Well, it had to happen sooner or later. He'd been hoping for later, but you can't have everything.
His neck and spine twist erratically, pinpointing the direction that the sirens are coming from, and he heaves his victims around so they'll be between him and the cops when they arrive.
He rotates his head fully one hundred and eighty degrees and barks at his daemon, "Bast, get ready - " Sharp, businesslike, none of the extravagant languor he displayed bantering with Decima. Bast nods.
Soon, the cops arrive, police cars skidding to a stop, men with guns piling out of them and taking aim. He maneuvers his hostages to give himself cover. He drops his first victim, the one wrapped up in his entire hand, and the man slumps, unconscious or dead.
He still has the sparrow daemon entangled in one finger. He breaks its wing, and the man on the ground vomits. He whips it toward one of the cops, and the man whines pathetically and crawls after it.
Bast watches intently, attention flickering between Slimebones and the cops. As one of them takes aim, Bast focuses -
An enhanced bullet impacts his chest and punches a hole clear through it, but there's no blood. It looks rather like someone dropped a bowling ball in a vat of flesh-toned mud.
He flashes a winning smile at the cop who hit him, drops his hostages, and lopes, elastically, liquidly, into a maze of back alleys. Bast follows and races ahead, a black blur.