I called Murphy, trying to remain calm and hoping that the phone didn’t explode against my head. When I got the connection, it was cloudy with bursts of static, but I managed to tell her what was going on.
"You’re insane, Dresden," Murphy said. "Do you know how incredibly irresponsible—and illegal—it is to falsify a bomb threat?"
"Yeah. Less irresponsible than letting cops and civilians get in these people’s way."
Murphy was quiet for a second, and then asked, "How dangerous are they?"
"Worse than the loup-garou," I said.
"I’ll make the call."
"Did you get in touch with him?" I asked.
"I think so, yes. Do you need any more muscle?"
"Got plenty," I said. "What I’m short on is time. Please hurry."
"Be careful, Harry."
I hung up the phone and got out of the truck. Michael and Sanya came with me. "Murphy’s going to report a bomb threat. The cops will clear everyone out of the building. That will clear out the area for us."
"Leaving the Denarians without anyone to infect, or take hostage," Sanya said.
"That’s the idea. After that, they’ll call in the bomb squad and backup. We’ll have twenty minutes, tops, to take advantage of the confusion."
Michael unlocked the tool locker in the back of the pickup, and drew out Shiro’s cane. He tied a strap to it and slung it over his shoulder. While he did, Sanya buckled Esperacchius to his hip, then drew a freaking assault rifle out of the tool locker.
"Kalashnikov, isn’t it?" I asked. "That’s an extremely Chuck Heston look for the Knights of the Cross."
Sanya slapped a magazine into the weapon, chambered a round, and made sure the gun’s safety was on. "I consider myself a progressive."
"Too random for my taste," Michael said. "Too easy to hurt the wrong person."
"Maybe," Sanya said. "But the only people inside should be the Denarians, yes?"
"And Shiro," I said.
"I will not shoot Shiro," Sanya assured me.
Michael buckled Amoracchius onto his hip. "How much longer will it take?"
The buzzing ring of a fire alarm blared from the concourse, and the police got together. A grizzled detective in a bad suit took charge and started directing suits and uniforms around. People started hurrying out of the concourse.
"Ask and ye shall receive," I said. "Let’s circle around. Get in through one of the service entrances."
Sanya slipped the assault rifle into an over-the-shoulder sports bag, but kept one hand on the stock. Michael nodded to me, and I took the lead. We circled around the building until we could see some of the planes. Ground crews were rushing around in confusion, and several guys with orange flashlights were waving them at flight crews, directing the wallowing jets away from the ramps to the concourse.
We had to climb a fence and drop down a ten-foot retaining wall to get behind the concourse, but in the dark and the confusion no one noticed us. I led us through a ground-crew door and through a room that was part garage and part baggage storage. Emergency lights were on and fire alarms still jangled. I passed a section of wall covered with calendar pinup girls, pictures of trucks, and a map of the concourse.
"Whoa, stop," I said. Sanya bumped into my back. I glowered at him, and then peered at the map.
"Here," I said, pointing at a marked door. "We’ll come out on this stairway."
"Midway through," Michael noted. "Which way do we go?"
"Split up," Sanya suggested.
Michael and I said, "Bad idea," at precisely the same time.
"Think," I muttered, mostly to myself. "If I were an arrogant psychotic demon-collaborating terrorist out to trigger an apocalypse, where would I be?"
Sanya leaned over to look at the map and said, "The chapel."
"The chapel," said Michael.
"The chapel," I echoed. "Down this hall, up the stairs, and to the left."
We ran down the hall and up the stairs. I pushed open the door and heard a recorded voice telling me to be calm and proceed to the nearest exit. I checked my right before I did my left, and it saved my life.
A man in nondescript business wear stood watching the door and holding a submachine gun. When he saw me, he lifted the weapon, hesitated for a fraction of a second, and started shooting.
The slight pause was enough to let me reverse my direction. A couple of bullets went right through the steel fire door, but I stumbled back into Sanya. The big man caught me and spun, putting his back between me and the incoming bullets. I felt him jerk and heard him grunt once, and then we hit a wall and sank down.
I knew the gunman would be coming. Right then, he was probably circling out to the far wall across from the door. Once he had a clear line of fire down the stairs, he’d move up and gun us down.
I saw his shadow in the crack under the door, and I struggled to regain my feet. Sanya was doing the same thing, and the two of us managed to do little but keep each other down. The gunman came closer, his shadow moving in the little space beneath the door’s edge.
Michael stepped over me and Sanya, Amoracchius in hand, and shouted as he lunged forward, both hands driving the weight of the sword at the closed steel door. The sword went through the door, sinking almost to the hilt.
An erratic burst of gunfire sounded. Michael drew the sword back out of the door. Blood gleamed wet and scarlet along the length of the weapon’s blade. Michael put his back against the wall of the stairwell. The gun barked a couple of times more and fell silent. After a minute, blood seeped under the door in a spreading red puddle.
Sanya and I got untangled and got up. "You’re hit."
Michael had already moved and stood behind Sanya. He ran his hands over Sanya’s back, grunted, and then held up a small, bright piece of metal, presumably the round. "It hit a strike plate. The vest caught it."
"Progressive." Sanya panted, wincing.
"You’re lucky the bullet had to go through a steel door before it got to you," I muttered. I readied a shield and pressed the door slowly open.
The gunman lay on the floor. Michael’s thrust had taken him just under the floating ribs, and had to have hit an artery to kill him so quickly. His gun lay in his hand, and his finger was limp on the trigger.
Sanya and Michael slipped out of the stairwell. Sanya had his rifle in hand. They stood lookout while I bent down and pried open the dead gunman’s mouth. He didn’t have a tongue. "One of Nicodemus’s boys," I said quietly.
"Something is wrong," Michael said. Blood dripped from the tip of the sword to the floor. "I don’t feel him anymore."
"If you can feel him, can he feel you? Could he know if you were getting close to him?"
Michael shrugged. "It seems likely."
"He’s cautious," I said, remembering how Nicodemus had reacted when Shiro came through the door. "He doesn’t take chances. He wouldn’t wait around to start a fight he wasn’t sure he could win. He’s running." I stood up and headed for the chapel. "Come on."
Just as I got to the chapel’s door, it swung open and two more men came out, both of them slapping clips into submachine guns. One of them didn’t look up in time to see me, so I checked him in the forehead with a double-handed thrust of my staff, getting my whole weight behind the blow. His head snapped back and he dropped. The other gunman started to bring his weapon up, but I batted the barrel aside with a sweep of my staff, then snapped the end of it hard into his nose. Before he could recover, Sanya stepped into him and slammed the butt of the Kalashnikov against his head. He fell on top of the first guy, tongueless mouth lolled open.