The Getaway God (Sandman Slim 6)

“Half an hour.”

“Good enough.”

I start out, but stop.

“You mind if I take some body armor?”

She looks at my bloody shirt.

“You look like you need it.”

“Yeah. I kind of do.”

“Let’s go find you something.”

“One more thing. I want you to do me a favor.”

Her eyes narrow.

“Why should I?”

“Because afterward you’ll own me.”

“Keep talking.”

WHEN I’M FITTED up with a vest, I take a shadow to Max Overdrive, fire up the Hellion hog, and head Downtown. Not to see Muninn or Samael or anyone else who can talk. I come straight out into the kennels, where a hundred-­plus hellhounds wander restlessly. I’m in and out fast in case anyone wanders down here. I only have a half hour and I don’t want to spend it explaining anything to anyone.

As soon as I corral the last hounds I lead them into a shadow at the far end of the place. Their growls and the grinding of their gears fill the air. Their claws tear up the concrete. It’s beautiful.

We come out right in front of Hollywood Forever.

Julie said there were chop shops here and she wasn’t exaggerating. Only they’re not in the cemetery anymore.

It’s like New Year’s fucking Eve outside the gates. Wall-­to-­wall, shoulder-­to-­shoulder Q

liphoth morons claw their way onto Santa Monica Boulevard. When the street opens up enough that they have room, they head off in different directions, splashing like happy monster pups off to gnaw on what’s left of L.A.’s soggy carcass.

I don’t have to tell the hellhounds what to do. They sense it the moment they get a look at Mason’s berserkers and rip into the mob without a word from me. The chop shops fight back, but they’re just stitched together meat salads and no match for a hyped-­up mob of mechanical hellspawn. In just a minute, it’s like a holiday sale at Ed Gein’s butcher shop. Arms and legs in the half-­price bin. Bones and livers on special, two for one.

I can’t say the carnage is pretty, but it is satisfying. Mason got the better of me with the games, but I can take back a little from him by flattening his street muscle.

The hounds are well trained. They don’t hang around playing with the dead chop shops. Groups of them peel off and follow the rest of the mob through the storm into town. I rev the bike and head that way too. Mason’s goons will be on Hollywood Boulevard eventually, which means they could make it to Max Overdrive. I have to make that sure that Candy and, yeah, even Kasabian are all right.

I head up Gower from the cemetery. Notice a ­couple of cop cars a street over, but mostly keep my eyes on the road. It’s hard to hold the bike steady in the flooded streets.

There isn’t a light on anywhere and the clouds have closed in, so even the stars are gone. I stop and put on the night-­vision goggles Julie gave me. The city glows a faint green, just bright enough that I can navigate.

I make it across Fountain and Sunset, but at Selma Avenue the streets light up like I’ve gone over the rim of a volcano. I pull the goggles off and squint my eyes as two LAPD squad cars pull up nose to nose, blocking the road.

Normally in a situation like this I’d be quite disinclined to stick around. I’d zip around the cars on the sidewalk or turn tail and head south. But I still have my Vigil ID. Protection from on high and legit as greenbacks. I button my coat so they won’t see the bullet holes and ask stupid questions, then step off the bike.

“Hands over your head,” one of the cops calls.

I yell back.

“I’m with the Marshal Ser­vice. The Golden Vigil.”

“Hands over your head.”