Bone Song by John Meaney Page A

and shot his targets into shreds.
    When he returned the second time, Brian was alone.
    â€œYour IntSec pals,” said Donal. “They gone for the day?”
    â€œEr . . . sure. Why wouldn't they be?”
    â€œI definitely know the inventory's fine. It is fine, isn't it, Brian?”
    â€œS-sure.”
    â€œYou worked the streets a long time. I appreciate that—”
    â€œThanks, Lieutenant.”
    â€œâ€”but if I think ammo or weapons are going astray, I'll put a bullet between your eyes myself. You got that?”
    Brian's mouth dropped open. It was all the answer Donal was going to get.
    â€œShit.” Donal turned his wrist over. “And now you've made me late.”
    â€œS-sorry.”
    Donal strode out of the range office and headed for the elevator. Gertie's door whisked open, and she bore him up to the garage level with only the faintest saucy humming in his ear, snatches of an old song he barely recognized and could not have named.
    Coming out into the echoing concrete garage at a run, Donal spotted a squad car idling with its rear door open. Two uniformed officers sat up front, and Levison was in the back, on the far side.
    â€œAirport,” Donal muttered to the driver as he got in. “Quick as you can.”
    He pulled the door shut with an unnecessary slam.
    The uniforms got the message. They pulled the car out into the traffic flow, using the black-light strobe and switching the siren from
wail
to
maximum thunder.
    For several blocks, the traffic was too heavy for it to make a difference, but then they were out onto streets where cars were moving—this was late morning, not rush hour—and frightening other drivers became a valid time-saving tactic.
    Flashes of blackness reflected back from the buildings as the car accelerated, weaving in and out of half-filled lanes. They ran three stoplights in succession before reaching the Orb-Sinister Expressway.
    All nine lanes flowed directly toward the center of the two-thousand-foot-high skull that marked the eastern boundary of midtown. There, the lanes peeled upward into the left eye socket of that vast construct—or maybe relic, no one really knew. They entered a mile-long round tunnel lit only by disembodied flame-wraiths, dancing overhead.
    The wraiths were indentured for short periods these days. The stress of passing traffic was great, and everyone remembered the tunnel crash of '93 in the Orb-Dexter Freeway. Then, a kind of group hysteria had seized the flamewraiths, many of them into their second century of servitude. Wraiths discorporated explosively into showering sparks; drivers swerved in sudden shock. The hundred-car pileup killed dozens.
    Soon the squad car was out into the open. The sky was heavy with purple-gray clouds, and Donal still felt closed in. They passed through the mercantile district of Prismatic Trance, with its rainbow ads and myriad illusions.
    Finally they reached the turnoff for the airport, and the driver pulled the car out into the fast lane and floored it.
    Fog was thickening overhead by the time they turned through the glowering twin-panthers gateway of Brody Airport (named after Fisticuffs Brody, still remembered as the best mayor the city had ever had). They slowed as they came to a police-only entrance, then turned and went down a ramp into the depths of Terminal Aleph.
    â€œGood work, guys,” said Levison. He looked at Donal.
    â€œUh, yeah. Good job.”
    â€œSir.” The driver wheeled them neatly into a parking spot.
    â€œYou reckon the flights are on time?” said the other uniformed officer.
    â€œNot with this fog,” muttered Levison. “Gives us more time to check around. Right, boss?”
    â€œRight.” Donal sat unmoving for a moment longer. His unease might have been kicked off by some subliminal perception.
    â€œYou okay?”
    â€œYeah.” Donal retraced the drive in his mind, the route into the airport, and felt no specific