hummer if either of those cops had come to enough to focus his peepers while Blay got them out of Dodge.

And a brawl going down.

Later, John would realize that of course there was only one place Blay could go.

By the time the guy pulled into Sal's parking lot--in the back of the restaurant, where there were no lights--John and Qhuinn had both drawn blood. And the fight ended only when John was yanked out of the door by Trez--which suggested the redhead had phoned ahead. Qhuinn was handled with similar muscle by iAm.

John spit to clear out his mouth and glared at all of them.

"I believe we'll call this a draw, boys," Trez said with a half smile. "What do ya think?"

As John was released, rage made him shake. That slayer could have been the one thing they needed to crack the locale . . . the story . . . the anything. And because Qhuinn had insisted on wasting the bastard, they were no closer to where they had to be. Plus there was the fact that the lesser had died so easily. Just a prick in the heart cavity and he was home free--or at least back to the Omega.