Night fell—he couldn’t see it from his windowless office, but the sound of workmen had ceased hours ago, and the noise of customers replaced it. Eventually, Reinhold stuck his head inside.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
“As I will be.” Alistair stood up and reached for his coat and hat. “Who’s manning the kitchen?”
“Holly called in a few favors. Some of her friends are filling in for Teresa, Philip, and me. Wanda is on the door.”
They went through the speakeasy proper, collecting Teresa and Philip as they went. Doris waited on the street outside, the truck already running with her in the driver’s seat. Reinhold climbed in beside her, and the rest of them hopped in the back. Philip took on snow leopard form to shield himself from the wind with his fur. Alistair just put his back against the cab and hunched down in his coat; cheetahs weren’t made for cold weather. Teresa curled up beside him in panther shape.
Thankfully it was only four blocks to the water tower. The skyscrapers hadn’t shouldered up to it yet, so it still dominated its immediate surroundings: a slender limestone tower jutting out of a crenelated gothic revival base that looked like a cross between a church and a castle. On the one hand, the landmark seemed too obvious for a bootlegger to want to go near. On the other, no one would be inside this time of night.
Three entrances led into the square base; they’d been instructed to park beside the one on the west side, as it was more secluded. A short flight of stairs led to a pair of double doors that swung open as soon as the truck was parked. Someone was keeping an eye out for them.
Ross Brown emerged and beckoned them inside. There wasn’t much to see; unlike the associated pumping station on the other side of Michigan Avenue, the water tower existed primarily to house an enormous standpipe. The base was little more than an empty square wrapped around the interior tower.
Empty, that is, except for the pile of sopping wet crates stacked near the door. Several men and women lounged near them, their dark eyes sharp.
“Why are they wet?” Doris asked with a frown.
Brown grinned. “Because they’ve been hauled by yours truly—and my crew, of course—underwater from Canada. Then we take the tunnel from the water crib all the way here, and out through the standpipe.”
“You’re swimming through the city’s drinking water,” Philip said, looking faintly appalled. “I thought there were screens to keep detritus out.”
Brown shrugged. “I know a guy who works the crib. Don’t worry about it.”
Alistair decided this was something he wasn’t going to think too hard about. “You know we have to test the booze.”
“Be my guest. Just keep it quick—the faster we’re out of here, the safer we all are.”
“We’re not amateurs.” Alistair pointed to a crate at random. “Philip, do the honors.”
The bottle shone pure when Philip hexed it. Thank heavens—he’d bet good money all of Brown’s people were seal familiars, and if they were elephant seals the men would weigh several tons once they shifted. Awkward on land as they might be, not even Doris would be up to fighting them if an argument broke out.
Even in human form, they were all strong as hell, and the truck was loaded in record time. The higher price Brown charged would hurt their bottom line, but that was a worry for later. Right now, they had a good supply of booze and could keep The Pride running for a little while longer. The rest would have to wait.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Brown said, extending his hand as they stood by the truck. His crew had already mopped the floor and put a locking hex on the door so it would seem undisturbed come morning, and were dispersing onto the streets around them without looking back.
“Same,” Alistair said. “We’ll be in touch.”
As he turned away, there came twin popping sounds. The first was accompanied by a dull thud; the second by the stir of air through the space where his head had just been.
The old instincts from the war came back and he hit the ground on his belly. Brown lay sprawled inches away, a bullet hole in his forehead.
“Everybody down!” Alistair yelled, then shifted into cheetah form.
There was no sign of the gunman. A sniper? No—the smell of gunpowder was too strong, it had been fired mere feet away.
Footsteps pounded away across the pavement in front of the water tower. But no one was there to make them.
Danny Queen had been killed in the middle of a crowd. Camille’s sister swore no one had been in the apartment when she was assassinated. As for the bomber who’d come to finish the job on Sullivan at the Silvervine, no one had seen him. They’d assumed because of the smoke…
There was no smoke here. This was magic.
No matter how he scanned the area, he couldn’t see anyone there. But over the scent of blood and gunpowder, his cheetah’s nose picked up an unfamiliar human nearby.
He was no bloodhound—but for this, he didn’t have to be.
Alistair burst from his crouch, claws giving him traction as he sprang in the direction of the scent. His shoulder collided with something he couldn’t see, and his quarry let out a panicked shout, steps staggering then back to running.
