Free Hellforged by Nancy Holzner Page B

last thing this city needed was a Goon Squad zombie chomping one of Boston’s finest.
    But I’d forgotten about the second detective. He stepped in front of his partner, gun drawn. “I’ve got exploding bullets,” he warned.
    Sykes lurched forward.
    “For God’s sake, shoot him!” shouted the detective on the ground.
    “You do and you’re dead.” To my left, Norden had his gun out, too, pointed at the armed detective.
    Sykes seemed oblivious. He pulled his arm from my grasp and yanked free of Axel. He took two heavy steps toward the norm, who covered his head with his arms.
    The norm with the gun looked back and forth between Sykes and Norden, his eyes wild. He kept the gun on Sykes.
    Then Sykes stopped.
    He stood in the center of the room, his shoulders shaking, his face contorted. He made a strangled, gasping noise. And he turned around. Sykes actually turned and walked away from a cowering, bleeding human.
    I’d never seen anything like it. When zombies smell human blood, they have to feed. It’s their nature.
    Sykes staggered behind the bar and tore open a bag of peanuts. He tilted his head back and emptied the packet down his throat. Then he did it again. And again. He stopped and looked at his hand, where blood streaked the knuckles. He sniffed. A black tip of tongue appeared between his lips. But he didn’t taste the blood. Instead, he picked up a bar towel and wiped it from his hand. Then he went back to demolishing Axel’s peanut supply.
    “You better get the hell out of here,” Norden told the detectives, but there was no need for him to say it. The bashed-up one was already on his feet and halfway to the door.
    “Commissioner Hampson’s going to hear about this,” he shouted. He didn’t wait for a reply before he ran out into the daylight.
    The CSI team wasn’t far behind. They finished packing their gear, every single one of them giving exaggerated concentration to the task to avoid catching either Goon’s eye. Within five minutes, the bar was empty except for Axel, the two Goons, and me.
    Sykes stood ankle-deep in crumpled peanut bags. He pulled out a wallet. “How much do I owe you?” he asked Axel.
    Axel shook his head, slowly. “On the house.”
    Norden whirled on me. “What the hell are you hanging around for? You can go back to bed now that those assholes have pulled the goddamn rug out from under our investigation.”
    “What investigation?” Sykes said bitterly. “There can’t be an investigation if there’s no crime.”
    “Maybe I can help,” I said. They looked at me like I’d just suggested we all join hands and play Ring Around the Rosie. “No, really. I know Alexander Kane, and he—”
    “Kane is in D.C., all tied up in that Supreme Court case,” said Sykes.
    “Yes, I know, but …” I didn’t finish the sentence. But what? What was I thinking? Kane was putting in a hundred hours a week on his case. He hoped to make history. What was one local, shut-down investigation next to that? Kane would care—I didn’t doubt that for a second. But he had no time to do anything about it.
    “That’s why Hampson’s pushing it,” said Sykes. “No paranormal rights lawyer in town to give him a hard time. This isn’t the first time the commissioner has yanked resources from a JHP case.”
    JHP? Oh, right. Joint Human-Paranormal Task Force. Not quite as catchy as “Goon Squad,” but a little more dignified.
    Norden was right, much as I hated to admit it; there was no point in my hanging around. I said good-bye to Axel, nodded to the Goons, and pushed through the door into the cold, clear day.
    As I headed home, I thought about T.J.—smiling, friendly, eager to please. Something had obliterated that poor kid. And nobody cared. Nobody who counted, anyway.
    Kane might be too busy to deal with local problems right now. But Kane wasn’t the only one who could help. I had a friend in the Boston PD. A good-looking friend with curly blond hair and blue eyes. Maybe even a bit