“See?” he said, consoling his boss—though truth be told, Garrett ran that business and was the reason it was so successful.
“We have a job to do, Swopes,” he said before stalking away.
I turned to Garrett, grateful that he had my back. I was growing on him. I could tell. I was a lot like mold that way. “I can help,” I said, offering my services.
Javier heard me and came stalking back. He’d planned on arguing with me, but he changed his mind about halfway back. I could see it in his expression. “Yeah,” he said, looking me up and down. “You can. Go up to apartment 504 in that building and knock on the door. Tell them Crystal sent you.”
Garrett chuckled under his breath and checked his weapon. His arms were all sinewy and muscly when he did it. God, I loved arms. “We can’t send her up there.”
“Sure you can,” I said. “I’m here to help out anyway I can, because that’s what friends do for each other. They help each other in times of crisis. They have each others’ backs.”
He lowered the gun and gave me his full attention. “All right, what’d you do now?”
“What?” I asked, appalled. “Me?”
“We doin’ this or not?” the third guy asked. “I have in-laws at my house. They’re trying to convince my wife that I’m no good. That she should leave me and go back to Puerto Rico with them. I have to get home before she realizes they have a point.”
I laughed and shrugged. “I would make a great distraction. Wait, Crystal isn’t a pimp, is she?”
“No idea,” Javier said. “But something like that would go a long way in erasing my memory.”
“So would tequila. But I’ll help. I’m ready. Send me in, boss.”
“I’m not your boss.”
I frowned at him.
“Okay,” Garrett said after Javier showed me a picture of Daniel, the guy they were apprehending, and told me exactly what to do. We were walking hand in hand to the apartment building, and deep down inside I prayed Reyes wouldn’t show up. The guy’s temper lately—well, always—was kind of iffy. “What do you need?”
I laughed again, trying to sell the star-crossed lovers bit as Javier and the bad husband took up position, flanking the building and readying to invade. “I need a million dollars, but from you, I need to know how far you’ve gotten with that book.”
“The prophecies?” he asked, surprised. “Dr. von Holstein is still working on the translations, but he’s had a couple of exciting breakthroughs.”
I had to force myself not to giggle every time he said the doctor’s name. It was just funny. I needed to name something von Holstein. Too bad I’d already named my couch. Maybe a chair. Or the saltshaker. I could name her Heifer von Holstein.
“Is that it?” he asked as we rounded the corner to the entrance.
“Not even. Is there anything about the Twelve in there?”
He slowed his stride, just barely, but enough for me to know I’d hit pay dirt. “There is, actually. Several stanzas center around the Twelve and their role in the shit storm to come.”
My heart kind of sank. I usually did my best to avoid conflicts with beings that escaped from hell for the sole purpose of ripping out my jugular and presenting my lifeless body to their master. Especially when said master defined the phrase evil incarnate.
I held up a brave hand. “Don’t sugarcoat it for me, Swopes.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“God forbid I get a decent night’s sleep.”
“We couldn’t have that.”
“Do we win?” I asked. We got to the elevator, which looked about as safe as that guy on the street earlier handing out free samples of blue candy in little Baggies.
Garrett pressed the UP button. “What do you mean?”
“The shit storm. The Twelve.” I waved a hand to demonstrate the vastness of it all. “Do we defeat them?”
The doors slid open. We stepped inside; then he pushed the button for the fifth floor while offering me a look of mild confusion. “Why would we fight them?”
“Because they want my head on a platter.”
Keeping my hand in his—though I wasn’t completely sure why, since no one was in the elevator with us—he asked, “Why would they want your head on a platter?”
“Because,” I repeated, growing impatient, “they’re the Twelve. It’s apparently what they do.”
“Charles, you need to stop watching late-night movies. The Twelve are good. They’re sent to protect you, the daughter.”
“What? They’re hounds from hell. How can they—?”
“Hounds from hell?” When I nodded, he asked, “Literally?”
I nodded again.
“Then we’re talking about a different Twelve. The Twelve the prophecies mention say they are all spiritual beings.”
“That can’t be right,” I said as we stepped off the elevator. The dreary halls were paved with stained carpet that had the acrid scent of urine and chemicals. I covered my nose and mouth, trying to guard against the telltale aroma of illegal drug production. I wondered if Daniel was a cook or just a distributor. But the worst aspect of the entire scenario was the cries of a baby down the hall. Why was there always a crying baby down the hall?
We stepped over old fast-food bags, empty bottles of both soda and beer, and a pair of ripped jeans before we found Daniel’s door. Garrett took up position around the corner that led to the stairwell, his sidearm drawn.