Bone Song by John Meaney

files.”
    â€œWhile you should have been paying attention to Helven. Come on, Lev.”
    â€œYour dossier, Donal. That's what this nice-looking blonde had in her hands.”
    â€œHuh.” Donal's chair creaked as he swung his weight back. “So?”
    â€œSo she had a weapon and she wasn't no bureaucrat.” Levison's accent reverted to the streets and to his childhood. And Donal's. “Got it? Looked like IntSec to me.”
    â€œAin't no reason for Infernal Security to worry about me, pal.”
    â€œWell.” Levison nodded. “Good.”
    â€œApart from those millions I got stashed away . . .”
    â€œHades, Donal. Don't joke about this stuff.”
    â€œAll right. Have you got a car arranged?”
    â€œFor the airport? Yeah.” Levison checked the small clock on top of Donal's bookcase. Inside the bichambered clock, dark fluid dripped from the lower chamber to the upper, causing the second hand to move. “Fifty-five minutes, downstairs.”
    â€œGreat. You go on.” Donal climbed out of his chair. “I've got stuff to do.”
    â€œOkay, boss.”
    Donal picked up his suit jacket and pulled it on as he left the office. That was mostly in case he ended up talking to a civilian before returning: hiding the gun usually made conversations proceed more quickly. Except during interrogation.
    The elevator shaft opened while he was still ten feet away.
    *Hey, lover. Missed you.* And as he stepped inside: *How long's it been?*
    â€œAll of an hour.”
    *Feels like longer.*
    â€œRange, please, Gertie.”
    Invisible fingers seemed to cross his torso. *Where would you like me to range?*
    But Donal was already falling down the shaft.
    â€œBehave.”
    *All right.* The hands began to slow Donal's descent. *Behave well, or behave badly?*
    â€œHades.”
    *Mind your language.* Gertie exerted horizontal pressure on Donal's back. *Bad boy.*
    The force expelled Donal into the corridor. He turned to say something, but the shaft had already sealed up. His snappy retort would have to wait.
    Flat bangs sounded from the practice range. Someone was hard at work.
    When Donal reached the entrance, Brian was sitting behind his desk, wearing a smart shirt and tie, his fresh skin bluer than normal. Behind him, two blank-faced men were flipping through folders and the boxed records of who'd signed equipment in and out.
    â€œHey, Brian. How's life?”
    â€œGot my IntSec pals visiting. Right, boys? Other than that, biz as usual, Lieutenant.”
    Brian dropped Donal a wink, as if thanking him for the warning that Internal Security was going to be here. But it was Donal who had called IntSec and told them to check out the range, and if Brian had failed to get rid of his stupid targets, then the man would have been out.
    Donal leaned over the counter. The IntSec men looked up.
    â€œDon't take any crap from Brian,” Donal told them. “Okay?”
    â€œWe won't, Lieutenant.” There was no humor in the reply, just leaden fact.
    Neither of the IntSec guys matched the description that Levison had given: a nice-looking blonde who'd been holding Donal's personnel file in her hand.
    â€œGimme two hundred rounds,” Donal said to Brian. “And a pile of targets, ghouls and humans mixed.”
    â€œYou got it.”
    â€œEr, Lieutenant . . .” One of the IntSec men held up a folder. “You signed for ammunition yesterday. Can you remember how many rounds that was?”
    Brian's blue skin began to shine paler. Donal shook his head. Was Brian really that stupid, to change numbers of rounds handed over, overstate the expenditure, and pocket the surplus?
    â€œSorry,” Donal said. “Can't remember.”
----
    Donal fired off the two hundred rounds and went back to the counter. The IntSec guys were still there, peeking in the target drawers and archive cabinets. Donal got Brian to give him another hundred and went back into the range