Chapter 19

THE HAVEN, SAN FRANCISCO

(10:30 P.M./PST)

The rental van had backed up to the delivery entrance of the nightclub with an annoyingly steady "beep-beep-beep." At roughly the same time, two Can-Am Spyers (painted fiery red with black trim) came tearing down the street in front of the nightclub. Firing handlebar-mounted machine guns straight at the lined-up people waiting to go in!

That these machine guns were loaded with blanks was completely unknown to the would-be customers. They still screamed and scattered, just as the Spyders' drivers had intended. And, upon reaching the curb in front of the club, they screeched to a stop at a ninety-degree angle to their original trajectory. Thereby allowing the armor-plated Humvee H2 stretch limousine they had been escorting to pass between them. And, subsequently, crash its way into the lobby of the Haven!

Backed up by their escorts, the ten Hopping Ghosts who poured forth from the limo were armed with chain-whips, hook swords, and escrima sticks. Wielding these with their devil-tiger style of kung fu, they initially proved more than a match for the Gangrel bouncers on duty in the lobby. Resulting in reinforcements having to be called from elsewhere in the club...including the area of the cocktail lounge nearest the doors to the kitchen. Consequently, there was no one to notice the thirty or so more Hopping Ghosts who came pouring out of the rental van to go charging through the kitchen!

Not even Sonny Toussaint, Mick St. John, and Angel, who had been drawn to the fracas in the lobby.

MICK ST. JOHN'S P.O.V.

While Sonny got on his cellphone to call for a S.W.A.T. team, Angel and I suddenly heard the most startling sound, yet, The sound of a wolf's howl...right behind us! We spun as one, and saw a huge werewolf encircled by a bunch of guys in fiery red kung fu gis. And, as there were several sets of identical-yet-currently-unoccupied clothing on the floor, at its feet, it was easy to deduce that the others weren't too thrilled about what it had done to their fellow Hopping Ghosts.

"You wanna help the Gangrels, or the Garou?" Angel asked me.

I grinned: "I've always been a sucker for the underdog."

So, we waded in on the side of the werewolf.

Two of the Hopping Ghosts immediately turned to dust as soon as we had twisted their heads off at the neck. That instantly got us noticed by the rest. But, by that time, Angel was swinging his confiscated chain-whip around like Will Rogers doing a rope trick. While I made like Bruce Lee with my confiscated pair of hook swords.

Naturally, the werewolf took full advantage of this newest distraction to spring forward and land on two more Hopping Ghosts! One getting knocked aside; the other having his head literally chewed off. The former was pulled back to his feet by two more of the Hopping Ghosts. And, they would have immediately triple-teamed that Garou into the lycanthropic here-after if not for one thing.

A purple-skinned cowboy named Boone.

Lindsey McDonald had come to the Haven nearly three hours earlier. As that was where the local informant for Wolfram and Hart had told them Angel would be appearing around eight o'clock. So, he had spent the time drinking glass after glass of what he called "liquid courage" (with a soda chaser).

Finally, just as he was about to call Boone on his cellphone, and tell him that they must have been misled, Angel had shown up. Accompanied by Julian's pet cop and the vamp gumshoe. So, once more he tried to cellphone Boone. Only to be interrupted, again. This time, by the Hopping Ghosts and a werewolf!

"Boone, we got trouble! Get your ass in here. Now!"

The bounty-hunting demon had already seen the rental van, however. And, he had easily sensed the negative energies coming from its cargo compartment. Consequently, he was barging in from the Haven's kitchen almost as soon as Lindsey had hung up. And, not even the martial arts prowess of the Hopping Ghosts could stand up to his metal-encased fists and arms.

MICK ST. JOHN'S P.O.V.

We had maneuvered about like we were joined at the hip. Angel, using the chain-whip to trip up each of our opponents. Me, twirling about in front of him, when he had done so, in order to decapitate that opponent with the hook swords! Of course, even with the aid of this mysterious werewolf, we were still out-numbered almost ten to one. With new Hopping Ghosts coming in from the lobby to replace everyone we dusted.

It was during one of the less and less frequent micro-second pauses in the fighting that I saw him again. Boone; the Stetson-wearing demon from the barfight in Sunnydale. And, that was when I remembered one of the first axioms I had learned as an LAPD police detective.

"Once is coincidence," I muttered: "Twice or more? That's a pattern!"

tbc