Tony just gave Flint a flat look that might have easily broadcast, "Whitey, please" if he had a big sign over his head. He knew how to handle a Kalashnikov. The big lever on the right side of the receiver went all the way down for rock n' roll, the charging handle pulled back (and one round ejected, just to make sure it was feeding properly) and yeah, he knew the drill. This was one of the black polymer furniture jobs with a big flash suppressor or recoil compensator on the barrel and some sort of optics on there, he wasn't up on the current terminology, but this was the same sort of gun the Cong used in the big bad bush back in '68. 

Not much had changed in that sense since he'd done half a tour in the 'Nam and went bugfuck nuts as a beastman, hunting the long pig all over the Mekong Delta and possibly into Cambodia -- he wasn't exactly reading a map when he did it.

So three vampire thralls were dead, but it was better than the three of them putting grenades in the kitchen or catching them in a crossfire. He might have felt a little awkward about enjoying the killing so much, but the necessity of the act? Not so much. Thralls were bad news, especially if you let the crazy fuckers get started. They were all Tony Montana on a brick of Colombia's finest yayo, vicious and eager to score another drink of that v-juice, screaming, "SAY HEY-LO TO MY LEETLE FRIEN' MAIN!" and letting off the whole mag in one big 80's movie go.

He'd done some drugs, especially during the 60's and 70's, but he never touched vamp blood no matter what others said about how awesome it was; it was supposed to be one of those incredible highs...for the low low price of servitude to the vampire providing it. They loved to spread the stuff around too, and now that Nemsemet had them on his side, it meant that key mortals in the city government, including law enforcement, were going to look the other way when thralls with rocket launchers demolished a place. 

"I'm here, man," he replied to Parael, from the dark. He was dripping in gore and looked like some crazy rapist with Freddy Kreuger gloves got at his wardrobe, it was in tatters on him, but he was alert and calm, "I can see damn good in the dark man, why don't you and whoever else knows how to drive grab some sort of vehicle, even if you have to hotwire the bitch, because we all aren't fitting in the cop's car. I'll cover this shit with Dexter Morgan here," he jerked a thumb at Claudia, "Because I get the feeling she can figure out an AK." There was one of those left, on one of the corpses in the back yard, but not every supernatural being was up on how weaponry worked. Vampires tended to love the goddamn guns. But then there were people like the shield girl there, who weren't hip the idea that tactics changed.

Maybe he smelled the gunpowder on Claudia; she'd been firing a weapon, after all, and there was a sharp and unmistakable tang to the scent of gunpowder. He knew that Sturm und Drang there wouldn't appreciate the niceties of taking cover and suppression fire and Parael needed to find a car, and probably knew how to actually drive one. No idea about the other dude, so he took the safe bet; he trusted his nose.