Without taking my eyes off this apparition, I quietly said to Dooley, "Since when did you guys start using a Hellhound?"
"She's been on the team about six weeks now," he said.
" She?"
"Yeah, you have to use females," he said. "The males are just too big and dangerous."
I tried to imagine one of these things that would be even larger and more frightening than what I was looking at now.
"Kind of an experiment," Dooley went on, "but it's working out pretty well, so far. They can sniff out any species of supe, no matter what kind they are, or where they try to hide. We were using electronic detectors before, and the fucking things just weren't reliable. But Daisy never lets us down."
" Daisy."
Dooley shrugged. "That's what Sam named her," he said. "He's her handler. Bought her from some wizard and raised her from a pup."
"I'm sure he did." And I bet she gets to go outside whenever she fucking well wants, too.
The last SWAT team member out of the van was Spencer, one of the few African-Americans on the Scranton PD. I don't think it's racism – the Wyoming Valley just doesn't have a real big black population. Spencer was a sniper, a skill he'd picked up in the Marines, and the USMC Scout Sniper Program sets their standards high. I'd once asked him if that was why he'd been drawn to SWAT and he'd replied, "Nah, don't you read the comics, man? You ever seen a bunch of badass superheroes like this without a brother on the crew? Shit, it'd be unAmerican." Spencer likes to talk street, but I knew that both his parents were doctors. He went to some exclusive prep school before graduating to join the Marines, much to Mom and Dad's disappointment. He's about as ghetto as the Prince of Wales.
After the tactical people came the prayer team. Their job it was to counter any black magic that was operating, or might be invoked, within the team's perimeter. Reverend Greene was a Baptist minister, O'Connell was another Jesuit from the U, and Rabbi Zimmerman could usually be found at Temple Beth Shalom, until there was a SWAT call-up. A Buddhist monk, Quan Tranh Han, had been part of the team until last year, when he died of cancer.
As members of the Supe Squad, Karl and I were authorized to go along on the raid, as long as we didn't get in the way. As Dooley liked to say, "We'll send for you when it's safe."
Iess Dooley must have given his briefing inside the van, because Spencer immediately picked up his long hardshell rifle case and jogged off. I watched him cross the street and disappear down a nearby alley. I figured he was heading for the building directly across the street from Longworth's condo. There he'd set up on the roof, ready to provide a diversion, covering fire, or a one-shot kill, as directed.
Dooley had been on his tactical radio for the last few minutes. Now he put it back on his belt and announced, "Surveillance confirms that the subject entered the building at approximately 1900 hours last night, and he hasn't left. Plainclothes officers have just finished going through the building. Only one of the other condos was occupied this time of day, and they got the owner out the back way, nice and quiet. The field of operations is all ours, gentlemen." He nodded toward Heidi Renfer. "And lady."
"Haven't been one of those since I was sixteen, Loot," Heidi said with a grin. "But thanks for the thought."
A couple of the guys grinned at that, but nobody laughed out loud. I knew that, on the team, pissing Heidi off was widely regarded as a bad idea.
"All right," Dooley said. "You know the order of march, and you each have your assignments. Questions?"
Everybody on the team tried to look nonchalant, if not outright bored. Just a walk in the park.
They didn't fool me, and I bet they didn't fool their commander, either. Each one was amped up to the eyebrows. You could see it in their eyes, their hands, and the rapid jaw movements as three of them chewed gum.
"Okay, let's move out," Dooley said. Turning to the three clergy he said, "Prayer Team, whenever you're ready."
The three clergymen formed a rough triangle, a few feet separating them. Each would read or recite prayers in his own tradition designed specifically to dispel black magic. Supposedly, having them pray together produced a "synergistic effect" greater than the sum of their individual efforts.
How somebody figured that God would pay more attention to a group effort than if each of these guys prayed separately wasn't real clear to me, but I'm just a simple cop, not a theologian.
As the members of the SWAT team left the parking lot, single file, Dooley turned to Karl and me.
"You're not armored, so hang back a bit. But come in fast if I call for you."
We both nodded, and he went to catch up with his crew.
Dooley led us into an alley that ran along the rear of Jamieson Longworth's building. Karl and I followed the team as they made their silent way through the back door and up the stairs to the third floor. Then it was through a service door and down a hallway to number 304.
I watched them "stack" along the wall just outside Longworth's door – bunching close together in a line so that they could get everybody inside very fast once the breach was made. Sam and the Hellhound brought up the rear, followed by Karl and me.
Dooley was first in line. I saw him reach forward and slowly try to turn the knob, on the off chance that it might open. It didn't, but it's always good to check. More than one cop has gone to the trouble and risk of kicking down a door that wasn't even locked to begin with.
Dooley turned to Van Cleef, and took from him the big sledgehammer and stepped with it to the opposite side of the condo's door. Van Cleef unslung his weapon. I saw him click off the safety and then, a true professional, look to be sure the switch was really disengaged.
Behind Van Cleef, Garrett had ready two of the "Splash-Bang" grenades that he would throw into th condo as soon as the door was breached. The grenades looked like motorcycle handlebar grips made of cast iron, with holes drilled in them. Each one would explode with a loud noise, a bright flash, and a dispersal of four fluid ounces of holy water.
I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears. Sligo, being a vampire, ought to be dead to the world, literally. Assuming he was in there at all. But that didn't mean he hadn't set up magical protections or booby traps throughout the condo. The work of the prayer team should nullify those, but everybody in that hallway had been around long enough to know what "should" is worth.
Then there was Longworth himself. Normally, a pampered rich boy/cultist would pose no threat to these guys, but there was no way to know whether Sligo had taught him any dark magic, or whether Longworth had the Talent to use it.
It had the potential to get pretty dicey in there. That's why every cop serving in SWAT receives the extra pay that all of them like to call "danger money." They get excellent life insurance policies, too.
Van Cleef nodded at Dooley, who set his feet, gripped the sledge's handle tightly and lifted the head back and over his shoulder. With a barely audible grunt he smashed the sledge hammer into the door, just below the lock.
The bam of impact was jarring after the silence, even though I had been expecting it. The wood splintered where Dooley had struck, and the lock mechanism came free of the door jamb. It looked like the door might be hung up on something – a security chain, maybe. But it was no match for Van Cleef's size 12 boot, as he delivered a vicious kick above where the lock had been. The door flew open and Van Cleef instantly crouched down to give Garrett a clean line of sight into the condo.
The pins of the grenades had already been pulled. Garrett held one in each hand and flung both inside at the same time.
One thousand one. One thousand two.
Each of us squeezed our eyes closed. That's a risk in a tactical situation, but you've got no choice, unless you want to be temporarily blinded by the million-candlepower flash, just like whoever was inside the condo would be.